The Professor (25 page)

His suspicions already aroused, the arrival of two more detectives spun him into orbit. Frank was the closest to his age, so he smoothly took the lead. “May we have a look at the car, Mr. Manus?”

Manus sat behind a mahogany desk, distancing himself from the police with the wooden barrier. His fingers drummed the surface. Periodically, he realized it and flattened his palms against the leather blotter. “Why?”

“A similar car was involved in an incident. We’re looking at all the Camaros in the area.”

“It takes four of you?” He waved his hands dramatically at the group.

Mick had mostly bottled his outrage before leaving the car. He studied the man who might’ve terrorized Meg. He met the general physical description the witnesses had provided, but so did a good percentage of the men in the state. Owning the right kind of car and being a college teacher made him a big suspect in a small pool. It was all Mick could do not to grab the bastard by the throat and shake a confession out of him.

“If we could just have a quick look at the car,” Frank said.

Manus’s eyes darted from face to face and his nervous drumming resumed. “It couldn’t have been involved in ‘an incident.’ It hasn’t even been driven lately.”

“Then you won’t mind if we take a look.”

“I do mind.” Manus was growing indignant, as the shock of multiple policemen appearing on his doorstep receded. “You can’t just barge in here. I have rights.”

Everybody watches
Law and Order
and thinks they know everything about the law.

“We can get a search warrant,” Ward said patiently. “But we’d prefer not to. We’d rather keep this low-key.”

“Am I a suspect or something?” Manus was getting louder, more aggressive.

Bad move, fellow, if you have nothing to hide,
Mick thought. All the little signs were there—the hunch of his shoulders, the jut of his jaw and the squint of his eyes. Manus was lying about something.

He’d never realized hatred could be quite so tangible. He watched the man’s restless fingers. His hands looked strong; his forearms were well-developed. The guy would have the strength to squeeze the life from a woman’s throat. Mick wanted to break each and every digit.

“Calm down, sir. We just want to look at the car and ask a few questions.” Frank spoke soothingly, the way you would to a frightened child or a spooked animal.

“I want you to leave.”

“Mr. Manus, we can ask you these questions here or we can all go down to the station. We’re trying to make this as painless as possible for you.”

“You’re arresting me?” The professor’s voice rose.

“No, we just have—”

“I heard you.” Manus cut him off. “Some questions. I haven’t done anything wrong.” His face was getting redder.

This wasn’t working; they were losing him. Maybe a quick change of pace would trip him, Mick thought. If Manus was clear, then they were out of here. If not… Well, Frank and Ward would keep him from killing the bastard on the spot. “Where were you, Monday, October third?”

“What?” Manus swung his head toward Mick. The question clearly caught him off guard. His gaze darted around the room, pinballing off the detectives, looking for a sympathetic face and finding none.

“Monday. Two weeks ago—” the day Emily Geiger was snatched from the mall, “—where were you during the day? And that evening.” He pulled out his notebook and opened it to a clean page. His hands were shaking. He ignored that, along with the other cops’ partially concealed, startled looks.

Manus took a breath, visibly pulling himself together. “I teach.”

The words were accompanied by the face thrust and raised eyebrows that said he thought Mick was an idiot. “I was in my classroom. I don’t remember what we did that evening, but I’m sure my wife will know.”

The wife who was noticeably absent on this Monday evening.

“Can anyone verify that?” His pen poised above the paper. His fingers were white, but the pen was steady.

Manus shot to his feet. “That’s it. I’m not saying anything else without a lawyer. You’re trying to trick me into saying something. Well, it’s not going to work.” He stalked toward the front door and pointed dramatically. “You can all leave now.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary,” Ward began.

Manus crossed his arms and glared.

“Okay, you can call your attorney from here or from the station.” Ward rose to her feet and gestured for Manus to precede her. “Start the paperwork,” she said to her partner. “Get a search warrant.”

For a moment, Manus looked shocked, then belligerence returned. Trailed by Ward, he stomped to his desk and picked up the phone. “Do you mind?” he snapped.

“Not at all,” Ward replied easily. She crossed her arms and rocked back in a waiting posture.

