Kill Again

by Neal Baer

  Claire knew this could be both good and bad news. “What would that mean for you?” she asked him.

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Wilkes said he’d take care of me as long as he could.” He turned to her. “But maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  He took her hand, his fingers intertwined with hers. She thought she could feel her heart skip a beat, and it made her think about how, every second of every day for as long as she’d been alive, her own heart beat in the same rhythmical way. Steady. Predictable. No matter what she was doing or thinking, no matter that she was unaware of the dependable contracting of the muscle inside her chest, the life force within her kept flowing. Then she had another thought:

  Is this my heart beating or is it my twin’s?

  Claire realized it didn’t matter. Somehow just knowing the origin of her life, that she had shared the womb for a brief time with another being, gave her comfort.

  Maybe enough comfort to enable her to share her life with someone else.

  Claire sat facing Doctor Fairborn in her mentor’s office, feeling relaxed for a change. Now she was at peace, which she found strange in light of what had happened to her and the shocking news about her missing twin.

  “Your mother told me about the chimera,” Fairborn said, breaking the silence. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Sad, in a way,” Claire said. “I wonder if it was a boy or a girl, what he or she would have looked like.” Claire settled back into the brown, velour-covered chair. “All the DNA was there—the egg had the potential to grow into a human being ... but then it didn’t. I feel like I lost someone I know ... but I don’t.”

  “It’s very hard to contemplate,” Fairborn said. “To know that a part of you is different from the rest you—and that you literally absorbed your twin.”

  “But it explains so much,” Claire said. “That push and pull I’ve always felt, not being able to make up my mind about things.”

  “Like how you feel about Nick?” Fairborn asked.

  “Yes,” Claire said. “But I know how I feel about him now.” Claire closed her eyes, picturing his blue eyes drawing her to him. “Knowing about my twin set me free. The battle inside me is over.”

  Claire opened her eyes and caught Fairborn’s smile.

  “You can come back to your patients just as soon as you feel up to it,” Fairborn said. “Walt McClure is ready for you to resume teaching too.”

  “I’m ready,” Claire said. “If I don’t get back to work I’m going to go more insane than I already am.”

  “As long as it doesn’t stress you out,” Fairborn said.

  “Not moving on with my life will stress me out even more,” Claire answered.

  “I think you’re ready,” Fairborn said.

  “Thank you,” Claire said, getting up, still feeling the tightness of her incision though she also felt lighter, like weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It was the weight of an entire lifetime.

  The next morning, Claire was back in class beside Professor McClure, who was just as eager to hear about what had happened to her as his six students who sat forward, their phones and laptops out of sight.

  “I can’t tell you much more than was in the news,” she said to them, “because the police want to conceal details that only he would know. In case someone who wants the notoriety decides to confess falsely. It’s happened before.”

  She looked around the room at Cory, Kara, Miguel, Wesley, Justine, and Leslie. “But let me tell you,” she said, “I hope none of you ever have to experience any of this. Ever. I’ll answer whatever questions I can.”

  Every hand shot up except McClure’s, and Cory didn’t wait to be called on. “Why are the cops calling him the Anagramist?” he asked.

  “That’s one of the things I can’t talk about,” Claire replied. “But the reason for that’ll become clear soon enough. And if you use your imaginations I’ll bet you can come up with your own theories. Which of course I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  “Let’s get some of this up on the board,” suggested Professor McClure. Claire was about to stand when McClure put a hand on her shoulder. “Not you, Doctor, you’re still in recovery mode.” He scanned his students. “Kara, Wes, help us out.”

  The blond girl and the handsome young man rose as ordered and moved the few feet to the board, each picking up a marker from the holder. “Great,” McClure said, determined to help Claire through her first day back. “We don’t want you to work too hard, Doctor, so why don’t you take us through the sequence of events you experienced?”

  Claire, grateful, began by listing the timeline, which Kara wrote in purple marker: the stolen Jeep; the Anagramist murdering the guard at the bus depot in Rochester, stealing the bus, crashing it into her father’s car, glancing off another car before he got away. Then, she moved on to the kidnapping of Jill and Katie from school, the bomb scare in the Jeep, and she and Nick being shot.

  “Jesus,” remarked Miguel when she was finished. “What a trip.”

  “It was almost my last one,” said Claire. “I was lucky.”

  “Are you scared that he might still be after you?” asked Justine.

  “The police aren’t taking any chances, as you can see,” she said as she pointed to the door. Its window was blocked by someone standing in front of it. “So my answer is, not as long as those two cops with the submachine guns are following me around.”

  The class erupted in laughter, bringing a smile to Claire’s face.

  “Why do you think he went after your father?” Leslie asked.

  “Serial killers like to get into peoples’ minds, especially the minds of the people hunting them down,” answered Claire. “I guess this ‘gentleman’ thought hurting my father would hurt me. He kind of failed at both.”

  “I have a question,” Professor McClure said. “When you were up there on stage at the first news conference, the one where the police went public about the serial nature of the killings, was that your idea? Or did the police want you up there?”

