Slow Burn (MM) (23 page)

What if it was another girl? Even if it didn’t work with forensics. These women were jacked up as they were choked. No big struggle, a definite advantage in size and strength. But still…what if?

He entertained the notion further, let the scenario roll out in his mind like his father used to.

“Play it out in your head, son. You’ve got to think like a predator to catch one.”

A female. She approaches the victims and they feel safe. What’s to fear if she’s just like you?

Except she’s a killer.

That didn’t explain the power. She’d have to be a big fucking woman to get the angle and force to kill these girls quickly. It didn’t make physical sense or even seem possible.

“Shit.” Brody pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his worn eyes to focus.

A scribble in the corner of a page caught Brody’s eye because it was his writing from ages ago, because his writing had only looked that good when he’d started the job. It had gotten progressively
interesting
over the last few years.

His note was a comment on whether the girls had any of the same classes. They had a few in common, during different semesters, but nothing had panned out from that line of questioning. Plus this last victim, she went to a completely different college.

Brody remembered looking at the teachers and TAs for the classes they had in common, but they’d both been women, so that line of thinking had been dropped. Something tripped in his mind, and he reached for the info on the most recent girls. Classes, dorms, majors.

It was a liberal arts school, so they all took the basics of the college. English, History, Art, Sociology. That was no help. The one that stood out was Philosophy. Damn. It’d kill him slowly to sit through Philosophy.

He flipped through the pages. Same professor for the second and third victim, not the first and obviously not the latest. Still, maybe there was a TA Brody hadn’t looked at yet, a janitor, somebody from the building they all frequented. If the latest victim frequented the campus, it was worth a shot. What the hell else did he have to go on?

“Fuck it.” He stacked up the papers and slid them in the file.

Paper only told you so much. Now that he was open to the seemingly improbable equal-opportunity killer, he needed to get eyes on where the crimes had happened. If it was a woman, she couldn’t have just strolled up behind them. He needed to see in order to figure it out. He trusted his instincts. That was, he trusted them when they weren’t clouded by his blind stubbornness.

He changed into some slacks, a button-down, and grabbed his jacket, mind and body humming with an inner truth. There was something here. Something he had to see and hear and touch before he could grab the full picture.

He drove around most of the day. He went by every crime scene, taking mental images along with the pictures in the files. He made a stop at the university offices, spoke with administration, asked for information regarding the classes and who had been running them. The class had been run by two professors during the time frame; the first was seventy-five when she retired, and the second, Ms. Bathory, who had taken over after the first death.

Nothing solid, but it was a start.

Brody clutched at the information, squinting at the address as he climbed into his car. It wasn’t far, just a few blocks from the main campus. Definitely within striking distance.

He pulled up outside the well-maintained but old row house. Common sense nagged at the back of his conscience. He should call up Lamont, get him out here. He wasn’t supposed to be on this case, and Zack was absolutely right about the possibility of this all exploding in his face. He should’ve said as much last night instead of acting like a tyrant.

Brody tapped the steering wheel and reached over for his badge in the glove box, his gun digging into his side as he pulled back. He couldn’t turn back time, and right now he had to focus.

There was no harm in just asking a few questions. Brody just wanted to talk to her, get his sensors out about the type of person she was. Then he could give a new, viable direction to Lamont and feel he wasn’t letting them down. Letting the girls down.

He sat, fully aware he was hesitating. The cool weight of his badge pressed into his palm, thumbs running over the letters.

He rubbed at his knee, feeling the groove of his scar beneath the dress pants. Regardless of what he tried to convince himself of with, new leads, devotion, whatever…this was stupid. Zack’s worried face filled his mind, and he huffed out a sigh. Torn between his drive to see this through and what he felt for Zack and knew to be the truth, he reached for his phone.

He sent a quick message to Lamont.

Following up potential lead at 333 Wentworth. Professor from victims’ classes. Meet me. I’ll give you my notes.

