A Shred of Truth (30 page)

“Which is how I met you.”

“Next year I’m applying for North Precinct.”

“Am I that much trouble?”

“Actually, it’s closer to home, which would mean more time with my wife and daughter.” He rested against the wall. “Family’s important. I’ve told you that before.”

“I agree.”

“I’d do anything for them. How about you?”

A lump formed in my throat. “Yeah.”

“And that’s what concerns me. See, in your descriptions of this alleged assailant and his e-mails, you’ve outlined some of the classic traits of a sociopathic mind. A sense of omnipotence. Cruelty and a marked lack of empathy. Exploitative behaviors. In fact, you’ve even provided a modus operandi of sorts, with razor knives and these biblical references in the messages.”

Where was he going with this?

“One of the first modern criminal profilers wrote a book called
Mindhunter
, in which he suggested that ‘How plus Why equals Who.’ It holds true, from what I’ve seen in law enforcement. But sometimes, Aramis, the problem is that we don’t
know
the why until we know the who.”

“So we need to get into the criminal’s mind.”

Still pressed against the wall, he turned his head toward me. “Is that what you’ve done?”

“What?”

“Have you immersed yourself in this situation to avoid the emotional reality? Miss Daly, a woman you once loved, is gone. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that you’ve created this scenario so that—”

“Felicia is dead! That’s real. So is the rest of it.”

“Maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A random victim? No way!”

“By your own admission, she was in a rough neighborhood late at night. She’d been pulled in before—”

“Pulled in? What’re you getting at?”

“In Portland, her sheet contained recent prostitution charges from her involvement with a high-end escort service.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

But Felicia’s breathy invitation at the hotel whispered through my head.

“With your recent studies in social psych,” Meade rattled on, “is it possible you’ve fabricated this sociopathic character as a means of not only protecting
your ex-girlfriend’s honor but also protecting your heart from its very real grief by seeking a maternal replacement for her loss?”

“Meaning, my mother.”

The sympathy in his voice was real. “It’s been over twenty years, Aramis.”

“I saw her. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“I know how much you cared about her.”

“You think I sent those e-mails to myself?” I hissed. “I don’t even know what some of them mean. ‘Thursday—a fitting day for victory over my enemies.’ What the heck is that about?”

“Thursday,” Meade mused. “Named after the Norse god of thunder.”

“Thor’s Day. Okay. But I don’t know who conquered Thor.”

“Your subconscious could’ve dredged up repressed knowledge.”

“I never would’ve written that.”

“I can’t let friendship blur my objectivity.”

“Explain the cuts on Felicia’s back. And the matching initials on Johnny Ray’s shoulder. You witnessed both of those wounds firsthand.”

“That’s the one thing that doesn’t fit.”

“Back at my place,” I said. “I have a blood-stained razor this guy left for me in an envelope. Maybe it’ll help. Would that make you believe what I’m saying?”

“I’d like to see it. If there are any latent prints, we can search them against the AFIS database.” He clapped his hands together. “We both have a lot to think about, Aramis. I’d better let you go.”

T
he pressure was on. Seventy minutes till my final. With Thursday’s confrontation still three days away, I figured I might as well finish out this course and earn my credits for the semester.

Sara and Diesel, please don’t hate me if I bomb this
.

After Freddy C’s stiff-legged exit from ER, I gave him a ride to Centennial Park en route to my brownstone. Meade was close behind, intending to collect the razor-blade evidence I had offered.

“How’s the leg?”

“Not bad, not bad.”

“Meade covered the cost, you know. Or talked them into comping it.”

Freddy wore a look of panic. “I can’t pay him back.”

“Just tell him thanks. That’ll make him happy.”

“We in trouble? For breaking in?”

“Is that what’s got you nervous?” I turned into the park, gliding toward the Parthenon. “Don’t worry. Trish thought we were supposed to be there all along, and she was beside herself after her dog took a chunk out of you. Sure, it looked strange that we’d parked back behind the garage. But if there’s any trouble, I’ll deal with it.”

Freddy was ready to disembark. “Right here.”

“Take care of yourself. Come by for coffee in the morning.”

“I got it,” he said.

“Got what?”

“Evidence. You said we needed it.”

“To build a case against the Kraftsmen, yes. What’d you get?”

“You were talking to her, keeping her busy. So I took it from the wall.”

“In Trish’s bedroom? I didn’t even see you do it.”

“C for Crime-fighter,” Freddy stated.

“Let’s see what you got.”

From musty layers of clothing, Freddy drew out a coiled leather whip. “It’s the one. From the cave.”

“Are there bloodstains on it?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Well, I’m sure they can figure it out in a crime lab. I bet Chigger thought it was safer in plain sight than hidden away somewhere. I mean, how many people go into Trish’s bedroom in the first place?”

Freddy pushed it toward me. “Give it to the detective.”

“Okay.”

“My payment. Tell him thanks.”

“No.” I nudged it back. “You should do that yourself. Tell him what you told me, how Chigger put it in your hand and forced you to use it on another human being.”

In my rearview mirror, the exchange played out between the detective and my friend from the park. There was a shaking of hands, a nodding of heads. When it ended, Freddy C carried himself a bit taller as he melted away into a copse of trees.

“Legends and Lies: Cultural Susceptibility in a Secular Age.”