  “It was both, actually,” she said. “I wrote every word Inspector Wilkes said, and he wanted me up there.”

  “Did you want to be up there?” asked Wes Phelps from the board.

  “Not at first, no,” Claire admitted. “Then I got to thinking that maybe if I used myself as bait it would piss the guy off enough to make a mistake. Turns out I was right.”

  She stopped, realizing she was about to say too much. “Of course, I can’t tell you what the mistake is,” she said.

  Kara’s hand flew up. “Are you guys calling him the Anagramist because he’s communicating with you through anagrams?”

  Claire paused. It was a tough question that put her in a tough spot. If she answered yes, she risked poisoning the investigation, even though the killer’s nickname had leaked just after she was shot. And if she said she couldn’t say, it was just like saying yes.

  “Fornication cheeps,” Cory Matthis suddenly said.

  “What?” retorted Claire, too surprised to hide her shock. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Maybe he’s the killer,” Justine Yu smirked. “He looks like one, doesn’t he?”

  “Shut up,” Cory shot back, turning his laptop toward Claire so she could see the screen. “It’s right here, on CrimeTime News-dot-com.”

  He slid the machine across to Claire, who read the story. It couldn’t do much damage; it contained only one of the anagrams. Still, the story had been picked up by other news outlets, and she knew it would only be a matter of time before it was everywhere. She’d have to call Nick and let him know, if he didn’t already.

  But right now, what did she have to lose?

  She looked at Wes Phelps standing at the board. “Wes, can you write those words up there?” she requested.

  “Sure,” Wes answered, turning to Cory. “Can you repeat them, bro?”

  “Fornication cheeps,” Cory said.

  Wes wrote the first word and then s
topped, confused. “I got the fornication part. But do you mean cheaps like in cheapskate, or like the noise a bird makes?”

  “The bird one,” Cory replied. “Double e.”

  Wes completed the second word with his black marker. “Do the cops know what it means?” Cory asked Claire.

  “I don’t know,” replied Claire, “but more importantly, does that Web site know?”

  “It’s not in here,” admitted Cory.

  “Then I’m sticking to my story,” Claire said with mock firmness.

  “Maybe it’s about some kinky sex thing with birds,” offered Justine.

  Miguel smirked. “Maybe they should put you on the payroll as a consultant about all that kinky shit,” he sneered.

  “Or maybe this guy works in a pet store,” suggested Leslie.

  “Why don’t we try to solve the puzzle ourselves?” offered Kara.

  “I see fornication speech,” said Justine. “But he didn’t sexually attack his victims and they were male and female.”

  “I can make hencoop enfranchise,” said Cory, with a big smile. “But I don’t have the slightest idea what that means.”

  Wes wrote both combinations on the board, checking each one to make sure the letters matched. “They both work,” he confirmed.

  “Anyone else?” Claire asked, halfway out of her chair when she felt woozy and sat back down heavily.

  “You okay, Claire?” Professor McClure asked. Both Wes and Kara dropped their markers and hurried toward her.

  “I think I just need some water,” Claire said. “Maybe I’m pushing myself a little too hard.”

  McClure took the cue. “That’s all for today,” he said to the students. “We’ll meet up again next week.” As the class packed up and filed out, he turned back to Claire. “Do you need me to help you to your office?” he asked.

  “No,” Claire responded. “I’m sure it was a momentary thing. And my police escorts can help if I need it. Just give me a minute, and if I could get that water . . .”

  “I’m on it,” McClure said, nearly sprinting from the room. She was about to try standing again when she heard a squeaking beside her. She tightened in momentary fear until her head swiveled toward the board where Wes was erasing his and Kara’s work.

  “No, wait,” Claire said, wanting to make sure she knew exactly what was said so she could tell Nick. “Keep it up there, will you? I’ll write it all down and then I’ll erase it myself.”

  “Sure thing, Doctor Waters,” Wes said, grabbing his coat and backpack and leaving Claire alone. “Hope you feel better,” he said as he left the room.

  Claire resisted the urge to stand, knowing she’d best wait for McClure to return with the water before even trying. She also knew she had no business erasing the board, lest she pull one of the still-healing muscles around her incision.

  So, instead of writing, she pulled out her iPhone and took several photos of the board.

  I’ll transcribe them later, she thought. McClure can erase the board.

  Claire sat down to a bowl of tomato soup she’d warmed up in Nick’s microwave. She wasn’t hungry, but knew she should eat something. She had lost almost ten pounds since the shooting. With both of Nick’s daughters at school and Nick at work, she had hours to herself, though they were hours she didn’t really want. What she wanted was to be back in action. But Inspector Wilkes had laid down the law. She was barred from police headquarters until he felt she was ready to return.

  She’d gone directly from McClure’s class to her office to find Fairborn waiting for her. Naturally, McClure had snitched, informing her mentor of her episode in class. Fairborn, too, had instructed her to go home, offering to take Claire’s patients for as long as was necessary for her to fully recover.