Brody’s thumb hovered over Send. Damn. Lamont would give him so much shit over this. He preemptively added,
Don’t bitch. Just drive.

He hit Send and jumped out of the car, fumbling for his notepad and pen. His dad had always said that the notepad was as important to a cop as a gun. Talking to people, seeing where they trip up, and where their stories changed. That was a cop’s bread and butter.

“Learn everything they don’t want you to know by watching them react,”
his dad used to say. It was comforting to hear his voice as he walked up the front path.

Brody tapped politely on the door. Deep breath, relax the shoulders, disarming face. No need to put her on edge at the start. “
Make them nervous only when you need it. Until then, put them at ease.”

The door opened to reveal a woman, late thirties, tall, eyeing him skeptically as she straightened her vest. “May I help you?”

“Ms. Bathory?”

“Yes.”

Brody pulled out his badge, holding it open. “I’m Detective Douglas Brody from Charleston Police Department. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

Ms. Bathory kept her hand on the door. “What is this about, Detective?”

She wasn’t hostile, but she certainly wasn’t warm and welcoming. Either she had something against cops or just a chip on her shoulder in general. Perfect.

“I’m investigating the murders of the young women at the university. I believe you work there?”

Brody watched for the fine nuances of her expression, blips in the calm facade. Nothing. She barely blinked. “I’ve heard. Horrible news. A few of them were in my class.”

Not just a few. Try all but one. Brody’s stomach turned; something was off, and she hadn’t even invited him in yet. Time to gain some trust.

“Yes. We’re looking within the student body, and I was wondering if I may ask you a few questions, maybe gain some information or insight we may have missed?”

Ms. Bathory frowned, giving Brody’s non-police-issue car a quick glance. “Detectives don’t work with partners anymore?”

“Usually. But I’m off duty.”
And basically freelancing and walking a fine line that could get my ass reprimanded
. “Thought I’d drop by on my way home.”

She smiled, nodded, and pulled open the door. “How very devoted of you. Of course. Please come in. Excuse the mess; it’s finals for the summer sessions.”

Mess my ass, Brody thought as he followed the professor into the living room. Everything was clean lines and bare walls. Out on the dining table lay neat piles of papers in a perfect row, almost like it had been measured with a ruler. Yeah sure, that wasn’t creepy.

Ms. Bathory indicated the couch, sitting carefully on the opposite side. “What would you like to know?”

Brody handed the professor the smiling head shots of each of the girls before taking out his note pad. “The victims all took Philosophy 101. Around the death of the first girl, the class was initially run by your predecessor and then you accepted the job two years later.”

“This is correct. I was assisting Mrs. Carson while working on my doctorate, accepted the position after her retirement.” The professor shifted through them before laying the photos in her lap. “I recognize some of these girls.”

“Did you notice anyone they hung out with? Any common classmates or friends? Any senior students providing tutoring within the class?”

Ms. Bathory shook her head slowly. “Not that I was aware of. Teachers’ aides and professors rarely gain insight into the intimate relationships of their students.” She chuckled. “Though maybe the relationship to their concept of study.”

Brody huffed a laugh. “True.” He tapped his pen against his pad. “What about your teacher’s aides? Any interaction between the girls and any TAs you’ve had working for you? Maybe someone who’s been involved in the classes? Had potential contact with the four victims?”

Ms. Bathory sighed and shook her head again. “No. I’m sorry. I’ve had a few TAs who have come and gone. Philosophy isn’t exactly a subject people are drawn toward.” She handed back the photos. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

There had to be something he’d missed. The commonality was the campus, downtown, and this class was all that stood out. His gut told him there was something here, and, while guilty of sometimes missing the big picture, he trusted his gut. Lamont would chide him and tell him that his gut was
not
evidence, but it was.

The perfect and detached facade the professor exuded put Brody’s teeth on edge. She didn’t have a connection to all four girls, but there was shit-all else evidence wise. He’d just have to probe further. Keep looking. Keep asking. Forget that he shouldn’t be doing either.

