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

by Charlotte Raine

  “Please understand,” he says. “I taught Victoria in five classes and then she was my teaching assistant. She was one of my favorite students. I can’t accept that she died from natural causes until you’re certain.”

  “We may never be certain,” I say. “And I’m really supposed to do what the detectives tell me to do—”

  “What if I find more information on my own?” he asks. “I could ask around…see if she was hanging out with anyone dangerous.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that,” I say. “If somebody killed her, they are dangerous. Besides, you wouldn’t even know what to look for.”

  “Which is why you could help me.”

  “John, look…I shouldn’t have slept with you. The only reason I did was because I thought this case was going to be closed.”

  “The only reason?” he asks.

  I don’t answer.

  “We can keep thing platonic. Please, Mira. My gut is screaming that she didn’t die from natural causes. She deserves justice.”

  The question bubbles out of my throat like it had been trapped since this morning. “Were you sleeping with her?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “No. No way. I would never sleep with a student. Besides the fact that it would be enormously unethical and create an unfair power balance, it would just become too complicated. My students come here and they leave. Sometimes they leave suddenly. And she was in her early twenties. It’s not an age I would want to date. They’re still discovering who they are, and that can cause them to lean on everyone in their lives. I don’t need someone that dependent.”

  I keep my eyes on him. He seems overly invested in his student, but I don’t see a single indication that he’s lying. He’s certainly more devout to his students than any of my professors ever were, but maybe that’s the difference between English programs and chemistry programs.

  “I’ll help if I can,” I say.

  He grins, his happiness so infectious that I feel like there’s a sunrise in my chest.

  “Thank you so, so much,” he says. He reaches forward as if to hug me, but then lets his arm fall back to his side. “I promise, I won’t get you in trouble. We can just ask her friends some questions, and if you see anything that might look like evidence, you can check it out. Does that sound good?”

  “It sounds easy enough,” I say.

  He continues to smile at me. This is either the best decision I’ve ever made or the worst one. Considering my history with making choices, it’s likely the latter.

  Some people think that when a person is stabbed several times, the body comes to the morgue as a mangled replica of who the person used to be. But once the blood is wiped off, it’s just a few slits in the body. The red inner flesh, revealed by the wounds, almost looks like red rose petals scattered over the body.

  Senator Holden’s body doesn’t have a few slits—it has over a dozen. I don’t have to be the medical examiner to see whoever stabbed him wasn’t very experienced with their weapon. At the opening of several of his wounds, the skin folds back like the killer struggled to pull the weapon back out and needed to wiggle it to yank it out.

  “The killer must have been stupid, but strong,” Tim says, flipping through his notes. “Which, honestly, I prefer over intelligent, but weak. Why are you down here?”

  “Since I wasn’t at the crime scene, I thought I’d come down to see if there’re any particulates in the wounds,” I say. “Any pieces of steel to prove it was a combat knife? Or silver to prove it was tableware?”

  “I’m thinking it was likely a combat knife,” he says. “The wounds are too big to consider anything else right now. Interesting enough, Senator Holden was in the Marines for four years, so this will either lead the detectives to a smaller suspect pool, considering the killer could be a Marine, or a much larger suspect pool because the killer could have taken one of his old knives.”

  I nod. “What about Victoria Glassman?”

  He glances up at me and I can feel the sharp disapproval in his gaze. “Her death is being ruled as undetermined.”

  “There wasn’t any sign that she died from cardiac arrest?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Her heart was fine. At least as far as I could tell. There was no sign of coronary thrombosis, no hypertrophy, or myocarditis.”

  “You’re just saying it’s undetermined?”

  “Stolz and Macmillan want it wrapped up as soon as possible,” he says. “They want me to focus on the senator’s case.”

  “You’re not bothered by that?”

  “I would be if there were any sign that there had been foul play for Glassman,” he says. “But there’s not.”

  “So you didn’t find anything?” I ask.

  “Of course I found some things,” he says. “There are signs that she died by asphyxia—such as the cyanosis—blue skin—but there’s no petechial hemorrhage that would show an outside force caused it. It’s perfectly possible that she was smothered and the killer just happened to not leave any bruises on her, but—assuming the killer had enough mindset to clean up the crime scene after she was dead—I’d still find it hard to believe that someone could smother her without having to restrain her with enough force to cause bruising. Why am I even telling you all of this? The case is over. She likely choked on something or tried some drug that isn’t showing up in a toxicology screen. Now, for Senator Holden, we know how he died and his murderer is on the loose.”

  “So Glassman could have been killed with a pillow or some plastic wrap and that’s why there aren’t any clues?” I ask.

  “It’s possible,” he says. “But there would still be the question of why she didn’t struggle. And I would hope somebody would notice a person carrying around a pillow or a box of plastic wrap on campus.”

  “Great.” I drum my fingers against one of his tables. “So, what’s up with our Senator?”

  “He was stabbed. Twenty-one times,” he says. “The only thing I could tell you other than the fact that the killer was inexperienced is that the killer was shorter than him. The stab wounds near the top of his groin are straight forward.”

