Killer Curriculum

by Douglas Alexander

“Becky, I didn’t leave you. I’m of no use with this damned leg.” August slapped his left thigh. “You needed a more suitable partner; I would have only slowed you down.” Looking up, he was surprised to see that this hadn’t appeased her frustration.

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic August. You’re being ableist. You know that, right? Focus on what you can do. It’s not the leg holding you back. You walk around perfectly well with that cane. And the Bureau was more than willing to give you a medical pass on the physical requirements. They knew how much of an asset you were to them.”

  Rebecca paused and took a deep breath as if deciding whether to say anything more. “August,” she began. “I never told you this, but I did try a new partner. I went through three of them, actually. Three partners in the two months following your retirement. All idiots. Not one of them understood the criminal mind or the art of deduction quite like you.”

  “You sound just like Rick Clarke at the Albany office, always trying to convince me to come back,” August said. “Everyone needs to realize, I’m not that guy anymore.” He slammed his cane against the side of the table. “Becky, you can’t hold people to my standard—”

  “It just wasn’t fun without you,” she sighed. “It wasn’t the same.”

  “Becky…”

  She stood up abruptly. “I can see I’m not going to convince you of anything. I have a lot to do for my next book launch. I still have to meet with the O’Connell brothers about another signing before I leave town.”

  August stood as well, but for once, he didn’t know what to say.

  She waved her hand for him to return to his coffee. “It was good to see you again, August.” Wiping a tear from her eye and hoping he didn’t see, Rebecca was gone before he could say another word.

  He watched her as she progressed down the sidewalk and out of sight. He wasn’t sure who came out on top of this one. Or if there even was a top to come out on. Draining the last of his coffee, Booker sat back down and signaled for the check.

  Chapter 16- A Step in the Right Direction

  Once again, Sarah found herself riding alone in the familiar elevator down to the morgue. This time she was out of coffee and patience. The car stopped, making her stomach drop a few inches. The doors opened after more time than it should take for doors to open.

  “Detective Rime,” the coroner’s melodic voice came from the other side of the crowded room. Sarah was surprised to see a number of power tools, hand tools and bladed weapons laying on an autopsy table. There was another table nearly overflowing with human remains, and the doctor turning from one table to the other as she welcomed Sarah in.

  “Is this a morgue or a hardware store?” The detective navigated her way closer. Grace seemed to be a competent coroner, but her morgue was a maze of tables, trays, and bodies, all culminating towards her desk in the back. The lights that hung periodically were fluorescent, giving off a bright, yet harsh glow. It was actually fairly quiet. Sarah was used to the morgue back in New York, where there were often a handful of medical examiners working on separate cases simultaneously. Berksville was a bit slower paced, and so, apparently, was its morgue.

  “Don’t mind the mess, Detective,” Grace picked up a heavy piece of machinery with both hands and allowed the weight of it to slam down on a lab tray. “Here is your culprit.” She pulled off a pair of exam gloves that were covered in blood or grease or perhaps both.

  Sarah looked for a moment without saying a word. “I give up. The handyman did it?” Gesturing at the large tool, she asked, “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

  Sarah glanced a little closer. It had two handles on it, at either end of the contraption, one with a trigger and one that looked like it was to guide the device. There was a space of about ten inches in the middle that was connected by a ribbon of metal with tiny teeth on it. “You going to clue me in here, Doc?”

  Grace grinned like a gameshow host who knew the answer but reveled in making everyone wait. After a pause, she succumbed. “That is a portable bandsaw. It is used in construction to saw through metal and things too big to cut on a table bandsaw. It’s also your murder weapon.”

  Taking one more look, Sarah felt a quick stab of revulsion as images of chopping people with the tool flashed through her mind.

