Authors: Cathy Perkins
Saturday morning
Mick rolled out of the bunk bed in his old bedroom and tripped over a pile of miniature sports equipment— Vince and Laurie’s kids’ stuff. His mom took care of the boys during the day, and apparently half their toys had migrated into her house. At four and six, the boys were rowdy and rambunctious, but an assortment of computer games also crowded the shelves above the new computer on his old desk.
Limping on his bruised toe, he entered the hall bathroom. Tricia was still asleep, but her presence pervaded the room. He tested and rejected three bottles of shampoo before finding one that smelled merely citrusy. Frank would give him endless grief if he used one of the flowery ones.
Breakfast smells drew him to the kitchen. Grits bubbled on the back burner and coffee perked in an ancient pot. His mother half-turned from the stove when he entered the room. “Morning. You want your eggs scrambled or fried?”
“You didn’t need to get up.”
She smiled. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for. When Tricia’s home, she sleeps until noon and dashes out of here with a bagel.”
He filled his coffee mug and settled at the massive oak trestle table. Seating for seven—or a pull-your-elbows-in eight to ten, as often as not—had been a necessity when they were growing up. “Do you feel lonely?”
His mother slid a plate in front of him and sank into her spot at the head of the table. “I drink my coffee on the porch most mornings, watching the sun rise over the creek.” She smiled at some private memory. “I’ve always loved the creek. The swamp took longer to appreciate.”
He attacked his eggs. She hadn’t answered his question. “I worry about you being here by yourself.”
“Are you asking why I didn’t date after your father died?”
She could still read his mind. “You’re still young, attractive.”
“Why aren’t you married, Michael? You’ve dated some lovely young women.”
He shrugged, not wanting the conversation to be about him. How did they end up on this topic anyway? “None of them was the right one.”
“There’s your answer. I met and married my right one.”
He quickly finished his breakfast. “I have to run. I’ll come back after we catch this guy.”
“Soon, I hope.” She ran a hand over his hair. “Bring your young lady. It sounds like I need to meet her.”
He smiled ruefully. How did mothers just know stuff? “We’ll see.”
The sun was merely a suggestion in the eastern sky when Mick left Conway. He settled his travel mug in the cup holder and roared up Highway 501. Only an occasional puddle remained as evidence of the overnight rain, but the thick, humid air glazed his windshield. By midday, the sky would be a brilliant blue. It’d be a perfect day to be outside, but by noon the highway would be bumper-to-bumper with tourists thronging the outlet malls instead.
At this early hour, he had the road nearly to himself. He picked up I-20 at Florence, westbound to Columbia. Clearing Malfunction Junction at I-26, he figured it was late enough to call Robbins. “What’d you hear about the tire casts?”
“We may have finally gotten a break. The tire’s a specialty, after-market one. A Goodyear Eagle GT14. To be specific, a 225/60 R16. Goodyear’s running a list of distributors. I’ll contact the local ones as soon as it comes in.”
“I’ll have the DMV list soon. We can cross the tire list against it,” Mick said.
“I talked to the sheriff. He’s onboard with manpower to check the cars around here. Ward and Andersen are handling the agencies in their areas. We’ll feed the results back to you.”
And to think he’d worried about this man wanting to run his own show. “Sounds like a plan. That covers the Upstate. I can get some of my guys to look at the rest of the state.”
“I thought we agreed he lives inside the Greenville-Spartanburg-Newberry triangle. He isn’t going to drive to Charleston to buy a tire.”
“You’re right. Good work on the tires, by the way.”
“Thanks. I gotta run. We’re setting up the cameras at the church and the cemetery right now.”
“Remember to be discreet. These guys call the governor the way you call your mom. We don’t need any more of his attention.”
“No problem.”
Mick closed the cell phone. There were always problems when emotions were involved. It was just the way life was.
TiVo was a wonderful invention. The Professor knelt in front of his television, adjusting the playback. He started with the Greenville NBC affiliate. He liked the blonde reporter with the pouty lips. He pressed Play and sat back on his heels to watch.
