The Professor (26 page)

“No, thanks. I’ll see you inside.”

Mick waited until he reached the sidewalk to call Meg. She sounded tense and withdrawn. Twenty-four hours of cops watching her every move was telling on her. “I don’t know which is worse,” she said. “Everyone staring because these guys take me everywhere, or wondering what’ll happen if they leave.”

The IT guys said she hadn’t received any e-mail that morning. Of course, if the Professor was watching her, he knew the cops had her computer.

“Why don’t you take a few days off? Go stay with a friend, your family?” He hesitated, then added, “Me?”

“I can’t miss class. I’ll never catch up.”

He covered his disappointment she’d sidestepped his invitation. “I understand the routine helps, but let’s talk about priorities here. Keeping you alive is mine.” He dodged a woman who gave him a strange look.

Meg was silent. Then, abruptly: “Is it true?”

“What?”

“One of the cops said you weren’t supposed to be involved with me. He said you’d get fired. Like it was my fault.”

“No! I mean, yeah, it kinda is. I mean, we aren’t supposed to get involved with victims. Or suspects. Remember? I told you that on Thursday night.”

“So you’re leaving,” she interrupted flatly. “Is this the brush-off call?”

He stopped and rubbed his free hand over his face. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have over the phone. Especially since it tapped straight into her biggest fear—abandonment. “Meg, I’m not leaving.”

“I won’t jeopardize your job.”

“We were already involved when the e-mail started. That’s different. If the cap’n asks, I’ll let someone else lead the investigation. But I’m not leaving, and I won’t get fired.”

“Really?”

Her relief flooded through him like a benediction.

He made a mental note to have the bigmouthed cop reassigned.

Mick stifled a yawn and answered his office phone, aware his hand was shaking. “Gotta cut back on the caffeine,” he muttered. He was starting to fantasize about an island with a large hammock for two and no phone service. “O’Shaughnessy.”

“Vijay—the dispatcher—said you wanted to talk to me.” The cab driver had finally returned Mick’s call. “He held on to that picture from Sunday’s newspaper. He showed it to me this morning. That’s him. That’s the guy I picked up that night.”

The ID was probably shot for trial purposes, but he figured that was the DA’s problem.

“Can you tell me anything else about him?”

“He was jazzed up. Couldn’t sit still. I was afraid he was on something, but he never said anything ’cept where he wanted me to take him.”

“Did you see where he went after he got out of the cab?”

There was a pause as the cabbie apparently searched his memory. “No,” he said slowly. “I sat there a few minutes, updating my log. I didn’t pay much attention. I was just glad to get rid of him. To top it off, he was a lousy tipper. But I noticed he walked down the sidewalk instead of going into the restaurant. I thought that was strange. Why didn’t he have me take him to wherever he was going?”

“Which direction did he go?”

“East.”

Toward the Squirrel
. “Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”

Tuesday midday

“O’Shaughnessy?” Ward sounded excited. “I’m adding you to a call. If I screw up and lose you, call me right back.”

With a lead-in like that, Mick’s curiosity was definitely piqued.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead, Detective.”

A male voice spoke. “This is Detective Waits. I’m with the Simpsonville PD. I spoke with a female victim this morning. She called yesterday afternoon after seeing the newspaper article about the Professor’s earlier attacks. She was sexually assaulted, midsummer. The victim was drugged, but she started coming around during the assault. She can only remember pieces of it. That’s how those drugs work—they leave gaps in the victim’s memory.”

“I know.” Mick tried to control his impatience.

“Anyway, she came to and found herself tied to the bed. Once she got loose, she went to her gynecologist instead of the hospital. The doctor found a rock wedged up inside her. Detective Ward says that’s your doer’s signature.”

“The victim never reported the assault?”

“She had a long list of reasons why she didn’t. Bottom line, she didn’t think she had a good enough case to convict. She didn’t want to put herself through it.”

“So the scene wasn’t processed. All that evidence was lost.”

“Bingo.”

“Damn.”

“On the upside…” He paused.

“Yeah?”

“She’s pretty sure she recognized the guy. Says his name is Tim Bradley.”

“You’ve got shit, O’Shaughnessy.” His captain wasn’t buying the rationale for a search warrant. “He’s got no record. You’ve got nothing tying him to the crimes.”

“He was a suspect in an assault two years ago,” Mick argued.

“He was released. No evidence.”

“We’ve got him at the same clubs as two of the victims. Another witness puts him with the third victim at the mall. The cab driver picked him up near a victim’s apartment the night she died. A woman identified him in an assault with the same MO. She says he matches the suspect sketch.”

“She won’t press charges. That ought to tell you something about your lack of evidence. The guy doesn’t even own a Camaro. So far, nothing ties him directly to the murders. Everything you have is circumstantial. Get something definite and we’ll go after him.”

