“Give me that,” shouted Grose, holding out his hand. “Give that crap to me now.”
Slater shook his head.
“I insist that you give it to me now,” shouted Grose.
“It’s my work in progress,” said Slater quietly. “I’m happy to read it to the class but I’m not prepared to give it to you.” He rolled up the papers and put them into his backpack.
Grose tried to grab the backpack but Slater moved it away from him. Grose roared in frustration. Slater was younger and fitter and there was nothing he could do to exert his authority. He felt tears prick his eyes and he clenched his fists tightly. He stood staring at Slater, breathing heavily. Then he turned and walked down to his table, picked up his briefcase and walked out, blinking away the tears.
CHAPTER 23
Jenny found Grose in the cafeteria, nursing a cup of coffee. “Are you okay, Dudley?” she asked. He ignored her and continued to stare at the table. She sat down opposite him. “He shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “What he did was horrible.”
“Now do you believe me?” he said, still refusing to look at her. “He’s a psychopath. He doesn’t care who he hurts.”
“Do you think he really followed you home?”
He lifted his head and stared at her. “What do you think?” he said coldly.
“The way he described your wife. That’s not how you talk about her. And he said you kissed her on the cheek. You said you never kissed her.”
“It was a peck. A peck on the cheek. Hardly a kiss.”
“So he was there? He went to your house?”
Grose shook his head contemptuously. “You’re finally starting to understand, aren’t you?”
“I can’t believe he was outside my apartment block. And he saw you. Why would he do that?”
“He’s a psychopath. There’s no point in asking why.” Grose reached over and held her hands. “I don’t want you going near him, Jenny. Do you hear? Keep away from him.”
Two girls giggled as they walked by the table and Grose pulled his hands away.
Jenny reached into her laptop bag and took out the hotdog thumbdrive that Slater had given her. “Dudley, you need to read this.”
“What is it?”
“Slater’s work in progress. The Bestseller.”
Grose took it from her, his forehead creased into deep frowns. “How long have you had this?”
“Not long,” she said.
“Have you read it?”
“I haven’t had time,” she said. “But I think you should.” That was a lie. She’d read it on her laptop the first chance she’d got because she’d wanted to see what Slater had said about her. Other than a couple of mentions of the work she’d read in class, there was nothing. Most of the manuscript was Slater’s thoughts on life and death and killing. And after she’d read it she’d come to the conclusion that Grose was right – Slater was a psychopath. Good-looking and charming, but clearly disturbed and dangerous.
Grose nodded. He held the thumbdrive tightly as if he feared she’d change her mind and take it back.
“What are you going to do, Dudley?”
“I’ve got to talk to the Dean,” he said. “And the police. If someone doesn’t do something Slater’s going to commit murder, I’m sure of it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’m serious about this, Jenny, you stay away from him.” He hurried out of the cafeteria, his fist clenched around the thumbdrive.
CHAPTER 24
The faculty secretary was adding numbers to a spreadsheet when Grose walked in. She looked up and smiled. Her name was Marion and she was a fan and at least once a month would remind him that Snow Birds was her all time favorite novel. “Marion, can you do me a big favor?” he asked.
“Of course, Dudley,” she said.
Grose held out the hotdog thumbdrive. “There’s a file on this. The Bestseller. Do you think you could print it out for me.”
“You really do hate computers, don’t you?” she laughed. She took the thumbdrive from him and plugged it into the side of her computer. Her fingers played over the keyboard and a few seconds later the printer behind her kicked into life. Marion peered at the screen. “Forty-two pages,” she said.
“Thanks, Marion,” he said. As he looked over at the printer he noticed a grey plastic oblong sticking out of her bag.
She saw him looking at it and took it out. “It’s a Kindle,” she said. “My new toy. My husband bought it for my birthday and I use it all the time. I don’t think I’ve bought a real book since I got it.” She held it out to him and he took it.
“But don’t you miss holding a real book?” he said.
“Oh I do, but you soon get used to it.” She took it from him and held it to her bosom. Her face went suddenly serious. “Oh, but did you know that your books aren’t available on Kindle ? Why is that?”
“I don’t know,” said Grose.
“You really should talk to your publisher. I’d love a copy of Snow Birds on mine.”
“I’ll do that. But please tell me that you’ll keep buying real books.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” she said. “It’s not great for cookbooks because you wouldn’t want to get it dirty in the kitchen, and it doesn’t do pictures very well. But you know I love romance novels and it’s perfect for that. Do you know how many books I have on my baby?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Grose.
“Have a guess. Go on, have a guess.”
Grose was getting tired of the conversation but she was doing him a favor so he forced a smile. “Fifty?”
“More,” she said.
“A hundred?”
“A hundred and twelve,” she said. “Can you believe that ? And most of them are free. All the classics are free.”
“Because they’re out of copyright,” said Grose.
“I just downloaded the complete works of Sherlock Holmes. Totally free.”
“You mean the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” said Grose. “Sherlock Holmes was the character.”
