The Professor (13 page)

One of the invisible people. His crimes said he was raging against that designation. Was he using his colorless persona as protective coloring, like a chameleon? “Just an average guy, huh?”

“Yeah, nothing memorable.”
Not like you
, she projected.

“Let’s cover the basics. What race was he?”

“White.”

“Did you see his eyes, by any chance?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But if they were as blue as yours, I’m sure I’d remember.”

He stifled a groan. “What about hair color?”

“Brown.” She waved her hands vaguely. “Medium color. Short, like yours, but without the curl. Not as thick.”

Her posture said she wouldn’t mind running her hands through his hair. Jeez, he didn’t need this. “More like Detective Robbins?”

She blinked, as if just remembering Robbins was in the room. She studied his chocolate-brown hair and deep-set, spaniel eyes. His jaw already carried a shadow. A
sardonic smile lifted one corner of Robbins’s mouth as he followed her slow inspection. Ms. Henry’s gaze tracked across his shoulders, dismissing his polyester clothing. She lingered on his muscular chest, considering, then dropped to where the table cut off her view. “Same texture, lighter brown, not as much gray,” she announced.

“You specialize in clothing. What did you notice there?”

She automatically checked Mick’s jacket—a Harris Tweed. Her eyes registered approval. “Department store,” she said. “It pinched across the shoulders and the break wasn’t right.”

“A jacket?”

She nodded. “Standard business gear: khakis and a sports coat.”

“How tall was he?”

“Gosh, I’m not good at that.”

“Think in relative terms. Was he taller than Ms. Geiger?”

Ms. Henry closed her eyes, concentrating. “Her head came up just above his shoulder. And he had an average build.” She opened her eyes, obviously checking his pecs and shoulders.

Robbins was openly smirking, and he already regretted the flirting. He’d hear about it for the rest of the week.

“Ms. Geiger was five foot three, so that makes him about five foot nine or ten.”

They talked a few more minutes. “I can’t remember anything else,” she said finally. “Let’s stage it and see if we can bring anything else back.”

She looked confused. He stood and gestured for her to rise. “Come out to the food court for a minute.”

They reached the table Geiger had used. “You were about here.” He glanced behind Ms. Henry at her storefront, then touched her elbow, shifting her a few feet to the left. “Detective Robbins is Ms. Geiger, facing you. I’m the guy. My back’s to you until Ms. Geiger stands.” His fingers waved the other detective to his feet. “What’d I do? Step around behind her?”

“No. He stepped forward when she stood, put out his hand. It was concern, not like a cuddle or grabbing.”

“Like this?” He pressed Robbins’s arm and she nodded. “Then what?”

“He put his hand, you know how guys do? Sorta on the small of your back so you can lean on them if you want to?”

He let that one go by. “Emily stood and he moved beside her, touched her back.”

The men followed her directions.

“They walked that way.” She pointed to the right. “Toward the restrooms.”

“Crossed in front of the table?” The men moved away from the food court.

“They must have. The light flashed off his glasses when they walked under the skylight.”

“Glasses?”

“I’d forgotten that completely. That must be why I couldn’t see his eyes. The glasses were tinted. The kind that gets dark in sunlight.”

“Do you remember the shape? Or the frame?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Ms. Henry, could you spend a few minutes with our sketch artist? You may be
the only person who can give us a description.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

She was retreating. The excitement had worn off. She’d realized Mick wasn’t really interested in her. The gossip value—“I saw him! I’m helping the police!”—was crashing up against recognition of the time commitment. Like jury duty, becoming a witness suddenly seemed more like a nuisance than anything else.

“We really need your help. With a picture, we could get it on TV, in the papers. Catch him before he hurts someone else.” What other hook could he use? “We could mention the boutique. It’d be great free advertising.”

She still looked uncertain.

He touched her arm. “Come on. I’ll take you over, make sure you’re comfortable.”

She hesitated. “Well, I can’t be gone for long.”

He made the necessary small talk as they drove to the sheriff’s department. The larger agency had a Faces computer program for building composite drawings. As he delivered her to the technician, Mick flashed his best smile. “You’ve been a huge help. Here’s my card, in case you remember anything else.”