“What about yourself? You say that you recognized some of the girls. Is there anything you can tell me about
your
relationship with them?”

Ms. Bathory pressed her lips together. “I teach a lot of students, Detective. I can place a few faces, but that’s all. I rarely have any interaction with them outside lectures and assisting the few who are genuinely interested in the course work. I can’t say I remember talking to any of the girls in the photos.”

Brody instantly felt the change in the air. The hostility she tried to hide under a veneer of calm was bleeding through. His instincts, honed from his experience on the street, blared red with warning. It was something that no cop academy could teach you but was something that all cops innately learned. A sixth sense sounded like bullshit, but there was no other analogy that fit. And currently his sixth sense was kicking him in the ass.

He breathed into his muscles and relaxed. He had to keep the pressure on but appear relaxed. Sound innocent but dog her with questions.

“All the girls shared one common class, except the first victim. There must be
something
you remember. Someone suspicious?”

The professor tapped her hands once against the arms of the chair. Finality. “I’m sorry, Detective Brody, but I can’t think of anything else of relevance.” She stood up. “I’m sorry to have to end this, but I have a lot of reading and papers to grade before tomorrow.”

Brody nodded and stood up too, tucking away his notebook. Not much to go on, certainly nothing to warrant a search, but maybe a new lead for Lamont. He could give his old partner his notes, get him to maybe look into the TAs. He could always requestion, catch her in a lie.

“Oh,” he piped up. “One more thing before I go. If it’s not too much trouble, could I have the contact details for your prior and current TAs?”

The professor stopped, her gaze meeting his in a stare-off. “Why would you require that? I’d assumed you ruled them out as suspects.”

Again, aggression but beneath a calm exterior. Brody kept his tone casual, like this was all an afterthought. “Yeah, we have, but it never hurts to see if they have any ideas. You know, something you may have missed.”

She cleared her throat. There was a beat of silence and then a forced, polite smile. “Of course, I have their numbers in my office. One moment.” She left the room and headed down the hallway.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Lamont.

Don’t you dare. Don’t Bitch me! Dammit, Brody.

The second text vibrated through.

Hill will mount your head on his wall. On my way now. Have your ass ready when I get there.

Brody smirked, hearing every word in an annoyed but familiar baritone. He texted back.
Hurry up, old man.

It felt good. Finally a new stretch of possibilities on a case that’d plagued him almost as long as his career. He slid his phone back into his pocket and tapped his fingers against his thigh.

Damn, how long did it take? It’d felt like a damn while.

He waited another moment, not wanting to come across as the impatient asshole he could be. A few more minutes went by and nothing.

He took a few steps forward, leaning to let his voice carry down the hallway. “Ms. Bathory?”

No response. He called again, feeling his voice echo in the suddenly silent house.

Something dark slid into his stomach, setting his nerves alight. The low-running tension he’d been feeling since he’d arrived cranked into fifth gear. His mind raced, flicking through his options as his hand came to his gun.

He slowed his breathing and tried to think rationally. Logically.

He couldn’t just go after her, gun drawn. He shouldn’t even be here. She’d disappeared into the house and wasn’t responding, but it could be innocent.

One of three things was true. One, she was the Strangler. Two, the Strangler had gotten into the house and taken her out because she was involved. Three, the poor woman was just busy in another room of the house, looking for some phone numbers.

Talk about different ends of a spectrum.

Yet all the officer safety classes warned of being prepared and not letting yourself be backed into a corner. Cautious in unfamiliar surroundings. Have backup. Be safe. He reached for his phone, keeping his eye on the hallway and lowering his voice.

“Lamont,” he said as soon as his buddy answered. “I’m going to need you to speed up that ETA, you copy?”

Lamont’s tone was direct, concerned. Because he understood. “You all right? We need backup?”

“No. Might be nothing.” And he was going to get in so much shit if they went blasting in and the poor woman was faultless. “But something tells me otherwise. Pull up out front. Come in quiet.”