“Nothing to do with what, Thomas?”
Catching himself, Tommy realized he may have just hooked himself without knowing. Or maybe, he just bought himself and the Wyatts some time.
“Fine,” he said with hesitation. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just leave them out of this.” Desperation was in his voice.
“What happens to them is determined by our success.” He stepped closer, around the desk, and leaned in so that Tommy could smell the pungent and probably overpriced cologne the man was wearing. A cruel grin crossed his face. “Now, tell me everything.”
“What do I call you?”
Standing erect, as if considering what harm could come from his prisoner knowing his name, he then responded, “I have had many names, but you may call me Jens Ulrich.”
Chapter 12
The campus at Kennesaw State University sits about twenty minutes north of downtown Atlanta, Georgia, just outside of the I-285 perimeter. Some of the more socially concerned citizens of the city look down on those who lived outside of the encompassing highway. Silly, Morris thought, that people would think in such terms. It was the modern day version of living on the wrong side of the tracks, though, in many ways, this particular wrong side of the tracks seemed much more enviable. Even with the encroaching urban sprawl, the area to the north of Atlanta had remained a nice place. Just one exit down from the university, a shopping center had grown from what was once just a mall, to a town unto itself.
Even more impressive was the university. Quite young, as colleges go, Kennesaw State had only been established in 1963. However, in just forty years, the campus had grown to become the third largest school in the state, boasting an enrollment of over 16,000 students. The newest addition was the remarkable student village that had been constructed over the last three years. A school that only a decade ago had no student housing, now possessed one of the nicest dorm facilities in the country. It made him wish he were a freshman in college again. The brick and stucco combinations were topped by neo-Dutch roofing. The promenades and brick walkways that led from one housing hall to another were designed like that of a European town, complete with fountains in the middle of small plazas, Euro-style cafes, and a village convenience store.
The school was renowned as one of the top baseball programs in the country. KSU had also won NCAA Division II National Titles in Women’s Soccer and Men’s Basketball, all remarkable achievements and all in such a short time.
Social status was overrated, Trent thought, as he walked along the concrete toward the library. He lived fairly close to the university, depending on the time of day. If it was from 7:00 a.m. until 10:00 a.m. or 3:00 in the afternoon until 8:00 at night, it would take him more than an hour or so to get from one point to the other. Otherwise, it would only take him fifteen minutes.
He hated the traffic. The city had done all it could to create as many lanes as possible to keep the traffic problem to a minimum, but to no avail. Atlanta had recently been deemed the city with the worst traffic in America.
He rounded the corner of one of the older buildings on campus and entered the parking lot of the library. Directly in front of the structure, a flag flew at half mast. He’d noticed a few others on campus paying the same tribute. The crime scene had been removed, replaced by flowers and candles in the spot where the killing had taken place. The library was back in business, though at this time of day, was not bustling with the rush of students desperate to finish papers and projects. Of course, with the arrival of the information super highway that was the internet, libraries had become less of a valuable commodity. Those who needed to research a topic nowadays simply had to do a search on Google or Yahoo. Seemingly endless amounts of knowledge pouring down from the ages were available at the click of a button. The antiquated libraries full of musty old books had been replaced by laptops at a Barnes and Noble or any number of coffee shops that offered free Wi-Fi.
Thinking about things like that made Trent feel like he was getting older. He was only thirty-eight, but a time when the internet and email didn’t exist or when people didn’t have cell phones seemed like ancient history.
All of these things ran through his mind and made him smile, just slightly, as he swung open the door to the main entrance. The library itself was not very large. It was one of the first buildings constructed during the initial building phase in the 1960s — when the college was established. Apparently, expansion had only occurred as necessary. He made his way over to the librarian desk to where a short, red-haired woman was busily stamping books. She looked to be in her mid-forties. As he stepped up to the counter, her attention went from the books to the tall, black man in a trench-coat at her desk.
“Can I help you?” She asked politely, setting aside what she was doing.
He returned a polite smile. “Yes, Ma’am,” he pulled his wallet from inside the jacket to show his identification. “My name is Detective Trent Morris. I was wondering if someone here could answer a few questions for me.”
The red-head looked at him, quizzically. “Well, I’m the one you would need to speak with. I am the head librarian here,” she paused, “but I thought the police had already finished up their investigation.”
“They have.” And since he wasn’t assigned to this case, he needed to cover his tracks a little. “I was just stopping by to do a little follow up. You know, make sure that everything has gone back to normal as much as possible. It’s kind of a new customer service thing we’re doing at the department. Give a better image of the police and all that.”
Apparently, she bought it and smiled. “Well, I appreciate you checking on us. Things are starting to get going again, but it will be a long time before things are back to normal.” Her eyes seemed to focus on a random spot on the carpet ten feet away. “Dr. Borringer was a well liked man here. Lots of people knew him. It truly is a great loss for the university family and the community.”
“You didn’t happen to see him the night he died, did you?”
She looked down at the desk, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “Yes. I saw him just before I closed up.”
“I’m sorry to put you through this again. Please forgive…”
“It’s okay,” she cut him off, “really. Dr. Borringer had a key I had given him. It was a common thing for him to stay here later than the staff, so I just let him lock up when he was done with whatever project he was working on. Other than the person that killed him, I think I was the last person to see Frank before he died.”
Trent gave her a moment to have that thought. Then pressed on, “Do you happen to know what he was working on that night?”
She wiped her eyes with a tissue from a nearby box and gave a slight sniffle. “I don’t really know. Dr. Borringer was in here all the time. It’s anybody’s guess what he may have been doing.”
Somewhere upstairs, a vacuum was running. The clock on the wall read 7:08. On the way to the library, he had called Will to find out if he knew anything about the murder. From what he’d heard, they had no suspects and no leads, only Wyatt.
Looking down at her nametag, he revived the conversation, “Darcy, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. I just wanted to stop by and make sure things were getting along as best as could be expected.” He handed her his business card. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you, or if you come across anything unusual you think we should know about.”
The smile returned to her face. “Thanks. I will.”