  “I have to hand it to your killer; it is not a very commonly used item. I went through dozens of other options looking for the matching cut marks before I came across this little baby.” She slapped her hand on top of the bandsaw. “It’s a smart choice though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, most power tools that cut, like circular saws or saws-alls, they create a lot of vibration making it tough to cut straight and keep the material being cut from moving. The portable bandsaw has consistent lateral pressure on whatever it is cutting, which makes a more precise, cleaner cut.” She picked up a clipboard and began jotting notes.

  “And you’re sure this is what dismembered the two victims?” Sarah had also pulled out her notepad and was writing.

  “It definitely did the cutting.” Grace looked up at Sarah, this time the grin was gone. “More disturbing is that I have gone over every inch of the remains of both victims and found no other wounds.” Her face became grim.

  “Which means what, Doc?”

  “It means that they were killed by this type of saw as well.” Grace set down her clipboard and turned completely toward the detective. “And Sarah… both these people were alive while they were being cut up.” Silence owned the room.

  As if on command, the ding of the elevator broke the hush and the doors slid open. Detective Salazar came slouching out, coffee mug in one hand, he straightened his tie with the other. It wasn’t an improvement. His smile broadened as he closed in on the two.

  “Gracie, my little pumpkin pie. When are you gonna let me take you out for that drink?” He leaned against a table sending various tools clanking to the tiled floor.

  “Salazar, what the hell are you doing in my morgue?” Grace did not seem as pleased to see Salazar as he was to see her. Sarah wondered what the exact nature of their relationship was.

  “Well, I don’t see you at all up on my floor. Started to think you forgot about me.” The detective threw Sarah a wicked wink.

  “Maybe that should be your hint,” Grace said. “There are at least three bodies chilling down here that I would rather go out for a drink with.” She pushed him aside and began picking up the tools.

  “The more you push me away, the more I kind of like it.” He slid the pudgy fingers of his free hand through his thinning hair. “I know you just want to make me come to you.”

  “You know, for a detective, you would think he would be more perceptive.” This time Grace directed her commentary towards Sarah.

  “Woah! Leave me out of this soap opera.” Sarah stepped away raising her hands. “In fact, I’m on my way out.”

  Salazar, remembering to do his job for once, spoke up. “Wait a second Rime. I actually came down to talk to you.”

  “Lucky girl,” Grace chimed in sarcastically.

  The veteran detective spun back. “Now don’t get jealous, Gracie. You know I only have eyes for you.” He seemed genuinely concerned she would get the wrong idea.

  As much as Sarah would love to watch this play out all afternoon, she fought the instinct to play with her cellphone. Glancing down at the time, she became impatient. “Salazar!” Sarah called out.

  The other detective jumped at the sound. Sarah tapped her foot. “You said you came to tell me something?”

  “Oh damn. Yeah, the captain sent me down. He said he wants you in his office tomorrow morning for a check-in. And he said, and I’m quoting here, ‘She better bring that damned professor with her as well.’”

  Salazar tipped his cup to Sarah in a little salute and took a drink. “So, there you are, my job is done here.”

  Grace broke into a grin. “Good,” she said. “Then you can ride the elevator back up with Detective Rime. I’m sure you h
ave a lost bicycle or something to track down.”

  Salazar didn’t seem to be dissuaded at all by the dismissal. He leaned into Sarah as they walked to the elevator. “She’s trying to play coy,” he said, “but just you wait and see. I’ll wear her down.”

  ***

  Max Diaz was on a six-hour bender. He wasn’t an alcoholic or a druggie, or even a gambler. No. Max was lost on the web. He clicked the bottom of his screen to select one of the twenty-two different tabs he had open on the computer. The screen brought up footage from the book launch. He rubbed his eyes with fingers covered in bright orange residue from one of his favorite bagged snacks. There’s nothing on this, Max thought for at least the tenth time.

  He had picked through the footage over and over again, looking for someone that followed the drunken widow out of the party. One of the security men escorted her out, but the same man showed back up three minutes later on the footage. Max spotted him quickly walking through the crowd before resuming his place by one of the doors.

