Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) (7 page)

“They could,” Stolz says. “They could have both taken some kind of recreational drug and had a bad reaction.”

“Yeah, death is a pretty bad reaction,” Macmillan mutters. “They could have also come into contact with some kind of poison. Have they traveled recently? Dr. Zimmer, do you know if the two of them were friends?”

John shrugs. “I never had a class with both of them in it and I never saw them talk to each other, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t spend time together.”

Macmillan whispers something into Stolz’s ear. They exchange a look and she nods.

“We’ll wait until our M.E. is done with the body,” she says. “And we’ll question the students who were in here. Dr. Zimmer, is there anything else you can tell me about Mr. Pine? Even the smallest fact that you know about him could help.”

“Um…well, his brother is in the military. I think the Navy,” he says. “He won the Mulvihill Award—it’s a poetry contest. The English department of every college in the state nominates a student. It was Dr. Pierce’s and my choice; we chose Everett. There was even a photograph taken for the school newspaper. I think he lives around here, but I’m not sure. He loves police procedural shows. He used to work as an ironworker, but I don’t think he liked it. I’m sure I know dozens of other things about him, but I can’t think of them right now. I honestly don’t think any of this is helpful.”

“You never know, Dr. Zimmer,” she says. “If you think of anything else, you can call me.”

She hands him a business card, which he takes before carefully tucking it into his pocket.

“Let’s get out of here so we can lock up the crime scene,” she says. We all follow her out and she locks the door. She turns to me. “Mira, can I talk to you for a second?”

I follow her until we’re around the corner of the hallway.

She spins around to face me. “Why in God’s name are you still hanging around this guy? Do not tell me you’re still investigating.”

“I had stopped investigating. I am done investigating,” I say. “I just heard his office had been broken into, so I came to check on him.”

“Check on him? He’s a full grown man. There’s already campus police working on that case, if you can even consider an office break-in a case. Listen to me: you’ve always tried to skirt the rules. I still remember the Blackman case. Do you remember that one?”

“Of course,” I mutter. “But this isn’t like that.”

“You get too involved with these cases and you fuck everything up,” she says. “I don’t think you do it on purpose. I think you’re just an empathetic person and you want to save everyone. But not everyone can be saved and you can’t jump into everyone’s lives. Stop before this turns out exactly like the Blackman case.”

I grit my teeth together. “Fine. Fine. I won’t get involved. But now there are two dead students. You can’t ignore that.”

“I’ll do what I can.” She takes a few steps back, moving toward her partner. “Just don’t get attached. Stay away from the case and anyone involved in it.”

She spins around, heading back to Macmillan.

John catches my eyes. He takes a step toward me.

I turn on my heel and walk away from him.

"
I
n this marrow
is the DNA of the unfaithful

Catholic priest and the drunk brawler,

but I inherited my eyes from a woman who sacrificed her quiet

life for this body.

I will not spend my days

shedding skin cells like every single one of them wasn't fought for.

They say freedom comes at a cost.

Praise our soldiers, but I know that the first sacrifice was made

the moment the nurses put me in my mother's arms."

I clapped with the rest of the audience as the young man finished his poem. He grinned as he stepped off the stage, and a few people shook his hand or clapped him on the back.

I stared down at my own poem, the piece of paper feeling extraordinarily thin in my hands. It was open mic, but I couldn't follow his act. My poem was decent, certainly, but his was much better and twice as long.

He walked over to me. "Hey, aren't you in my Intro to Ethics class?"

"Um, I don't know. It's a big class."

"There's only one class, so you must be," he says. "How do you think that test went?"

I shrugged. "It was...hard as they always are. I can't believe he expects us to memorize the answers nearly word-for-word, but we're not allowed to quote the answers word-for-word."

He laughed. "Yeah, it's a pain. I just memorize the answers as well as I can and I know by the time the test is in front of me, my mind will have warped it enough that it won't be an exact match to the answers he gave us."

"Yeah," I said. "That sounds like a good plan. Um. I liked your poem. It's rare to hear a poem that's honoring somebody without anger or resentment."

He sighed. "God, I know. It's hard to find a poem that isn't depressing as hell...but that's how I write them anyway. But if you liked my poem, you should check out my band. We're called The Bungalows and we're playing here tomorrow. It'll be a lot of fun. Bring your friends, too."

He walked away from me and struck up a conversation with the people at the next table. I realized that was why he had begun talking to me—he was trying to charm me enough to go see his band.

I was such an idiot—so easily conned that he skipped straight to the purpose of the conversation in less than a minute.

I turned around and look at Everett Pine's plaid shirt that clung to his body in a way that was usually only seen on a model.