Manus spoke into the phone, then turned. “He’ll meet us at the station,” he said coldly. “What do you think?” Mick asked Frank as they piled into the car and followed Ward away from the house.

“I don’t know. Too defensive. More than liberal knee-jerking about Gestapo cops. He’s hiding something.”

“We won’t get anything else from him tonight,” Mick predicted.

Tuesday morning

Mick and Frank left the Spartanburg Police Department, where Detective Ward was finishing paperwork for a search warrant for Manus’s car. The teacher had refused to talk with the detectives this morning—completely lawyered up.

“Let’s go over to the college,” Mick said. “See what we can find out from the staff and his students.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Frank said. “Want to stop for coffee on the way?”

They were both going out of their way to be agreeable this morning. Frank probably felt sorry for him. Mick didn’t need a mirror to know he looked like hell. There were dark, baggy circles under his eyes. The polished suit he wore wouldn’t fool Frank or Ward, but he felt a little better for having made the effort.

Frank hadn’t mentioned Meg on the drive from Greenville. Mick saw no reason to tell him he’d talked to her early that morning. She’d sounded exhausted, and he doubted she’d gotten any more sleep than he had. He’d tossed and turned, drifting into nightmares that mirrored all three of the grisly murder cases. Nightmares that ended with a knife-wielding Professor standing over Meg, who screamed in terror while Mick frantically ran down endless, blind hallways that echoed with taunting laugher. He’d wake, drenched in sweat, only to repeat the cycle an hour later.

As early as he thought Meg might be awake, he’d called, mostly to reassure himself. He’d extracted her promise to stay in the house. He’d told her he loved her. He hadn’t told her his fears about what the Professor could do to her.

The music department secretary was less than helpful. She stood behind the long counter in the office, crossed her arms and gave Mick a chilly look. Her light brown hair was pulled back sharply from her face. The style emphasized the dark roots along the part. Mick suspected she was probably a nice person, but the scowl on her face made her look mean. Watching her, he halfheartedly wondered why she disliked him and wished she’d offer them a cup of the coffee brewing behind her. After the initial introductions, she’d pointedly ignored him, focusing instead on Frank. “Dr. Manus is a wonderful teacher.”

“I’m sure he is,” Frank said. “This is all routine. We’re trying to tie down where a few people were last Monday, that’s all. His Monday classes are at what times?”

She wasn’t buying his reassurances. “Do you have a warrant or something?”

“We don’t want to look at his records or his personnel file. We’d just like to know his class schedule.”

A few graduate students drifted through the outer office and checked their mail slots. They glanced curiously at the two SLED agents. Dark suits plus short hair spelled cops, and a few quickly headed to the door. Mick smiled tiredly. He could smell residual pot on their hair and clothes from where he stood at the counter. This morning, he could care less.

“My professors used to post their schedules on their office door,” Mick said, smothering a yawn. “Let’s just stroll down there.”

“His first class is at nine,” the secretary abruptly conceded.

Mick wondered why.

“The second’s at eleven,” she said. “He doesn’t have afternoon classes on Mondays and Fridays.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Now, is there a way to tell if he was actually in class that day?”

“Not really. College isn’t like high school, with the professors playing Big Brother.”

Her tone implied neither of them were college graduates, Mick thought with a silent sigh.

“Especially this department,” she continued. “Everyone’s so creative, we try to be more flexible.”

Good thing the rest of us stick to rules and routines
.
Once you start thinking the rules don’t apply to you is when you get into trouble.
He mentally winced. He wasn’t breaking the law with Meg, he reminded himself. Or even violating department policy. She didn’t become a target until
after
they were involved.

“The teachers generally conform to a schedule.” She said it like conforming was a bad thing. “Sometimes they cancel a class or reschedule it if there’s a conflict. The professors occasionally cover each others’ lower division classes, but Dr. Manus’s classes are so specialized, getting a substitute is pointless.”

Manus as irreplaceable genius. Yeah, I can see the man buying in to that myth. And what’s with this “Doctor” crap?
He’d checked the man’s credentials. The guy didn’t have a doctorate.

“Perhaps we could talk to the students in his Monday classes,” Frank said. “They may remember.”

