Blind Rage (16 page)

The walkway railing was about waist-high, and as Bernadette stood against it, she judged it wouldn’t take much to toss a small person over it. As she leaned over and stared down into the water below, a bicyclist dressed in fatigues zoomed past her. He turned his head and gave her a long stare while pedaling to the west bank end of the bridge. Two boys hiking across also gave her a funny look. She stepped away from the railing. The students were on high alert after the drownings. She didn’t need someone calling the campus cops on her because they thought she was a jumper.

She moved off the bridge and headed for Wakefielder’s office.

LIND HALL
was an older, four-story brick building on Church Street, just off Washington Avenue. Bernadette glanced up at its tall windows as she mounted the steps leading to the Church Street entrance. Wakefielder’s office and classroom were both on the third floor. She hadn’t made an appointment with him but had uncovered his teaching schedule and office hours by poking around the university’s Web site. She’d timed it so she could catch the tail end of the class that Kyra Klein had attended Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

The classroom door was wide open, and Bernadette saw a few empty desks in the last row. The professor’s back was turned, and she sat down without drawing his attention. Students around her gave her a quick look and then went back to their papers. They were taking a test.

While Wakefielder wrote on the board—he was assigning reading—Bernadette studied his hands. No scratches or bruises. That didn’t mean anything; no skin had been recovered from Klein’s nails. Under his blazer, he seemed to be of average build. Stood six feet or better. Blond hair like the guy Klein’s neighbor had seen. Yes, this man was a solid candidate.

A female student got up, went over to the prof, and handed him her paper. She whispered something. To hear her, he bent to one side. Ever so lightly, he placed a hand in the middle of her back.

Definitely in the running, this Wakefielder.

Bernadette unbuttoned her trench coat and the blazer underneath. Holstered under the waist of her slacks was her Glock.

ONE BY ONE,
the students quietly put their tests on Wakefielder’s desk and filed out the door with their books and bags. The professor was so immersed in his writing on the board, he didn’t see a stranger in the room. When a girl to Bernadette’s right turned in her paper and exited the room, Bernadette went after her. She waited until the girl was at the other end of the hall. She didn’t want Wakefielder to overhear.

“Miss,” Bernadette said.

The girl was hunched over a drinking fountain. She stood straight and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was a tall, slender African American girl with almond-shaped eyes and a head of braids tied back from her face. “Yes?”

Bernadette hesitated. College students tended to distrust anything federal, but she went for her ID wallet anyway. Held it up. “I’m with the FBI.”

The girl blinked. “Yes?”

“We’re investigating the deaths of some female students.”

She took a step back from Bernadette. “The bridge murders?”

“There’s a student from your class. She may have been another victim.”

Her eyes got big. “Jeez. Really? Who?”

“Kyra Klein.”

The girl tightened her hold on her books, clutching them to her chest like a shield. “She’s dead? Someone from my class is dead? When did she die? She went off the bridge?”

“You knew her?”

Chewing her bottom lip, the girl hedged. “Not really. I mean…I’ve heard Professor Wakefielder call on her. I think I know who she is. Sits behind me. Blond.”

“Short black hair.”

“Oh, her. Real skinny, right?”

“It’s a small class,” said Bernadette. “Don’t you all know each other?”

“Not really. We’ve only been in session about a month. We meet three times a week for like fifty minutes, if that. It’s not like we hang out together.”

“What if somebody is absent? Does anyone notice?”

“People skip out. It’s not like the teacher takes roll. Bunch were gone today, even though we had a quiz. Fridays are good for that. People turn it into a three-day weekend by cutting class.”

So that the girl wouldn’t think every male in the class was a sociopath, Bernadette worded her next question carefully. “Did Kyra mention to you that she was having problems with anyone inside or outside of school?”

The girl shook her head. “Never really talked to her. No one in our group talks to each other. After class lets out, everybody takes off.”

Bernadette dug into her coat and pulled out a card. “If you think of something—what’s your name?”

The girl took the card and examined it. “Alisha.”

“Look, Alisha, if you think of something, call me.”

“Now I feel bad that I didn’t talk to her.” She looked toward the open classroom. “Do you think whoever did it might come after the rest of us?”

“No, I don’t think that’s what—”

“Has it been in the papers yet? Wait until I tell my boyfriend at the
Daily.
”

“Do
not
tell anyone we had this conversation,” Bernadette said firmly. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation. A federal matter. You could get in big trouble.”

Alisha said, “But—”

“I mean it, young lady.” Bernadette couldn’t believe she had just called someone
young lady
. She was getting old.

“Yes, ma’am,” Alisha said.

Bernadette tried to lighten her voice. “So…that’s an interesting course you’re taking, The Poetry of Suicide. What’s the big attraction? The subject matter or the professor?”

“Both, I guess. At least it isn’t the same old, same old. Who wants to suffer through more Shakespeare, right?”

“Right.”

“Professor Wakefielder, well…I like him. He’s different.”

Still keeping her voice light, Bernadette asked, “Why is he different?”

“He gets it. He’s a guy, but he gets it. It’s like—I don’t know—he knows what it’s like to be…” Her voice trailed off.

“Female?”

“Yeah. That sounds sick, doesn’t it?”

“He’s a caring, sensitive male,” Bernadette said pleasantly. She made the zipper sign across her mouth. “Remember, Alisha.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bernadette turned and went back to the classroom. She didn’t want the professor to get away from her. While she walked, she looked around. The hallway was empty. She quickly transferred her gun to the pocket of her trench coat. Those caring, sensitive males could be dangerous when cornered.