Our project’s title filled a mobile chalkboard. Against the green background, Professor Boniface Newmann cut an imperious figure as he watched
students file in. He hitched his tweed lapels over a wide-ribbed turtleneck and waited for the wall clock’s minute hand to point straight up.

“Yes then.” He took a step forward. “If any student is late—meaning those who enter from this moment on—he or she will receive a ten-point deduction. Moreover, anyone who leaves before the last group’s presentation will suffer the same penalty. Consider yourselves fortunate for having demonstrated a degree of promptness.”

Roll call commenced with military precision.

“If they’re late,” Diesel muttered, “how will they know about the deduction?”

“Seems like a contradiction. How can you even
receive
a deduction?”

Sara Sevier shot the two of us a sideways glare.

My nerves ratcheted up a few more notches when I heard the order of presentations. We were last. Fifteen minutes per group, with eight groups of three. I had a good hour and forty-five minutes to stew in my anxiety.

Diesel slipped a drawing to me. “Professor Bones,” it read, over a cartoon sketch of a human skeleton with a tortoiseshell.

“Leave me alone,” I mouthed.

He let his eyelids fall, then jerked his chin as though waking up.

“To avoid difficulties, I will be the timekeeper for each group,” Newmann was explaining, lifting an antique stopwatch. “As the designated speaker comes forward, he or she will submit the group’s written outlines, then proceed to the podium. The clock will start at that point. The group’s score will be adversely altered by any presentation lasting under fourteen minutes or over the allotted fifteen.”

“And you think
I’m
a stickler,” Sara Sevier whispered to Diesel.

Staring ahead, he said nothing. Crept a hand toward her stacked books. Poked at them till they were out of alignment with each other.

She fidgeted. Tried to ignore them.

From the podium, the first group’s speaker was halfway through a PowerPoint display when Sara caved, rolling her eyes and straightening the stack. Diesel gave a knowing nod that could’ve been in response to the PowerPoint but more likely to Sara’s compulsive quirk.

When the next group’s presentation kicked off with a skit in full costumes and regalia, my mind scrambled for ways to spice up my own fifteen-minute segment.

It kept snagging, though, on the conundrum of AX.

What was the value of a centuries-old Masonic ring? Monetary? Sentimental? How was this person connected to my mom? What was the goal of the whole charade?

The problem is that we don’t
know
the why until we know the who …

Who then?

I played mental hopscotch, jumping from the outrageous to the plausible.

Athens of the South:
a catering company with an obsessed young employee named Alexia—A and X. Beware the poisoned fig leaves?
Yeah, right
.

Reginald Meade:
a straight-arrow detective. But he knew details of my long-lost inheritance. Had greed or power corrupted him?
No way. I refuse to believe it
.

Anna’s Ex:
AX? A messy divorce. Disgruntled husband. Domestic flare-ups. By employing Anna, had I painted a target on my chest?
Seems a bit far-fetched
.

Chigger:
an ominous tattoo. A jealous guitar player. An axman with an ax to grind—and a religious grindstone for the task.
Certainly seems capable of it
.

Mr. Hillcrest:
an arrogant, controlling parent. A zealot. Thumping his King James Bible, using an ax to clear away the so-called barren trees.
A very good possibility
.

None of these suspects seemed to have a solid alibi. With an accomplice,
any of them could be involved. My hopes of narrowing the list were inhibited by limited resources and dwindling time. And while investigating, I might dig up more suspects.

For that matter, Sammie could be involved. Or Johnny Ray.

I couldn’t trust a soul. Learned that last year, the hard way.

What about myself?

Perhaps my brother and the detective had hit upon the truth, poking beneath my layers of emotional protection. What if I was losing touch? Concocting alternate, safer realities? If, in fact, a hinge had come loose somewhere in my psyche, would I know it? Would I hear the parts rattling before they simply fell apart?

“Group eight?” our professor called from the front. “Snap to it.”

“Aramis.”

I blinked and found Diesel waving a hand in front of me.

“I’m fine.” I gathered up my papers. “I’m here.”

“We’ve had some creative presentations to this point,” said Newmann. “A mix between mildly and wildly entertaining. Unfortunately, the success of most groups’ urban legends has sputtered due to ineffective means of dissemination. Perhaps group eight will reverse the trend.”

“I’m ready, sir.”

Professor Newmann peered over his tortoise-shell rims as I approached and turned over our trio’s project outlines. “Frankly, Mr. Black, your lethargy disappoints me.”

I nodded at the podium. “If I may …”

The moment my hand touched the lectern, he clicked his stopwatch with exaggerated force.

“Legends and lies,” I began. “Does our present culture promote our susceptibility
to them? We’ve seen seven groups already. They’ve worked hard, I’m sure. But I suggest we’ve been simply entertained.”

“As your instructor, it is my job—mine
alone
—to make such judgments.”

“Not meaning to be rude, Professor, but”—I gathered my notes and threw them to the floor—“I’ve come here to learn. Not to outdo the last circus act. Not to get a good grade so that Mommy and Daddy will buy me a Lexus. If this class is really about navigating our way through society’s lies, then we should be allowed to sidestep your browbeating and speak freely.”

Mouths dropped and eyes widened around the lecture hall.

“Browbeating,” Newmann echoed.