The Professor

by Alexandria Clarke

  -Jo Mitchell contained and under surveillance. Donovan to graduate valedictorian tomorrow.

  Lauren Lockwood. 8 May 2015.

  The princess of the Black Raptor Society herself had been in charge of Jo Mitchell’s academic defeat. As Orson Lockwood’s daughter, the fact that she was in charge of such a task shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but the sight of her penmanship describing with such precision the ease of her assignment left a bitter taste on my tongue. I slammed the journal shut and returned it to the shelf, willing myself to take long, steadying breaths. Despite my prior knowledge of BRS’s depravity, there was something different about discovering firsthand accounts of what they had done. How many unknowing, diligent students had suffered at the hands of this society, all to further the egos and careers of those less deserving?

  I leaned against the bookshelf, listening to my pulse pound in the space between my ears, and waited until the cadence had slowed before setting off again. Without looking back, I abandoned the library. Continuing my raid of it would only bring more terrible things to light, and I wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences of those things right that minute. I wandered farther down the stone hallway, peering into the other rooms. Some of them were empty, as though BRS hadn’t found a use for them yet. Others appeared to be set up similarly to dorm rooms with stacked beds and quaint dressers just in case any of its members needed to spend the night. At the end of the hallway, I paused, peering through the window of the door to the very last room, then twisted the doorknob to let myself inside.

  This chamber of BRS’s clubhouse was quite possibly the largest, the reason for which was rather blatant. It was chock-full of organized mobile storage shelves, and when I carefully slid a section of one out of place, I discovered a row of beautifully framed paintings hung at equal intervals on the racks. Further inspection of the other storage units revealed similar findings, but it was not until I recognized the unmistakable strokes of Pablo Picasso’s hand in one painting that I realized what I had stumbled upon. The Black Raptor Society had taken an interest in rare art, and from what I already knew of them, I doubted that they had acquired these pieces in any kind of legal fashion. They had not merely collected paintings though. Deeper in the room, glass display cases housed sculptures, ceramics, and historic artifacts, and deeper still, I discovered a modest collection of human skulls and bones.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I took carefully focused photos of everything. Then, having had enough of BRS’s clubhouse to last until I was ready to get a PhD, I turned to leave. However, in the very back corner of the room, behind the last of the storage shelves, a massive chest freezer stood in stark contrast to the priceless artwork around it. For a moment, I considered leaving it unopened, but if I was going to expose all of BRS’s secrets, then I needed to be aware of as many of them as possible, so with a soft grunt, I heaved the heavy lid of the freezer upward and shined my flashlight inside.

  George O’Connor’s empty, sunken eyes bore into mine.

  The lid slammed shut with a bang that echoed through the room, and a horrified shriek let itself out of my lungs before I could subdue it. I clapped a hand over my mouth, muffling choked sobs, and knelt next to the freezer.

  O’Connor was dead. Yet more frightening still, he had been killed for poking his nose into the business of the Black Raptor Society. I would’ve been a fool to assume anything else. My quick glimpse at O’Connor’s bloodied body was enough to confirm that he had been beaten into submission, and no other reason would explain the frozen corpse hidden in a secret, underground room. It was one thing to know that the society manipulated student affairs; it was another thing to become aware of the fact that BRS had facilitated a murder. The more I thought about it, the less oxygen found its way to my brain. Light-headed and heart palpitating, I gripped the edge of the freezer to pry myself up from the floor. I had to get out of BRS’s headquarters as soon as possible. I’d taken up O’Connor’s quest, and for all I knew, the Black Raptor Society had already put a price on my head.

  It was easy enough to find my way out of the artwork room and down the corridor to the main entry of the clubhouse, but the brick stairway that led up to the Waverly library hindered my escape. I took the steps two at a time. It wasn’t long until my breath came out in short gasps and my head began to swim. As I propelled myself upward, my hands braced on the brick wall to either side of me, I could barely make out the sight of my shoes. Climbing my way back up to the Waverly library was far more torturous than the descent into the clubhouse. My thighs burned with the effort, but the image of O’Connor’s body, stuffed into a freezer like some sort of hunted game, prevented me from pausing longer than a few seconds to recuperate. After what seemed like hours, I finally fell through the doorway at the top of the steps.

  Wiping away the dried tears that had crusted at the corners of my eyes, I shoved the bookshelf door back into place, wrenched the ring from the hidden keyhole, and concealed the space once again with the Latin book. I fled then, racing around the spiral of shelves as quickly as my aching legs would allow.

  The main wing of the Waverly library now held no comfort at all. The loud stomp of my boots across the marble floor echoed throughout the building as I careened through the inner pair of doors, across the entryway, and past the checkout desk. I pushed open the outer door, and a blast of cold air threatened to thrust me back into the library, but I wrenched the hood of my coat up and powered through it. Unfortunately, at the bottom of the steps, I slammed straight into a firm, muscled chest clothed in an expensive tan trench coat.

  “Ooph! Watch where you’re going!” said a deep voice.

  When I looked up, I saw that the owner of the trench coat was none other than Donovan Davenport. I lurched backward, nearly tripping over the bottom step of the library building, but Donovan reached out, caught me by the upper arm, and hauled me to my feet.

