The Professor (6 page)

The words were delivered flatly. Although it had happened years before, the pain still showed. She knew about that hurt, the hole a parent’s absence left in your life. Losing her parents had been one of a string of devastating events her final year in high school. Mick had lost his dream on top of his tragedy. She’d never have made it without a dream to hold on to. Instinctively, she reached across the table and rested her hand on his. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “For everything.”

Their eyes caught and held. He was attracted to her, but there was something more than lust there. That
something
scared her. She could care about this man. Silently, she retracted her hand. She wasn’t good at hiding her emotions, and she felt exposed under his gaze.

“Is everything okay?” Concern was foremost in his posture now.

“Sure.” She wedged up the corners of her mouth into a smile.
Keep it light and get away before you get in any deeper.
“I need to head back. I’m going to be late for class.”

He crumpled the scone wrappers into the empty cups. “I’ll do the dishes,” he deadpanned. “Can’t expect a sorority girl to pick up after herself.”

“Excuse me? I expected better than rampant stereotypical nonsense from a college-educated, experienced detective.”

He grinned. “You aren’t at all like the sorority girls I knew at Chapel Hill.”

“There may be a few with their heads up their butts, but most of the women are great. And you’ll note I’m all grown-up and the advisor now.”

“Believe me, I noticed.” Warmth flickered in his blue eyes. “But I’m still surprised.”

She ignored the commentary. “I’ll forgive you—maybe—since you don’t live here. But your detective skills are open to debate.”

He opened his mouth to refute that, but she wagged a finger at him. “In case you didn’t notice, this is a small town. There isn’t much in the way of a social life outside the college. Most of the social life on-campus revolves around the Houses. Besides—” she grinned like a little girl with a secret, “—by being the advisor, I can use their laundry room instead of the Fluff-and-Fold and they feed me at least once a week.”

“Creature comforts.” He said it as if he were making notes. “I’ll have to remember their importance.”

“That’s right,” she solemnly agreed. “Right up there with chocolate and air.”

His face grew still and his expression intent. “I shouldn’t do this for a whole bunch of reasons, but I want to get to know you.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve been together nearly an hour and it feels like it’s been five minutes, max. I could sit here all day talking to you.”

He laughed self-consciously, then breaking the eye contact, leaned back in his chair. “Okay.” One hand rose and scrubbed his face. “That was incredibly stupid. I’ll walk you back.”

“It’s not stupid,” she said, before her brain caught up with her mouth. Fear spurted from its hiding place with her words—fear of the desire he generated, fear of letting anyone get close to her again. She stood; the chair legs scraped loudly over the tile floor at the abrupt motion. “I have to go.”

She strode to the door.

He grabbed his jacket and scrambled after her. “Meg, wait…”

She ran down the street. She’d nearly reached the Victorian when she heard his footsteps directly behind her. He caught her arm, but this time he didn’t release her when he spun her against him. Instead, his hands dropped to her waist, pulling her closer. His heart pounded against hers. His arms imprisoned her, but she made no effort to free herself.

“There are a whole bunch of reasons we shouldn’t do this, either,” she said.

“There are a lot of reasons we should.”

She wanted to shake her head, but she couldn’t. His gaze dropped to her mouth. His lips followed. The first contact was gentle—and electric. She could barely breathe for wanting him. Her whole body focused on Mick, attuned to his every move. He shifted experimentally, changing the angle of the kiss. He tasted of coffee and a deeper essence that was him. The pressure increased, and a glow started in her belly that warmed and loosened her limbs.

His tongue traced her lip, cascading sparks of desire. Electricity surged through her body, melting her defenses. With a sigh of longing, she opened to him and he took possession. While his tongue made love to her mouth, her hands slid up his chest and circled his neck, feathering the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

He moaned low in his throat and maneuvered her closer, deepening the kiss.

Thought vanished. There was only sensation: pleasure and desire. The texture of his hair, the heat of his body. Strength and masculinity surged though his lips and fingers at an elemental level, entangling and binding them. His hands roamed her back, and she arched into his unmistakable physical response.

“Oh, Meg,” he groaned.

Some residual spark of sanity stopped them. He tucked her head against his chest, and she clung to him, weak-kneed, listening to his stampeding heart and ragged breathing. “I thought I’d die if I never got to kiss you,” he whispered huskily. “I think I just died and went to heaven.”

