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“Well… he tried,” she admits, a small blush working across her cheeks. “At the start of the year, he was a little… ya know, touchy.”
“You told him to back off?” I wonder. “Put him on notice?”
Snickering, she shakes her head. “No. My brother—half-brother, actually. We look nothing alike—is six-and-a-half feet tall. He’s a meat-head who doesn’t mind walking weird because it’s leg day. I happened to mention this professor once, who was kinda cute, and kinda touchy, but I wasn’t thinking too much about it. Derrek told me to meet him in the parking lot after class one night.”
Oh dear.
“He, and three of his closest friends, made a big deal about picking me up. His friend, Dante, who I am not romantically involved with, walked right up to me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and laid a noisy kiss riiiiight,” she points up at the center of her forehead, “here. I guess it probably appeared as though I was the middle of something… ya know, tag-teamy. And each member of my stud farm had biceps bigger than my head. My personal relationships were never brought up after that point, and Professor Jones has been nothing but professional toward me since.”
“The fact you felt the need for a muscle-wrapped security team says you felt uneasy,” Fletch inserts. “Normal people don’t require an escort to leave class, unless they feel threatened.”
“And just to clarify,” Karla counters with a small smile, “I mentioned my professor to my brother once. I said the guy is kinda friendly. That’s all I said. Derrek was the one putting on a show with his friends. What can I say?” she quips. “Testosterone and injectable juice do strange things to men. I’ve never felt threatened by Professor Jones.”
“Alright.” Archer pushes off the table and circles around to stand behind me and Fletch. “Okay. What about the other guys in your classes? Is there anyone sitting on your side of the lecture desk who might have considered themselves crushing on Adrianna Alves?”
“Why?” Energized, Karla sits forward and sets her elbows on the table. “Do you think a man killed that dude? A protective, chivalrous thing?”
“We’re looking into every angle,” Archer counters, the way cops do. “We need a larger picture, and since you’ve been in that class, day in, day out…”
“I’m your snitch. I see. Well…” She reaches back and plays with her ponytail. “I dunno. We have a pretty wide array of personalities in our class, Detective. And that doesn’t even take into account people from other classes. People who merely might’ve seen her on campus. It doesn’t include staff. Janitors. Maintenance. Administration. Faculty.”
Karla’s criminology brain jumps ahead a dozen steps, frustrating the cops as their expressions grow tighter.
“In our class alone,” she draws her focus back in, “we have kids who haven’t even graduated high school yet. They’re the super smart kind, but they don’t have money for the prestigious schools. So they come to the community college and get credits in the meantime. They’re like…” She considers. “Sixteen years old. Seventeen. Then we have others who are like me: didn’t graduate high school at the top of their class. I kinda slacked off,” she admits with a grin. “Before I knew it, graduation had arrived; my grades were high enough to walk the stage, but low enough to be embarrassing. So to bridge the gap, here I am. I work full-time, since rent and survival are like, non-negotiable. But I’m studying hard too, and someday,” she looks to me, “who knows, maybe I’ll work a homicide case as an M.E. too.”
“Which is why you want time with one,” I acknowledge. “Got it.”
“It’d be pretty cool to have doctor before my name. I’d be the first in my family to get a real-life, fancy degree.”
“You’ll get there. Work hard, and nothing will stop you.”
“Talk to us about the guys in your class,” Fletch anchors our conversation and brings us back on track. “Focus on those in their twenties and up. Pay particular attention to any who sat near Adrianna often. We acknowledge that she wasn’t interested in other guys, but what other guys were interested in her?”
“She was a mom,” Karla argues. “Bruised more often than not. Her arm was in a sling six or so months ago. She missed…” Karla shrugs. “I dunno, probably half of all classes over the last year. I don’t see a lot of guys rushing forward to tangle themselves up in that mess.”
“You’d be surprised how often men think they have to save women,” Archer grits out. “Even when they know they probably shouldn’t. Who was staring longer than normal? Who was searching the lecture hall for her, only to be disappointed when she didn’t turn up? Who was following her to make sure she got home safely?”
“You think she had an admirer?” Karla assumes. “A stalker, even. Someone willing to kill for her?”
“We think a man might’ve considered himself strong enough, important enough—much like your Dante—to do things for women without thinking through the consequences.” Archer drops his hands in his pockets and wanders to the end of the table. “I’m even willing to accept that his intentions were good. He just wanted Adrianna and her girls to be safe. To free them from a life of abuse and misery.”
“So this person believed themselves in love,” Karla surmises. “To kill for her, then surely they loved her.”
“That’s right,” Fletch agrees. “That’s where we’ve arrived in our investigation, too. But we weren’t in that lecture hall like you were. We didn’t watch Adrianna come and go. We didn’t see the faces of those who surrounded her.”
“Who smiled when she came in?” Archer questions, his voice low with intensity. “Who stared at the door and just waited for her to exist in his space. For her to arrive, alive and well?”
“And whose entire soul shriveled up when she was a no-show?” Fletch adds. “Whose face dropped once class began, and she still wasn’t in her seat?”
“I don’t…” Karla inhales deeply, filling her lungs and expanding her chest. She closes her eyes like that helps her think. I can see it in my mind, the way she pictures her lecture hall and places each student in their regular seat. She takes stock of who turns up, who pays attention, and who is merely showing up for the sake of it.
It’s what I would do, anyway.
“Charleston.” Like she’s been struck by lightning, Karla snaps her eyes open and meets mine across the table. Not Archer’s. And not Fletch’s. Mine. “Charleston Anderson. He often tried to talk to her. Always placed himself closest to the front. Nearest to the door. Because that’s where she’d sit. When we had to do group things, he was always already there, so he’d volunteer them to be partners. And on the days she didn’t turn up, he was always pissy. Sulking.”
“Him.” Archer sets his hands on his hips and stares down at the side of Karla’s face. “He’s the one.”
“But he’s younger,” she argues. “Kinda scrawny. He’s barely older than I am. And I’m not sure he’d have the strength, nor the guts, to stab a man to death.”
