In the Belly of Jonah: A Liv Bergen Mystery

by Sandra Brannan

  “Zachary Rhodes,”she was saying. “The boy who was all lovesick puppy around Jill Brannigan is Zack Rhodes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said. “The kid was crazy about her. Jockeyed to find the closest open seat to wherever she sat. Made excuses to talk with her. Paid no attention to my lectures, just sat and stared at Jill.”

  It would be difficult not to stare at Dr. Fischer, Streeter thought. She had the proportions of Ursula, the sea witch, but with dark skin and honey blonde hair. Nothing seemed to fit, yet it worked for her.

  “And what about Jill?”

  “Straight A’s, studious. Statistics is—was—a breeze for her. Sorry, this whole situation with Jill. It’s all so unreal.”She cleared her throat. “She knew Zack and talked with him, was nice to him, but didn’t see him in the same way he saw her. I could tell by her body language, how she pretended not to notice him, by the way she was polite toward him but not overly friendly.”

  “How was Zack as a student?”

  She shrugged. “This was a fairly easy class for Zack, too, although I wouldn’t have expected any less.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zack’s a graduate student. This was a class he didn’t need for his program and had probably already taken in an undergraduate program somewhere.”

  “So why was he taking the class?”

  Her basslike mouth pouted. “You ask me, I think it was to stay close to Jill. Bad crush. Really bad.”

  “How bad? Like stalking or I’m-going-to-have-to-kill-you bad?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not that bad. More like annoying. Lost-puppy-dog bad. You know what I mean.”

  “Earlier you thought Zack might be part of Jill’s circle of friends that she spends time with on occasion. What made you think that, if she tried to avoid him?” Streeter asked.

  “I never said she avoided him. Just ignored his advances, or maybe I should say she artfully deflected his attentions toward her.”

  “Well put. I understand.”

  “As to your question about the friendship, my classroom was rather small. And not many students take this level of statistics, particularly athletes. As the kids congregate in my classroom, I normally sit at my desk and pretend to do paperwork or read. Sometimes, it’s more than pretending. The kids talk among themselves and I can hear their conversations.”

  She winced, listening to her own confession, and caught Streeter’s attention. “It’s not like I’m eavesdropping or anything. I do have a life of my own and am not some weird prof living vicariously through my students like some professors do around here. I’m just a geeky stats professor trying to be better at my job. It interests me to know what the kids talk about each year so I can stay current with how to motivate them, make analogies, relate the material to their worlds.”

  Dr. Fischer’s cheeks reddened when Streeter threw her a lifeline. “I bet the kids appreciate your efforts, even if they aren’t aware that you’re observing them.”

  “Jill Brannigan, Zack Rhodes, and Micah Piquette were always talking about their plans, their friends, where they were going. The other two would plead with Jill to break away from the team for a few hours to spend time with ‘the gang.’That’s what they called themselves.”

  “The gang?”

  “Yeah. I got the impression they had a study group of sorts that carried beyond the library and out to the bars each week.”

  “What would Jill Brannigan have in common with a bunch of art students?”

  Dr. Fischer chuckled. “You mean a jock amid the artsy? I wondered about that too, until I found out that Jill and Shelby Goodman had been what Shelby called ‘BFFs’ ever since they had arrived at CSU.”

  “BFFs?” Streeter asked.

  “Best friends forever,” Dr. Fischer said with a smile. “The world of texting has forced me to learn the acronyms.”

  Streeter gave a nod.

  “Jill was not jocklike in any way. She was fairly shy, actually. Compliant. So I suspect she frequently acquiesced to whatever Shelby suggested, which was likely how Jill ended up in the art clique.”

  Streeter mulled that over and wondered if de Milo preyed on compliant victims. “Ever hear Jill or the others mention someone named Jonah?”

  Dr. Fischer shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but I didn’t know all the kids’ names. Sounded to me like there were at least a dozen or so that made up their gang. Have you talked with Dr. Bravo yet?”

  “The computer science teacher?” Streeter guessed, not remembering which class he had seen the professor’s name associated with on the list Rebecca Pembroke had given him earlier.

