An ideal murder.
One to envy. One to savor.
Except for that scream.
Student #5 went over the sound in his head.
Female. High-pitched. Was there a secondary sound?
Damn it, damn it, damn it. The plan had been so simple:
Dial.
Speak rehearsed lines.
Aim.
Shoot.
Quickly check for any leftover clues inadvertently left behind.
Retreat.
And he’d stuck precisely to it. Just as he should. Just as he had every other time.
Except, this time he should have waited.
He cursed, gripped the edges of his desk tightly, stood up abruptly, paced about, pounded one fist into an open palm, then dropped to the hardwood floor and started doing sit-ups. At fifty, sweat glistening on his forehead, he stopped.
Telling himself to remain calm and focused, Student #5 returned to the computer. He decided to try the website for the Princeton Packet, a twice-a-week suburban paper that covered the area. What he immediately saw were lots of stories about zoning board meetings, leash laws, recycling efforts, Little League baseball tryouts, and school projects. With a little mouse-click persistence he found: Apparent Hunting Accident Claims Prominent Professor’s Life.
The story was similar to the prior one, but it had a few more details, including the dead deer and the phrase: The doctor’s body was discovered by houseguests.
He thought: No one ever visited the doctor. Not in years.
So who are they?
Student #5 barely slept. Most of the rest of the night he spent staring at the story on his computer, half-expecting other words to form on the screen.
10 a.m.
Use a throwaway phone. Stick to the story.
The line was ringing and he had scripted the most reasonable lies in his head.
“Hello. Princeton Packet. This is Connie Smith.”
“Ms. Smith, hello. I’m terribly sorry to bother you at your office. My name is Philip Hogan. I’m calling from California about the recent death of my cousin. Distant cousin, unfortunately, both in miles and relations. The whole thing has taken us all by surprise. Now we’re just trying to find out exactly what happened, and I can’t seem to get a straight answer from the local police. I mean, what sort of accident was this? I was hoping you might be able to fill me in on a few details.”
“The cops are usually pretty tight-lipped until they sign off on the whole thing,” the reporter replied.
“Your story said a hunting accident? My cousin wasn’t a hunter, at least, not that we knew of, so…” He let his voice trail off, endowing each word with a question mark.
“Well, yeah. I’m sorry to have to say this, but the ‘accident’ part is dicey. It appears a stray shot from some out-of-season idiot using a far-too-powerful rifle killed your relative instead of a deer. Or in addition to a deer. The cops are looking for the hunter-maybe he’s facing a manslaughter charge in addition to a pile of wildlife violations-but no success so far. That’s why they won’t cooperate.”
“I see. That sounds terrible. I never met my cousin, but he was a quite accomplished psychiatrist. And he was home when this happened?”
“Yes. Answering a phone, apparently. I mean, just bad luck, really, as best as I understand it. But you shouldn’t rely on what I’ve been told. Eventually the police will issue a final statement, which is likely to be more accurate than the hearsay and rumor I’ve picked up on.”
“Oh,” Student #5 said, filling his voice with as much phony concern as he could muster, “how awful.”
“Yes. I’m sorry for your loss. It was a lousy break.”
“It seems that way. What a tragedy, but, at least, he was getting on in years. And I think Cousin Jeremy lived alone, ever since his wife passed away. He must have been sad and lonely.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Connie Smith.
“Do you have funeral home information?”
“The paper will publish an obit after the coroner releases the body, so check back in a day or so.”
“Okay. Will do. Oh, one other question, and I really thank you for your help…”
“No problem.”
“How was he discovered? I mean, he didn’t suffer, did he?”
“No. Death was probably instantaneous…”
This Student #5 already knew. The suffering came earlier. But he wanted to ask questions that fit the image he was trying to create in the reporter’s mind. Distant. Modestly concerned. Mostly just curious.
“But how…” he continued.
“Apparently a young couple had come to visit him. Coincidence, really, a cop told me off the record. They weren’t relatives. There had to be some other reason they were there, but it wasn’t in the initial police report and I don’t know what it might be. Probably a medical student looking up a professor emeritus, but I’m just guessing.”
“Did you speak with them?”
“No. By the time I got to the scene, they’d already cleared out. They had to be scared out of their minds. Come to visit and…” The reporter stopped. She was probably afraid of being insensitive.
He was cautious. Don’t sound eager, he reminded himself.
“Oh, perhaps I should try to connect with them, then. Do you have names, numbers, anything that might help me get in touch with them?”
“I’ve got their names,” she said. “But no numbers. The cops, I guess, didn’t want me calling them up before they finished their investigation. Typical. Probably they don’t want you calling them, either, but hell. They wouldn’t be too hard to track down.”
“But you haven’t…”
“No. Don’t see much to report here, unless the cops come up with the stupid hunter’s name. Then there will be an arrest and a follow-up story.”
That won’t happen, he thought.
He listened carefully and asked the reporter to spell the houseguest names out twice. Student #5 stared hard at the letters in front of him. They seemed to waver, dancing like heat above a highway on a scorching day. Boy. Girl.
Girl meant nothing: Andrea Martine.
Who are you?
But the boy’s name meant much: Timothy Warner.
I know who you are.
He knew he should be angry with himself because he’d missed a connection. But he let his subterranean fury dissipate into the prospect of more research, thinking that study would help calm him down and maybe make the nasty sensation of…
He paused as if he could make his thoughts hesitate, like reining in a runaway horse, as he considered what he was feeling. A sensation of what? A threat? A failure? Danger?
“Hope I’ve helped,” said the reporter.
“Yes. Thank you. Immensely,” Student #5 replied.
A part of him wanted to laugh. Suburban reporter. Inexperienced. You’re talking to the absolute best story ever to cross your desk. Only you don’t see it.
22
On the airplane returning to Miami, Andy Candy fell asleep-exhausted by a sort of tension she’d never experienced before-and her head drooped onto Moth’s shoulder. He thought this was probably the sexiest moment he’d experienced in years. It reminded him of the first time she had ever touched him with intimacy. What had actually been groping and uncoordinated had turned silken and smooth in his memory. He desperately wanted to stroke her cheek, but did not.