BLUE BLOOD RUNS COLD (A Michael Ross Novel Book 1)

by M. A Wallace

  He put all the cards back in the wallet, and put the wallet in a ziplock bag. He handed it over to one of the technicians who offered him a clipboard. He put down his initials, indicating that he had handled that piece of evidence.

  Michael spent several minutes surveying the scene, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He watched as his breath plumed out in front of him. He smelled a faint odor of manure in the air. He saw farms on two sides of the campus. A distance away, beyond a baseball field, white cows with splotches of black roamed about in the cold. He tried to put a picture together of what Shippensburg might feel like: a conservative area, somewhat stuck in the past, with forward-thinking undergraduates and Amish citizens. The two sides of the camp, conservative and progressive, must have clashed on more than one occasion, he thought. He made a note of that, too. It might be worth his time to see how many students came from local families who lived close to nature. Perhaps some of them had gone hunting.

  Billy tapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to reality. The other man said, “Hey Mikey, you got a feel for the crime scene? Got everything you wanted? The coroner's been here for a while, waiting to move the body. He's getting all antsy.”

  Michael turned around to see the short, diminutive man standing outside, his jacket pulled up above his mouth, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Josiah Hostein, who liked to be called Joe but wasn't, had been a fixture at all the homicide investigations Michael had taken part in. Officially, Joe belonged to the Cumberland County Sheriff's Office; unofficially, Joe roamed around the county, weighing in on every case where even the smallest doubt of foul play existed. On that morning, his short, uncombed hair blew sideways in the breeze while he tapped his foot on the ground with impatience. He stood in front of a gurney upon which lay a black body bag. As was usually the case, the coroner came without an assistant. There were too many deaths in Cumberland County; the county's resources were spread thin, even on a Saturday.

  Michael called out, “Hey, sorry for the wait! Good to go now.”

  The coroner pushed the cart forward, a scowl coming over his face. As Joe approached the body, he said to the detectives, “About time. What were you doing, just standing there, staring off into space? Did you receive telepathic messages from the great beyond, hmm?”

  Michael said, “Come on, Josie, you know how I work. You never know what the human mind can come up with until you take it into a place where it's not used to going.”

  The coroner grunted. He said, “Help me with the body, please. I have to deliver it to the freezer, which is probably warmer than it is out here.”

  Michael helped the coroner load the body into the large black bag, hefted the bag up onto the gurney, then put his initial on a paper saying that he had done so. He said, “Sorry to keep you waiting so long. Do you know offhand how soon we can get this guy cut?”

  Joe gave a half shrug. He said, “You know as much as I do. Three, four days? Maybe longer? We've got two guys down there making incisions on corpses. They're working nearly eighteen hours a day. Sometimes, I actually get to go down there and do the job I signed up for. You want a thorough, complete job done the right way, you gotta wait.”

  “Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I know you're working hard. Just thought I'd ask is all.”

  The coroner put his hands on the cold steel of the gurney. Since Michael did not see a hearse or an ambulance anywhere nearby, he assumed that the coroner would have a bit of walking to do—another consequence of limited parking. He said to Billy, “What's your impression of the body?”

  Billy McGee took a deep breath. He said, “The firing pattern of the visible wounds suggests the perp used a handgun. The cop never drew his weapon, so he was either taken by surprise, or he was in front of somebody he trusted. I bet when the techs get done with the weapon they'll find it fully loaded. As far as I know, no ambulance was called here last night. So there wasn't a struggle. It's almost like this guy turned up dead out of nowhere.”

  Michael thought about arguing the point, but didn't. Instead he replied, “Okay, tell me what you know about the dead girl who died under a collapsed roof.”

  Billy related the events of Jolanda Price's death, and how Shannon Moore was subsequently assaulted by the decedent. He finished by saying, “I haven't had a lot of time to try and track down this Moore girl. We don't have any information about who she hangs out with, or what clubs she is involved in. All the people I might ask for information about student clubs are gone for the weekend. That's assuming that she's involved in any clubs at all. For right now, I think we should consider Miss Moore our primary suspect.”

  “Okay, suppose the girl did shoot Officer Bailey out of revenge. Could she have done it with one hand, in the dark, more than twelve hours after being sprayed in the face?”

  “If she went to the nurse's office—another thing we'll have to check on—they would have told her to blink a lot so that her natural tears would flush the chemicals out of her eyes. If that did happen, they would have referred her to a hospital. Whether she went right away or stayed behind long enough to kill Bailey, that's the million-dollar question. The next question is, who had access to a gun? Would it be possible to sneak a gun on to campus without anyone noticing?”

  Michael thought of all the students carrying backpacks all throughout the fall semester and said, “Easiest thing in the world. It's probably easier to conceal a lethal weapon here than anywhere else.”

  “Hmm, all right, I see where you're going with this.”

  “Even if she didn't conceal it, it was the middle of the night. I'd like to know what Bailey was doing out so late if he had to work the day shift. Something must have brought him here, either an invitation or a compulsion.”