Marion seemed oblivious to the correction as she continued to extol the merits of eBooks, caressing her Kindle as she spoke. Grose nodded politely until the printer stopped spewing out sheets. Marion gathered them together and handed them to him. He thanked her and hurried out of the office. He found an empty lecture room and sat down and started reading.
CHAPTER 25
Grose burst into the Dean’s office, waving the manuscript. “Now you’ve got to believe me,” he said. The Dean’s secretary followed him, apologizing profusely.
“It’s all right, Isabel, I can see Dr Grose now,” she said. The secretary closed the door, still apologizing.
“Dudley, you really can’t come charging into my office like this,” said the Dean.
Grose slapped Slater’s manuscript onto the Dean’s desk. “It’s all in here,” he said. “How he’s going to choose a victim, kill her and dismember the body. He describes buying a set of knives and a book on anatomy. He talks about cutting the body into pieces and burying them all around the State.”
“Dudley, sit down. And calm down. You look like you’re about to have a stroke.” She waved at one of the chairs facing her desk.
Grose sat down and jabbed a finger at the manuscript. “That is a blueprint for murder,” he said.
“But it’s a work of fiction, isn’t it? You’re teaching a creative writing course. Mr Slater is being creative. He hasn’t actually killed anyone, has he?”
“Because he hasn’t finished the book yet. Look, he sits at the back of the class dressed in black wearing sunglasses. He’s clearly got mental health issues.”
“Now you want to throw him off the course because of his fashion choices? Dudley half our students wear black.”
“But half the students aren’t writing a do-it-yourself guide to murder.”
The Dean picked up the manuscript and flicked through it. “If he really was planning a murder based on his book, he’d hardly give it to you to read, would he?”
<
br /> “Dean Martin, Slater just announced to the class that he’d followed me back to my home. That he’s spied on me and my wife.”
“He mentioned you by name?”
“No. He didn’t have to. It was obviously me.”
“Well even if it was, Dudley, there are plenty of examples of novelists using real people in their books. Fictionalized histories. And what about faction where factual events are fictionalized. That’s a whole new genre.”
“I’m running a creative writing course,” snapped Grose.
“Exactly,” said the Dean. “And that’s what he’s doing. He’s being creative.” Grose opened his mouth to speak but the Dean raised a ring-encrusted hand to silence him. “Dudley, before you dig yourself any deeper, let me tell you that two days ago Mr Slater was in to see me.” She flashed him a tight smile. “And unlike you he had the good manners to make an appointment. He wanted to talk about the problems he’d been having on the course, and that you appeared to be running some sort of vendetta against him.”
“A vendetta?”
“He felt that your relationship had got off on the wrong foot and that you were being overly-critical of his work.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Grose.
“There’s no need for profanity, Dudley. And Mr Slater might well feel that you were being too harsh in your criticism. He discussed the plot of his novel with me and it’s clearly a work of fiction. It’s a serial killer book but written in the first person.”
“You’ve fallen for his….” Grose trailed off. He’d been about to say “bullshit” again.
“Think American Psycho, Dudley. And think how the university would benefit if one of our students would turn out to be the new Bret Easton Ellis.”
“And think what it would mean if one of our students turned out to be the new Ted Bundy,” said Grose. He took a deep breath. “Did you read his manuscript?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well you should. You should read it. Then you’d realize what a psycho he is.”
The Dean’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get the manuscript, Dudley? I did ask him if I could read it and he said he didn’t want to show it to anyone until it was finished.”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Are you telling me that he doesn’t know you have it?”
“The important thing is what he says in the book. He’s talking about killing a student.”
“Dudley, I’m going to ask you one more time. How did you get the manuscript?”
Grose gritted his teeth as he realized that there was no way that he could tell the Dean that Jenny had given it to him. That would open up a whole can of worms. He reached out and took it from her. “Fine,” he said. “Just forget I mentioned it. But mark my words, Adrian Slater is a dangerous piece of work. And if this pans out the way I think it will, you and this university could be facing a massive legal action.”
The Dean frowned and Grose realized that he’d finally got her attention. “What do you mean?”
Grose shoved the manuscript into his jacket pocket. “I mean that if Slater does carry out his threat, the family of any victim would be able to sue the university. And you.”
“It’s a novel, Dudley. Mr Slater has assured me that it’s a work of fiction.”
“And you believe him?”
“You are teaching a creative writing course, remember?”
“And I want him off it,” said Grose.
“It’s not as simple as that,” said the Dean. “Mr Slater has already made it clear that if we refuse to allow him to continue on the course, he will sue us. We can't afford that. And we can't afford the negative publicity it would generate.”
“So you’re backing him against me? Is that it?”
“It’s not a question of taking sides. It’s about doing what’s best for the university. And the simple fact is that we can’t exclude him from the course because we don’t like what he’s writing. There are First Amendment issues at stake and that’s not a fight that I’m prepared to get into.”
Grose rubbed the back of his neck and his hand came away wet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been sweating. He stood up. “There’s nothing else to say then, is there?”