Mick frowned at the phone in frustration. His boss was right, but it didn’t change the gut instinct that said,
This is the guy
. He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to link Bradley directly to the three murder victims. There were bits and pieces but nothing concrete. They just had to find the right string to follow.

He looked across his desk. Frank’s nose was buried in the file the detectives were rapidly accumulating on Tim Bradley.

“How about if you call your buddy, Jack Martin, down at the Clinton PD?”

Frank quirked an eyebrow at him. “You figure he’ll blow smoke at anything you suggest?”

“For some reason, the man doesn’t like me.”

“When’s the last time you talked to her?”

Frank’s face said he already knew. “Today,” Mick said.

“Great job of breaking things off.”

He raised one shoulder. Neither a denial nor an explanation would do any good at this point. “Aren’t they watching Bradley? Can they drive by his house? See if he’s home? He left school this morning. Maybe Martin could ask a few questions over there.”

“Bradley left?” Frank stared at him. “And what were you doing calling him?”

“I called the history department, nothing official, just asked if he was in. Clinton PD isn’t telling me a thing, and I wanted to know where the guy was. Figured we needed to talk to him as soon as we got everything lined up. The secretary said Bradley left before lunch, took a personal day.”

Frank pursed his lips. “It could be nothing—a doctor’s appointment or something.”

“That’s why I’m here and not there. I don’t want to spook him.” After the Manus circus, he was working hard to keep his emotions under control. Meg was safe. The pieces were coming together. They just had to finish building the case against Bradley.

“Martin asked the school president for background on Bradley.” Frank pulled at his lower lip. “You think he got wind of it and he’s running?”

“He might be. I’d sure like to know where he is.”

Frank picked up the phone and dialed. Mick listened to him bullshit and then pass along the request. A few minutes later, Martin reported Bradley’s Honda visible in his driveway. Frank listened awhile longer, then hung up. “They’ll keep an eye on the house until we figure out a way to get a warrant.”

He nodded. “As long as we know where he is…”

Frank finished his thought. “He can’t hurt anybody.”

A little later, the president of Douglass College was on the phone. “I spoke with the history department head. Bradley didn’t report for class this afternoon.” The man was commanding and to the point. “The department secretary is on vacation, but the temporary mentioned bare shelves in Bradley’s office. According to his colleagues, Bradley apparently packed his artifacts Sunday afternoon. He told them he was lending the items to a Dr. Faraday at New Mexico State. I spoke with Faraday. He’s never heard of Tim Bradley.”

“Can you think of any other reason he’d pack those things?” Mick asked. “Or perhaps the other instructors got the name wrong.”

“No, Faraday’s the expert out there. I can’t think of any another reason Bradley would pack up items he held in such high regard.”

“Did you see the pair of composites we circulated to your HR department?”

“Hold on.”

The president was back. He sounded grim. “I didn’t see the resemblance to the sketch in Sunday’s paper, but now that I see the drawings side-by-side, I do. Your suspect could very well be Tim Bradley. If he’s running, he has nearly a half day’s head start.”

“Do you have a recent picture?”

“Give me an e-mail address. I’ll send the one from his faculty identification card.”

Thirty minutes later, Frank’s phone rang. Bradley’s picture had already gone to the Highway Patrol in Georgia, North Carolina and South Carolina. Clinton PD and Laurens’ sheriff’s department were also alerted.

“He isn’t?” Frank looked over and mouthed, “Bradley’s gone.” He listened some more and then asked sharply, “What kind of sports car?”

Mick sat on the edge of his chair, knee jiggling, waiting for Frank to tell him what was happening. Frank rang off and flipped several pages in the file on his desk.

“Well?” Mick asked.

Frank didn’t look up from the file when he spoke. “Bradley’s neighbor said he left this afternoon. He drove the car he keeps in the garage, rather than the Honda.”

He fought to stay as outwardly emotionless as Frank. The guy had to be worried about his reaction. “What car? He only has one registered, the beige Honda Civic.”
Where did Bradley go?
His fingers itched to grab the phone and confirm Meg’s safety.

Frank shook his head. “The neighbor said it’s a black sports car.”

“Okay,” Mick breathed. Now they knew. The car could be the all-important link. That meant Bradley could be the Professor—and he was running.

Or hunting.

Mick willed himself not to sweat.

But if Bradley owned a Camaro, they could have a warrant in minutes. Mick clicked over to the DMV database and ran “Bradley” as an owner query. He quickly scrolled through the results. “Timothy S. One car, the Honda.”

He slumped in his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking. The bastard was a planner. He’d have distanced himself from the car.

An idea sparked. “Where’d he go to school?”

“College?” Frank asked, not following Mick’s thoughts.

“High school,” Mick said impatiently. “Dr. Mathews said these guys’ crises hit in puberty, in high school.”

Frank turned pages in Bradley’s file. “Walterboro.”

Mick re-sorted the Camaro database. “There are two cars registered in Walterboro. Johnson and Stoddard.”