  Billy scratched down notes on a notepad. He said, “All right, we've got two threads here. The girl and the cop. Which do you want to take?”

  “I'll let you have the easy one. You can take the cop. The police station is over that way, beyond that building. It's easy to miss. There are squad cars around here.”

  “All right, guess I'll get started. You remember to charge your cell phone?”

  “Sure, charged it with solar power last night.”

  Billy gave his partner a light punch to the shoulder. “Man, you and your weird gadgets. If nothing else comes up, call me around noon. That's...three and half hours from now. We'll compare notes, maybe go out for a pizza.”

  “Okay then. Good hunting.”

  “You, too, smart aleck.”

  4

  Instead of trying to find Shannon Moore, Michael Ross instead pounded on the locked library door until someone opened it. He asked where he might find the university president. He was informed that the president had her own residence at the far end of the campus, like a governor's mansion. He asked for a map of the university and five minutes later was given a computer printout of all the pertinent locations on campus. He first located the library and put a circle around it. Then he located the lot where he had parked; he put a plus sign over McCleary Hall. Then he squinted and located the residence he wished to visit. It was indeed on the far side of the campus. The map he'd been given revealed all the parking spots on campus; he saw none around the mansion. There was no way to get to it but to hike across the cold, frosty college grounds.

  He spent twenty minutes walking across the campus, keeping his hands in his pockets, and trying to walk as fast as he could to warm himself up. Before long, the map told him that he was in front of the Old Main building. He saw a large fountain in which snow had piled up. The fountain had a carving of a dolphin leaping into the air. He took a moment to look at it, then went to the front entrance. He saw no markers on the ground to indicate that anything of significance had happened there. He saw no chalk outlines, no blood, nothing. This was the place, he thought, where a young woman might have taken it into her head to exact revenge on a man who had attacked her.

  The president's mansion was a wide, two-story house sitting on
top of a hill. Surrounding the house was a ring of trees whose branches reached out into the air like spindly wooden fingers. A set of footprints in the snow led away from the residence towards Old Main. Michael came before a door with a heavy knocker. He rapped his fist against the door as hard as he could. Heavy thuds echoed through the morning air. He heard the distinctive sounds of locks unlatching. The door opened.

  A woman with gray hair and bloodshot eyes stood in the doorway. She wore rumpled yellow pajamas upon which cartoon bears danced. Her feet were bare; she had painted her toenails red. Her entire body sagged from weariness. As a detective who had been forced to sit in on stakeouts throughout the night with large thermoses full of black coffee, he knew the signs of someone who had gone beyond the limits of what the human body could endure. He wondered if the woman had gotten any sleep. It seemed as though she hadn't rested in half an aeon.

  She spoke with a weary, dull voice. She said, “If you've come for donations, you've come to the wrong place.”

  Michael said, “Excuse me, ma'am, is this the residence of Lorraine Clifton?”

  The woman stood up a little straighter. Light came into her eyes then. She said, “Yes, who is asking please?”

  He pulled his gold shield out of the inside of his jacket and held it up before her. Her eyes widened. He said, “Detective Michael Ross, Shippensburg Borough Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions. May I come in please?”

  He carefully watched her reactions, looking for any sign that might betray her state of mind: a twitch of the cheek, eyes that looked away, hands that fell down to each side, anything. He had done the questioning routine long enough to get a sense of when someone was lying. He knew when someone didn't want to bother but did so out of courtesy. He also knew when someone was likely to become hostile. He knew when to stop asking questions and when to keep pressing for more information. Very little about the questioning process managed to surprise him, save for the answers he received. Those he could never predict.

  She said, “I assume you've come about the matter of Jolanda Price.”

  “No, ma'am, I've come about the murder of Officer Kevin Bailey.”

  She stepped back, putting her hand over her mouth. She said, “Dear lord, you don't mean to say, he's dead? Murdered? And now, you're here investigating his death?”

  “Yes, ma'am. I have reason to believe the events which occurred yesterday morning with a student named Shannon Moore may be related to his murder. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in. It's really cold out here.”

  She turned around, leaving the door open without saying a word. It wasn't an invitation to enter, but neither was it a refusal. He stepped over the threshold. A wave of warm air hit him at once, making him remember that he had not turned off the heating in his mobile home before he left. He closed the door behind him, then followed the woman into a spacious living room with two couches, two reclining chairs, a large television, and a see-through glass coffee table. On the coffee table sat an empty pot of coffee and an empty mug. The mug had a red, white, and blue logo on it of the kind he had seen on sign on the way in to campus.

  She slumped down onto the couch. Michael sat across from her, noting her every movement. At some point, she would resent him for asking his questions. She would see that he had come into her house as a spy not only to obtain information about a particular subject, but about herself, as well. No line of questioning in a murder investigation had ever been fair, balanced, or impartial. He wanted to pull out his cell phone so he could time how long it would take for her to say she would not speak with him again except in the presence of an attorney.

  She said, “Good lord, I'd almost forgotten. That poor girl. Is she all right? Have you heard from her?”

