The Professor (3 page)

He knew he should be pleased the papers had nothing to report, but he missed the validation of his careful planning. The current newspaper coverage made up for the prior oversight. The headlines were gratifying: “Serial Killer Slays Three” and “Serial Killer Stalks College Campuses.”

He liked that one. “Stalk” implied an appreciation of his efforts. “College campus” was riskier. It could reflect the women’s student status. It might also provide some insight into the police’s hypothesis: he traveled among the colleges seeking women. If so, it was concurrently right and wrong.

He returned to his den, intending to work, but found himself contemplating his current situation instead. All too soon, the coverage of Emily’s death would degenerate into a repetition of the same limited facts, followed by more inane commentary from a consulting psychologist. The Professor wasn’t sure if he found them an irritation or pompous frauds. Their sloppy research and analysis would never be tolerated in his field. Settling more comfortably in his desk chair, he reviewed their arguments.

They thought he was “afraid” of women; that he had “issues”—who came up with that term anyway? Whatever happened to plain-old problems?—with a domineering mother. After Ashley, they’d debated whether he was using a condom or “failing to
maintain an erection.” Whether he was a homosexual. Whether he could have normal sexual relations.

He’d laughed over that. How much more normal could you get than using a woman for her sole purpose in life—sex? He didn’t use a condom to protect himself from the women or disease. Semen was evidence, so he eliminated it.

None of them—the police, the shrinks, the reporters—understood. The pleasure, the euphoria transcended mere sex. He closed his eyes, sinking into the vivid memory:
He presses his palm against her flank, feeling the liquid warmth of her blood, hotter than her skin. Hot, like the passion that burns inside the human beast. Hot, like the life force that he has claimed.

He lifts his hand to his nose. The scent is distinctive and metallic. Opening his mouth, he licks the wet slickness. Even the taste is metallic. The ancients ate the flesh of their vanquished. Cut out the heart and consumed the soul, taking their enemy’s strength for their own.

Pressing his tongue to his palm, he savors the woman’s blood and feels her mystery enter him. It runs through him, triumphantly adding to his mastery. His penis stirs in response. Earlier, he’d climaxed explosively while his hands tightened around her neck. Her fear fed his appetite. Stripped of the veneer of respectability, she’d shown her true nature—a groveling whore. Pleading, desperately begging, offering her body in a pathetic bargain, as women have bargained throughout history. He’d held her destiny in his hands. He alone decided if she lived or died.

He stretches above her crimson-streaked body, displaying his magnificent erection to his silent audience. Leisurely, he takes her again. She is a compliant lover now, tireless and uncomplaining. The way a woman should be. His orgasm crests in a shuddering wave and he collapses in a heap, nearly as lifeless as the body beneath him.

The Professor sighed with remembered pleasure. His relaxed smile faded as he felt the dampness in his lap. His hand still grasped his tumescent penis. He didn’t remember unzipping his trousers.

With a spurt of humiliation, he realized the unexpected orgasm soiled his clothing.

His mother’s voice echoed in his mind.
You nasty pervert. Look at the mess you made, yanking on that pathetic worm. Clean up those sheets. Right now. Don’t let me catch you doing that again.

He hurried to the bathroom, mortification spoiling the glow he should still be enjoying. His face flamed and he avoided the mirror as he furtively swabbed at the stain.

No woman’s ever going to let you put that thing inside her. No one but a slut wants all that nasty mess dripping down her legs.

Emily let him. She let him do it as often as he wanted. She didn’t complain.

But she was a slut, like all the other women.

Resentment and bitterness crawled through his belly. He didn’t have to listen to his mother. He didn’t have to listen to any of them. They were all whores and liars, manipulative bitches. He was too smart for them. He was the one in control. He could do whatever he wanted. He could cum all over them if he wanted to.

He froze as full realization engulfed him. The fact hadn’t registered properly
before. He hadn’t used a condom that last time with Emily. He stared in horror at the traces of ejaculate on his trousers. He’d left semen inside her. He’d lost control.

Why can’t you control yourself? You’re nothing but a loser.
The taunting voice mocked him.

His hands shook. Control was everything.

Hurling the tissue at the toilet, he stripped off his clothing and jammed it in the sink.

“Control,” he chanted, until the mantra calmed him.

“Control,” he repeated as he hung the slacks to dry.

“Control,” he muttered as he donned clean clothing.

His panic receded to a tight, hard knot as his intellect reasserted itself. Most of the semen would have flushed down the toilet with the condoms from the earlier cycles of ejaculate. His body needed time to replenish the swimmers stored in his glands. Most of what he lost that last time was seminal fluid, not sperm.