Whatever cooperative spirit the secretary had harbored vanished. “I can’t give out that information.”

That was the last thing they got from her. Frank and Mick trudged across campus to the administrative offices, where a more cooperative staff provided both Manus’s class rosters and the relevant students’ schedules. Manus’s Monday classes were upper division ones, specifically for music majors. Unless they were cutting class, all the students would be somewhere in the music building today.

“Campuses were smaller when I was in college,” Frank groused as they walked back to the music building.

“That’s because you went in the Dark Ages.”

They passed a chattering group of what had to be freshmen. “I swear they’re letting children in these days,” Frank muttered.

“I don’t know. They look like they’re about your daughter’s age.”

“Jeez, don’t remind me. Jennifer starts next fall.”

Mick wanted to change the subject away from college girls before Frank started thinking, much less talking, about Meg again. Frank’s family, however, was usually a safe topic. “Where does Jennifer want to go?”

“Carolina—the real one. Not that Tarheel place you went. We told her to look in-state or start applying for scholarships.”

“Has she looked at College of Charleston? Tricia loves it there.”

“I’m not sure Jennifer has the grades to get in.”

They talked about colleges until they reached the modern brick building they’d left an hour earlier. The admin secretary had photocopied the students’ IDs as well as their schedules. Mick flipped through the pages as he and Frank clattered down the stairs. Several of Manus’s students should be in a seminar taught in a small recital auditorium.

The session ended as the agents reached the auditorium.

“Excuse me.” Frank showed his badge and made the introductions. The students paused in their packing-up-the-satchel routine and looked them over. Several of the women, and to Mick’s discomfort, a few of the men, openly checked him out.

“We’d like to talk to those of you in Music 308.” Mick consulted the list and called out seven names.

The group divided, some heading out the door, the rest circling the detectives. “We need to know whether that class met on the third. That’d be Monday, two weeks ago,” Mick added when he received mostly blank looks.

How could they not remember? He knew exactly what he’d done that day. Unaware the Professor was kidnapping Emily Geiger at that moment, he’d been interviewing classmates of Mary Baldwin, who attended
this school
. He’d tried to find any clue as to why she was dead.

What about Mary Baldwin—or Emily Geiger or Ashley Cohen for that matter— had attracted the Professor’s attention? What behavior or activity made him select
her
from all the available women?

The next question was intrusive and disturbing. What about Meg had attracted the killer? Geiger’s e-mails had revealed the Professor knew about her forbidden lover. Baldwin picked up forbidden lovers at a nightclub. Guilt and fear twined up Mick’s spine, freezing him in place. Was he Meg’s forbidden lover? Did the Professor know that? The killer’s e-mails to Meg made only vague references to a secret.

“I’m doing good to remember yesterday,” laughed one of the young men.

Mick forced his attention back to the students around him. Several others shook their heads. “I don’t remember. Sorry. I have another class.” They edged away.

Thank God for the anal-retentive. One of the women had her organizer out and was tapping the buttons. She shook her head. “Class was cancelled. Dr. Manus told us on Friday he had a scheduling conflict for that Monday. I can’t remember if he told us specifically what it was. I’m sure I would’ve written it down. Anyway, I hope that answers your question.”

He got her name and number. “I’ll need a formal statement.”

“Oh, you can call me.” She gave him an inviting smile. “Anytime.”

Frank was grinning when he turned. “Women everywhere, Mick. The haunted
Hamlet
look works for you.”

But the woman wasn’t Meg, and he wasn’t interested.

Further checking confirmed the eleven o’clock class had also been cancelled on October third. Manus had lied about his alibi.

We’ve got you now, you bastard
. A hair, blood, a speck of that sandy soil from Lynches Woods, and Professor Manus was theirs.

He opened his cell phone and called Ward, relaying the information. “How soon can we have the warrant?”

“Judge just signed it,” Ward replied. “It keeps getting better. Manus held a music series at Westside Baptist this summer.”

“And?”

“That’s Cohen’s church. She helped with the youth program.”

“You’re awesome.” He looked up and caught Frank’s curious gaze. “Manus teaches at Baldwin’s school. Did the music program at Cohen’s church. Lied about his
alibi for Geiger’s murder…”

Frank grinned appreciatively and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go get him.”