  “Jill’s art teacher,” Dr. Fischer said. “That’s the class she’s taking this semester. Sculpting. I think that’s where all the gang hooked up with one another. They had all taken a class with Dr. Bravo at one time or another. I think they were all in the same class this spring, if I recall.”

  “Tell me about Dr. Bravo.”

  Dr. Fischer added, “He’s a popular teacher. Well liked. His art classes are an elective many of the students here at CSU take. Mostly because of Dr. Bravo’s reputation. He really makes classes interesting for the kids and teaches a lot about the artists behind the art. Many undergrads take his classes for several semesters because they enjoy him so much.”

  Dr. Fischer’s words were kind, but her expression was harsh. Streeter asked, “You don’t seem to agree.”

  “Well, let’s just say his teaching techniques are a bit . . . unconventional.”

  “How so?”

  She stretched back in her chair and adjusted the colorful tunic that had crept under her ample breast by ironing it flat over her belly with her large hands.

  “For starters, he holds class out in the courtyard on sunny days, in the library on others. When he is in the classroom, he lets them watch movies, like Amadeus. I hear all about it from kids like Zack, Jill, and Micah as they gather for my class. And he lets the kids call him by his first name. They all call him Dr. Jay.”

  Streeter sensed a hint of jealousy in her tone.

  “And worst of all, he fraternizes with his students.”

  “How so?” Streeter encouraged.

  “He goes to bars with them, goes to the library on weekends, hangs out with them whenever he can. Even dates a few of the students on occasion, or so I’ve heard.”Dr. Fischer blushed again. Streeter was beginning to think Dr. Yolanda Fischer was a bit prim despite her sexually alluring appearance.

  “Do you think he dated Jill?”

  She shook her head. “Zack would have killed him.” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “That was such a stupid choice of words. When I say Zack would kill Dr. Jay, I don’t mean that literally, of course; just a figure of speech. Zack was protective of Jill and wasn’t a fan of Dr. Jay’s, even though he was the TA for the sculpting class this summer. I heard Zack and Micah talking this week in my advanced statistics class about Dr. Jay and a student named Trina, or Trisha, when they weren’t all consumed about Jill’s murder and this horrible de Milo character.”

  “Isn’t it against some code of conduct for a professor to fraternize or act inappropriately with his students?” Streeter asked.

  “Of course, but how are you going to prove something like that? He’s going to get away with it until one of those bimbos wises up and files a complaint against him. So far, he must be treating them well, because he’s like a celebrity, a rock star around here.”

  “Do you think Jill would have been one of the bimbos?”

  Dr. Fischer shook her head. “Jill wasn’t that way at all. She was different. I told you how she treated Zack with patience and kindness while staying firm. She wouldn’t have crossed that line with Dr. Jay Bravo despite his dashing looks and slick tongue.”

  It was Streeter’s turn to blush. He may have misunderstood what he had earlier taken to be Dr. Fischer’s jealousy of Dr. Bravo. Maybe she wasn’t jealous of the students liking his class mor
e than hers. Maybe she was jealous that he hadn’t made a play for her. Streeter noticed there was no ring on her left hand.

  “How could Dr. Bravo get by all these years as a professor here at CSU and not have one student file a complaint?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, I should have told you. Dr. Bravo arrived at CSU just last year. He moved here from Florida. He’s part Cuban or something. Couldn’t be more than thirty or thirty-five. He’s a real looker.”

  Dr. Fischer looked away, shuffled some papers on her desk, and glanced up at the clock. “Oh, forgive me, Agent Pierce, but I have another appointment I must be dashing off to. Anything else I can help you with?”

  As he rounded the corner from College Avenue onto Drake, his cell phone rang.

  “Pierce, we have a problem.” Detective Doug Brandt’s voice was unsteady. “What’s your location?”

  “I’m about four blocks from the house. Why?”

  “Get here.” Brandt said, cutting off the line.