  “How tall was the senator?”

  “Five eleven.”

  “So most men and women are still in your victim pool?”

  “Did you just come down here to be an asshole?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, smirking. “I can check it off my to-do list now.”

  He throws his pen at me. I swat it out of the air and it falls down beside Senator Holden. I look over his body again. It’s a hell of a way to go. With that many stab wounds, it’s as if his killer was trying to get his body to leak secrets, and those are wounds that don’t heal either.

  The sun is starting to set by the time I stop at John’s apartment, although it’s barely past 4:40. When he opens his door, he’s holding a beer.

  “Are you always drinking?” I ask.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t have some kind of addiction,” he says, taking a sip from the bottle. “Did you find something out?”

  “Nothing significant. But if somebody killed Victoria, it would be somebody she knew. Did she have a boyfriend?”

  He nods. “His name is Dominic. He’s part of the Rho Sigma Alpha fraternity. Victoria wrote about him a few times and she mentioned him once in a while, but she just talked about the normal, young relationship kind of things. You know, how much she loves him, how good-looking he is, how they understand each other so well. I don’t know much about him.”

  “Does he live at the fraternity house?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Do you know which house it is?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  “Are you going to tell me where it is?”

  “I will if I’m allowed to go with you.”

  “Uh, no,” I say. “You’re a professor. At least one of those frat boys would recognize you. If I go alone, I can blend in. Besides, for all we know, this fraternity isn’t involved at all and you don’t want the colleg
e to find out that you’re accusing students of murder.”

  “They had a party two nights ago,” he says. “It makes sense if she stayed there overnight and someone followed her to my office.”

  “It would be easier if I did it alone,” I say. “There’s no point to you being there.”

  “Knowledge is power,” he says. “It’s better if you’re with someone who knows this college and the people in it. I can be helpful and it’s easier for me to be helpful if I’m right there with you.”

  I glare at him.

  “You’re not going to give up, are you?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “You can come along, but we’re going to act like Victoria was my friend and you’re just helping me find closure. If they know I’m associated with the police, they’ll block me out. Got it?”

  “I’m an English professor. I can understand the English words coming out of your mouth just fine.”

  The thought of smacking him crosses my mind, but I let it go. When I’ve got Tuskmirth detectives up my ass, it’s not the time to be making enemies.

  John follows closely behind me until we reach the front door. He presses the doorbell. Nothing happens.

  “Did you really think the doorbell would work at a frat house?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Sorry, I didn’t spend a lot of time at fraternities when I was in school. Did you?”

  “No,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the probabilities of an old house’s electronic systems working.”

  “I was just trying to—”

  The door jerks open. A man in sweatpants and disheveled dyed blue hair with his blond roots showing opens the door. He slides his hands in his pockets as he looks me up and down.

  “Hey, lady,” he says. “I hope you’re not looking for any of my friends because I hate to steal from any of my boys.”

  “Uh, I am looking for one of your friends,” I say. “But I’m…I was a friend of Victoria’s. I was hoping to talk to her boyfriend. I’m just…”

  I turn to John, hoping he’ll contribute something worthy to the conversation—such as the reason why he’s here.

  “And I’m here as moral support,” John says.

  I’d say I’ve met worse liars, but then I’d be a liar, too.

  “He’s moral support,” I echo. “The college counselor advised that he should be with me while I…process Victoria’s death.”

  “Ahh,” he says, nodding for three seconds longer than necessary. I would think he’s stoned, but there’s no sign that he is other than his complete lack of self-awareness. “I heard about that. It sucks.”

  I stare at him. “So…is her boyfriend here?”

  “Right. Right.” He nods four more times before gesturing for John and me to come into the house. The moment I step in, I’m hit by the smell of body odor that someone desperately tried to cover up with way too much cologne. The blue-haired man leads us to the first room, where three other men are sitting on a ratty brown couch. Two of them are playing a video game while the third one appears to be texting.

  The blue-haired man gestures to the one who’s texting. The man has dark hair that’s about to grow past his ears and square-framed glasses. Other than the fact that he’s relatively good-looking, he’s not who I would picture in a fraternity.

  “Dominic, this lady is here to see you,” the blue-haired man says.

  Dominic doesn’t react.

  “Hi, uh, I’m a friend of Victoria’s,” I say.

  He finally glances up at me. He slides his phone into his pocket. “I’ve never met you.”

  I force a laugh. “Well, uh, have you met all of Victoria’s friends?”

  “Yes.” He glances to John, at my side. “Hello, Dr. Zimmer. Don’t you have classes today?”

  “I do,” he says. “But they’re not for another hour and a half.”

  “What are you doing here with this woman?” Dominic asks.

  “She’s a friend of Victoria’s that needed moral support—”

  “No,” Dominic interrupts. “I don’t think so. I knew all of Victoria’s friends and she’s definitely not one of them. I’m sorry, whoever you are, but you’re not the type of person Victoria would hang out with. She loved the bo-ho chic, all her friends loved it, and you’re…you look like you got the clothes a homeless man rejected. Also, you’ve clearly got a stick up your ass, which she wouldn’t have tolerated.”