  “You again,” he said gruffly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Studying,” I snapped back. I dislodged myself from Donovan’s grasp. All of my fear had morphed into rage. Did Donovan have a hand in O’Connor’s murder? “What else would I be doing at the library?”

  “It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning,” Donovan pointed out. “Who the hell studies this late?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m several semesters behind on my thesis,” I said, deciding that a true story was also the best lie for this sort of situation. “I can’t control when the muse hits.”

  “The muse?”

  “Yeah,” I huffed. The puzzle box, swaddled in the inner folds of my winter jacket, poked into my ribs. “You’re one to talk anyway. What are you doing here so late? You’re not even a student at Waverly anymore.”

  Donovan squinted up into the falling snowflakes at the darkened glass of the Waverly library’s dome. “I couldn’t sleep. I figured I might as well be productive and get some work done for my job.”

  “I’m sure even Orson Lockwood isn’t so tough on his employees to expect them to work in the middle of the night,” I commented, edging around Donovan so that his back was to the library. If I needed to make a quick getaway, it would be easier without having to dodge around the self-elected valedictorian of Waverly’s previous class.

  Donovan shifted positions easily, tucking his hands deeply into the pockets of his coat and hunching his shoulders up to his ears. “I’m just an eager-to-please employee.”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  I checked my cell phone. I had full coverage now. It took everything I had not to dial 9-1-1 right there in front of Donovan, but I managed to pocket my phone again and pretend that I had just been checking the time.

  “You should head home,” said Donovan. “It’s freezing out here.”

  His sudden concern for my well-being did nothing to assuage the nausea churning in my gut. He was right, though. I needed to get home to Wes. With a curt nod, I turned and walked away. Across the quad, I looked over my shoulder. Donovan Davenport had disappeared fr
om the steps of the library, but I knew that he hadn’t gone inside to complete any kind of actual work for Lockwood INC. Without his watchful eye on my back, I turned on my heel and ran.

  7

  “Wes. Wes!”

  He grumbled and turned over as I attempted to shake him awake. Franklin hopped up on the bed and started licking Wes’s face. Normally, I’d shove Franklin out of the way, but any help in encouraging Wes to return to the land of the living was welcome at this point.

  “Wes, wake up.”

  “I’m awake, I’m awake,” he said, his voice hoarse, feebly defending himself against Franklin’s wet nose. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “O’Connor is dead.”

  That got Wes’s attention. He propped himself up against the headboard and took in my red, watery eyes. At some point during my return to the apartment, I’d lost control of my tear ducts again.

  “What? How do you know?”

  I fell back on the pillows, wiping my face on the corner of the bedsheet, and tucked myself in under the big duvet. The illusion of safety beneath its downy comfort was better than nothing. “I went to the library and—”

  “You went back? Nicole, I thought I told you to wait until morning!”

  “I couldn’t, Wes. I had to know.”

  As I covered my face with my hands, Wes put a comforting arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “I just didn’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, rocking me gently. “Is O’Connor really dead?”

  Franklin nestled in the blankets near the foot of the bed. I scooted my feet under his warm body and nodded into Wes’s chest. “I found the room. It’s under the Rapere Wing, like I guessed. They have O’Connor’s body in a freezer down there. Wes, it was awful. Will you call Daryl?”

  “Of course.” He reached across me to grab his cell phone from the bedside table. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I explained in detail how I had found the Black Raptor Society’s secret headquarters, where it was located, how to get inside, and what I had discovered within its chambers. Wes listened intently, frowning when I forwarded the specifics about O’Connor’s body. Out loud, it sounded so far-fetched, but the police needed to know exactly what was going on at Waverly University. When I had finished my tale, Wes dialed the station.

  “Hey, Whitehall,” he said. “Wilson’s not there, is he?”

  There was a muted response from the opposite end. Wes pressed the speakerphone button, and Whitehall’s voice emanated from the phone. “He’s supposed to be here in a few minutes. What’s up?” he said.

  “He’s going to start his day off with a bang,” said Wes. “I got a 10-54 report underneath the Waverly library. Anonymous tip-off said it’s George O’Connor.”

  On the other end of the line, there was an abrupt creaking noise, as though Whitehall had sat up straighter in his desk chair. “What did you say?”

  “10-54,” repeated Wes, this time more slowly. It was the code Wes’s station used for a possible body. “In the basement of the Waverly library.”

  “The Waverly library doesn’t have a basement,” said Whitehall. I could hear the tapping of his fingers against a keyboard as he typed at his computer.

  “According to my source, it does,” Wes said. “It’s some kind of secret, underground room apparently.”

  “Is your source reliable?”

  Wes raised an eyebrow at me, almost in jest. I elbowed him in the ribs. “I told you,” he said. “It was an anonymous tip-off.”

  “It sounds like a prank, McAllen.”

  “It’s not a fucking prank, Whitehall,” Wes shot back. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “Either take this seriously or put someone on the phone who will.”

  “All right, man, relax. Wilson just walked in.”

  “Let me speak to him.”