They left the classroom. They’d pick up Ward and the warrant on the way to Manus’s house. As they crossed the sun-drenched lobby, they heard running footsteps behind them.

“Excuse me. Officers?” A young woman, her long, dark hair floating behind her, hurried across the marble-tiled space. “Could I talk to you?”

She looked around quickly. Several students stood next to the plateglass windows. Another impatiently brushed past them. “Privately.”

Mick and Frank exchanged looks. “Sure. Where do you suggest?”

She looked over her shoulder, considering. “In here.”

She led them to the main auditorium. Banks of padded seats descended to the curtain-draped stage. Lights and clear acoustical panels shaped like waves hung from the ceiling. For a concert, the room would be alive with light and sound. Today, it was quiet, dim and empty. They stood in the rear, waiting for the woman to speak.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

The question provoked an interesting amount of anxiety. “Celeste,” she said finally.

Celeste—with no last name.
Now that she had their undivided attention, she didn’t seem to know what to do with it. She fidgeted with her messenger satchel and instrument case, then slid both into a seat at the end of an aisle. “I heard you were asking questions about Steve, um, Dr. Manus.”

Steve, huh?
“Is there some information you can share with us?” he asked.

She leaned across the back of the seat and adjusted the strap of her bag. “That Monday. The day he wasn’t in class.”

He waited, depression slumping onto his shoulders. He had a fairly good idea where this was going.

“He was with me.”

Tension and adrenaline slowly drained away. Exhaustion replaced them. “All day?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on her satchel. “We went to the mountains on Sunday and stayed over. He told people he was going to a seminar at Brevard.”

“Did you know he’s married?”

Celeste nodded miserably “He says he isn’t happy. He’s going to leave her.”

Oh, God, the oldest line in the book.
He rubbed his forehead, then slowly worked circles into his temples.
Is Celeste No-Last-Name covering for him?
“Can anyone verify your weekend away?”

She thought for a moment. He watched the emotions play over her clear skin and eyes. She was so young. She looked about sixteen. Manus might not be a murderer, but he was a predator just the same.

“My roommate knew we were going,” Celeste said. “She didn’t approve. She said she’d heard things about him, but I don’t believe her.”

“Where’d you go?”

“He has a cabin near Boone.”

Great. Leave no trail of evidence. No rental receipt, no desk clerk. How many young women has he taken up there over the years?
He looked at Frank, whose
expression probably mirrored his—
what a slimy bastard
. “Let’s go see the roommate and then have another chat with Mr. Manus.”

“But this clears him, doesn’t it?” She gripped the seat back and swiveled her head between the two agents.

“Maybe. You understand why we can’t just take your word for it, don’t you?” Mick softened his voice. “Celeste, he’s never going to leave his wife. He’s using you. You deserve better.”

“You don’t know him.” Her rosebud lips trembled.

Mick sighed and shook his head. Who was he to be giving love advice?

Manus’s defiance folded when presented with evidence of his infidelity. He let them see the car. He’d taken it to the mountains that weekend. He’d feared the incident the police spoke of had occurred near Boone, a location where he couldn’t justify his presence to his wife.

Don’t you think she knows?
Neither the question—or the man—was worth wasting his breath.

Frank and Mick loaded into Frank’s car, headed back to their office. He dropped his head against the seat back. “God, I’m tired. I thought we had him.”

“It’s coming together. Another day or two should do it,” Frank said.

He watched the scenery. He wondered if he could sleep for the next fifteen minutes before deciding he’d probably feel worse if he did. Sighing, he called the Clinton PD. Dispatch put him through to the cop in front of the apartment building. “How’s it going?”

“If it wasn’t for the girls across the street, this would be the most boring thing I’ve ever done.”

Any excitement the patrol cops might’ve felt over possibly catching a serial killer was long gone. “Keep your eyes open. This guy’s not stupid.”

Frank turned into the parking garage. “Tucked away all safe and sound?”

Sarcasm sounded weird coming from Frank. “Bite me, Meyers. Just doing my job,” he said tiredly. “I’m walking over to Main for an espresso. You want anything?”