  “I don’t know…she was dating you, so clearly she did tolerate it,” I say.

  The two men on the couch stop playing their game and the blue-haired man covers his mouth.

  “Do you need an ice pack after that burn?” he whispers to Dominic.

  Dominic grinds his teeth. “I’d think a policeman—who I assume you are since you’re pretending to be someone you’re not—would be a bit more respectful to the grieving boyfriend.”

  “I’m not the police.” I turn to John, whose eyebrows are raised at me. “Tell them. I’m not the police, right?”

  “No, she’s not,” he says. “She just does forensics.”

  “That’s right,” I say, turning back toward Dominic. “So, if you have even the slightest presence of drugs in this house, I could find them. You could scrub every inch of this dump and I could still find it. And if I find drugs, that could mean academic probation, expulsion, criminal prosecution. Even if the college decides to go easy on you, at the very least, they would probably take away any financial aid you receive. Dominic, I’m sure your parents cover your tuition, but some of your brothers here might need that little bit of help.”

  Dominic crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  “Where were you when Victoria died?”

  “She died really early yesterday, right?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I was here.”

  “Sleeping?” I ask. “Alone?”

  He shakes his heads. “I was drunk, but any of my brothers could confirm I was here.”

  He smacks the blue-haired man in the shoulder.

  “You were here all night, weren’t you, Alex?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” Alex—the blue-haired man—says. “He was here all night and he left for his nine o’clock class around 8:40.”

  “You two know each other’s schedules?” I ask.

  Dominic shrugs. “We’ve lived together in this house for a couple years now. We feel like actual brothers. Besides, he likes to bitch about how early I have to get up.”

  “I don’t bitch about how early you get up,” Alex argues. “I remind you kindly to shut your damn alarm off within the first ten minutes that it goes off. Nobody likes when it goes off for a whole half hour—”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say. “Just like brothers. Dominic, do you know if your girlfriend was going to meet someone yesterday morning?”

  He indicates to John. “She was just supposed to teach the beginning of Dr. Zimmer’s class.”

  “Can you tell me anything else?” I ask. “Was she having problems with anyone?”

  He smirks. “Are you kidding? Did you guys not even go to the campus police or the Dean?”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes. “She was having issues with her R.A. His name is Justin. I don’t know his last name. He was stalking her, but the school pretty much said that because she didn’t have concrete evidence, her only choice was to move out of her dorm to another floor. She liked everyone on her floor and she liked her roommate. She didn’t want to risk getting a bad roommate, so she decided to suck it up and try to avoid him.”

  “Do you know her dorm room?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Of course I know it. This house isn’t the most private area and her roommate liked to go home on the weekend. We had made some great memories there.”

  “Can you just give me the dormitory name and room number?”

  “Favare Hall. Room 324.”

  “Victoria’s boyfriend didn’t seem upset at all,”
I say as we wait for a student to come through the entrance doors of Favare Hall. The doors lock as soon as they’re closed, making it hard to get inside without an invitation. As a student walks out, we slip into the building. We head to the left and find the elevators. I click the 3 button.

  “People mourn differently,” John says. “I’m sure you do something when you mourn that other people would think is weird.”

  “What makes you so certain that I’ve mourned anyone?”

  “I just get that general sense about you,” he says. “I’ve learned people’s deepest secrets through their writing, and when you learn people’s secrets, you start getting a general sense of what that secret feels like.”

  “Are you trying to say you’re psychic?” I ask. The elevator stops and we step out onto the third floor. “Because I don’t believe in that.”

  “I’m saying that you carry yourself like someone who has mourned for a long time,” he says as we pass by the rooms until we reach 324. “Can I ask who it was that died? Your mother or your father?”

  “My mother and father work at a magic shop called Magician’s Suitcase,” I say, knocking on the door. “You can go there sometime and see that they’re both alive and well. My mother even does yoga.”

  The door opens. A short woman with her hair pulled back into a ponytail stands in front of me. I note she has a small scar under her top lip—possibly from healed over piercing—and that her eyes are puffy and outlined in red. Her breaths are a little shaky as she wipes at her eyes.

  “Hi,” I say. “Are you Victoria Glassman’s roommate?”

  She nods. “My name’s Kiona. Are you the police? I already talked to them.”

  “I work with the police. My name is Mira and this is Dr. Zimmer.” I tried to lie to the frat boys, but apparently these college students aren’t idiots and I don’t see any positive outcome from lying to Victoria’s roommate. “Can I ask you some questions about Victoria?”

  “I already told you guys everything I know,” she says.

  “Kiona.” John steps forward. “You don’t know me, but I was Victoria’s professor for a few years and she was my teaching assistant. Victoria once told me that you two would make muffins every Sunday night. She really enjoyed that time she got to spend with you, especially when your schedules were so hectic.”