Besides, his DNA wasn’t listed with the sex offender registry. The police had to find him by other means first. And the DNA could still be considered circumstantial. Damningly so, but it wasn’t a definitive indicator he’d defeated Emily. He could always claim a consensual liaison earlier in the day—before she met her destiny.

Calm again, he returned to the den and sat, idly twisting the swivel chair. What would he say if they questioned him? Staying as close to the truth as possible was best. That way, the lies wouldn’t swing around and contradict each other.

He could say he met Emily earlier this fall, when performing research at Windsor. She was studying and they shared a library table. A check of library records would confirm they were there together, lending credence to his story.

He’d followed her, letting her know she was his chosen one, but the police didn’t need to know that detail.

They’d had coffee, he decided. A reasonable fabrication. One thing led to another and they’d begun a secret affair. When he saw her on campus that Monday, he’d intended to end the relationship. She’d seduced him. He wasn’t proud of it. He should’ve shown more restraint, but she was a beautiful young woman and an accomplished lover. He could spin enough stories on that topic to make all of them fantasize for weeks. He smiled, a cruel twist of his lips, imagining the detectives masturbating over his inventions.

They didn’t have a clue. It wasn’t just the sex or the killing. If all he needed was some hag’s death, there were prostitutes and junkies available. No one missed them. The conquest, the intellectual challenge was equally important. Moreover, the target must be of a certain class, someone worthy of his attention. A woman who thought she was the equal of a man. Someone with that special spark, who captivated him until he conquered her. Someone like Alison, the brunette he’d followed to the Depot.

Catching himself before he drifted into another daydream, he acknowledged another point. The police had become an element in his game. Defeating them added to his triumph. He’d bested police departments throughout the state without their realizing it. Now, detectives in three cities knew he was their superior. State investigators had joined the hunt. They were all floundering helplessly in his wake.

This was the ultimate challenge, the quintessential hunt.

He executed it better than anyone.

Thursday, early evening

Meg slipped into the crowded Chi Zeta chapter room. Since she was the faculty advisor, the housemother had asked her to join the sorority sisters, but hadn’t said what the meeting was about. She suspected it would cover safety. The news about Emily’s murder had swept through the campus with a more deadly chill than the October breeze would ever produce.

Two men, cops by their appearance, stood in front of the fireplace. The older one looked like the type of father she’d always wanted—kind and approachable. Someone she could go to for advice or help. Completely unlike her father.
Don’t go there. It is what it is.

She turned to the younger officer and caught her breath. Black hair, blue eyes. Model-worthy cheekbones, a strong jaw, an unsmiling mouth. And the kind of charisma that was giving every woman in the room whiplash as their heads snapped around for a second look. He was exactly the sort of man she’d spent years avoiding.

He looked up suddenly, as if she’d called his name, his intensity pinning her in place. The tension was immediate, as if a wire stretched between them—with the current turned on. For a second, he looked as stunned as she felt. She wrenched her gaze away and scanned the room. Lisa had saved a seat on the couch for her.

Eyes focused straight ahead, Meg angled across the room toward her best friend. The cop looked too much like a polished version of Steven, someone she didn’t want to think about ever again. Seven long years later, the impact of Steven’s betrayal hadn’t faded. That man’s lies and deceit remained his responsibility, but her reaction to them—her actions—were her choice.

And she chose to ignore the handsome policeman.

She sat beside Lisa, determined to put the past behind her. She felt the policeman’s gaze on her. Like a physical touch, it tugged at her, demanding attention. It took every ounce of her considerable willpower not to look at him. She was so close to finishing her master’s degree, to walking through the doors it would open, to showing everybody what she could do, all by herself. No way was she going to let a man— especially someone so much like Steven—distract her.

The older man introduced himself. “I’m Agent Meyers. This is Agent O’Shaughnessy. We’re part of a task force that’s investigating a series of murders. We’ve been asked to look into the incident that occurred yesterday evening, and we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

A ripple ran around the room and everyone braced for news of a murder.

“We understand Deidre Hammond is a member of this sorority.”

Didi? What does any of this have to do with her?
She’d been conspicuously absent today. Had something happened to her after Marie hustled her back to her room?

“We’ll talk with you individually, but can anyone give us background on the events leading up to her kidnapping? Did anyone witness the events surrounding the assault? Was there any harassment or stalking prior to it?”

Jaws dropped around the room, and several people clamped hands over incipient laughter. “Kidnapping.” Someone giggled. “Who assaulted who?”

“Do you know that guy?” Lisa whispered in Meg’s ear. “He’s staring at you.”

She shook her head, dismissing the lingering memories. “Something about him
does
feel familiar.”

