Resolve (18 page)

I began opening the audio files, one by one. I started with mine. Four short conversations filled with increasing amounts of amorous advances and awkward deflections. The audio recordings didn’t do justice to her attempts. The gentle touching on the arm and revealing displays of her upper body couldn’t be captured this way. The final recording of me was her visit to my office. My statement abhorring such conduct sounded strong and convincing. Again, I shriveled up inside when I thought about the chain of events set into motion because of that visit.

The quality of the recordings was good. She must have worn a digital recorder with a microphone tucked under her shirt. Obviously, not the top portion of her shirt. These days, recorders were so small they could be nearly invisible. I sifted through the conversations. Some were short—offended educators who wanted nothing to do with her.

Most were longer—interested men, feeling out the situation. Prodding. Testing the waters. Those men were recorded on several occasions, each one becoming more daring. Eventually, most caved in and were willing to meet for private study sessions at their homes, or some motel. A couple of them were more blatant and described in fantastic detail what they wanted to do to her. It was disturbing. Discouraging.

I saved the files of the people I knew best for last. Only a couple of weeks had passed since I had looked on as Aaron Caferty was teased about how he would incur his wife’s wrath for buying a bigger bass boat. As I waited for the audio to start playing, I thought about what V had said.
Romantic nights on the water.
A bass boat wasn’t exactly a luxury yacht, but I could see Aaron trying to depict it as such. I tensed up as the audio started to play.

The first two conversations sounded as if Lindsay had approached Aaron after class. It was almost identical to the way she approached me. Small flirtations. Subtle innuendos. Nothing tangible. When Lindsay became more direct, Aaron didn’t shy away. When she complimented him, he flattered her. He was loving it. Back in the locker room, when I told Aaron, Jacob, and Randy about Lindsay’s murder, Aaron had said that he
thought
she was in one of his classes
last
semester. I checked the date of the recording. It was this semester. He knew exactly who she was and he hadn’t even batted an eyelid when I mentioned her name.

The rest of the recordings with Aaron’s voice made me sick. These conversations also sounded like they took place after class. He was doing his best Donald Trump imitation, talking big, referring to his waterfront property on Lake Erie and his extensive travels. Yes, he was married, he told her, but they had an
open
relationship.

I happened to know that Aaron owned a cheap condo in Erie, his extensive travels consisted of one weekend in Bermuda, and I had met Debbie—who I was quite certain hadn’t been fully briefed on their open-marriage arrangement. Lindsay sounded as if she was dazzled by the business guru. She began to suggest that they meet off campus somewhere, when another voice became audible. Then more voices. I was able to guess that students were filing in for the next class that was to be held in that room. There was an awkward goodbye between the two main speakers on the recording and then nothing.

I clicked on a date that was about a week after the last as my mind was cycling through this new information. Was there really any connection between this and Lindsay’s death? How did Steven fit in? How hard should I punch Aaron when I saw him?

My daydream of pounding Aaron into the ground was interrupted by the start of the next recording. It was Aaron speaking. He was proposing that he and Lindsay go away for the weekend. His house in Erie was being renovated, so they could just slip off to a hotel in Harrisburg. What a class act. The next part made my head ache with frustration. Lindsay turned him down. She told him she had thought about the two of them together, but she just couldn’t go through with it. He was a married professor and had too much to lose. She thought it was best if they kept things platonic and went their separate ways at the end of the semester.

Aaron pleaded at first. He sounded so pathetic that I momentarily forgot that I wanted to pulverize him for being such a scumbag. When Lindsay refused to change her mind, his change in demeanor bled through the computer’s speakers.

His voice boomed when he asked, “What is this, some kind of game to you? Do you like playing with my head?”

Lindsay started to speak but was cut off.

“You’re trying to make a fool out of me!”

I heard a thumping noise that I assumed was Aaron pounding a desk or podium as he spoke.

