by J. D. Monroe
“Anyone else who stands out besides Adam?” Charity says.
Joel shrugs. “The rest of them were fairly standard theater guys. Either hipsters or Broadway wannabes. Nothing creepy.”
Her pocket buzzes and she checks it to find a new message from Georgia. “All right, Joel, I’ve got to go,” Charity says. “I appreciate your help.”
“I appreciate someone not accusing me of getting someone killed,” Joel says. “You let me know if you find something.”
“Oh, you can count on it.”
17. OFFICE HOURS
THE HUMANITIES BUILDING, Crenshaw Hall, is another brick building with white columns like huge teeth set in a red mouth. The front façade features massive panels of stained glass that make it look like a cathedral instead of a school building. The theater shop was right up her alley, but this place confers an instant inferiority complex.
By the time she walks up, Georgia is already sitting outside, adding notes to a yellow legal pad. Charity stands over her, casting a shadow on the paper. “Anything?”
“I talked to a girl who did the stage makeup,” she says. “She didn’t see anything, but she said the theater was unusually cold on opening night. Apparently Calpurnia was having…issues.”
“Issues?”
“Caesar’s wife,” Georgia says. She sighs and points to her boobs. “It was really cold, Charity.”
“She was cutting glass, huh?” Charity says. She snorts a laugh. “Sorry, that actually is helpful. If no one was dead yet, why so cold?”
“Could have been the AC.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Anything else?”
“The guy who played Cinna swears that someone invoked the ‘Scottish play’ backstage before the curtain went up.”
“I don’t follow,” Charity says.
“Neither did I,” Georgia replies. “I had to pry it out of him. Apparently, it’s bad luck to mention Macbeth during a theater production. He was convinced that’s why Tommy died.”
“That’s a new one,” Charity says. “You think he did it?”
“I think he was high as a kite, and no, he didn’t do it. He wasn’t even onstage during the murder,” Georgia replies. She runs her finger down the paper. “I also talked to the guy who played Octavius. He said Tommy Crane argued with a guy named Gabriel Mullins at dress rehearsal. Apparently Gabe kept missing his cues, and Tommy chewed him out in front of everyone.”
“You talk to this Gabe guy?”
Georgia shakes her head. “He didn’t answer his phone. I sent him an email. What about you?”
“Two things,” Charity says. “I’m pretty sure the murder weapon was an outside knife. I saw one of the props, and they couldn’t have done that to Tommy. Also got a suspect—Adam Keller. The tech guys agreed he was weird.”
Georgia checks her list. “I didn’t get to him yet, but I’ll move him up. Priority one.” She checks her watch. “Calloway should be in his office now.” She stows the legal pad in her backpack and heads inside the building.
The lobby of the Crenshaw Building is cluttered with blue and tan couches, arranged haphazardly around big round tables littered in colored flyers. Students mill around, but there’s an eerie hush. She’s seen this a hundred times in the aftermath of death. People are afraid to talk and laugh, like Tommy’s funeral is being held right around the corner. They think it’s disrespectful to go on living.
Death happens. People die every day. Just open a newspaper.
“Calloway’s on three,” Georgia says. “Come on.”
Georgia moves through the building like she’s been here before. When they get to the third floor, she pauses, then turns down one of four seemingly identical hallways. As they walk down the gray-carpeted corridor, Charity scans the nameplates on each office:
Jayanta Suresh, PhD—Eurasian History
Margerie Byron, PhD—Psychology and Feminist Studies
“Thought this was history,” Charity says.
“Humanities,” Georgia corrects. “It includes liberal arts, history, anthropology—”
“Feminist studies,” Charity says. “Whatever the hell that is.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the study of feminism,” Georgia says. She glances back. “I’m not being sarcastic, I’m—”
“I got it,” Charity says. “Thank you.”
Georgia sighs and points to a door at the end of the hallway. Classical music drifts out from the open door. It’s the rapid-fire tinkling on a piano that all sounds the same to her. According to an engraved blue plastic nameplate, the office belongs to Thomas Calloway, PhD.
