The Profiler (18 page)

It was nearly lunch time and the place was crowded with students as they moved between lessons. The professor started up the flight of steps that presumably led to his office.

Ellie shot a look at Clayton. He stared back at her and then nodded. With excitement surging through her, she opened the car door and took off after Boston, Clayton close on her heels.

They caught him at the top of the stairs, just as he was inserting his key into the door to his office.

“Professor Boston? I’m Detective Cooper. This is Federal Agent Munro. We’d like to have a talk to you.”

The professor paled beneath his tan. “F-federal Agent? I-I haven’t done anything wrong. W-why would you want to talk to me?”

Ellie narrowed her eyes at him. “You tell us.”

Boston’s gaze darted from Ellie to Clayton and back again. “C-can we at least do this in my office?”

“Of course,” Ellie replied. “After you.”

Stepping back, she gave the man time to turn the key and edge into his office. Dumping his suitcases by the door, he headed straight for the solitary desk that filled most of the room and seated himself behind it. Perspiration gathered on his lip and he swiped at it with a hand that was less than steady.

Ellie stared at him and his fingers twitched around a pile of papers on his desk. She took one of the chairs that stood opposite and made a show of pulling out her notebook. Clayton remained standing.

“So, Professor Boston, we’d like to talk to you about a couple of your students.” Ellie’s gaze bored into his, but the Professor’s opaque eyes darted away and a shaky hand reached up and brushed a hank of long, pale hair off his face, exposing small patches of scaly, pink scalp.

She couldn’t tell if his hair was gray or dirty blond, or a mixture of both, but the grooves and crevices lining his forehead seemed to indicate he was a man long since removed from his prime. Her earlier assessment of his age as a man in his mid-fifties seemed to be accurate.

“W-what is it you’d like to know, Detective? I’ve been away for a while and I’m still catching up on the paperwork.” His thin shoulders hunched forward and he waved a limp hand in the direction of his desk.

Clayton braced his hands on the laminate and leaned forward, his face inches from the professor’s. “Josie Ward.”

The man shivered under the menace of Clayton’s stare. Sweat popped out on his brow and his eyelids took on a life of their own as he blinked in rapid succession.

“She was one of your students,” Ellie added.

The professor found his voice. “Yes, yes. I know who you mean. Josie. Lovely girl. Very sweet. And so talented. That’s one of her paintings over there. She gave it to me for my birthday.”

Ellie and Clayton turned to look at the wall he’d indicated. A large canvas displaying an abstract array of bright colors dominated the space. Ellie wasn’t an artist and didn’t have a creative bone in her body, but even she felt the uplifting of her spirits as she gazed upon the artwork.

Clayton’s expression remained grim. “You must be pretty close to her if she’s giving you birthday presents.”

“Yes, Detective. We are. Josie is special. Very special.”

Anger darkened Clayton’s eyes and his mouth tightened. “And now she’s lying in a freezer in the morgue.”

A howl of pain escaped the professor’s slack lips and he lowered his chin until it almost rested on his chest. His head moved from side to side. The howling continued.

Ellie’s heart pounded. Was this it? Was he about to confess? Was he their killer? He was creepy enough. She’d been on edge from the moment he’d opened his door. Something about the way his gaze had slid over her from top to bottom, surreptitiously leering at her cleavage had made her skin crawl.

He
made her skin crawl.

She glanced at Clayton, who’d gone still. Watching. Waiting. Harsh emotions chased themselves across the chiseled planes of his face.

Professor Boston lifted his head and stared at her. “Sh-she’s dead? H-how?”

“You tell us,” Clayton growled.

Confusion flooded his face. “Y-you can’t think I had anything to do with it? I could never hurt Josie. I swear. It wasn’t me.”

“What about Sally Batten?” Clayton demanded, looking unconvinced.

Bewilderment clouded the pale eyes. “Sally?”

“Yes, Sally Batten,” Ellie replied, her eyes narrowed. “She’s another student of yours. Studying the Impressionists. She takes classes with you on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

A little smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Ah, yes. Sally. Poor, Sally. So much determination, so little talent.” He lifted his gaze to Ellie’s and shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

Anger surged through her at his nonchalance. She caught Clayton’s fierce frown seconds before he exploded.

“She’s been missing for nearly eight weeks. Surely you must have noticed?”

The professor frowned and tilted his head to the side. “Eight weeks? Has it been that long? Yes, I guess you’re right. It probably has. I’ve been away, you see. I’ve lost track of time.”

“Conveniently away, as far as I’m concerned,” Clayton replied, his tone cold steel.

The professor’s voice trembled when he spoke, but he didn’t look away. “You can’t honestly think
I
have anything to do with it? Those girls must have classes with a number of teachers.”

Clayton leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed on the professor’s face. “Unlucky for you, Professor. You were the only teacher Josie Ward had. At the very least, I’m thinking you’re our prime suspect for her murder.”

What little color Stewart Boston had in his cheeks drained out of his face and his mouth dropped open in shock.

“M-murder? But that’s obscene. I-I couldn’t murder anyone.”

“If I listened to protestations of innocence every time I made an arrest, the jails would be empty,” Clayton stated, pushing away from the desk.

Ellie sat forward in her chair. “Where do you live, Professor?”

He blinked rapidly. She could almost see him trying to re-align his thought processes. “Live?”

“Yes, like when you go home at night. Where do you live?”

“W-why is that important? I-I have a very ill wife. She’s dying. I-I wouldn’t want you disturbing her.”

The nervousness was back. Ellie’s instincts went on alert.

“Just give her your address, asshole.” Clayton was back looming over the desk, all menacing blond intimidation.