  That had pushed Max into some other directions. Booker always said, “The clues will surround the victim.” So, Max began looking into Aimee Glazer. At least a dozen of the tabs on his screen were filled with all sorts of details about Aimee’s life. Max’s skill sometimes shocked even him. It was disturbing what people put online without thinking about what a person with a little computer knowledge might be able to dig up.

  Over the last few years, Max had been directing most of his energies to research and developing a program to efficiently predict criminal movement based on clues input into the system. Although in high school he had utilized his skills, uncovering enough of a gym class bully’s browser history to shame the boy into leaving the weaker kids alone. While that was more of a “gray area,” Max felt that the ends justified the means.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on his door. “Enter.” He said and turned in his spinning chair to face the door.

  The oldest college student in the world pushed through the beat-up dorm door. “Are you still frickin’ alive, Maxie?” Ski called out.

  The older man closed the door and looked around for a place to sit. The bed was covered in clothes, as was the floor. A mound of stuff was protruding from the tiny cubby that worked as a closet. And Max was sitting in front of a desk that was concealed in empty energy drink cans, chip bags, and other assorted take-out containers.

  “Well it’s nice to see you ain't tryin’ to live to be my age,” Ski grumped. “You keep eatin’ this shit, and I’ll outlive you.” He finally gave up and just sat on top of whatever was on the bed.

  “Take it easy. I have to feed myself. I don’t have a nice wife to prepare nurturing meals for me like some of us.” Max lifted a half-full bag of chips. “Want some?”

  “Not on your life. I brought my own.” Ski reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small sandwich bag. “Sunflower seeds and dried papaya. This will keep your whole system runnin’ smooth.” He popped a handful into his mouth.

  Max waved off the bag.

  “Hey, Maxie, do you think you can fit any more shit in that closet?” Ski thumbed at the horde threatening to escape the cubby.

  “That’s everything I own.” Max tried to smile and laugh, but it was true. “My foster parents, the Winston’s, took in another kid. They needed the space, so they dropped it all off last week.”

  “That’s some bullshit,” the old man growled.

  “Nah, it’s cool. They’re pretty good people. Didn’t just dump me off once I turned eighteen. They’ve given me a great place for half a dozen years, but the truth of the matter is I live here at school now. Room and board are provided by the school, not them. And honestly, they kept my stuff longer than they had to. But as soon as I headed to college, they quit getting checks for me.”

  Ski looked at the floor. Emotion wasn’t his thing. He didn’t have the time or patience to just sit around swapping sob stories with people, but Max was a good kid, and he wasn’t crying about his situation—just stating it plainly.

  Ski cleared his throat, “Umm, you know my door is always open if you need it.” Then he quickly changed the subject. “So, what the hell you find out about the widow?”

  “I’ve got everything you need to know about her right here.” Max spun the chair back to the monitor. “Aimee Lynn Nasser, as she was known before marrying the late Henry Glazer, was born right here in the Berksville area, just on the other side of Doubleday Park.”

  “Wow! There are some pretty snazzy townhouses in that neighborhood. I heard it will cost you two grand a month to live there!” Ski whistled and produced a thermos that Max never even saw him carry in. He poured himself a cup.

  “Now it’s a pretty nice area, but when she was growing up, the townhouses weren’t built yet. They didn’t go in until the early 2000s.”

  “Ah, shit!” Ski slapped himself in the forehead. “I must be getting’ slow in my age. You’re right. That area used to be a bunch of low-end trailer parks.”

  “That’s where young Aimee grew up.”

  “Poor kid.” The old man shook his head.

  Max looked puzzled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but changed his mind. Shaking his head, he turned back to the computer screen. Clicking another tab, he said, “She met Henry in high school. Her grades weren’t top tier to begin with, but they seem to take a real dive her senior year when they started dating.”

  “By the freakin’ book,” Ski said. He threw back some more coffee. “And recently?”

  “They have been living in that trailer park out in Pope for about eight years. Barely enough to cover rent in their bank accounts, and you couldn’t buy a pack of gum with their credit score. No life insurance or anything on Henry or her.”