  She pulled out her cell phone and listened to her voice messages—two from her dad and one from her mom, checking on her. Though her mother had rarely called her to chat prior to her surgery, mother and daughter now spoke at least once a day. To Claire’s surprise, she enjoyed their conversations. But before she called either of them back, she wanted to make sure the photos she’d taken earlier of the dry-erase board in McClure’s classroom were legible.

  She brought up the photos on her phone and scrolled through them. The last one she’d snapped was a close-up of the Anagramist’s words that had leaked to a true crime Web site.

  Fornication cheeps

  She stared at the words as if she’d never seen them before. Then, she scrolled back to the other, earlier photos. She was about to lock the phone when she went back and viewed that final picture one more time.

  Fornication cheeps

  What is it? What is it about those words that bother me?

  It certainly wasn’t what they scrambled into; she already knew it was an anagram for perfection in chaos. Was it the way they were arranged? The letters ...

  She used her thumb and forefinger to zoom in, so she could see each letter.

  F-o-r-n-i-c-a-t-i-o-n c-h-e-e-p-s

  She pored over the letters, one by one, close up. And a sickening feeling washed over her like a dirty puddle sprayed from the tire of a passing bus....

  Quickly, urgently, she dialed a number on her cell. It went directly to voice mail.

  Shit.

  With new energy, she bolted up from the kitchen table and made it to the front door, opening it to the surprise of the two Emergency Service cops standing guard.

  “Everything okay, Doctor Waters?” one of them asked.

  “We need to take a ride,” Claire replied.

  Nick sat at his desk in the Major Case Squad office, going through his notes. It had been more than three weeks now since the shooting, and there hadn’t been a peep from the Anagramist.

  What the hell is he waiting for? An invitation?

  Not that Nick wanted another dead body to signal the bastard’s return. But after twenty-one days of nearly around-the-clock work, one by one the task force had dwindled as detectives returned to other cases. Nick had put in the most work of all, often without putting in for overtime, and despite the fact that his exhaustion only made his deteriorating vision even worse.

  His head turned as the door from the hallway opened and a figure in jeans and a sweatshirt entered. All he could tell was that it was a female. But when the faceless woman came toward him, he realized it was Claire and he bolted up from his chair.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he exclaimed. “If Wilkes sees you—”

  “I had to risk it,” Claire said, pulling out her phone.

  “You should’ve called me.”

  “I did. It went straight to voice mail. And no one answered the office phone.”

  “We were in a meeting.”

  Claire tapped on the screen of her phone. “I’m sending a photo to your work e-mail. I need you to print it,” she ordered.

  “You couldn’t have done this from—”

  “I couldn’t take a chance. Please. Just do it and don’t ask questions.”

  The urgency in her voice hit him. He leaned over his desk, brought up his e-mail on the computer, clicked on her message, and printed it. Then he walked over to the printer to retrieve the result. He slid it from the machine and perused it, the words stopping him in his tracks.

  “Where was this taken?” he demanded.

  “McClure’s class this morning. It was on the dry-erase board.”

  “Someone wrote this on his board and left it for you to find?”

  “No,” said Claire, grabbing the paper from his hand. “Somehow it leaked to a true crime Web site and one of my students found it. But that’s not important right now.”

  “I beg to differ,” argued Nick.

  “Just listen. It’s what happened next that’s important. Another student transcribed it onto the board. Take a look.”

  “I did,” Nick said. “Fornication cheeps. What about it?”

  Claire took a breath. “You know how sometimes when you write in cursive, you might throw in a letter that’s in prin
t or vice versa?” she asked, pointing to the words on the page. “Look at the n and the p. . . .”

  “I can’t see it well enough to get the point,” Nick replied, frustrated.

  Claire pulled a large binder off his desk, one with which she was all too familiar. She knew exactly where to find what she needed.

  “Now look at . . . this,” she said breathlessly, reaching the right page and pointing.

  “The matchbook from the Newman crime scene in the swamp?”

  “Just look, dammit!” Claire exclaimed.

  Nick did. His head jerked up, his eyes meeting Claire’s in realization.

  “You’re right,” he said, his voice shaking in excitement. “Both n’s have the same hump and the p’s have two parts, a stick and a curve that don’t connect.”

  “We’ll need an expert to testify. . . .”

  “We don’t have time for an expert,” retorted Nick, picking up the phone on his desk and dialing, looking like he was about to explode.

  “Paddy,” he shouted into the receiver, “I need Wilkes in here immediately. . . . It’s an effin’ emergency.”

  He stopped as Wilkes burst through the door like a Barcelona bull.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Doctor?” he growled as Nick hung up the phone.

  “We’ve got him, Inspector,” Nick said.

  “Got who? The Anagramist? Bullshit,” he exploded.

  “This time it’s not,” Claire shot back.

  “Then what’s the sonuvabitch’s name?” the inspector demanded.

  “Wesley Phelps,” said Claire, incredulous. “He’s one of my students.”

  Minutes later, they were in Wilkes’s office, the inspector hanging up the phone. “Norma says the slant of the lines, the style, and the unusual way he makes the letter p suggest you two are right. Your student and the perp who wrote that jibberish on the matchbook we found on Robert Newman are the same person.”