He had a band, a writing career that was already beginning to take off, and he likely had a girlfriend...there was a man who needed absolutely nothing, but still felt the need to take things from others. He took their trust and turned it into a profit.

I envied him and I detested him, which created so much turmoil in my chest that it felt like my heart was being ripped to shreds.

M
y apartment is
small and undecorated. It’s a place where I sleep and, occasionally, eat. The kitchenette has rarely had anything cooked in it more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich and the living room has a TV that still has a VCR attached. It’s not a place of comfort for me, but a touchstone. It’s a reminder that my life could be more than my job.

I scribble Victoria’s and Everett’s names in my notebook. I may not be allowed to investigate, but I can still figure out what connected these two. I begin to jot down ideas.

Same class?

Same dorm?

Connection through roommates?

School club?

Same job?

Victoria’s boyfriend knew Everett?

Dr. Pierce—knew Everett through award given

Maybe this is obsessive. It’s a miracle that I wasn’t fired after the Blackman case and I shouldn’t be pushing my luck, but I can’t get this case out of my head.

How are these students dying?

Could it be a drug? Maybe there’s someone purposely giving them a recreational drug that was created to not be detectable in a toxicology screen. But that doesn’t seem like a normal drug dealer, especially not one on a college campus. They aren’t criminal masterminds.

Clearly, someone is.

I trace the curves of my plastic bracelet. I have to remember what apathy can lead to, but it keeps getting clouded by obligation and grasping the idea of responsibility. My mind is all messed up and I can only think of one person who can put it back on right, but Andre is an asshole with an affinity for accidentally ruining my life.

I stare at my list. I jot down one more word.

John.

* * *

D
etective Macmillan
and Stolz have circumstantial evidence that Senator Holden was murdered by his stepson—since the stepson lied about his alibi and had been secretly working against him during the election—so I’ve been checking for blood on various sharp items the detectives had bagged at the crime scene. I’m supposed to see if there’s any hemoglobin—which would indicate there had been blood on it—but, so far, I haven’t had any luck.

Detective Stolz isn’t going to be happy, but quite honestly, I don’t care much about her happiness right now.

I hear the door swing open. I spin around and see John, who is already rushing over to me.

“Look at this,” John says, shoving a note in front of me. “This was left inside my desk.”

In writing, you must kill all your darlings. — William Faulkner.

It appears that it was typed up on an old typewriter.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “How do you keep finding me?”

“I stopped by your parent’s store,” he says, “and your parents told me where you worked.”

“So I have two stalkers now,” I say. “That’s fantastic.”

What is it about me that attracts men? I try really hard to show that I don’t care about any of them, but they keep coming around.

“Look at the note,” he insists.

“I saw it. Are you sure you didn’t write this and forget about it?”

“I don’t own a typewriter,” he says. “And I’m not that forgetful. Why would I randomly type up this quote?”

“Maybe it wasn’t random. You could have had a purpose for writing it,” I say. “You think whoever killed Everett and Victoria left this for you? Does that mean you think you’re next?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You’ve investigated a bunch of murders. I thought you might know.”

“Why didn’t you take this to the two detectives in charge?”

“Because they either don’t think these are murders, or they suspect me of committing them,” he says. “You’re the one person who has believed me. Should I confront Dr. Pierce?”

“Excuse me?” I spit out. “You think he’s the killer and you want to confront him? Do you have a death wish?”

“I can’t just wait around and see who gets killed next,” he says. “Is that what you plan to do?”

I feel heat rush up to my cheeks. “Are you trying to imply that I don’t care about people’s lives?”

“Clearly, I’m more than just
trying
if you understand what I’m saying.” He shakes his head. “I don’t mean to be such a jerk, but two of my students are dead and it doesn’t look like the detectives are trying to find the killer. I can’t lose another student.”

“What makes you so certain that you’ll lose one of your students?” I ask. “It could be a student that you haven’t taught.”

“There’ve been two victims and they’re both in the English department,” he says. “They’re both
prominent
students in the English department. I’ve taught most of those students—there have only been a few that have concentrations in literature instead of writing that I haven’t taught. If there’s another victim, it will be an English student that I’ve taught…and even if it wasn’t, I still care about all of the students.”

Yes. Both victims were strongly connected to him. He could be the killer. But why would he keep trying to pull me into the investigation? It could be to distract me from the fact that he’s the killer, but if he hadn’t been asking about it, the investigation would have been closed quickly.

I’m still wearing rubber gloves, so I take the note from him.

“You’re the only one who has touched this, right?” I ask. “After the killer?”

“Yes,” he says, relief flooding his face. “Do you think there are fingerprints on it?”

“Possibly,” I say. “But I doubt it. You’ve had your hands all over it and, even if there were fingerprints, they’ll be useless if their prints aren’t in any of the databases.”