“Not really, no.”
“Be it on your head,” said Grose.
“Dudley, you need to take a deep breath and put this into perspective,” said the Dean.
Grose shook his head in disgust and walked out of her office.
CHAPTER 26
Mitchell and Lumley watched Slater drive up on his high-powered motorcycle and they walked over to him as he climbed off and removed his motorcycle helmet. “You just don’t get it, do you?” said Mitchell. They were in a car park a short walk from the Faculty building.
Slater smiled amiably. “Good morning officers,” he said. “What brings you out so early? Donut run?”
“Doctor Grose called us. Seems you broke into his house,” said Mitchell.
Slater laughed. “Dr Grose really needs to start separating fact from fiction.” He looked at his watch. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lecture to go to.”
“We do mind,” said Mitchell. “In fact we’d like to talk to you, down at the station.”
“About what?” asked Slater.
“About the meaning of life, what do you think we want to talk to you about?” said Lumley. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail and was holding her coat open so that anyone who walked by could see the detective’s badge hanging around her neck.
“There’ll be coffee, right?” said Slater. “And donuts.”
“Just get in the car, Slater,” said Lumley, gesturing at a nondescript car behind them.
“You’re not arresting me, are you?”
“No,” said Mitchell. “We just need to talk.”
“I guess I can spare the time,” said Slater. “Plus it’s all good research.”
“Research for what?” asked Lumley.
“My book,” said Slater. “I’m about to write an interrogation scene so this’ll help me get my facts right. You guys still use telephone books right?”
“What?” said Lumley.
“Telephone books? You hit suspects with them to beat the truth out of them. Telephone books don’t leave marks, right?”
“You’ve a very funny man,” growled Mitchell. “Come on.”
“I call shotgun,” said Slater, heading towards their car.
CHAPTER 27
Mitchell slowly sipped his coffee, his eyes fixed on Slater’s face. “Please remove your sunglasses, Mr Slater,” he said.
Slater pushed them up so that they were perched on the top of his head. “Don’t I get a coffee?” asked Slater.
“No,” said Mitchell.
Slater looked across at Lumley. “Assuming you’re playing good cop-bad cop, how about a cup of joe, Joe?”
“Eat shit and die, Slater,” said Lumley.
“So this is what, bad cop and even worse cop?”
“So now you’re breaking into houses, are you?” said Mitchell.
Slater shrugged.
“You broke into Dr Grose’s house,” said Mitchell.
“Proof?”
“Proof?” repeated Mitchell.
“Proof,” said Slater. “The evidence or argument that compels the mind to accept an assertion as true. That’s the dictionary definition. Where’s your proof?”
“You told a room full of students what you’d done.” Lumley pushed a plastic evidence bag across the table towards him. Inside was a manuscript. His manuscript. “This is the book that you’re working on.”
Slater nodded at the manuscript. “That doesn’t say anything about breaking into Doctor Grose’s house. And you know it doesn’t. Assuming you read it.” He grinned. “Assuming that you can read.”
You left these in the lecture hall when Doctor Grose threw you out.”
Slater folded his arms and slouched in his seat. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “This is so old,�
� he said. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a novel. A work of fiction.”
“A novel?” said Mitchell. He tapped the evidence bag. “A novel? Is that what you call it? You talk about stalking a fellow student and killing her. You talk about dismembering the body and hiding the parts all over the State.”
Slater smirked. “I've got a vivid imagination.”
Mitchell looked at him coldly. “I suppose you got that from your father.”
Slater froze and Mitchell felt his heart race. Slater tried to smile, but it was too late, Mitchell knew that he’d touched a nerve.
“This is all a waste of time,” said Slater. “I’m writing a novel. You can’t keep arresting me every time one of my characters breaks the law. What are you planning to do next? Arrest Jeffrey Deaver? Thomas Harris? Patricia Cornwell? Michael Connolly? Are you going to charge them with murder because they write about serial killers?”
Mitchell stared at Slater for several seconds. “Not embarrassed of your father, are you, Slater? A talent like his, I would have thought you’d have been proud to be his son.”
Slater sneered at the sergeant. “So now suddenly you’re the great detective?”
“And you’re the great writer? Like your father?”
Slater glared at Mitchell and then slowly pulled his RayBans down over his eyes.
“Take them off,” said Mitchell.
“Make me,” said Slater.
Mitchell started to reach for the glasses but then stopped. He shrugged. “I don’t need to see your eyes to know when you’re lying, Slater.” He sipped his coffee. “Can’t be easy, living in his shadow. You wanting to be a writer so badly.”
“I am a writer,” said Slater quietly.
Mitchell shook his head. “No, your father was a writer. A great writer. Three Pulitzer nominations and he won it once. All of his books are still in print, which is good going considering he’s been dead for what, ten years?”
“Nine,” said Slater.
“Moved to Los Angeles in the early Eighties,” said Mitchell, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “That's where he killed himself, isn't it?”
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