Control over her limbs returned along with her higher brain functions. She straightened, trying to break his embrace, but his arms were inflexible.

“Don’t run away. I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”

She drew in a shuddering breath.
Are you crazy?
demanded the voice of authority in her mind.
What are you doing? You know better.

His lips brushed her temple, and his hand stroked her back in a tender caress. “It’s bizarre,” he said slowly. “We just met, but I feel like I already know you. When you tell me something, it’s like I’d just forgotten. Like, oh, yeah, I knew that. God knows, I want you, but this is so much more than just that.”

He tucked a finger under her chin and gently raised her head. “Don’t push me away.”

His erection throbbed against her belly in wild counterpoint to his quiet words. For a moment, she feared he’d give her another of those mind-melting kisses, but he shifted position, retreating slightly. He reached between their bodies, made an adjustment, and grimaced. “I’m not sure I can walk, but how about a lap around the block before I take you home? Maybe then I won’t make a complete ass of myself this morning.”

“Mick.” She stepped back and this time he let her go. She studied his face. Even with desire and hope riding the surface, strength and intelligence gave it structure. It would be so easy to lose herself in this man.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

She turned and fled.

Friday, midmorning

“We don’t have time for this,” Mick snapped. He threw his jacket onto the borrowed Newberry Police Department desk and jammed his fists against his hips.

“Don’t bite my head off. The family insisted,” Frank told him. “He’s their personal physician.”

“He’s a shrink, not a forensic psychologist.”

“He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s our pain. Geiger’s folks called their good buddy, the governor, who called the chief, who called the cap’n—”

“Yeah, I get the picture.”

“—thereby proving once again that shit does indeed roll downhill.”

Mick and Frank joined the men already assembled in the conference room. Jordan and Robbins looked better today. Newberry PD had thrown everything they had at the kidnapping. It was the biggest case they’d had in ages. In the three previous years, they’d had numerous traffic fatalities, but only one murder. A drug-addicted teen killed his grandfather during an argument over money. The case had shocked the community, but it hardly posed a challenge for law enforcement. Currently, the four most wanted criminals in Newberry County included two for passing bad checks, one simple assault, and a woman driving on a suspended license. If those were the county’s biggest crime worries, no wonder the Chamber of Commerce considered the area paradise, Mick thought, remembering the literature strategically placed in his motel room.

In spite of his frustration over Meg, he’d arrived at the police department expecting to get something accomplished today. They had leads, tangible physical evidence, to follow. Instead, they had to sit through this ludicrous meeting.

The shrink sat at the head of the table, and Mick wryly wondered if he’d considered the psychological implications of the different positions. Small, neat, with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, he looked like a history teacher. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, Mick detected little man syndrome—overcompensating for nominal stature with a superinflated ego. He nearly groaned. He did not need this today.

“I’m happy to be of assistance,” Dr. Perrin said, moving around the table, making eye contact with each person. “I do believe understanding the perpetrator will assist you in making an arrest and ending this reign of terror for our communities.”

Jesus, spare me,
Mick thought behind a bland facade.

With no choice except to cooperate with the guy, the detectives summarized the three cases and handed the doctor the crime scene photos. The shrink blanched. Mick couldn’t help but wonder if he’d seen similar graphic depictions of violence before.

He also noticed the man lingered over some of the pictures. He couldn’t see which ones from his angle, but he could guess. Over the years, Mick had met cops who showed a little too much interest in the details of sex crimes. They dawdled over the crime scene photos of women with splayed legs, studied the path reports of the injuries. Discuss the details of the case with them and he heard the prurient curiosity in their voices, even as they tried to appear professional.

It angered him, sometimes as much as the loathing he felt toward the rapist. He had no respect for cops like that. If he was ever partnered with one, he’d find a way to switch. Finding the same tendency in this shrink added to his instinctive dislike and
distrust of the man.

Finally, Dr. Perrin settled his glasses on his nose and inspected his notepad. “There are four major categories of serial rapists,” he began. “Most are simply compensating for their feelings of inadequacy. They force women to have sex with them to enhance their perceptions of personal power and potency. Then there are the exploitative ones—not our perpetrator.”

Mick stifled a groan. The guy was quoting FBI briefing materials Mick had reviewed when he chased his first sexual predator—five years ago.

“You’re dealing with an anger rapist.”

