The bridge itself was crowded, too. It crossed the Mississippi, connecting the east and west banks of the university, and was used primarily by students and faculty. The top was for walkers and bikers, and the bottom was for cars. The girls would have gone off the top, which was railed and dotted with globe light poles. A long roofed and walled structure with windows ran down the middle of the walkway. It served as a windbreak for walkers in the winter.
The walkway railing was about waist-high, and as Bernadette stood against it, she judged it wouldn’t take much to toss a small person over it. As she leaned over and stared down into the water below, a bicyclist dressed in fatigues zoomed past her. He turned his head and gave her a long stare while pedaling to the west bank end of the bridge. Two boys hiking across also gave her a funny look. She stepped away from the railing. The students were on high alert after the drownings. She didn’t need someone calling the campus cops on her because they thought she was a jumper.
She moved off the bridge and headed for Wakefielder’s office.
LIND HALL was an older, four-story brick building on Church Street, just off Washington Avenue. Bernadette glanced up at its tall windows as she mounted the steps leading to the Church Street entrance. Wakefielder’s office and classroom were both on the third floor. She hadn’t made an appointment with him but had uncovered his teaching schedule and office hours by poking around the university’s Web site. She’d timed it so she could catch the tail end of the class that Kyra Klein had attended Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
The classroom door was wide open, and Bernadette saw a few empty desks in the last row. The professor’s back was turned, and she sat down without drawing his attention. Students around her gave her a quick look and then went back to their papers. They were taking a test.
While Wakefielder wrote on the board—he was assigning reading—Bernadette studied his hands. No scratches or bruises. That didn’t mean anything; no skin had been recovered from Klein’s nails. Under his blazer, he seemed to be of average build. Stood six feet or better. Blond hair like the guy Klein’s neighbor had seen. Yes, this man was a solid candidate.
A female student got up, went over to the prof, and handed him her paper. She whispered something. To hear her, he bent to one side. Ever so lightly, he placed a hand in the middle of her back.
Definitely in the running, this Wakefielder.
Bernadette unbuttoned her trench coat and the blazer underneath. Holstered under the waist of her slacks was her Glock.
ONE BY ONE, the students quietly put their tests on Wakefielder’s desk and filed out the door with their books and bags. The professor was so immersed in his writing on the board, he didn’t see a stranger in the room. When a girl to Bernadette’s right turned in her paper and exited the room, Bernadette went after her. She waited until the girl was at the other end of the hall. She didn’t want Wakefielder to overhear.
“Miss,” Bernadette said.
The girl was hunched over a drinking fountain. She stood straight and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was a tall, slender African American girl with almond-shaped eyes and a head of braids tied back from her face. “Yes?”
Bernadette hesitated. College students tended to distrust anything federal, but she went for her ID wallet anyway. Held it up. “I’m with the FBI.”
The girl blinked. “Yes?”
“We’re investigating the deaths of some female students.”
She took a step back from Bernadette. “The bridge murders?”
“There’s a student from your class. She may have been another victim.”
Her eyes got big. “Jeez. Really? Who?”
“Kyra Klein.”
The girl tightened her hold on her books, clutching them to her chest like a shield. “She’s dead? Someone from my class is dead? When did she die? She went off the bridge?”
“You knew her?”
Chewing her bottom lip, the girl hedged. “Not really. I mean … I’ve heard Professor Wakefielder call on her. I think I know who she is. Sits behind me. Blond.”
“Short black hair.”
“Oh, her. Real skinny, right?”
“It’s a small class,” said Bernadette. “Don’t you all know each other?”
“Not really. We’ve only been in session about a month. We meet three times a week for like fifty minutes, if that. It’s not like we hang out together.”
“What if somebody is absent? Does anyone notice?”
“People skip out. It’s not like the teacher takes roll. Bunch were gone today, even though we had a quiz. Fridays are good for that. People turn it into a three-day weekend by cutting class.”
So that the girl wouldn’t think every male in the class was a sociopath, Bernadette worded her next question carefully. “Did Kyra mention to you that she was having problems with anyone inside or outside of school?”
The girl shook her head. “Never really talked to her. No one in our group talks to each other. After class lets out, everybody takes off.”
Bernadette dug into her coat and pulled out a card. “If you think of something—what’s your name?”
The girl took the card and examined it. “Alisha.”
“Look, Alisha, if you think of something, call me.”
“Now I feel bad that I didn’t talk to her.” She looked toward the open classroom. “Do you think whoever did it might come after the rest of us?”
“No, I don’t think that’s what—”
“Has it been in the papers yet? Wait until I tell my boyfriend at the Daily.”
“Do not tell anyone we had this conversation,” Bernadette said firmly. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation. A federal matter. You could get in big trouble.”
Alisha said, “But—”
“I mean it, young lady.” Bernadette couldn’t believe she had just called someone young lady. She was getting old.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alisha said.
Bernadette tried to lighten her voice. “So … that’s an interesting course you’re taking, The Poetry of Suicide. What’s the big attraction? The subject matter or the professor?”
“Both, I guess. At least it isn’t the same old, same old. Who wants to suffer through more Shakespeare, right?”
“Right.”
“Professor Wakefielder, well … I like him. He’s different.”
Still keeping her voice light, Bernadette asked, “Why is he different?”
“He gets it. He’s a guy, but he gets it. It’s like—I don’t know—he knows what it’s like to be …” Her voice trailed off.
“Female?”
“Yeah. That sounds sick, doesn’t it?”
“He’s a caring, sensitive male,” Bernadette said pleasantly. She made the zipper sign across her mouth. “Remember, Alisha.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bernadette turned and went back to the classroom. She didn’t want the professor to get away from her. While she walked, she looked around. The hallway was empty. She quickly transferred her gun to the pocket of her trench coat. Those caring, sensitive males could be dangerous when cornered.
THE STUDENTS had all disappeared from the classroom. Alisha was right; they weren’t a social group. Wakefielder was bent over the desk, squaring the stack of tests. Bernadette went up to the opposite side of the table. “Professor Wakefielder?”
He set down the papers. “I’ll bet you’re the student who called about my class on—”
“I’m with the FBI,” she said.
Glancing up, he gave her a nervous smile. “What fresh hell is this?”
Bernadette paused, her attention darting to the board for an instant. She extended her ID. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”
His eyes went to the badge and then back to her face. “What can I do for you?”
“May we talk in your office, Professor Wakefielder?”
“I’m … down the hall,” he said hesitantly.
He led the way. Bernadette followed a step behind him, saying nothing. He was scared, and at the same time she swore he was baiting her. Bernadette knew the “fresh hell” crack was Dorothy Parker’s signature greeting, and the dead girl had picked that writer for her paper.