  The Overland light was green, which allowed Streeter to pull into the cul-de-sac within less than two minutes. As he turned onto the street where he’d been staying, the two black-and-whites had their lights flashing, as did the ambulance in the driveway at Liv Bergen’s house.

  Streeter’s stomach lurched.

  His mind flashed to the moment Lisa Henry had told him about staying with a friend of hers in Fort Collins. He had reluctantly agreed—it would save him the sixty miles from Denver and another forty miles to Conifer round trip each day—because it was time better spent on the investigation. But all along he had not liked the idea of staying at Liv Bergen’s house for fear of endangering an innocent citizen. Now something had happened to her.

  He parked behind Brandt’s Mercury and bounded across the drive and up the front steps onto the porch. Police were huddled in the entryway and nodded toward the back bedroom when he flashed his credentials at them. Streeter saw Brandt at the end of the hallway, holding his hands against his temples, staring into the spare bedroom.

  “Brandt?” Streeter said. “What is it?”

  He shook his head and stepped aside for Streeter to see for himself.

  It wasn’t Liv. It was Agent Henry.

  The medical personnel were trying to revive Lisa, who lay still on the bed. Her lips were dark blue and her skin had a gray hue. He saw patches of something smeared on her skin, something light and tan. It was makeup. Foundation. To cover fresh bruises on Lisa’s dead body, bruises that were not there when he had left her just a few hours ago.

  Why?

  She was naked, exposed to the strangers who worked the electric paddles on her chest. He resisted the urge to push them aside and wrap the comforter around her, protecting her from all the probing eyes and indecency. But at the same time, he knew it didn’t matter.

  None of this was making any sense.

  “Lisa?” Streeter called to her, taking a step toward the bed.

  The medical team turned to him and shook their heads. They removed the paddles, lifted the oxygen mask away from her face, and packed their equipment before retreating from the room.

  It gave him comfort that her eyes were closed, and he tried to imagine the last image she saw before she died. She had no bullet wound, no blood underneath her on the bed, no obvious signs of asphyxiation.

  Hearing the thud behind him, Streeter looked back over his shoulder in time to see Brandt slump to a sitting position on the floor in the hall and hang his head in his hands, moaning.

  “How? When?” Streeter asked.

  Brandt said, “I got here twenty minutes ago. No one answered the doorbell. Lisa’s car was still outside. The door was unlocked so I let myself in, just like yesterday. Didn’t think much of it until I went to use the bathroom. I just . . . I found her like this. Called an ambulance. Called you. That’s all I know.”

  Streeter’s breath caught. “And Liv Bergen?”

  “Not home yet,” Brandt said. “She doesn’t know.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.” Streeter punched numbers into his cell phone. “Get the crime scene techs up here right away. It’s Lisa Henry. And tell Phil Kelleher to get up here as soon as he can with an overnight bag.”He gave the address and looked at his watch before closing his cell. “Brandt. Brandt?”

  Brandt hadn’t moved. His eyes were glazed over, dazed. Streeter had seen that expression before. This was not the first time Brandt had witnessed a murder scene, but probably the first time he knew the victim, Streeter thought.

  Streeter leaned down next to him in the hall and put a firm grip on his shoulder. “Brandt, we need to help Lisa. We’ve got to get all these people out of here and secure the crime scene. Use your people to cordon off the cul-de-sac and interview the neighbors. My techs will be here within forty minutes. I need you to watch for them. Show them where the crime scene is. Where Lisa is.”

  Brandt blinked at him and roused himself a little. Streeter nodded at him. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Streeter helped Brandt to his feet. “And check on Liv Bergen. Make sure she’s still at work or wherever she’s been all day. Just make sure she’s still accounted for without alarming her. If she is still at work, come up with a reason to stall her from coming home. She doesn’t need to see this.”

  “Neither did I,” Brandt croaked.

  ZACK CALLED MICAH AT six. “Are we still meeting at Washington’s tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Micah said.

  “Want to go with me?”

  “Nah. I’m going with Alicia and Shelby to Tate’s for dinner. He’s having a house party for some of his frat buddies and invited us as their dates.”