  There was a shuffling sound as Whitehall passed the phone over to Officer Wilson.

  “This better be good, McAllen,” said Wilson in a gruff tone. “It’s not even five a.m.”

  “Wilson, I got an anonymous tip that George O’Connor’s body is in the basement of the Waverly library,” said Wes once again.

  Wilson huffed. “That building doesn’t have a basement, genius.”

  It was stunning that Wes could report something so dreadful and get such an underwhelming response. Maybe that was what it was like to be a police officer. Maybe Office Wilson was so used to receiving soul-numbing news that he’d become impervious to the emotions that should accompany such tragedies.

  “My source said that the entrance was hidden behind the bookshelves,” said Wes. There was a hard edge to his voice. He was annoyed that neither one of his coworkers was taking this seriously. “Wilson, I really think you need to check this one out.”

  “When did your source claim they found the body?”

  “About forty-five minutes ago or so.”

  Wilson cleared his throat. “So you’re telling me someone called you up in the middle of the night and told you that they found some kind of secret room at the local university, and that the body of the missing guy we’re looking for is conveniently being stored there?”

  The degrading tone with which Wilson spoke sent my heart sinking to the bottom of my rib cage. He didn’t believe that Wes’s source was credible.

  “Yes,” said Wes firmly.

  Wilson sighed, and a breath’s worth of feedback came through the phone. “Go back to bed, McAllen.”

  “Whoa, hold on!” Wes detached himself from me and got out of bed, jostling Franklin. He paced back and forth in front of his desk. “Wilson, are you serious? You really aren’t going to check this out?”

  “McAllen, we’ve got an actual lead on the O’Connor case, and it doesn’t have to do with some anonymous tip-off about a fabricated, underground basement,” said Wilson, clearly aggravated. “Sounds like your source is yanking your chain. Either that or they’re smoking some really great stuff. I mean, they claimed to find a dead body and didn’t immediately dial nine-one-one? Doesn’t that sound a little off to you, McAllen?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I whispered, outraged. This was not how an experienced police officer was supposed to react to reports of a dead body. Sure, an anonymous tip wasn’t the best way to inform the station of my discovery, but there was no way I could admit to my exploits beneath the Waverly library without getting in some serious trouble. Technically, I was withholding evidence.

  Wes waved at me, a signal to hush up. “Wilson, since when is this protocol?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then in a deadly voice, Wilson said, “McAllen, why don’t you let me worry about protocol, and I’ll let you off the hook for pulling this shit so early in the fucking morning? How’s that sound, rookie? Is that a fair trade?”

  Wes caught my eye. He was stuck. I could see it in the slight downward tilt of his lips and the way his shoulders had rounded off. There was a bitter hint of betrayal and disappointment in the air. Never before had Officer Wilson been so brusque to me or to Wes. He had always been cordial to everyone, even to the rookie officers under his command.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fantastic. Have a good rest of your morning, McAllen. I’ll see you later today for your shift. If you can get your shit together by then, of course.”

  There was a click as Wilson hung up, then nothing but a dial tone. Wes stared at the phone for a moment, as if waiting for Wilson to call back and apologize for his poor facilitation of the situation.

  “That was—”

  “Suspicious?” I finished, still in awe of the route the entire conversation had taken.

  “I was going to say weird,” countered Wes. “I’ve never heard him lose his cool like that.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek, considering the weight of the thought on my mind. “Wes,” I said, a note of hesitation evident in my tone. “Do you think, I mean, is there any possibility that the Black Raptor Society has inside men at the police station?”

/>   Wes’s gaze snapped to mine. “No way.”

  “Think about it.” I shoved the blankets off of my legs and stood up to approach Wes. “We already know that BRS has paid off the cops to keep their student members out of trouble. What’s to say that they aren’t doing similar shit for more serious crimes?”

  “Nicole, you’re wandering into some really intense territory,” Wes said. He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. It was a nervous tic of his, one that I had picked up on over the years of dating him. “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “I wouldn’t mention it if I didn’t think it had any merit to it,” I insisted. “Come on, Wes. How weird is it that Wilson didn’t even bat an eye at a report of a possible body? Even if a source is unreliable, aren’t the cops supposed to check it out anyway?”

  Wes remained silent, gazing through the gap in the blinds behind his desk.

  “What if we went back?” I asked quietly. “I could show you the basement and the body. That way, you can take the proof to the station yourself.”

  Wes shook his head. “That will just get us into a world of trouble.”

  “Wes, what’s worse? Potentially getting in trouble with Wilson or leaving the body of my favorite professor to rot underneath the library?”

  He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re right. Let me get dressed.”

  By the time Wes had donned his uniform and we left the apartment, the sky was just beginning to lighten. A pale pink stripe decorated the horizon, the first signs of the sun’s ascent. Exhausted, I leaned into Wes as we walked across campus. He tucked me under his shoulder, which made for slightly awkward travel, but I was so tired and cold that the occasional stumble over Wes’s work boots was worth it. We moved fleetly, making short work of the trip across campus, but we were not so hasty as to raise any suspicion. If a student happened to glance out of their dormitory window, it would appear as if Wes and I were simply out for an early morning stroll.