Georgia knocks lightly on the door and sticks her head in. “Dr. Calloway?”
“Yes, come in,” a voice says absently. Georgia steps in, and Charity follows. The office is significantly colder than the rest of the building, which instantly raises her hackles. Two walls of the cramped office are taken up by towering shelves stuffed to overflowing with books. A stack of stapled packets sits on one corner of the desk, the top one splattered with red ink and a big circled D- in the corner. Tough crowd. “You must be Jennifer.”
“Georgia.”
“Of course, a pleasure,” Calloway says, laying his red pen on the papers. Calloway looks more like a model than a professor. Not a sexy underwear model with oiled, chiseled abs, but a sharp-dressed, ruggedly handsome model for men’s suits. Armani, maybe. He’s got a smooth, unlined Nordic face that doesn’t give away his age, razor-sharp cheekbones, and a stone-carved jaw. Not bad-looking. “And you are?”
“Charity,” she says, offering a hand. He just smiles and gestures for them to sit down. She can’t read him worth a damn, and she doesn’t like it. His expression is mild and non-threatening, but she doesn’t like him, the same way she liked Joel and Steve right away.
They sink into the two oxblood leather chairs across from the desk. A small ceramic dish of potpourri gives off a strong apple-cinnamon scent.
“I’m happy to help with any investigation, but I’m also aware that certain details are confidential and privileged,” Calloway says, folding his hands neatly over his knee. “I would rather not find myself embroiled in any legal disputes.”
Investigation? What exactly did Georgia tell him?
“Of course,” Georgia says. “We just want to share any relevant information with the Cranes that the police may have missed in their initial efforts. They’re understandably frustrated with the lack of progress.”
Jesus, Georgia. Pretending to be law enforcement never ends well. What did she tell him? FBI? Great. There’s no way that will blow up in her pretty little face.
“Of course,” he says. “Mr. Crane took my class last spring, but I’ve had no contact with him since. I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
“We actually wanted to ask you about the robbery at your house,” Charity says. Calloway’s eyes narrow a little. Is that suspicion? Guilt? Indigestion? Hell if she knows. Patience can read people like books; she can call out a liar just by looking at someone’s eyes. Maybe it’s a firstborn thing, because that skill skipped Charity for damn sure.
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Call it following a loose end,” Georgia says. “Can you tell us about what was stolen?”
“I tell you, it was a damned shame,” Calloway says. “I teach several courses on crime throughout American history. As such, I have a vested interest in…memorabilia of famous crimes.” He suddenly stands and takes a mounted shadowbox off the crowded office wall, then hands it over. “A letter written by Charles Manson.”
“Lovely,” Charity says. His smooth face and good looks suddenly make her stomach turn. He probably has a suit made out of people in his collection. Maybe a dungeon in his basement. She adds him to her mental list of suspects, along with Manson’s other fan, Adam Keller. Then again, he wasn’t on stage, so there’s no way he killed Tommy. Maybe he’s just a standard-issue creep.
“Most of my collection is showcased at my home,” Calloway says. “But each
semester I bring some of the more notable pieces to show to my History of Homicide class. This year, I suppose someone got a little too interested.”
“What exactly was stolen?” Georgia asks.
He goes to the shelves and takes down a leather-bound photo album, then hands it over. Georgia opens it and lays it on the desk so both of them can see. The first page shows a photograph of a shell casing. A notecard with neat cursive handwriting is mounted beneath the photo.
“Supposedly fired by Al Capone.” He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “Some of the claims are dubious, at best.”
“Naturally,” Charity says. His expression falters, and she realizes she might as well have said go fuck yourself with the level of heat she applied.
Georgia flips through the pages absently until Calloway reaches over and helps her along. As he leans over, she catches a whiff of a dry smell, like ancient paper and dried grass. That’s odd. His office is packed with old books, a smell she knows well, but there’s something else. She inhales deeply, trying to make out the smell, but her nose is filled with the overpowering scent of cinnamon. She shakes it off and watches as Calloway taps the page. “This was the most valuable piece stolen.”