Frank flipped more pages. A smile broke over his face. “We always say these guys have strange relationships with their mothers. Guess what Bradley’s mom’s name is.”

Mick took in Frank’s expression. “Johnson or Stoddard?”

“Stoddard. She remarried when Timmy was twelve. Guess the new guy never adopted him.”

The phone interrupted them.

“O’Shaughnessy?” Jordan was excited. Paper chases hadn’t burnt him out yet. “I’ve been investigating Bradley, like you asked, trying to link him to the vics. He was teaching at Agnes Scott during the summer, and doing research.”

“That’s when we think he targeted Baldwin and the other woman, the one he raped.”

“Baldwin was in summer school, but not in his class.”

“He found her somehow. He followed her to the dance club.”

“Okay, but that isn’t what I called about.”

“You found something else?”

“Cohen worked at Agnes Scot last summer.”

“At Agnes Scot?” Mick interjected. “That isn’t her college.”

“She worked as a clerk in the Agnes Scot history department office.”

“The history department.” Mick gave a low whistle. “If Bradley was doing research there…”

“He was in and out of the department office all the time.”

“That’s good, but it’s still circumstantial. Keep digging. See if anybody can put them together.”

Mick dropped the phone and turned to Frank. “Let’s go find him.”

Tuesday evening

Two girls strolled from the Chi Zeta house, letting the rear door slam behind them. They peered at the empty patrol car, put their heads together, giggling, and vanished in the direction of the Sigma Nu house.

“Yes,” the Professor whispered fiercely, clenching his hands into a double-fisted victory pump.

It was all coming together. He wanted to laugh aloud at the sheer audacity of it. His plan was going to work. He would take Agent Michael O’Shaughnessy’s woman right out from under the policemen’s noses.

He flicked a glance at the apartment house across the street. The brainless police were concentrating their efforts there, instead of watching their prey and understanding where she’d go to ground. She’d take cover at the sorority house.

For days, he’d thought of nothing but this moment, working different scenarios, until he hit on the perfect approach. Meg’s blind spot was her pride—her disdain for men, her drive to show off, to achieve academic acclaim. She’d delivered the seed of her destruction right into his hands. He’d given her an A for her efforts.

He’d planned his own escape long ago: fake ID, tinted contacts, mortgaged the house to the hilt. He regretted having to leave the place, but his treasures were already safe at the lake house. He could stay there a few days and finalize his departure—when he wasn’t enjoying himself with Meg.

There was no way the dim-witted cops would find the lake house—unless he decided to tell them. Maybe he’d leave O’Shaughnessy a little message. Let him know where to pick up his girlfriend’s body.

He waited, rehearsing his plans for Meg—the approach, the transfer. It was all so risky, but he’d thought of everything—including a way to rub that asshole agent’s nose in his failure. He glanced at his watch. His first gift would be delivered soon. He’d give a lot to see the jerk choke on his coffee tomorrow morning when he logged in to e-mail.

Tonight he’d test the digital video camera. If it worked as well as he expected, he’d share the movie with O’Shaughnessy too. The Professor grinned. He was a generous man. He’d give the agent every gratifying moment of Meg’s fear, of the beauty of crimson blood on pale, creamy skin. The hysterical note in her voice as she begged…

He shook himself. There was no time for fantasy right now. Stepping from the car, he paused, listening. This small faculty lot was nearly empty, but sometimes a student risked leaving a car overnight, weighing the possible ticket against the proximity to the Greek housing. He stood still, blending into the shadow of a towering hickory. The tree’s rock-hard nuts practically guaranteed the shaded spot at the end of the row would be empty. Few people wanted the resulting dents. He smiled. Those risks were so petty compared to what he was going to do.

To what he was
doing
, he corrected.

He inhaled, pushing his awareness into the darkness. Night came early this time of year, but the shadows were his ally tonight. He caught the scent of smoke from what could be an autumn bonfire.

His smile widened. It was a
bon
-fire—a good fire. The old warehouse had accepted his offering of kerosene and rags, smoldering long enough for him to move
away. He’d left as flames crawled along the tinder-dry wood beams and floors.

As predicted, the Clinton cops had pulled one of the patrol cars away from the college. To their limited mind-set, the fire was a more pressing concern. He’d dealt with the second patrol car. His gaze wandered to the bushes behind the parking lot.

Effectively dealt with it.

For a moment, he indulged in the beauty of his ploy and the expression on the buzz-cut rookie’s face. Darwin had it right—survival of the fittest.

Noise drifted across the parking lot from the Sigma Nu house. The party was heating up. Time to move. Half the Chi Zeta house would be over there, drinking and whoring. The pair who’d just left confirmed that the rear door was unlocked, the alarm unset. None of the girls cared enough about Meg to inconvenience themselves—a detail he’d counted on.

Now he had to get into the downstairs service area undetected. Meg had arrived as expected, carrying her books and laundry basket. She always did her laundry on Tuesday night. She was nothing if not predictable.