Ms. Henry took the card and briefly examined the assorted contact numbers. “No home number?” she asked, giving him one last flirtatious smile.

“My fiancée made me take it off my cards,” he said with a straight face.

“Oh.” Ms. Henry deflated, then rallied. “Congratulations. Lucky lady.”

“Thanks. We’re both lucky to have found each other.” He shook her hand. “Thanks again. We couldn’t do this without you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, acknowledging she’d been played. “I’ll do what I can.”

The Professor fingered the flint knife. The glossy surfaces and wicked edge were as lethal today as they were when an illiterate hunter drew on patience and finesse to flake the beautiful weapon from a core of rock. The ancients had a clearer view of life and warfare. They realized the goal wasn’t just to win the conflict, but to destroy their enemy. The early Central American tribes aggressively displayed their prowess, flaunting their trophies—scalps, horses, women—seeking to intimidate as well as prove their manhood. They took everything from their enemies, effectively destroying any future rebellion in the process.

He turned to the treasures he displayed from his study trips into Central America. These early civilizations fully understood the concept. They called it worship rather than torture, offering sacrifices to their gods. Rip the beating heart from your enemy and claim his power as your own. Lift your bloodied hands atop a pyramid-shaped temple and call on the gods for their favor. These tribes embraced their nature rather than hiding it behind false facades.

Modern man still had the same inherent desire to rape and pillage. Today, he used computers and finance and called it civilized. He operated within the rules he created, then bent them when it suited his purposes. Wall Street pretended the lust for power didn’t dominate its every move. Trickery and manipulation served modern men as creatively as the Trojans used their horse to destroy the Greeks.

Seldom does history record the place women play in these battles. Literature attempted to define it, but it lacked the courage to be specific. General Zaroff waged the Most Dangerous Game. The ultimate hunter, he stalked the only intelligent prey. Zaroff understood that all manifestations of power, sex and fulfillment were inseparably intertwined in the recesses of the mind. But even he hedged behind the facade of “love.”

The Professor needed no ambiguity and shaded no meanings. It was not love, but sex, with all its inherent pleasures. Power, domination and control were the ultimate aphrodisiacs.

Throughout the ages, warriors recognized sex made a powerful weapon, a two-edged sword. It brought pleasure to the wielder, but could be devastatingly effective in destroying not just the targeted woman, but also her partner, family and community. The conqueror who accepted that duality, and used the knowledge accordingly, was unstoppable.

The Professor had learned to take his pleasure with the women denied him by an inbred and decadent ruling class. Foolish despots, unaware their time had passed, still strutted impotently upon an empty stage.

The first women were silent conquests, taken in secret. True triumph, however, required acknowledgment. The fallen must know they had been defeated, or the battle had no meaning.

The conquests of Mary and Ashley were delicious. They were foolish women, betrayed by weakness and forbidden pleasures. The victory over Emily was even more gratifying. The risk was amply rewarded by her exquisite terror before she gave everything over to him. He closed his eyes, remembering every detail: her face, her eyes, her screams as he drew the knife up her body. The trails of liquid fire decorated her body in silent celebration of his mastery. Then came the moment he knew he held her life in the balance. His triumphant explosion of orgasmic release as he took her life
transcended any he’d previously known.

He sat at his desk in the gathering dusk. To think it all started right here. He caressed the golden oak desk surface as if it were a lover. The first woman came to him here. Ursula Weiss sashayed into his office late one afternoon, expecting to bat her eyelashes and convert a D on her midterm into an acceptable grade. She fluttered through his classroom, blatantly decreeing that her swarm of acolytes smooth her path through life.

He’d silently watched her routine, the coy gestures, the hollow promises, as if from a distance. Hating her, as he’d hated and desired all the women just like her who’d rejected him. The smug, self-confident in crowd who’d laughed at his efforts to join them. Just as Ursula was attempting now, they’d used him when they wanted something: homework, test answers or to move an illegal keg in his ancient truck. Any suggestion he join their party was met with the ridicule he now recognized as the posturing of empty buffoons.

The same anger he’d felt then built as he listened to Ursula’s pretentiousness.

