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“Yes.” She steered him into a family waiting room that was remarkably empty and they sat down.
“What happened?” She took his hands. They were well-shaped and warm, but had fresh abrasions.
“I fell last night.” He smiled. “You swept me off my feet.”
“Are you hurting?”
He shook his head. “Cheryl Beth, Noah Smith is dead.”
Somewhere deep inside she had somehow been expecting this news. Still, it felt as if the end of a baseball bat had been driven into her stomach. “Oh, no. Suicide?”
“No. He was killed like the others.”
“What?”
As he gave her the details, she was first slightly nauseous, then frightened. She was good at controlling herself, but she knew this showed all over her face. She could hear her mother’s voice: “You’re an open book, Cheryl Beth.”
“And he left you a note?”
“It was addressed specifically to me,” he said. “Otherwise, they were going to take me off the case. Goddamned cripple.” His face was a mask of disgust.
“Stop that. You’re not a cripple. You only walk with a cane. It adds character. I think you’re very attractive.”
He let himself smile. “That’s funny, because I think you are, too.” After a pause: “I used to be good at flirting, but I’m way out of practice.”
She patted his arm. “You’re doing well, detective. I don’t understand how this could happen. I saw Noah in the bookstore yesterday. He actually tracked me down. Kind of surprised me, but he seemed desperate for someone to believe him. He thought Hank Brooks was following him.”
“Oh, hell,” Will said. “Give me a minute.” He pulled out his cell phone and had a brief conversation—with Brooks, it was soon evident. After he hung up, he said, “I hate these multi-jurisdictional cases. I forgot to tell him about Smith’s body being found. Now he claims he never really thought Noah did it. And he denied following him.”
“But Noah was certain he was being followed,” Cheryl Beth said.
“Maybe by the killer.”
The chill returned to her bloodstream. “The killer who writes to you personally. Oh, Will…”
“I want to show you some photographs,” he said. “Let me know if any of them are familiar. Anybody you’ve seen hanging around campus or the hospital. Anybody who might have seen these three students.”
She ran through ten photographs and none looked familiar. One was a bald man, although he looked distinguished in a suit and tie. She went one by one again, trying to remember. She finally shook her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“You lingered on one,” he said.
“Only because he was older and bald. I keep thinking about what Lauren’s sister said, about how Lauren was afraid she was being stalked by an older bald man.”
“Something’s got to tie them together. Three separate attacks, sixty miles apart from each other. One was on a trained police officer, and I can vouch for her toughness. Another was on a well-built young man. And this guy went after two young women at the same time, and after knocking Noah Smith out. Then he comes back and kills him. Thinks he’s an artist. Now we know all these killings were done by the same guy. But we don’t have the key that connects them.”
“Aren’t there random murders?”
“Sure,” he said. “But this random is very rare. It’s common to read about supposedly random murders, but the victims are all prostitutes, sometimes all working on the same strip. Or they’re dark-haired women who remind the killer of someone in his life. Anyway, whoever wrote that note was taking credit, as if he specifically chose his victims. They’re going to bring in an FBI profiler. But I already know what he’ll say. White male. Narcissist, sense of grandiosity. Probably had a screwed-up childhood. Maybe impotent: none of the autopsies showed the presence of semen. Noah and the girls used condoms, and the killer took them. He’s very precise. He’s done it before…”
“Hold that thought.” Cheryl Beth stood and sprinted into the hall, catching up with Allison. She brought her back and introduced her to Will.
“Allison was Noah’s girlfriend,” she said. The girl sat, but upright in apprehension, and Cheryl Beth thought about breaking the news to her easy, she was very good at that. But, no, she would trust Will.
“Allison, I’m a detective with the Cincinnati Police,” he said, his voice even and friendly. “I’m working on some cases that are related to what happened to Lauren and Holly.”
“Yes.” A little girl voice.