“This is Jennifer Thornton, reporting from Newberry, South Carolina. Emily Geiger, the third victim of the brutal serial killer stalking the Upstate, was laid to rest today by her grieving friends and family.”
The scene behind the reporter shifted to the cemetery. “While the police have been unable to produce a single suspect, they were highly visible today, interrupting the ceremony more than once.”
A shot of a scuffle between an overzealous reporter and a uniformed officer appeared on the blue screen behind Thornton. The Professor smiled at the stupidity. How could she not see the irony? Her grim, serious expression looked ridiculous on a face designed for carnal pleasure. There was a breathlessness in her voice that was almost sensual, as if she were getting off on the assault. The hunger inside him stirred with interest.
“Ms. Geiger, a rising star in the sophomore class at Windsor College, was tortured, sexually molested and murdered by a man police say is little better than a wild animal.”
Wild animal
sounded harsh, he thought. It really wasn’t appropriate given the planning involved. He retreated to his chair and toyed with the remote, sampling various broadcasts. He’d started to attend the funeral, had actually driven to Newberry. As he approached the church, however, someone—it had to be a cop—stepped out of the door and panned the parking lot with a handheld camera. He’d driven past, averting his face, relieved he’d driven the Honda and not the Camaro.
Finally, the section he was looking for scrolled onto the screen: the press conference. Driving home, he’d heard the radio announcer talking about it. The three
police chiefs stood at the podium in front of the Newberry Courthouse, the lead detectives from each involved agency arrayed behind them. The chiefs solemnly pledged to find the murderer, but offered no details. They were terse, straightforward with their comments. The SLED captain stepped forward and made the appropriate political blatherings. When he finished, a forest of hands shot skyward as the talking heads struggled for face time and the print guys tried to create column space that could compete with television’s sound bites.
The first questions were almost intelligent. Then another reporter cut off a question with a shout of his own and the whole thing turned into a fiasco. By the end, news photographers were standing on car hoods, firing off shots of the chaos as the TV cameramen jockeyed for position.
The Professor was delighted. This pandemonium showed better than any print coverage just how disorganized and inept the police were. He watched the clip a dozen times, trying to consider every nuance. Were they frustrated? Incompetent? Afraid? He wished he could see the entire press conference, and briefly considered calling the television station to inquire about obtaining a copy of the recording.
He ran the segment again and found himself watching the detectives. They were the ones doing the scut work. They would find him—or not. He considered each man in turn, wondering about his abilities. The woman he dismissed automatically.
Finally, he focused his attention on one figure. “Him,” he said, touching his finger to the screen. The SLED agent wore slacks and an expensive-looking sports coat. He stood, relaxed, while the others fidgeted. When bedlam broke loose, he looked almost bored.
Smug, the Professor thought, feeling the familiar anger clutch at his belly. The agent looked like he’d been one of
them
when he was younger. Tall, well-built. He still had the stance—arrogant, cocky. He knew he was good-looking. He probably married the head cheerleader or the homecoming queen. They’d likely spawned two brats just like themselves.
The Professor froze the disk and stared at the flickering image. His hatred grew. The agent was probably related to somebody. Coasting through life, like all the rest of them. Letting the others do the dirty work.
Loathing ran through his body like poison. If he could, he’d find a way to bring down Mr. Smug Law Enforcement Agent. He’d bring them all down, he thought with a vicious streak of vindictiveness. He was smarter than they were. They were fools, bobbing along in his wake, waiting for his next step.
The Professor glared at the SLED agent one last time. “How does it feel, loser? Not to have a clue what to do next?”
Late Saturday afternoon
The download from the DMV was taking forever. Not a good sign. The file must be massive. Mick was stuck at this borrowed desk at the Newberry PD until it finished.
Frowning, he closed his cell phone. Directory Assistance didn’t have a listing for Meg Connelly, Margaret Connelly, M Connelly or any other combination he could think up. Why hadn’t he gotten a phone number out of her Thursday evening? He grimaced, annoyed with himself. Because he’d assumed she was a student, another of the Chi Zetas.