Thank you, Dr. Perrin. We would have never figured that out on our own.

“He’s acting out his issues with his mother. In some way only he understands, these women—these innocent college students—remind him of his inadequacies, which his mother fostered in his formative years.

“As a result of this early abuse, he may display aggressive, macho behavior. He is contemptuous of the victim, generally uses foul language and threatens them.”

That’s a power asserter,
Mick thought wearily.
They’re different subgroups.
He focused on a spot just over the psychologist’s shoulder. How telling, he thought, that this shrink saw the crimes in terms of sexual predator types rather than concentrating on the motivating factors for serial killers.

“The response he wants from the victim is fear and total submission. He has no sense of the woman as a person. While most anger rapists seek only to purge their anger, some do murder their victims. It’s his complete disregard for women that allows him to advance his deep-seated need to dominate to include murder.”

What do you know?
Mick thought. It was a weird way to get there, but that last sentence summarized their assailant.

“So you see him as a control freak,” Robbins said.

“In simplistic, layman’s terms, yes. You must understand, deep down, he’s afraid of women. Actually, he hates them. Thinking of them as inferior, as objects, empowers him. He probably is incapable of normal sexual relationships. He may even be impotent. Only when he is completely dominant can he achieve sexual satisfaction. His possible use of a condom during the sexual assault could be fear of disease, but I believe it is symbolic. He is denying the reproductive power of women, shaming them further with the societal disgrace of the barren womb.”

Say what?
Mick carefully kept the incredulous expression off his face. The men surrounding the table, even Jordan the rookie, displayed equally expressionless faces.

“Historically, women who could not produce an heir were shunned, discarded or on occasion, executed. The sexual revolution changed our ideas about pregnancy, but many people continue to view reproduction as a woman’s primary purpose. It is objectification—denying the woman’s role as a person—but it is undoubtedly consistent with an anger rapist’s view of women as property.”

“Doctor,” Frank said. “This is interesting background, but I think we’re getting a little off course.”

“It is imperative that you understand his frame of mind, his context.”

Mick was relieved they’d withheld the rock information from him. No telling where he’d go with that. And Mick had the sinking impression this man wouldn’t hesitate to call a press conference, standing in as the “family’s spokesman.”

“This perpetrator displays the narcissistic infantilism typical of the schizophrenic. The emerging pattern fits a pseudo-reactive schizophrenic. His bizarre behavior serves as a cover-up for the hidden psychosis. His emotions swing from intense euphoria to deepest depression. He may attribute the highs to his murders or the attacks may be what drive the ascent to ecstasy. As a result, when he tumbles into the following depressive valley, he will seek the thrill of the stalk and assault to again achieve the pleasurable upswing.”

“How low will his depression go?” Jordan asked.

Mick glanced at him.
Was he actually swallowing this psychobabble?

“Are you asking about suicide? It is certainly a possibility, but his actions are still too carefully orchestrated to indicate that level of personality disorganization.”

“You believe he’s a schizophrenic rather than a sociopath?” Mick asked. Dr. Mathews, the consulting forensic psychologist, had found no evidence of psychosis.

“The terms are often confused by nonprofessionals. The correct terminology is antisocial personality disorder.”

The man droned on. Mick strove to keep a straight face. He couldn’t yawn or laugh without later repercussions. The man had some valid points, but even a blind pig found a few acorns.

Mostly the doctor was overreaching, taking points he’d probably researched yesterday and trying to fit the killer—what was with this perpetrator stuff? Too much
Law and Order
?—into a neat box. Thank goodness he wasn’t trying to distinguish between a hedonistic serial killer and a power/control one, the sheer pleasure and exhilaration of the first’s stalk and kill versus the other’s compulsion to hunt.

Mick’s mind wandered as the man murmured about the debilitating effects of childhood trauma, poor nutrition and improper parenting skills. He settled on a more intriguing, and baffling, topic.
What was up with Meg? And with him?
He couldn’t get the woman out of his head.

He replayed their conversation. After that inane weather comment of his—where had
that
come from?—everything had been going great and then—
boom
. She took off like the hounds of hell were after her. When he caught her, when she was in his arms, it felt so incredibly right.

Kissing her just happened. It was only a kiss. Okay, it was a monster of a kiss with the promise of a lot more, but still…

“Mick.” Frank hissed behind his hand and nudged his foot under the table.

