Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) (5 page)

“We can honor her memory by finding out what happened to her,” John says. He keeps a couple inches between Justin and himself, but there’s a warmth that radiates off of John that makes it seem like he’s being more physically comforting than he actually is.

“Thanks, we gotta go.” I grab John’s arm and pull him away from Justin and Kiona. When we’re a few doors away from them, I face him.

“Are you sure there wasn’t something going around between you and Victoria?” I ask.

He gapes at me. “I already told you there wasn’t.”

“Yeah, except you seem awfully determined to find a killer, Justin seemed to think there was something going on between you two, and you got defensive,” I say.

“Justin is a stalker with jealousy issues,” he says. “I was just trying to placate him.”

I shake my head. “How can I trust you?”

“Why would I be searching for a killer with a forensic scientist if I were guilty of something?”

“So, your relationship with her was strictly platonic?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “I’m fairly certain that the most physical contact I had with her was shaking her hand once after the end of a semester and, like I told Justin, I made sure she knew that our relationship was strictly between a professor and a student.”

“You say that like you think she may have expected more,” I say.

He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Some students become…attached,” he says. “They tell you their deepest secrets, fears, hopes, and memories through their writing. You learn things about them that they haven’t told people who are closest to them, and they imagine that you understand them more than anyone else.”

“Do you know students feel this way because you’ve had problems before?”

“I’ve heard other professors having problems and I looked up to my writing professors in college more than I did with any other professors for the same reasons,” he says. “But I wasn’t even interested in her in that way. She was young and she wasn’t my type. You can ask anyone. I always kept my office door open when there was a student inside, and I always kept my distance.”

“Like you just did with Justin.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Trust me—I’ve seen my fair share of meltdowns, but I know I can’t hug a student without risking them thinking that there’s something more there. I wouldn’t lead on a student that way.”

I turn back toward Justin, who’s a little ways down the hall from us.

“Where were you this morning?” I call out.

“Uh…when?” he asks. “I had an eight o’ clock class, but I was there at seven forty-five because I had to do a presentation.”

“I found Victoria a little before 8:20,” John says. “Her body was still warm. He couldn’t have done it.”

“Done what, though?” I ask. “We still don’t know how she died. I’m beginning to think we’re chasing our tails.”

“She has a memorial tomorrow afternoon in the quad,” he says. “At least come to that so you can see how much she was loved. Maybe you can find more information.”

“Why don’t you tell the detectives actually working on the case to go to the memorial?” I ask.

“Because I already asked them and they brushed me off,” he says. “And I can see what kind of person you are. You feel others’ pain, even if you don’t know them. You see injustice and you feel it in the same way you would feel it if it had been committed against you.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll go to the memorial. But if we don’t find anything, you’re going to have to accept that she’s gone and it was likely by natural causes.”

“That’s all I could ask of you.” He offers his hand and I shake it. Just like when he was comforting Justin, a warmth spreads through me. I can see why people get attached to him, but that’s not why I’m continuing this investigation. He’s right. I could never let any form of injustice pass me by without fighting against it.

* * *

T
he quad is
an octagon of grass in the center of the academic buildings with a few benches and trees inside it. In the very center is a metal statue. It’s some kind of abstract form, although I see both a shark and a chicken in its shape.

Candles are lit all around the quad and a large photograph of Victoria is propped up in front of the statue. Over a hundred people fill the quad. It’s been two and a half days since Victoria passed away, so it seems like a pretty decent amount of people.

“Tori was a shining beacon to everyone who knew her,” a woman in her late teens says into a microphone, standing by Victoria’s photograph. She has wavy light brown hair and her face is scrunched up as she tries to not cry.

“That was Victoria’s best friend, Alicia,” John says as we stand about fifteen feet away from her. “I’d only met her a couple times when she stopped by the classroom, so the two could get lunch or something together. Victoria mentioned her in a couple stories she wrote. They were friends in high school and decided to both come here. I think her major is in social policy or something like that.”

“I thought you said you were going to be helpful,” I say.

He points to a man in a striped sweater. “He’s one of my students, but I don’t think he and Victoria spoke outside of class. I mostly only recognize people from the English department. Oh, there’s Cameron. Dr. Cameron Pierce. He’s also a writing professor, but he does more in poetry and fiction.”

I keep my eyes on Dr. Pierce. His eyes are glossy and his hands look like they’re trembling the slightest bit, but he’s concentrating all of his attention on the program pamphlet that had been handed out.

“He seems to be trying to appear like he’s not grieving,” I whisper. “I know you said people grieve in different ways, but you would think that at a memorial, everyone would be at least trying to show that they’re sad.”