He’d tried calling the sorority house. Whoever answered said she’d seen Meg at
the library. With Meg’s teaching load and midterms, maybe she really was studying or grading papers.
Or maybe she was avoiding him.
He returned the phone to his pocket, sighing with frustration at the ridiculous situation. What was he doing, pursuing a woman who didn’t want to be caught? He snorted, knowing he didn’t believe that. If she truly wasn’t interested, he’d vanish. Delete the sorority house number from his cell phone and Meg’s face from his brain. Move on.
But she was as interested as he was, whether she wanted to admit it or not. He was completely intrigued, which made no sense at all. She was a total mystery.
Brooding, he replayed his conversation with his mother. Was that all this infatuation with Meg was about? Was he simply ready for something in his life besides work and an empty condo? Did Meg happen by at the right moment?
He thought about it some more, then slowly shook his head. None of those things had crossed his mind until Meg wandered into his world—and upended it. But how could she have so much impact in such a short time?
He considered that for a moment, his gaze absently roaming the open bay. Shoulder-high partitions carpeted in a gray, synthetic loop divided the room into workstations and separated the desks. Metal bookcases crammed with department manuals and law books competed for space with file cabinets. Normally, the area would be full of noise: phones ringing, metal file drawers banging, murmured conversation, low laughter. The distinctive cop-shop smell remained: cigarettes, greasy take-out chicken and a faint odor of locker-room sweat.
The room felt oddly deserted after the flurry of activity earlier in the day. The funeral had been completely depressing. Overflowing church. Crying girls. Crying parents. Everyone shell-shocked, mouthing the same platitudes. The bright autumn sunshine had made things worse, mocking the somber mood of the ceremony. Resentful of the cops’ presence, as if they caused the death of a beloved child, the crowd sullenly shifted from the church to the flower-smothered grave site. The intrusion of the press nearly started more than one fistfight, which the local police also had to manage.
Finally, the family had retreated to the big, black limousine. The crowd dissipated in their wake. Mick had returned to the Newberry PD building, where technicians set up their projection equipment. Hours passed as assorted officers patiently tried to identify every person inside and outside the church.
Gradually the other cops drifted away—other things to do on a Saturday afternoon. For just a moment, Mick resented their leaving, though he knew there was no reason for them to stay. They’d done everything anyone could think of. All they could do was wait. Now only empty desks, silent phones and other people’s clutter met his gaze. Even Frank was gone, catching a few precious hours with his family.
Mick’s fingers hovered above his computer keyboard. He felt guilty for about a nanosecond as he fed Meg’s name into the system. Her DMV picture popped up almost immediately. It was a few years old. Her hair was longer; her eyes a little sadder. Margaret S. Connelly. He wondered briefly what the
S
stood for. Five foot six; one eighteen. Brown and blue. He wouldn’t call her hair
brown
. It was honey and fire, caramel touched with copper. Strawberry blond ripening into auburn. Definitely not
brown. And her eyes were more green than blue.
He checked her birth date; she was nearly twenty-six. A few years younger than him. Funny, her age seemed irrelevant when they were talking.
And when they were kissing.
He forced his attention back to the data on the screen. She used the Clinton address. That was interesting. Most college kids kept their parents’ home address on their license. Of course, Mom and Dad probably owned the car and paid for the insurance, so keeping their address a little longer made sense. Meg was a graduate student. She was probably on her own, which explained the student ghetto apartment address. Or had Meg’s parents moved out of state? A local address would mean less hassle writing checks. He remembered the sympathetic understanding in her eyes when he told her his father died. Were her parents still alive? There was so much he didn’t know about her.
She didn’t have any moving violations. That wasn’t completely surprising. When he worked Patrol, as long as it was just speeding, a pretty girl usually drove away with a warning.
Pushing his luck, he ran her through NCIC. The National Crime Information Center reported no arrests, no warrants. He felt a little guilty—not for checking, but for using the resource for personal reasons.
Mick slumped in his chair, propped his feet on the desk and checked the download status again. Damn, only 62 percent complete. He’d be checking cars for the rest of his life.