“I’m not some college boy who will be made a fool of! What am I, some sort of bet with your slut friends? Some sort of running joke? Is that what’s going on here?”

He sounded extremely—
troubled.

“Are you laughing at me? Are all of your friends laughing at me? You and the rest of your slut friends can go straight to hell!”

The next set of sounds was a girl who realized that she had taken things too far. Some wires had accidentally gotten crossed and a devastating malfunction had occurred. She sounded scared. Like a child who wanted nothing more than to get away from the source of ugliness that stood before her.

Her words were unsure and rapid. She tried apologizing. She tried telling him she really did like him, but their being together just wasn’t right. She wasn’t laughing at him. Nobody was laughing at him. This was all a mistake and she never meant to cause trouble. She had to go now. Another class. Friends were waiting. Things to do. Someplace she needed to be. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The fast-paced clicking of heels remained at a constant volume, as a voice in the background faded away. The last words that could be deciphered from the distant voice were,
“You bitch! You’re all bitches!”

The recording stopped and I double-checked to make sure that it was the last one in that folder. No other dates. I didn’t know if that was the last conversation Aaron and Lindsay had, but it was the last I had access to.

Aaron wasn’t the boyfriend. That wasn’t charisma. That was volcanic rage that had been pent up for a long, long while. Lindsay had triggered something in Aaron and she never saw what was coming. He had a boat—but she would never have set foot on it with him after this episode.

I stood up, and paced back and forth across the small room. Sigmund woke up, noticed the sunbeam had relocated without his permission, and readjusted his sleeping position accordingly. Steven killed Lindsay. I knew it. Without a doubt.

Maybe Aaron’s tantrum was unrelated to Lindsay’s murder. As far as I knew, Aaron didn’t even know Steven. I didn’t know why Steven had strangled Lindsay, but I knew why he
didn’t
do it. I felt that the reason had to be here in these files.

Yes, some murders happen for no reason. A stray bullet enters a bedroom window and a wife becomes a widow. A nutcase enters an elementary school and starts shooting. It happens. Sad, but true. But this was no stray bullet. This was a man putting his hands around a woman’s windpipe and squeezing until the life disappeared from her eyes. She had fought back. She tried to hang on to her life with her fingernails, but it slipped away. Steven must have looked into her eyes and watched the light go out. That takes a certain level of conviction. Not random. Not pointless.

Having re-convinced myself that I was headed in the right direction, I found the next name that was most familiar to me. I opened the folder for Randy Walker expecting to find incriminating recordings. Randy was a three-time divorcee who didn’t have much respect for men, much less women. I once heard him refer to female police officers as glorified meter maids. Hearing his voice suggest a rendezvous with Lindsay would come as no surprise.

Boy, was I disappointed. There was one recorded conversation in the file. It was from the previous semester and it lasted less than two minutes. It was Lindsay making her initial approach, full of flirtatious energy and false adulation being directed at Randy. The stone wall she hit was immense. He would have none of it. He was arrogant, condescending, and sexist. He was as repulsive to her as he was to anybody else.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re a child. Go find yourself a boy your own age and focus on making him happy and raising some kids!”

I had to give the guy credit—at least he was a consistent jerk. I could hear Lindsay go in full retreat.

The last thing I heard before the recording ended was her mumbling to herself, “Asshole.”

Randy’s repellent personality had finally paid off for him. He wouldn’t hop into bed with a twenty-two-year-old. I made myself pledge to only loath the guy for the thousand other legitimate reasons. Nobody can say I’m not fair.

The last folder I opened was titled “Jacob Kasko.” Jacob had said that he didn’t know Lindsay. In fact, he said that he knew all of his students and he rarely forgot them. I looked at the date of the recording. December. The end of the previous semester. Maybe Jacob’s memory wasn’t as keen as he thought. Maybe it was.

I tried to imagine Lindsay approaching the eternally proper, prominent professor and trying to convince him to have a fling with her. She had guts—I had to give her that. He made me self-conscious about my tattoo and she was going to try to seduce him.