“What about Dr. Pierce?” he asks. “He’s the strongest suspect.”

“I’ll talk to him,” I say.

“You thought it was too dangerous for me to talk to him. You think it’ll be safer for you to talk to him?”

“I have someone who will help me,” I say.

“Who?” he asks.

“An asshole.”

* * *

A
ndre looks
like he’s half-awake the second he opens his door, but as soon as he recognizes me, he stands up straighter, grabs my arm, and jerks me into his apartment.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, running his hand through his dark hair three times. It's always been his nervous tic.

“Really?” I ask. “You’re going to get upset about me showing up at your home when you were stalking my parent’s store?”

“When I’m at your parent’s store and I see you, anyone who sees us together is just going to assume I’m hitting on a hot woman who happens to repeatedly reject me,” he says. “If you show up here and someone sees you, it becomes suspicious.”

“Then, you can tell them I’m your clingy ex-girlfriend who won’t stop stalking you,” I say.

“This isn’t something to joke about,” he says, leaning against his dining room table. It pisses me off that he has a bigger apartment than mine. It seems that being a criminal pays well. “But, now that you’re here, I’m assuming that you need something. If you had suddenly fallen in love with me again, you’d be a lot nicer.”

“I was never in love with you.”

“There you go being your kind, loving self,” he says. “I’m going to ask again anyway: what do you need?”

I cross my arms. “I just need you to act as a bodyguard. This doesn’t mean I want any relationship with you—I just need you to stand around and help me if…things get dangerous.”

“If things could get dangerous, you shouldn’t get involved.”

“Are you kidding me?” I demand. “You’re saying that to me? I shouldn’t even be here after what you did to me.”

“I didn’t do anything to you,” he says. “I mean, technically I did a lot of things to you, but if we’re talking about—”

“Shut up,” I interrupt. “Will you come with me to talk to a possible suspect?”

“You’re not a detective.”

“Clearly, neither are you,” I say. “I’m doing it because the detectives in charge have their hands full and I couldn’t find any DNA on the evidence I was given. Can you help?”

He smirks. “Of course.”

* * *

“
H
ave
you gone to the theater lately?” Andre asks as we stand outside the classroom Dr. Pierce is teaching in.

“No.”

“I went a little over a week ago,” he says. “I didn’t go with anybody…it was one of those spur of the moment things. Anyway, I chose this one movie just because of its minimalist poster. All it showed was a cracked ice cream cone with the scoop of ice cream that had fallen beside it. The movie ended up being about this woman who has depression and she’s feeling really depressed, but then she meets this guy. You expect this guy to make everything better, right? But he doesn’t. She’s still depressed. She’s depressed until she decides to change everything in her life and begin living her life with the choices she wants to make and not by some ritual or schedule.”

“What the hell does that have to do with ice cream?” I ask.

“The guy was an ice cream truck driver,” he says.

I shake my head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you really enjoyed being with me because it was something out of your normal schedule,” he says. “And now you’re back on a schedule—”

“I’m not depressed,” I say.

There’s the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and students begin to flow out of the room. When the last student has shuffled her way out, I lead Andre inside. Dr. Pierce is putting a stack of papers in his briefcase.

“Dr. Pierce?” I ask, stepping up to his desk.

He looks up at me. “The assignment is due on Thursday. There are no exceptions—”

“I’m not your student,” I cut him off. “I just wanted to ask you some questions about the recent deaths of two of your students.”

He blinks, the hint of a grimace on his face. I’ve seen a fair amount of suspects questioned and he seems rather good at hiding his emotions.

“Are you the police?” he asks. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“I just want to ask some questions,” I say.

He looks up past me and notices Andre. He shakes his head. “No. I have to get home. I’ve had a long day—”

“You should know it looks suspicious to not want to answer some simple questions,” I say.

He sighs. “Fine. What do you want to know? I was not in a relationship with Victoria and I didn’t even know Everett that well.”

“You were part of the group that decided to give him an award for poetry,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I did that with Dr. Zimmer, who was significantly closer to both students. You should question him.”

“I’m questioning you right now,” I say. “So you’re saying you weren’t close to either of your students? Weren’t both of them seniors? You would have had to have a couple of classes with them.”

“Uh, no,” he says. “I mean, yes, they were seniors…at least, I’m pretty sure they were. But I only had two classes with Victoria—the first one had nearly thirty students in it—and I never had a class with Everett.”

“How can you be a writing professor and you didn’t have either of them as students…except two classes with Victoria?” I ask.

He shrugs. “They preferred Zimmer. Most of the students do. They consider him to be fun and genuinely care about their lives.”