He hadn’t planned it. The roofies were in his desk. He’d heard about them, surreptitiously purchased some and fantasized wildly, but he hadn’t risked using them. He didn’t even know how much to use. Watching Ursula’s smug face, he wondered,
What if?

The thoughts that followed were electric. He saw the scene play out in fast-forward and knew he could do it.

She’d implied she’d trade sex for a grade. Fine, she offered sex. He accepted. He opened his grade book, screening his other hand while he retrieved the pill. He offered her a soda while they discussed her grades and class participation. Convinced of her superiority and invincibility, she accepted the drink without question.

Tasteless and fast-acting, the Rohypnol incapacitated her. He’d bent Ursula over the desk, like the drunken whore she was, and taken her, thrusting and grunting while she drooled on the blotter. Alternating between elation and terror, he’d waited for the knock on his door, for discovery.

Getting rid of her afterward had caused him a moment of panic. A quick glance out his office door revealed a clear coast. He’d hustled her down the hall to the stairs, half-carrying her, his arm around her, giving the impression of solicitous help in case anyone walked into the corridor. He left her in the women’s bathroom on another floor. No telling when she woke, unsure what had happened, much less with whom.

For days, he’d lived on an adrenaline high.

The boldness of the action thrilled him. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. He’d outwitted her and taken what he wanted.

But he’d also waited for Security, the police, her father, someone to pound on his door and demand retribution. He’d relived every moment, detailed every mistake, and devised a superior strategy. By the end of the week, there were still no rumors whispering through the department. He knew he’d won.

The ease of the attack emboldened him. No one suspected. Other encounters followed. He varied his clothes, his glasses and his hunting grounds. There were a dozen colleges within an hour’s drive. The only variables were the number of bars and the quality of the bands. He practiced and refined his approach, careful not to frequent the same establishment too often.

The thrill soon proved insufficient. It was too easy and the women offered only blurry incomprehension in response to his sexual attentions. The challenge lay in the stalk and the capture. As much as that excited him, there needed to be more.

Her acknowledgment of his mastery.

His domination of her.

Her fear in response to his power.

The Professor fantasized about how the act should be played out. He’d taken the next women in their homes. He stripped and tied them to their beds. Their confused terror was like a drug mainlining euphoria into his veins.

With each new woman, he found better ways to enhance their fear. Groveling, begging, screaming with pain, each response drove him to unimagined heights. He soared far beyond mere sexual release. Control over another human being was the supreme high. The ability to create terror, to bring about the slow disintegration of another, was true power.

He wielded it like a scalpel.

Mick and Robbins stood in the service corridor at the mall. Beyond the restrooms, there was a small loading dock and a storeroom for janitorial supplies. A standard emergency exit was located beside the roll-up, overhead door. A large red sign provided the usual alarm warning.

Instead of waiting for the technician to arrive from Greenville, Mick handed the manager of the mall computer store a pair of latex gloves.

“This wire right here,” she said, pointing. “He looped it, so the alarm wouldn’t go off when he broke the contact.” She sent a disapproving look at the mall security agent who hovered in the background. “It’s a really crummy system.”

The man shrugged. “Most of the kids who shoplift aren’t gonna know how to do that. We catch ’em trying to take merch into the restroom on that.” He pointed at the camera positioned in the entry passage.

“Do you record that? Or just monitor it?” Mick asked.

Hope died with a glance at the man’s face.

“Normally, both. We had a little technical difficulty with the camera…”

“…that Monday,” Mick finished for him. “Damn.”

He turned to Robbins. “Let’s secure the area, anyway. The lab techs can go through the motions. Maybe something will break our way.”

Snorting with frustration, he punched the number into his phone. The killer’s prints wouldn’t be on the exit door. The wire would be the generic stuff available at any Lowes or Home Depot. Once again the killer was a step ahead of the cops, undoubtedly laughing at them over his shoulder.

“You like barbeque?” Robbins asked.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

A smile creased the Newberry detective’s face. “I know just the place.”

Robbins drove a series of back roads, then turned into a rutted, gravel parking lot. Cars ranging from big Beemers and Jags to a spring-shot pickup held together with Bondo filled the lot. Only the best barbeque places drew a crowd that diverse. At the far edge of the lot, a white-painted, cinder-block building sat in the shelter of a huge sycamore.

