THREE WALLS of his office were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books of all sorts, organized in no sane fashion. George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Homage to Catalonia both rested atop a row of Stephen King paperbacks. The Stranger by Albert Camus was crammed between a collection of Anne Rice’s vampire novels. The Time Machine, The Maltese Falcon, and Fahrenheit 451 were followed by the Harry Potter books, which were followed by a fat book titled Library of World Poetry. More books by and about poets were wedged between other volumes and were used in stacks as bookends to hold up other books. Bernadette recognized the most famous names of the lot: Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Keats, Blake, Emerson. Finally, there were textbooks with titles like The Role of Confessional Poetry in Contemporary American Literature.
The only wall without books—the one with the door—was plastered with posters and other pop art. Psychedelic Pink Floyd poster from a London Concert. Ad announcing a Metropolitan Opera visit to Northrop Auditorium. Muhammad Ali/Joe Frazier boxing poster. Tin street sign that said “Fenway Park.” Poster of Winston Churchill with a plane-filled sky behind him and the words LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER.
As she stood in the doorway—the door itself was propped open with a phone book—he lifted some books and papers off a folding chair. “Excuse the mess.”
“You should see my office.” She walked inside and lowered herself into the seat. She didn’t spot a computer. He had to have a laptop buried somewhere under the mess, she thought. She’d love to get her mitts on it.
He went around and sat down behind his desk, a metal clunker piled high with more papers and books. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair, a cushy leather piece with arms. It was the only modern furnishing in the office. He smiled nervously. “I assume you’re here about the suicides.”
Bernadette didn’t answer immediately; she was stunned he’d gotten right to it. “How did you know?”
“I teach a university class called the Poetry of Suicide, and most of my students are young women. Young university women have been committing suicide by leaping off the Washington Avenue Bridge.” He leaned across the top of his desk and dropped his folded hands on a stack of papers. “I was waiting for someone to come to me for a consult.”
“A consult?”
“As a footnote, you should know I was one of the faculty who helped draft the open letter to the community pleading for peace.” He smiled. “‘Restrain the passions’ lawless riot.’ That was one of my contributions. It’s from Horace Smith’s ‘Moral Cosmetics.’ Not a particularly fun poem. ‘Ye who would have your features florid’—”
“Two of your students are dead, sir,” she interrupted. “What do you know about—”
“Two?” He took his hands off his desk and sat up stiffly in his chair. It squeaked with the sudden movement. “Who—”
“Kyra Klein.”
“She … I just spoke with her after class on Wednesday … She’s not—she can’t be … When?” He dragged his hand across his forehead as if scraping off sweat, but Bernadette could see none. “Don’t tell me she jumped from the—”
“Before her, there was the student in your class on madness,” said Bernadette, emphasizing the last word to prod him.
“Alice Bergerman dropped out after the first day of class. She wasn’t really one of my students. I spent two seconds talking to her after she decided to—”
“For someone you knew for two seconds, her name came to you pretty quickly.”
His face blanched, and he swallowed hard before answering. “The police talked to me over the phone to see if she’d demonstrated any despondency in class. When they found out that she’d dropped my course, they didn’t even bother to—”
“Where were you Wednesday night?”
“What?”
“Two of your students have died under mysterious circumstances.”
“Alice killed herself. The police said so. What happened to Kyra? Did she—”
“Why do you suppose two of your students have died? That can’t be pure coincidence. Even if they were both suicides—and I don’t believe they were—why would two of your students kill themselves?”
“I … My classes attract young women who are … tortured. Emotionally … tortured.”
“‘Tortured?’” Bernadette repeated. She didn’t like his use of the word.
“Look at the course titles. Madness in American Literature. The Poetry of Suicide. Sometimes they talk to me. I listen. They think because I teach the class, I know something about the mental illnesses themselves. I have some insight, certainly. I thought that’s why you were here.”
“That was a smokescreen on your part, or maybe wishful thinking,” she snapped.
He stood up and slammed his hands on his desk, knocking off a mound of papers. She reached inside her coat and put her hand on her gun. He had a temper, the caring, sensitive male.
“I want a lawyer. I am not talking to you any longer without a lawyer present.”
She could smell the sweat on him now, pushing through the cologne. She bet that under the nice blazer, his dress shirt sported armpit stains the size of dinner plates. Even though there was no record of the other bathtub victim having been one of his students, Bernadette tossed her name at him. “Shelby Hammond. What about her?”
“Never heard of her,” he said, coming around his desk and motioning with his hand toward the door. “Please.”
“You haven’t been arrested or charged with anything, Professor. I just need you to answer a few questions.” She stood up. “If another girl turns up missing or dead, your lack of cooperation could look bad.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He walked to the door and continued to motion with his hand. “Please leave. Please.”
She stayed standing in the middle of the office, one hand on her gun and the other on a business card. “Look, Professor. It’s obvious the kids like you.”
He shook his head back and forth. “Don’t try to—”
“You may know something that would help. Maybe one of the dead girls said something telling, something that you wouldn’t recognize as valuable.” She set a card on top of Flannery O’Connor—Collected Works. “Think about it.”
He walked into the hallway and turned around, waiting for her to leave. “You should think about talking to these girls’ health care providers. Some of these young women were really disturbed. Tortured.”
He used that word a little too frequently, thought Bernadette. She wondered what putting the word water in front of it would do for him.
SHE WALKED OUT of his office and felt his eyes on her until she went down the stairwell. When she got outside, she called Garcia. “I want to pull together a surveillance of this Professor Wakefielder. Tonight.”
Garcia said, “You sure?”
“I just left his office. He was sweating bullets. Pulled the lawyer card on me and clammed up.”
“That sure as hell isn’t enough to get a judge to bless a wiretap.”
“I’m not asking for one. Besides, I don’t want to deal with TSS,” she said, referring to the Technical Support Squad. They were nicknamed the Tough Shit Squad, because that’s what they said when turning down the many requests for their tech talent.
“So what do you want?”
“A vehicle parked out front.” She saw Wakefielder exit Lind Hall and ducked behind a tree to continue watching him. He had a lunch sack in his hand and was headed for the student union across the street. “If he drags a body out of the house over the weekend, it might make for a nice Kodak moment.”
“You really don’t have—”