Cops burned out of homicide. Not because of blood or gore or being outwitted by criminal masterminds. No, because of its monotony: The same easy suspects, the same filthy apartments, and same kinds of people doing the killing. The pressure from the brass to clear cases. And the paperwork. And that forever part, dead, gone completely… if they let themselves think about it too long.
The younger cops didn’t know much about real investigations because DNA solved everything, or so nearly everyone was convinced. The really gifted homicide investigators were mostly retired or close to it. Then, the endless time with the D.A. and in court, and a sentence that never seemed like justice. Traffic division was much the same but the stakes weren’t as high.
It’s not that serial killers weren’t out there or that some homicides weren’t true mysteries. It’s not even that criminal masterminds didn’t exist. A person could get away with it, if he was really careful, disciplined, and, especially, didn’t know the victim. But that wasn’t the day-in, day-out of working homicide.
The truth is, most murder is boring. Except when it’s not.
Chapter Five
The murders caused the campus to go on alert. Classes were canceled for the day, and that included Cheryl Beth’s meeting. Students were told to stay in their dorms, faculty to remain in their offices. Cheryl Beth’s office was at the Hamilton campus, so she walked into town, past the cordon of police at the university’s entrance, and ordered coffee at a bagel shop on High Street. An Enquirer was sitting on the table, and she absently thumbed through it. “Couple arrested after flagging down cop,” a headline on an inside page read.
It went on, “A couple who flagged down police to report that they had been robbed at gunpoint early Saturday evening got more than a sympathetic ear from a Cincinnati police officer. According to Detective Will Borders, Karole and Stephen Sweigert, both 27 and from Cleves, were arrested because the couple drove from Cleves to purchase drugs on McKeone Avenue with their three children in tow.” Cheryl Beth drummed her fingers on the newsprint and sipped the coffee, scalding the inside of her mouth. She popped the lid off to let it cool.
When her cell phone rang, it showed a number she didn’t recognize. She keyed it to voice mail and drank the coffee, re-reading the news article. In a moment, the message icon appeared and she listened to a male voice, exuding authority. The coffee lost its taste.
The voice identified itself as Detective Hank Brooks of the Oxford Police Department. He took the time to spell his last name. Would she please come to the station as soon as possible? He gave her the address and his number. “Please come to the station, ma’am,” he reiterated. As a nurse, she had been calling women ma’am for her entire career, and came from a small town where “sirring” and “ma’amming” were as expected as church attendance. But now when she heard it, she felt old. The pretty young woman behind the counter had called her that when she had poured the coffee. Ma’am. It was a vain thought, she knew. Hearing it from Detective Hank Brooks-B-r-o-o-k-s-rekindled the dread in her stomach.
She could carry it off well. A bystander would see a woman in a black pant suit, pleasant face, idly watching the street through the window, tapping her fingers on the newspaper, slowly sipping her coffee. Cheryl Beth locked all her crises deep inside. Her training had taught her to mask emotions when necessary, to do the job. That was the way to be effective, the way to help people. But inside, she could feel her stomach muscles trembling.
Two girls dead in the Formal Gardens, hidden by a blue tarp. One of her students arrested. A crime so lurid it made her friend, the campus cop, look as if he were going to vomit. She thought more about Noah Smith. He seemed dependable and smart. He was getting good grades. A nice guy. Good-looking with an easy smile-too young and too skinny for her tastes-but he seemed popular with the women in class. He made them laugh. But she didn’t know him. Did you really know anyone? She couldn’t say she really knew her own mother. The blackness of her drink stared back at her. She pushed it aside and stood to go.
The Oxford Police Department was a short walk, sitting beside the quaint city hall at High and Poplar streets with its pitched roof, small tower, and white columns in front. The flowerbeds were blooming violet and white. The station itself was simpler, a squat addition with two windows and a door facing the street. She walked through the door and asked for Detective Brooks. She started to sit, studying the department’s shoulder patch with its American flag and eagle, “Police, City of Oxford, State of Ohio, Est. 1810.”
“Ms. Wilson?”
A man stuck his head out of a doorway and beckoned her inside. He was short and solid, somewhere around forty, with wavy brown hair and a bushy moustache. His handgun stuck out from his sport coat when he shook her hand. Hank Brooks mostly looked her in the eye, but also he gave her an appraising once-over. Up close, she realized he was only a little taller than her five-feet-five-inches. He moved with nervous energy barely contained.
“Come back, please. Thanks for coming in so soon.”
She said something polite. Then, “Is Noah here? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Brooks said, walking ahead of her down a hallway. “They’ve taken him to the Butler County jail.”
He led her into a room with a table and modern wheeled office chairs, upholstered in black. Bulletin boards and white boards lined the walls. She didn’t take the time to study their contents. He invited her to sit and left the door open.
“Did you know Noah Smith well?” Brooks asked. “How long did you know him?”
She told him all she knew. Noah was a third-year student, in her NSG 362 class, Nursing Care for Adults with Health Alterations. She typically team-taught with a woman with more academic experience. They made a good pair, Cheryl Beth bringing the real-world experience, leading the clinical part of the course that took place in the hospital. Noah was in his second semester with her.
“Was he moody? Did he have a temper?”
“Never that I saw.”
“Ever seem to be on drugs?”
Cheryl Beth shook her head. As a pain-management nurse, she was very good at spotting that kind of behavior, and Noah had never displayed it.
“What about with women? Was he hostile?”
“Not at all,” she said. “He got along well with the women students.”
“I guess that’s one reason to become a male nurse.” Brooks leaned back, stretched, and cradled the back of his head into his outstretched hands.
“We call them all nurses,” Cheryl Beth said. “It’s like not calling out gender differences between police officers.” That was the stress in her stomach talking. She tamped it down and smiled. “But, sure, men are still outnumbered by women in the program, and Noah is a good-looking guy.”
“Think that’s why he did it? To meet women?”
She couldn’t stop herself from making a face. “How about a personals ad in CityBeat? These students who have reached this level have worked very hard and they want to make nursing their career.”
He nodded, leaned forward, and opened a beaten-up brown portfolio. A yellow legal pad was filled with handwriting in blue ink. He flipped the page and began making new notes. Outside the door, she saw police officers walk past but the station seemed oddly quiet.
“What about you?”
She felt the sudden defensiveness of a driver going the speed limit who sees a patrol car behind her. “What about me?”
“You’re new to Miami.”
So he had checked on her. She wondered why.
“I was at Cincinnati Memorial Hospital. When it closed, I decided to try something new.”