She nodded. “Brilliant.”
“So how does he do it from across the city line?”
Bernadette threw up her hands. “I don’t know. Talks her into it and gives her something to take. Maybe he slips her something before driving her home.”
“ME will do a tox screen, but you saw her. She was literally starving herself. She had a death wish.”
“If it turns out she completely did it to herself, then he’s still culpable,” said Bernadette. “He should have taken her to a hospital instead of dumping her at the door. Even that moron Thorsson noticed she was falling down. Wakefielder should have forced her into treatment.”
“You heard the roommate. Been there. Done that. Didn’t stick.”
The roommate, a red-eyed young man sitting in the back of one of the squads, was hugging his knees up to his chest and rocking. He told Bernadette that he’d been in the bathroom getting ready for his job at a shoe store when he’d heard a door open and someone moving around inside the duplex. Figuring it was Cameron, he left the bathroom to touch base. The girl’s bedroom door was closed. When he hollered and knocked and got no response, he pushed inside and found Cameron on her back on the floor.
Bernadette watched while a crew from the Hennepin County ME’s office carried a gurney topped by a body bag out of the house. “This makes me sick.”
“Let’s think this through,” said Garcia, walking back and forth in front of her with his hands buried in the pockets of his trench. “Alice Bergerman signs up for his Madness in Lit, drops after the first day of class, goes into the river the same month, making her our third victim. Our June drowning.”
Bernadette said, “Kyra Klein is in his Poetry of Suicide course for a month or so. She’s found dead in her own tub Thursday morning. Probably killed Wednesday night. Victim eight.”
Garcia tipped his head toward the ME wagon. “Number nine never had him in class. They went out a couple of times, according to the roomie.”
“So three murder victims with ties to Wakefielder.”
“One murder victim,” corrected Garcia. “Bergerman was ruled a suicide and—”
“It wasn’t a suicide, and you know it.”
Garcia pulled his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms in front of him.
“And today’s death is looking like it was caused by an accidental or intentional OD, or possibly by the eating disorder of the month.”
“These are murders made to look like suicides,” she said as the wagon’s door slammed after the body bag was loaded. “And this last one … God … this is evil genius.”
“It’s entirely possible he’s simply guilty of surrounding himself with attractive train wrecks. Stupid, but not criminal.”
“To have your young, pretty, skinny ex-girlfriend croak the day after a federal agent questions you about the murders of young, pretty, skinny girls is …”
“Really bad luck?”
“Wakefielder or someone around him is doing this. There’s an … intersection or a—a connection that we’re missing.”
A crime scene investigator for the Minneapolis PD came up to the two agents with an armload of pill bottles. He held up the evidence bags. “Found these in her purse. Some empty, some half-empty.”
Bernadette tore the bags out of his hands.
“Whose meds?” asked Garcia while Bernadette examined the labels through the plastic.
“A bunch are hers, and a couple she pilfered from the roommate.”
Garcia asked, “If this is what did it, when would she have downed them?”
“Thing is, you don’t swallow a handful of pills and then immediately keel over dead.”
“I realize that,” said Garcia. “Ballpark it.”
“Depends on the dosage and the meds and a whole lot of other factors. I see some psychiatric meds in there. Potent stuff. They were prescribed by a—
“Dr. Luke VonHader,” said Bernadette, looking up from the bags.
“Whoa,” said Garcia.
“There’s an interesting intersection.” She handed the bottles back to the crime scene guy. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” The guy frowned and finished the trek to his van.
Garcia smiled grimly at Bernadette. “Are they working in tandem? How do they know each other?”
“They both went to Harvard.”
“So did a lot of evil geniuses.”
“There’s a connection of some sort. I’ve gotta get one of them to start talking.”
“Whose balls you gonna bust first?”
“The shrink is way too cool, but Wakefielder was nervous when I questioned him yesterday.”
“Need some help?”
“I’d love some,” she said. “This case is making my head hurt.”
Garcia’s cell rang, and he pulled it out of his trench. “Yeah?”
Bernadette scrutinized his face. It was turning a color she’d never before seen on a human being. Not quite purple. Eggplant?
Garcia switched the phone to his other ear. “You have got to be kidding me! How? When? For how long? Why did you wait so long before telling me?”
Bernadette didn’t like the sound of that.
“It does matter!” Garcia’s ears were starting to match his face. “It sure as hell could have been long enough!”
“Oh, no,” Bernadette breathed. An agent and a half hadn’t been on the professor’s ass the entire time after all, and now Thorsson was calling to fess up.
A pause while Garcia listened to excuses. Then: “I don’t care to hear it right now, Agent Thorsson. Save it for your report.” Garcia checked his watch. “Your relief is on the way. Try not to lose him before they get there.”
He closed his phone and drew his arm back but had second thoughts about hurling it. He calmly dropped the cell in to his trench and sighed. “Our men lost Wakefielder right after he dropped her off. They caught up with him at his house as he was pulling back into the garage.”
“That wasn’t a lot of time.”
“They had to wait a bit before he got home.”
She took a deep breath, let it out, and tried to be generous—more for the kid’s benefit than the moron’s. “No signs of a struggle in the duplex. No forced entry. She probably did OD like you said.”
Garcia wasn’t in a charitable mood. “Roommate said the back door was unlocked. Wakefielder could have circled back around to the alley, slipped inside, suffocated her, and left.”
“No one has suggested suffocation at all. There was no visible trauma to the body. No pillow found near the body. Roommate would have heard.”
“You said it yourself. The guy is smart.”
“I don’t think the fact that Greg and Red lost him for a few minutes makes a damn bit of difference.”
Garcia asked through clenched teeth: “Why are you defending these idiots?”
“The kid deserves a chance,” she said.
“Red was the driver.”
“I don’t care. Thorsson is somehow responsible.”
Garcia watched glumly as the ME wagon backed out of the driveway. “Maybe I am, too.”
“How so?”
“Thorsson volunteered to go inside and talk to her after the prof dropped her off. That’s why he lost the guy. He was thinking I’d want him to question her. Maybe if I had let him go that route …” His voice trailed off.
“Greg would have gotten inside just in time to give mouth-to-mouth to a dead woman.”
Garcia dragged his hand down his face. “My head is spinning.”
“You need some exercise.” She put her hand on his arm. “Let’s go see if the prof needs some help with the yard work.”
“He’s going to recognize me as Pizza Man and realize we’ve had him under surveillance.”
“That should jar the truth out of him.”
THE INSTANT Wakefielder spotted Bernadette stepping out of her truck, he dropped his rake. Instead of dashing into his own home, however, he calmly walked across his neighbor’s yard, went up the front steps, and knocked. Garcia met up with Bernadette and both stood on the sidewalk eyeing the neighbor’s house.
“Classic colonial,” Bernadette observed. “Nice.”