THE STUDENTS
had all disappeared from the classroom. Alisha was right; they weren’t a social group. Wakefielder was bent over the desk, squaring the stack of tests. Bernadette went up to the opposite side of the table. “Professor Wakefielder?”

He set down the papers. “I’ll bet you’re the student who called about my class on—”

“I’m with the FBI,” she said.

Glancing up, he gave her a nervous smile. “What fresh hell is this?”

Bernadette paused, her attention darting to the board for an instant. She extended her ID. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

His eyes went to the badge and then back to her face. “What can I do for you?”

“May we talk in your office, Professor Wakefielder?”

“I’m…down the hall,” he said hesitantly.

He led the way. Bernadette followed a step behind him, saying nothing. He was scared, and at the same time she swore he was baiting her. Bernadette knew the “fresh hell” crack was Dorothy Parker’s signature greeting, and the dead girl had picked that writer for her paper.

THREE WALLS
of his office were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books of all sorts, organized in no sane fashion. George Orwell’s
Animal Farm
and
Homage to Catalonia
both rested atop a row of Stephen King paperbacks.
The Stranger
by Albert Camus was crammed between a collection of Anne Rice’s vampire novels.
The Time Machine
,
The Maltese Falcon
, and
Fahrenheit 451
were followed by the Harry Potter books, which were followed by a fat book titled
Library of World Poetry
. More books by and about poets were wedged between other volumes and were used in stacks as bookends to hold up other books. Bernadette recognized the most famous names of the lot: Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Keats, Blake, Emerson. Finally, there were textbooks with titles like
The Role of Confessional Poetry in Contemporary American Literature.

The only wall without books—the one with the door—was plastered with posters and other pop art. Psychedelic Pink Floyd poster from a London Concert. Ad announcing a Metropolitan Opera visit to Northrop Auditorium. Muhammad Ali/Joe Frazier boxing poster. Tin street sign that said “Fenway Park.” Poster of Winston Churchill with a plane-filled sky behind him and the words
LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER
.

As she stood in the doorway—the door itself was propped open with a phone book—he lifted some books and papers off a folding chair. “Excuse the mess.”

“You should see my office.” She walked inside and lowered herself into the seat. She didn’t spot a computer. He had to have a laptop buried somewhere under the mess, she thought. She’d love to get her mitts on it.

He went around and sat down behind his desk, a metal clunker piled high with more papers and books. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair, a cushy leather piece with arms. It was the only modern furnishing in the office. He smiled nervously. “I assume you’re here about the suicides.”

Bernadette didn’t answer immediately; she was stunned he’d gotten right to it. “How did you know?”

“I teach a university class called the Poetry of Suicide, and most of my students are young women. Young university women have been committing suicide by leaping off the Washington Avenue Bridge.” He leaned across the top of his desk and dropped his folded hands on a stack of papers. “I was waiting for someone to come to me for a consult.”

“A consult?”

“As a footnote, you should know I was one of the faculty who helped draft the open letter to the community pleading for peace.” He smiled. “‘Restrain the passions’ lawless riot.’ That was one of my contributions. It’s from Horace Smith’s ‘Moral Cosmetics.’ Not a particularly fun poem. ‘Ye who would have your features florid’—”

“Two of your students are dead, sir,” she interrupted. “What do you know about—”

“Two?” He took his hands off his desk and sat up stiffly in his chair. It squeaked with the sudden movement. “Who—”

“Kyra Klein.”

“She…I just spoke with her after class on Wednesday…She’s not—she can’t be…When?” He dragged his hand across his forehead as if scraping off sweat, but Bernadette could see none. “Don’t tell me she jumped from the—”

“Before her, there was the student in your class on madness,” said Bernadette, emphasizing the last word to prod him.

“Alice Bergerman dropped out after the first day of class. She wasn’t really one of my students. I spent two seconds talking to her after she decided to—”

“For someone you knew for two seconds, her name came to you pretty quickly.”

His face blanched, and he swallowed hard before answering. “The police talked to me over the phone to see if she’d demonstrated any despondency in class. When they found out that she’d dropped my course, they didn’t even bother to—”

“Where were you Wednesday night?”

“What?”

“Two of your students have died under mysterious circumstances.”

“Alice killed herself. The police said so. What happened to Kyra? Did she—”

“Why do you suppose two of your students have died? That can’t be pure coincidence. Even if they were both suicides—and I don’t believe they were—why would two of your students kill themselves?”

“I…My classes attract young women who are…tortured. Emotionally…tortured.”

“‘Tortured?’” Bernadette repeated. She didn’t like his use of the word.

“Look at the course titles. Madness in American Literature. The Poetry of Suicide. Sometimes they talk to me. I listen. They think because I teach the class, I know something about the mental illnesses themselves. I have
some
insight, certainly. I thought that’s why you were here.”

“That was a smokescreen on your part, or maybe wishful thinking,” she snapped.

He stood up and slammed his hands on his desk, knocking off a mound of papers. She reached inside her coat and put her hand on her gun. He had a temper, the caring, sensitive male.

“I want a lawyer. I am not talking to you any longer without a lawyer present.”

She could smell the sweat on him now, pushing through the cologne. She bet that under the nice blazer, his dress shirt sported armpit stains the size of dinner plates. Even though there was no record of the other bathtub victim having been one of his students, Bernadette tossed her name at him. “Shelby Hammond. What about her?”