  “Actually, ma'am, I was hoping that you might be able to tell me where I can find her, and what condition she's in.”

  “All I know is, I saw that officer force her down to the ground. I heard something pop. I thought it was her shoulder. She's lying on the ground, pleading with him to stop. She's hurt and can't get up. So he stands over her and unloads pepper spray into her face. After that, the crowd got ugly. I retreated into my office. I'm a little ashamed to admit it. I just didn't know what else to do. Sometime later, a group of students came to me saying that a line had been crossed. They would do everything in their power to see that I was removed from my post. I believe they meant it, too. A student dead, a student injured, and now an officer dead, all in two days. They were already sharpening the ax for me. Now they might use it.”

  Michael was not surprised to discover that in the midst of her shock and grief, she immediately considered her own prospects for continued employment. If he guessed right, and she was up all night, she would have had plenty of time to think.

  He said, “After the incident, where did Shannon go? Did she report to the school nurse's office?”

  The president ran a hand through her hair. She said, “I don't know, so help me, I don't know. I was afraid to ask. No one told me. No one spoke to me, except for my secretary and those students. I didn't think to call the nurse's office, or her parents. That's what I regret, not calling her parents. These folks all across the state trust us to take care of their sons and daughters. Sometimes we do well. Sometimes we get students on the dean's list, football players drafted to real NFL teams, graduate students who publish papers of their own. When that happens, I feel proud of what I do here. Other times, we fail miserably. Dear god, have we ever failed this semester.”

  Michael glanced at the coffee pot, glad that she had not offered him anything. He had always refused, no matter how polite the invitation. He said, “Have you received any calls from any legal representative in the last forty-eight hours?”

  The question brought her back into focus. He knew that it was inappropriate, yet he had asked it anyway. He understood that he would not get a straight answer, if any answer was given at all. He wanted to bring her attention on him, even if that meant stirring up her resentment. She said, “Yes, I have. I'm afraid I can't discuss what we spoke of, and I really don't see the relevance.”

  “All right, I apologize. I'll stick with Miss Moore then. To the best of your knowledge, was she involved in sports teams or student groups? Was she a person with whom you were personally acquainted?”

  The ire did not leave her eyes as she considered her answer. After a moment, she said, “I didn't know her. Some students, they make a point of seeing me personally. They all think that I can wave a magic wand and fix everything. They think that I have unlimited discretionary authority. But I don't. The best I can do is explain to them why things are the way they are. Shannon Moore was not that kind of person. I don't know her major, or how long she's been here. She first came to my attention when she accused me of killing Jolanda Price.”

  “Why would she say that?”

  “Oh, don't misunderstand me, Detective. It wasn't an accusation. She was venting her anger, nothing more than that. I was prepared to let her stand there and unload on me as much as she wanted. I was going to give her a hug when she had finished. Jolanda's death really affected her. I could tell that much.”

  “So when you met her, would you say that she was angry?”

  “Oh, she was furious. She spat out her rage. I honestly didn't know what to do besides let her keep talking. I hoped that it would prove therapeutic for her.”

  “Did she, or anyone else on the campus, ever get caught for possessing firearms of any kind?”

  It took a moment for the dots to connect in her mind. Once they did, she blanched. The color drained out of her face. Despite her tanned skin, she turned a shade whiter. She said, “There was an illegal possession charge three years back. Something of a local legend here.”

  “Would you mind telling me about it?”

  “I can tell you what I know, but the police officers here would be able to tell you more. They keep records of all those kinds of things.” A pause while she picked up the mug and drank the last drops of liquid therein.
She continued, “This freshman, Zachary Tyler, gets caught with a gun on campus. The matter was brought before the township police. He went before a magistrate and pled guilty to a misdemeanor on condition that he pay a fine of five hundred dollars and do five hundred hours of community service. He chose to be a summer painter at Ship for free. Now I don't know why he wasn't expelled, but he wasn't. He's scheduled to graduate next spring. Computer Information Systems major.”

  “Do you suppose that, if he wanted to, Zachary could gain access to another firearm and bring it on to campus?”

  Another pause. The president looked away. She said, “I suppose he could, now that I think of it. We really haven't installed metal detectors. Then, because it was feared that it would slow down foot traffic too much, and now, because we just don't have it in the budget. Perhaps we should have. I don't know.”

  Michael reflected on what a public university would look like with metal detectors and, he supposed, more surveillance cameras. He had never known such measures to make people feel more safe; instead, they only gave more work for officers who were already swamped. No one felt safe who had to live with cameras pointed at him every day of the week. Even now, as a veteran detective, he still felt disconcerted by the cameras, overt and hidden, in the office where he worked.

  He wanted to tell her not to blame herself. He wanted to say that she was beating herself up over events outside of her control. As soon as the thought came to his mind, he knew that it would sound condescending—the kind of statement he would be expected to make and, having made it, would be resented for a lack of originality.

  He said, “All right, now I have to ask a toughie.”

  The president appeared unconcerned. She waved her hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal. She said, “Go ahead and ask, Detective. Whatever it is can't be worse than what's already happened.”