There’s a two-page spread. On one side is a full-page picture of a slender dagger with a polished wooden handle. The handle features sharp, raised designs that look almost like letters. The other page shows another handwritten notecard and a newspaper clipping. Charity’s head swims, and the picture goes blurry as Calloway enthuses, “It was used in a particularly vicious double murder. Somewhat local, in fact.”
“Where?” Georgia says, but it sounds like she’s talking on the other side of a plate glass window.
Charity needs air. She needs the grass under her feet. She needs to be out of this ass-backward place where people think murder is a delightfully interesting topic to teach classes about.
“It was in a little mountain town called Aran Valley,” he says, like he’s narrating a fairy tale. “Harmony Pierson. She was a beautiful Southern girl, married her high school sweetheart and had two teenage daughters. By all accounts, a peaceful little country life. Then one day? She snaps for no reason.” He snaps his fingers to make the point, and Charity considers snapping his fingers for him. If he gets close enough, she can get a hold of him before Georgia can do anything about it. “In the middle of the night, she stabbed her brother and husband to death with her two children sleeping in the house.”
“My God,” Georgia says. Her eyes flick to Charity, but Charity pointedly stares at Calloway. Does he know somehow? Is he screwing with her? His face betrays nothing.
“The police showed up before she could kill her daughters,” Calloway says. “They shot her, but she survived. They think she would have gone through the whole house otherwise. She was found incompetent to stand trial and has been held without trial for ten years now. She’s not spoken a word since then.”
Something stings, and Charity looks down to see that she’s dug her fingernails so hard into her palm that it’s bleeding in three little crescents. “Where exactly do you get this stuff?” she says, measuring her words carefully. She wants to hurt him so badly it’s all she can do to stay in the seat. This is four-beers-deep, what did you call my sister?, no-fucks-given Charity. The only thing holding her in this seat is the certainty that she can’t solve this case if she’s in jail on an assault charge.
Calloway looks embarrassed. Good. “Some of the sources are a little questionable,” he says. “But these items are historical treasures. They represent important parts of our history.”
“They represent you being—”
“Was anything else stolen?” Georgia interrupts. She shoots Charity a wide-eyed look.
“I had a set of silverware that was used for Harrison Baker’s final meal,” Calloway says. “You know, the Jack of Diamonds killer from…never mind. That was it as far as I could tell. I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how this helps with your investigation into Mr. Crane’s death.”
“Just a hunch,” Georgia says. “Was anyone in your class particularly interested in the knife?”
“Not the knife, specifically. But the culminating project for the course is to create a multimedia project that tells the story of an American homicide case from all perspectives. One group chose to do theirs on Harmony Pierson.”
Charity swallows her heart back down her throat. “Do you have names?” She’ll tear her way through every one of them if that’s what it takes.
“Sure,” Calloway says. “One moment.” He turns to his computer and starts typing. A few moments later, he looks up. “Patrick Bell, Adam Keller, and Simon Collins. The projects were originally due this week, but I gave all my classes an extension, considering the circumstances.”
Adam Keller. She turns the name over in her mouth. Second time she’s heard his name today, and it’s not good to be on her radar right now. He doesn’t get a third strike. She wants him now.
“Do you have contact info for them?” Georgia asks.
“Honestly, I believe it’s against university policy for me to give you their contact information,” Calloway says. “However, you can search student email addresses from the main website. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have class in a few minutes. I wish you luck in your investigation.”
“Thank you for your help,” Georgia says.
“The pleasure was all mine,” he says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
18. OLD BLOOD
“CHARITY, TALK TO ME,” Georgia says, chasing her across the manicured lawn. A quad, it’s called, according to her color-coded map.
Fuck the quad.
Fuck Georgia, and fuck Professor Thomas fucking Calloway.