The first few short conversations mirrored the others. Some brief encounters after class, some compliments, a few subtle hints. Jacob was polite and dismissive, without offending. Lindsay turned on the heat. She pressed him to talk about his background and his experiences. What did he like most about being a professor? Where did he get his doctorate? What did he do on his days off? Maybe they could spend some time together outside of class and he could help her decide on what graduate school to attend?

I wondered if she knew that he had lost his wife recently. If she did, would she still have pushed so hard?

That’s when Jacob said it. I stopped breathing when the words came through my speakers. I followed the image of sound waves bouncing across my monitor with every syllable.

He calmly entreated, “Lindsay, why don’t you tell me what it is you’re working on?”

Then, silence. I thought the recording had stopped, but it hadn’t.

The male voice I knew well continued, “I’m not mad at you. I simply want to know from an academic standpoint. What’s the endgame here?”

The girl’s voice changed from tigress to kitten in a flash. She didn’t even try to lie.

“It’s a project, of sorts. You would call it a study in human behavior.”

“Interesting. Tell me about it. You have complete confidentiality with me. Social scientists have to depend on confidentiality.”

And she told him. She told him about everything except for the names of the men she had approached and the existence of the recordings. He didn’t interrupt, and he asked follow-up questions about how she planned on presenting her findings. He told her that the venture had real potential, but that she shouldn’t limit her work to the field of journalism. If she developed it as a true research project, and presented it as an academic pursuit, as well as a journalistic piece, she would be taken more seriously. She wouldn’t be regarded simply as an aspiring young reporter who was starved for attention. She wanted to be more, right? Not just a flash in the pan.

He was smooth. Inviting, but professional. He sounded earnest and interested. I could see where this was going and I didn’t like it.

He made a few suggestions about the way she could organize the data by categorizing her subjects by age, race, field of study, years in academia, and marital status. The possibilities were endless.

“You’re an exceptionally bright girl,” he told her. “You seem to have lots of potential. Good luck with your project. With a little refining, it may work out well for you.”

It sounded like he was packing up a briefcase.

For a brief second I was hopeful. Then the second passed.

“Wait,” the female voice was strong again. “Can you please help me? I mean just with the organizing and writing part. I really do want to be taken seriously.”

There was a pause, and I could hear the softest of breaths being picked up by the microphone. The lines on the monitor were low ripples.

Then a nonchalant male voice said, “I suppose we could discuss this further.”

I could practically see the heartwarming look on his face when he said, “I’m always available for a worthwhile project.”

I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it was true. Jacob had told me before we set off running down the river trail, but I wasn’t listening.

For most of the city, it’s just some blonde girl who had her future snuffed out like the flame on a candle.

How did he know she was a blonde?

Jacob had said he didn’t know who Lindsay was. Every television station and newspaper had shown her photo while telling the story. A photo of a young freshman who had dark hair interrupted by a red streak. I had seen Jacob Friday afternoon. He had been in Morgantown on Monday morning. It wasn’t likely that he had a conversation with someone over the weekend who just
happened
to mention her hair color.

How did he know she was a blonde? I hadn’t even asked myself that question at the time.

I’m kind of an idiot sometimes.

Mile 13

T
he unmemorable mile after coming off of the Birmingham Bridge creates a brief psychological strain. The vacant lots and graffiti-covered walls are a reminder that progress can be slow. Recovery takes time. Bent and rust-covered rebar sticks out of chipped concrete where a commercial building once stood. Windows on the front of a forgotten warehouse have served as objects of dissatisfaction for rock-throwing youths.

The road has been sewn together with tangled strings of tar. The pavement at the corner of Forbes and Craft resembles a Rorschach test. I try to occupy my mind by assigning a perception to the blackened shapes, but all I can come up with is an octopus. No crowds line the streets. The distance between me and the next runner is thirty feet. The married couple running “for Linda” have fallen back and vanished. It’s weirdly quiet.