Robbins found a place to park. Mick opened the car door and breathed in the
sweet aroma of hickory smoke and peppery-sharp sauce. He hadn’t seen or smelled a place like this since he left the beach.

“Leave your jacket in the car,” Robbins advised. “This is definitely a shirtsleeve place.”

He hesitated, thinking about his pistol.

Robbins tossed his sports coat on the backseat and popped open the trunk. “I have a box. ’Course half the guys in here will be carrying.”

He shook his head ruefully. Only the cops had to put theirs away. “How many actually have concealed-carry permits?”

“All the good guys and most of the crooks.”

He folded his jacket and laid it across the backseat. Shrugging out of his shoulder harness, he joined Robbins at the rear of the gray Ford, then waited while Robbins closed and locked the gun safe.

“I’ve thought about a shoulder rig,” Robbins said. “How do you keep your jacket from bunching under your arm?”

“A tailor alters them. He cuts the shoulder larger on that side.”

“Tailor, huh?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t cost that much. I like a shoulder harness better than one on my hip.”

They started toward the restaurant. “What about when you don’t wear a jacket?”

Mick motioned behind him. “Small of my back. A shirt covers it.”

“I don’t know.” Robbins rubbed his chin. “I’ve worn mine on my hip so long, I’m not sure I could walk straight with it anywhere else.” He opened the door, and the counter cook greeted him by name. “Prepare yourself for the best barbeque you ever ate.”

A row of booths lined the front of the building. Formica-topped tables crowded the floor between the booths and the counter, where the take-out stand was doing a brisk business. A faint tinge of old cigarette smoke underlay the pungent odor of savory pork. Most of the barbeque in the Midlands was mustard-based. The owner must’ve moved in from the eastern part of the state, bringing this vinegar-based version with him.

On the way to their booth, five people looked Mick over, then asked Robbins, “You catch that bastard yet?”

“Workin’ on it,” was Robbins’s stock answer.

As soon as they were seated, the waitress brought tea so strong and sweet it made Mick’s teeth ache. A few minutes later, she deposited two platters buried in food. Chunks of tender pork spilled from a massive bun nearly hidden under a load of hush puppies, slaw and onion rings. They were the real thing—thick slices of Vidalia onion, separated in circles, lightly breaded and flash-fried.

He pulled a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser and dug in. For a time, there was silence as both men gave the barbeque the undivided attention it deserved.

Robbins took a long pull of iced tea and leaned back against the faded aqua leatherette bench. “Fiancé, huh?”

He gave Mick a “you dog” grin.

Gossip flies in a police station.

“Since when?” The older man reached forward, loaded an onion ring with
ketchup and folded it into his mouth.

“Since never.” He shrugged. “More effective than a wife. Don’t need a ring and they assume you’re still in love rather than ready to stray.”

Robbins laughed. “You’re something else.”

“You married?”

“Divorced. We get along okay. She just didn’t like being married to a cop.”

He nodded. “It happens.”

They compared jobs, pay and benefits while they finished their sandwiches. Finally, Mick licked sauce off his thumb and said, “I thought you might have a problem with me coming in on this case.”

“Not me.” Robbins shook his head. “We needed the help.”

“What about Jordan?”

Robbins thought about it for a minute, picking at a piece of meat stuck between his teeth. “Maybe at first. He was pumped up on the way to the park. You know, his first big case and all. Then he saw the blood and the body and about hurled. Me, I can smell a shit storm brewing. Asshole gets another one around here and we can all kiss our jobs goodbye.”

“It bothers me that this last one was so different. Without the rock connecting it to the other two…” He picked up his glass and drained the rest of the iced tea.

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Man, I would love a smoke.”

“When’d you quit?”

“Thirty-eight days—” Robbins checked his watch, “—and four hours ago.”

“That recently? I’d never have guessed.”

“Asshole.” Robbins straightened and stretched. “I’ll get Lewis to keep an eye on Mahaffey. See if he can deflect some of that rage.”

“Good idea.”

More silence.

“You think maybe the killer’s changing them up on purpose? To keep us off balance?”