  Zack groaned. No wonder Jill and the other girls from the gang never paid any attention to him. The competition was stiff. Grad students trumped frat students only when grade tampering was involved. And most students didn’t need a TA’s help with an art grade.

  “But we’re going to make it there by eight; no later than nine. So save us a seat?”

  “For Tate and his buddies too?” Zack said, holding his breath.

  “No, just the three of us. You okay, Zack?” Micah added.

  Zack let out a breath, relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with the testosterone all night. At least not the rich testosterone. He’d still be in competition with the rest of the guys in their gang.

  “Not really,” he answered. He hadn’t been right since Monday night when he saw Jill at the library. “I’m just missing Jill.”

  “Me too,” Micah said. “But the gang will all be together again tonight, and we’ll lift our glasses high to her, okay?”

  Zack didn’t answer.

  “She’d want us to, Zack.”

  “I know,” he said.

  But he wasn’t so sure. There was something a bit perverse in toasting a dead friend two short days after her mutilated body had been found. What would people think? Would it draw attention to them? To him? Shouldn’t they all be in mourning? Didn’t they respect the significance and gravity of this event? The fact that one of their own was dead? The fact that de Milo had struck again? The fact that it could have just as easily been one of them?

  “See you there,” Micah said, and hung up the phone.

  He resisted the urge to throw his cell phone against the wall. They weren’t taking this seriously. They weren’t taking him seriously. They had turned this into a celebration, a party. Was it just Micah, or all of the girls? They should be afraid.

  Zack dialed another number. “Jackson, what’s up?”

  “Nothing, dude. What’s up with you?”Jackson sounded like he’d started happy hour early. Zack frowned. Hoping Jackson was drinking to drown his sorrows rather than to party again, Zack wondered if he, too, should be seeking the answer for all this at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam.

  “Want to grab a pizza?” Zack didn’t want to be alone. He was itchy. Very itchy. The harrowing emotional roller coaster he’d been riding this week hadn’t set well with him. He needed norma
lcy.

  “I already ate, man. I’m just sitting here with my roomie listening to some Bob Marley tunes. Want to join us?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Zack answered, desperate to find company. Company that wasn’t partying or yucking it up. Who were mourning the loss of Jill’s beauty as he was. “Let me grab a pie and I’ll be over in a few.”

  He walked across the street from his dorm and splurged on a large sausage-and-black-olive pizza to go from Sporty’s. Zack waited on a tall stool, watching the second hand tick through the minutes, imagining the pie baking, the cheese melting, the crust crisping. He recalled the last time he had eaten pizza with Jill; he could picture the blue shirt she had worn with her faded jeans. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail and had worn a Broncos cap. She had picked off the olives and sausage from the piece he’d offered her and eaten the slice plain, just sauce and cheese.

  She had smiled at him Monday night when he’d walked up to her at the library. Smiled because she’d been happy to see him.

  “Zack?” a familiar voice called.

  He turned on his stool, nearly toppling from the sudden movement.

  “Dr. Jay. What’s up?”

  “Just grabbing a bite. What are you up to, bud?”

  “Same thing.” Zack said. He pointed to the empty stool next to him. “Want to join me?”

  “Happy to. Not feeling much like being alone, you know?”

  Measured across the chest, Dr. Jay was almost twice Zack’s size; otherwise, they were very similar in stature. They were also nearly the same age, Dr. Jay not much older than Zack. That and an appreciation for art were the only similarities they shared. The differences between them were far more numerous. Dr. Jay possessed an agility and Cuban smoothness that Zack admired, even coveted. A babe magnet. He certainly didn’t need Zack to keep him company. He could have any woman on campus.

  Zack answered, “Yeah, me too.”

  Dr. Jay sat down on the stool. “Order already?”

  “Yeah,” Zack said. “A large. Want some?”

  “I ordered a large, too,” Dr. Jay said, ignoring the coeds in tight exposed-midriff T-shirts and short shorts seated at the nearby table who were snickering and pointing at him and Zack.