“He usually is very open emotionally,” he says. “I don’t know why he would be holding back.”

“How close were he and Victoria?”

John doesn’t say anything. I look over at him. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are filled with uncertainty.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “You recruited me to help you with this. You can’t go saying
nothing
now.”

“It’s…rumors,” he says. “There have been whispers that he sleeps with students. But he’s married and he always seemed happy in his marriage. I can’t—”

“That’s motive,” I say. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me that.”

“I just don’t think it’s pertinent,” he says. “He’s not violent. He wouldn’t—”

“Professor Zimmer,” Alicia calls out. The crowd turns toward the two of us. Heat rushes to my face. I step away from him. “Would you like to say some words about Tori? You were very important to her.”

“Of course. I’d love to talk about Victoria. She was a wonderful woman.” He doesn’t look at me as he praises Victoria’s strengths and character, but his gaze keeps falling back to Dr. Pierce. There’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes that slowly grows into suspicion.

* * *

A
new body
arrives in the morgue. Tim is jotting notes down beside the dead man as I step in the room.

“What happened to that guy?” I ask.

“He was shot three times,” he says. “I just needed to remove the bullets so the detectives can have something to compare if they find the killer’s gun. Ed Bunt already took his clothes back to your lab. Did you need something? You know you can just call.”

“Well, I figured I’d come down and talk to you personally because…it’s not the senator that I want to talk about,” I say. “It’s the student.”

“Victoria Glassman?” he asks, setting his clipboard down. “I thought I told you that death was undetermined.”

“I’m not telling you to reopen it,” I say. “I just wanted to know if you found any evidence that she was sexually active right before she died.”

He exhales loudly. “No. There was no sign that she had sex.”

“Was there anything else you found?”

“No,” he says. “Nothing. You think I would have put the case aside if I had found something other than the asphyxia? I get that she was young and her death is tragic, but I have a stabbing victim and a shooting victim. I don’t have a lot of time to wonder about a young woman whose death doesn’t appear violent.”

Before I can answer, the morgue door opens and Detective Stolz walks into the room. She stops when she sees me.

“Solano, what are you doing here?” she asks. “I didn’t think you were even working today.”

“I was just—”

“She was asking about Victoria Glassman,” Tim interrupts. “I already told her that I had to focus on the other cases.”

She stares at me. “I thought I made it quite clear that you also needed to focus on the other cases.”

“I just wanted to be thorough.”

“Look, I know you’re not a team player, but we have murderers walking around this city,” she says. “They need your attention. You can’t find every murderer and you won’t find one for a woman when we don’t even know how she died. In all likelihood, it was perfectly natural causes, so you’re chasing a ghost. Stop wasting your time, stop wasting Dr. Lindhal’s time, and let it go.”

“I am a team player,” I argue. Tim and Stolz raise their eyebrows. “Sometimes. When I have team members who want the same things I do.”

“We all do want the same thing,” Stolz says slowly, as if she’s talking to a dimwitted child. “To solve murders. So let’s focus on the cases that we know are actual murders. If you don’t, I will go to the Lieutenant or even the Captain and I can assure you they won’t be happy to hear that you’re lingering on this case.”

“I understand,” I say, standing up taller.

“Do you?” she asks.

“No,” I admit. “But I’m not going to risk my job over it.”

She nods. “That’s good enough for me.”

* * *

M
agician’s Suitcase
is a magic shop that my family has owned for a few generations. My father says it was named after his great grandfather, who had traveled with all of his tricks in a suitcase that was constantly falling apart. I worked here all through college and I honestly don’t miss it.

The shop is overstocked like it always is. It's divided into different kinds of magic tricks. In the front center, there are card tricks and other close-up magic (detachable thumbs, cups and balls, magical coins). In the middle on the right are stage illusions (such as the infamous boxes that a beautiful woman could lie inside and be sawed in half without getting hurt). In the middle left is escapology (handcuffs, locks, chains). The back is reserved for literature about magic—biographies about the best magicians, how-to books on becoming famous, step-by-step instructions on how to do certain magic tricks (apparently, magicians do tell their tricks), and calendars with a different magician or magic trick featured for each month (or as my brother calls it: a virgin's porn calendar).

It also smells like cigarette smoke and cinnamon, and the dim lighting casts eerie shadows while also hiding the dust bunnies. I'm sure my mother considers that to be the greatest magic trick of all.

It’s almost eight o’clock at night, so nobody is here except my father and me. He adds a couple of trick card decks to a display. He winks as he passes by, but doesn’t say anything. He’s never been a man of many words, though I suppose when he’s lived with my mother for so long, he’s used to her filling up the silence with her constant chatter.