  Max ran his finger across the screen and corresponding windows opened up. “One thing I don’t get Ski.”

  The old man raised his eyebrows to prompt Max to continue.

  “Mrs. Glazer seemed really broken up about her husband’s death, but she has a lot of computer traffic the last few weeks in an online dating site.”

  “Online dating?” Ski asked.

  Brushing potato chip crumbs and grease on his jeans, Max then began typing furiously. “Specifically, a website called Missed Encounters. The site markets itself as a place for people who became estranged to reconnect.” He didn’t exactly blush, his tan skin wouldn’t have allowed such a thing, but Max looked away for a moment in an awkward pause. “For…romantic purposes.”

  Ski sipped his coffee. “Do we know who she was talking with?”

  “At first it was a few random guys that all reached out to her, but soon she blocked most of the creepers and began a lengthy conversation with a guy going by ‘Triskele84’ but the website is very strict about keeping its user confidentiality. If I keep working on it, I may be able to identify him. Either way, just from some of the messages, it seems like they knew each other from high school. This Triskele84 even mentions Henry a few times. But mostly just the usual, ‘Aimee you are so beautiful’, ‘you deserve so much better,’ and he seems to pressure her to meet up, although there is nothing to indicate she did.”

  Ski’s eyes widened. “You can get all that from the computer? Damn.”

  “Well not everyone can, but I know a few things that are unconventional.” Max held a finger up to his lips.

  Ski laughed. “I think I’ll keep you around, Maxie.”

  Chapter 17- Breadcrumbs

  The next morning Captain Harrison found his office full of a menagerie of people. Apparently, the check-in he requested from Rime and Booker had become a fieldtrip for the professor’s whole class. Now, Harrison found himself staring at the oddest group of characters. There was a quite mature gentleman, who Harrison thought must have at least twenty years on him; a tall college kid, who couldn’t have been more of a stereotype with messy hair and a hoodie, had taken up residence on the edge of his desk with a laptop; and a bouncy, petite girl in a cheerleading uniform, who was pe
rched on top of the filing cabinet in the corner for some inexplicable reason. Sarah, his newest detective, and Booker, her professorial counterpart, were standing in the middle of this gaggle.

  When Harrison saw the old man pull out a pipe and start to pack it, he bellowed, “Are kidding me?” He gave Ski a hard glare. In response, the older man looked to Booker for advice. Harrison threw up his hands in exasperation.

  “Ski, put it away,” Booker directed. And the pipe disappeared among a few low grumbles of displeasure.

  “Is there a reason that you have brought a town hall meeting into my office, Detective?” Captain Harrison pulled off his glasses and let them hang around his neck. His wife always thought this move made him look like a librarian, but it was the only way he could keep from losing the damned things. He shuffled for a moment, unsure whether to take her advice for once and shove them in his pocket. Somehow, Booker threw him off. He reached up, but then thought better of it.

  “Captain, you wanted a run-down of what we know, and Booker demanded that his students come too.” Like Ski, Sarah deferred to Booker and looked to the professor for confirmation. He nodded in agreement.

  “Captain,” Booker added, “my students all have information to share with us, and for the sake of time and to limit redundancy, I thought it best that you hear it as we do.”

  Harrison rubbed his dark face for a moment. “As much as I’m not a fan of the convention here, I have to agree Mr. Booker that does make sense.” He sat back in his leather chair. “By all means, please don’t mind me. It’s just my office.” He made a gesture with both hands that they had the floor.

  Sarah decided to start since she had some interesting facts to share. “I met with Grace down in the morgue yesterday; she was able to match the cut marks on the two victims to a murder weapon.”

  They all perked up, this was the first bit of good news they had received. Sarah was about to continue when a knock came on the door. A young patrolman stuck his head in. “Uh, hello?” he said the words like a question, as if puzzled to see the entire group shoved into Harrison’s office. “I’m Officer Brandt? You need me?”