Fuck it all.
She’s gonna run across this quad like the Devil himself is chasing her, hotwire the first car she sees, and drive until the road runs out. Her taco lunch is turning to molten lava in her stomach, and every muscle in her body is on fire. She feels like she could tear down the sky and crumble it to gray dust in her bare hands.
Georgia grabs her arm from behind. Charity grabs the girl’s wrist and twists it hard enough to make her yelp, grinding bone against bone as she pulls Georgia in close. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Georgia’s green eyes go wide, but she doesn’t let go. A hipster-looking couple in matching skinny jeans and glasses stops at a nearby bench, gawking at the two grown women squabbling.
“Charity!” she pleads. “Stop and talk to me. Please.”
Charity is filled with something she cannot name, something that constricts her guts with a stone fist until it feels like everything is going to explode out of her at once, leaving little bits of Charity confetti on the sidewalk.
“If you don’t let go of me, I will shoot you in the foot, I swear to God,” Charity says.
Lightning runs down her arm, and her knees buckle as Georgia pinches off a nerve in her shoulder with her other hand. Charity hits the grass on her knees and goes for the Colt concealed under her shirt.
“Don’t,” Georgia warns.
Charity grits her teeth against the sharp pain, digging tingling fingers into wet—grave—dirt. The hipster girl is filming on her phone.
Georgia looks over her shoulder and scowls. “Put the damn phone away, or I will call the police for invasion of privacy, so help me.” Hipster Girl reddens and tries to put her phone to her ear like she wasn’t filming. “Seriously, you think I don’t know you’re recording? Piss off.”
She sounds so prissy that it’s almost laughable, but the girl actually stuffs the phone into her pocket and scurries away with her boyfriend in tow.
“If you don’t take your hands off me, I’m going to break them both.”
“Try it.”
Charity can barely move her arm, and it only makes her madder. Her other arm is still locked up in Georgia’s grip. What is she, a Vulcan?
“I don’t know what happened back there, but I’m going to guess that it’s no coincidence th
at you share a last name and a hometown with a convicted murderer.”
“So you want to keep your secrets, but you think you’re entitled to my deepest and darkest?”
“I think when it relates to a case we’re working, the responsible thing is for you to share relevant information,” Georgia says. She finally releases Charity and takes a big step back.
Charity rocks back on her heels and cradles her arm as the feeling rushes back with a prickling vengeance. “The responsible thing is for you to kiss my lily-white ass. And if you ever do that again, you and me are going to have a serious problem.”
“See how well that worked out for you this time?” Georgia says, jutting her jaw out. “Look, I’m sorry. But you were being irrational, and I didn’t want to chase you all the way across campus.”
“I’m being irrational because this is a fucking irrational situation,” Charity says. She digs her fingers into the grass and rips out a handful. She balls it up, relishing the wet, sludgy feel of the crushed blades in her hand. “Yes, Harmony Pierson is my mother. She was not a sweet Southern girl. She was a fourth-generation hunter who drank too much and made me look like a Catholic nun. And my daddy wasn’t her high school sweetheart. He was the love of her life, just like the other three before him. At least until she snapped and butchered him and her own brother out of nowhere, which is about the only part Calloway had right.”
“Oh my God,” Georgia murmurs. She sinks to the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of Charity.
Charity shakes her head slowly and picks individual blades of grass, staining her fingers green. “Most of the details didn’t make it to the papers. Too gruesome. She didn’t stab them to death. She broke their ribs open like twigs and pulled their lungs out. My father was still alive with his lungs pulled out. Looked like a couple of big thick steaks laying on his chest.”
“I’m so sorry,” Georgia says. Her porcelain face is paler than usual. Charity wants to stop, but now it spills out like vomit. Just get it out and be done. Only she doubts this is as simple as the morning after a tequila bender. Puking it all up isn’t going to make it better. It’ll make a big mess that’ll stink everything up for days, and things will never be quite the same.