Professor Boston tugged at his hair and licked his lips. His gaze bounced off the surfaces around the room.

“Um, er…”

Clayton gave him a hard stare and perspiration returned to the man’s forehead, the fine sheen of it reflecting pale light from the only window.

“I-I live in Penrith. South Creek Road.”

“That’s not far from the Nepean River, is it?” Ellie asked, her eyes narrowed.

“No, not far. I-I like to go fishing there. It’s a lovely spot.”

She caught Clayton’s gaze and could tell from the look on his face that he’d also made the connection. Anticipation knotted in her gut.

“How well do you know Angelina Caruso? She’s a physiotherapist student here,” Ellie added.

A frown deepened the lines across the professor’s forehead. “Angelina Caruso? I’m not sure that I know that name.”

“When did you last see Sally?” Clayton demanded.

The professor shook his head. “I-I’m not sure about that, either. I’ve been away. I can’t remember. I’d have to check my class roll. I-I can get back to you about that if you like.”

“You do that,” Ellie replied. “I want to hear from you before the day’s over.”

“In the meantime,” Clayton said, sauntering toward the back of the office, “you can start explaining this sculpture collection.”

The professor looked puzzled. Ellie walked over to the wood and glass cabinet that hung on the back wall of the office. Clayton pulled open one of its doors and Ellie’s chest constricted.

Inside were more than a dozen wooden sculptures carved from a pale-colored wood. Adrenaline surged through her and her heart rate spiked. Her gaze locked with Clayton’s.

As a single unit, they turned to face the professor.

“Tell us about the sculptures, Professor,” Ellie demanded, striding back to the desk.

Boston continued to look confused. “Th-the sculptures? Th-they’re mine.”

“Where did you get them from?” Clayton asked, also crowding the desk.

“W-what do you mean? I-I made them.”

Ellie was flooded with a surge of adrenaline. So much fit. It was all circumstantial, but there was too much of it to ignore. They had to take him in. She glanced across at Clayton, who nodded.

“Professor Boston, we’d like you to accompany us to the station to answer a few more questions about the murder of Josie Ward.”

The professor’s eyes widened in fear and he stood and backed up against the wall.

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. You don’t understand.”

“Tell it to your lawyer,” Clayton growled and led him out of the office. “Let’s go, Professor. It’s time we got better acquainted.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Clayton stared at the papers on his desk and frowned. He’d spent the last few hours interrogating the professor and although the man had finally cracked and blubbered about trading grades for sex with some of his students, he’d refused to admit he’d had anything to do with the disappearance of Sally Batten or the murders of Angelina Caruso and Josie Ward.

And there was something else that kept niggling him. Stewart Boston didn’t fit the profile. He was too old. His university file had stated his age as fifty-five. Fifteen years older than the outer limit of Clayton’s profile. Not that it was impossible, but he didn’t know of a single instance of an apprehended serial killer who’d been in his fifties.

His disquiet sat heavily on his shoulders. Ellie was convinced they had their killer. And he couldn’t blame her. The evidence against the professor, although purely circumstantial, was building up.

According to the class roll, Sally Batten had attended his art class on the day she’d disappeared. Then there were the sculptures. Boston had admitted he carved them from
radiata
pine, the same kind of timber they’d found in Josie Ward’s hair and under Angelina Caruso’s fingernails. A crew had been sent out to the professor’s house with a search warrant and even though they had yet to report anything untoward, it was always possible something incriminating would be discovered. Boston had been reluctant to supply them with his address details, after all.

But still, Clayton wasn’t convinced. Something about the professor bugged him.

With a heavy sigh, he opened Boston’s file and skimmed over its contents. The man had been employed at the university for more than two decades and although there were a couple of brief mentions of possible unsavory behaviour toward some of the female students, nothing had been proved and the complaints appeared to have been shelved.

Flipping over another page, Clayton came upon the professor’s medical records. Scanning the paragraphs, his gaze caught on a phrase. His breath came faster and his pulse thudded in his ears. He reached over and picked up the phone and punched in the number for the morgue.

Minutes later, he pushed back his chair and yelled for Ellie, urgency roughening his voice.

She appeared in the doorway of the tea room and frowned. “What is it?”

“It’s not him.”

She shook her head. “What do you mean, it’s not him?”

“It’s not Boston.”

“How can you be so sure?” she protested. “He had access to our girls. He’s someone they would trust and the carvings—”

“It’s not him.”

“But—”

“He has
alopecia areata
.”

She looked at him blankly.

“So?”

“It’s an autoimmune disease where the white blood cells attack the cells that contain hair follicles. No one really knows what causes it, but one of the side effects is hair shedding. Regularly. I phoned Samantha. There was no hair found on either of the bodies. He couldn’t have done what he did to them and not have left some of his hair behind.”

“But what if he’d washed them—?” Her protest was weaker.

“They were covered in blood and other detritus, remember?” He pursed his lips. “He didn’t wash them.”

Ellie’s shoulders slumped. Clayton knew how she felt. He put an arm around her and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I know.”

“I was so sure…”

“He was a good fit in a lot of respects, despite the fact everything we had was circumstantial. We’ll send his DNA sample to the lab anyway, just to be sure, but I think we have to accept he’s not our man.” Grim determination surged through him. “We have to keep looking.”

* * *

The sun had barely poked its head above the horizon to announce the beginning of another day when Clayton picked up the phone and dialed his twin’s number. He could have called Tom or even Declan for advice. After all, both of them had years of experience in law enforcement, but there was nothing like shooting the breeze with his twin. So much more got said without either of them saying anything. It had always been that way.