Dr. Perrin had finished his monologue and was now looking at him expectantly.
What was he supposed to do? Applaud?
Mick silently sighed, wondering what the man had just said. “Thank you, Dr. Perrin. That was very informative. You’ve certainly given us some new insights.”

“As I said earlier, I’m delighted to be of assistance in these stressful times. Knowledge is power, isn’t it?”

At times
.
Sometimes, connections are far more useful.
“We appreciate your meeting with us. And for sharing your accumulated years of experience.”

The man nodded gravely, looking pleased. “I’m willing to assist you as you attempt to formulate a profile. I understand that can be quite helpful in developing a list of suspects.”

“We appreciate your offer. I’ll call you when we get to that point.”

Mick stood. The doctor looked startled. “Aren’t you going to do that now?”

“We have some physical evidence we need to process today. The courts still weigh that more heavily. We have to give it preference.” He lifted his hands and dropped them as if to say,
What can we do with such ignorance?

Dr. Perrin rose and picked up his briefcase. “In the interim, please keep me informed. I’ll be happy to act as the liaison with the family. Perhaps I can provide a buffer, to shield them from more unpleasantness.”

Was that a dig at him for yesterday’s rancorous session?
“Terrific idea. Please let them know this case is our highest priority.”

He escorted the shrink through the door and down the hall to the lobby. “Thanks again.”

Mick reentered the conference room. Robbins grinned. “Damn, O’Shaughnessy. I knew your Irish bullshit charm would come in handy.”

“‘You certainly gave us some new insights.’” Jordan dropped his voice into a pompous imitation of Dr. Perrin’s. “Between the two of you, I thought we were going to have to break out the shovels to get out of here. How do you do that with a straight face?”

“I didn’t say who the insight was about.”

Both detectives snorted with laughter.

Frank gathered the photos into a loose pile. “What’s this physical evidence we’re looking at?”

“The lab called right before this started. Dr. Clark has something he wants to show me with the duct tape.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“Nah. Didn’t you get a couple of matches on the victim contact lists?”

Frank nodded.

“Head back to Greenville and follow up on that. I have to go through Columbia on my way to the beach anyway.”

“Oh? You and Jess make up? Margaritas and sailboats this evening?” Frank grinned.

The guy thinks my life’s one big party.
Generally, Frank resisted the temptation to live vicariously through what he imagined Mick’s single life to include. Lately, he’d been making too many comments. “Jess and I are ancient history. You know ‘policeman’ wasn’t on her approved list of suitable occupations. It’s Tricia’s birthday. I can’t miss the party and expect to go home again.”

“Give your sister a kiss. You coming back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here for the funeral. I’ll call you from the car.”

The Professor stared at the young women arrayed in tiers before him, like a banquet offered for a visiting prince.
I’ll have that one,
he thought,
and that one.

His gaze moved from the blonde to a brunette. Her long, silky tresses cascaded past her shoulders. She noticed him watching her and self-consciously looked away. He continued past her, losing interest. Vapid; an unworthy opponent.

He moved on, ignoring the corpulent ones, fastidious in his taste. Already, he heard the summons inside him. For now, his hunting was leisurely, merely considering possibilities. His mind and body still resonated with Emily’s death. He needed time to appreciate her, to review the triumph of his endeavors.

Nevertheless, the craving was there, a faint scratching in his belly. The want, the need, had become more insistent with each success. His eyes swept across the classroom. If his prey wasn’t here, there were other venues, numerous colleges where lovely, young women congregated, careless with their lives and their bodies, convinced they were invulnerable and perhaps immortal.

Another woman entered the classroom, late, but unrepentant.

He smiled. He’d been watching this one, studying her. He knew her routine: the library, the sorority house, the businesses she frequented on the Strip. She moved freely about campus, often alone, sure of herself.

Like all women, she was a fool.

No woman was a match for a man, especially one like him.

Silently, he watched her cross the room. Something was different. She always moved with a confident grace. Today, she carried an added glow. Sexuality simmered below the surface. Something had awakened it. His instincts responded. Like fresh blood drew a predator, she enticed his senses.

Others noticed, as well. Cocky young men, testosterone-driven, followed her movements. Her hips rolled in her tight jeans and her breasts jostled softly, unrestrained beneath the sweatshirt. Her hair cascaded in a riot of curls around her face. Usually she confined it, smoothing it back in a braid.