“Like déjà vu?”

A smile curved Meg’s lips. “I don’t think that applies to people.”

“Well, maybe you knew him in a previous life.”

Trust Lisa to say something out-there.
“Right. You learned that in a dream?” Meg hid her smile behind her hand.

“He can feature in my dreams any time he wants to.”

She risked a glance at him. His black-and-cream tweed sports coat and black slacks showed off his build nicely. “He’s too old for you.”

“Age and experience, girlfriend. He looks like he has both.”

Heads were turning and suddenly both cops were focused on them. “Do you find this amusing?” the older one asked.

Oh well. So much for that setting-a-good-example thing.

Lisa slid onto her lower spine, producing the round-eyed innocence of the Gerber Baby. Meg struggled to put a serious expression on her face and failed completely. “I’m sorry. We were talking about something else. But I don’t understand your assault and kidnapping question. What does it have to do with Didi?”

“Our unsub—unidentified subject—may have assaulted other women in addition to those he’s killed. If he assaulted Ms. Hammond, one of you may be able to give us valuable information about him.”

“Officer, we’re all assuming you’re talking about the fountain incident. Did something else happen to Didi?”

“Why don’t you tell us what you observed last night?” the younger officer interjected.

“If we’re talking about events at the Trev, I don’t know what you were told, but you’re way off base.” Meg ignored the whispers and giggles and kept her attention safely focused on the older man. “I missed the first part of the show, but Didi climbed into that fountain under her own power. Brad was so drunk a couple of his frat brothers had to practically carry him over there. And assault?” She shook her head, noting the incredulous expression that came and went on the officer’s face. “Didi was as glad to see Brad as he was to see her.”

Meg shook her head, letting dismay color her voice. “From your expression, you
are
asking about the incident in the fountain.” She swung her gaze around the chapter room, allowing it to linger on women she remembered seeing with Didi the previous evening. A couple of the women looked like they thought she was selling Didi out, but most looked relieved someone had called the spectacle for what it was—stupidity.

“This is your chance to step up. Apparently, these officers were pulled off a murder investigation to check out a case of public drunkenness. You know how I feel about personal responsibility, but how does that sit with y’all?”

The sorority sisters whispered among themselves. Meg glanced at the policemen. Both were watching her, clearly curious about her role. Quickly, she turned back to the group of women. “If you know anything about the fountain incident, please talk to one of the detectives. The rest of you, don’t y’all have exams to study for?”

She risked another glance at the officers. “Unless there’s something else you wanted to discuss—a new development in the murders?”

The older man said, “We’re continuing our investigation. We would like to talk to as many of you as possible, though, to clarify yesterday evening’s activities and wrap up that part of our inquiry.”

The crowd broke into chattering groups. Some moved toward the door while others approached the policemen. Meg noticed a disproportionate number surrounded the younger man. Deliberately turning her back on him, she casually made her way across the room. The sorority president—one of Didi’s closest friends—gave Meg a drop-dead scowl. She swept past, flanked by two of her cohorts. Meg mentally shrugged. As the advisor, she was supposed to take a leadership role. If the president wanted to defend Didi or offer another version of events, she should have done it instead of acting like a foiled two-year-old.

As the women trickled out of the room, Meg spoke to most, a word about homecoming planning, a reminder about safety. Without being obvious, she made certain the fountain frolic ringleaders talked to one of the policemen.

And she very carefully avoided making eye contact with the younger cop, who seemed to be looking at her every time she glanced his way.

“I’d stick around, but I have to finish a paper.” Lisa slid an arm around Meg’s waist. “I want to hear all about Officer Delicious later.”

“There won’t be anything to tell,” Meg said.

Lisa laughed and trotted up the stairs. A grad student and Chi Zeta alumni, she was renting a room in the sorority house. At times, Lisa’s decision to live there made Meg’s advisor role easier; at others, the logic behind it completely baffled her.

Only a few women remained in the chapter room. Meg caught the housemother’s attention, raised her hand in a small wave and slipped out the door.

Halfway across the lobby, strong fingers closed around her arm. “Excuse me.”

She knew without looking it was the younger cop. He spun her, and she ended up nearly chest-to-chest with him. Her eyes were level with his mouth, which was drawn in a tight line. A shadow underlay the skin on his jaw, and it took a conscious effort not to stroke the plane of his cheek.

Mind over hormones.
She refused to be attracted to him, even as her body responded to his warm proximity. She forced her eyes up to meet his. At this distance, she could see the web of darker blue shooting through the iris. His eyes locked onto hers and slowly darkened. Her good intentions fled with the wordless communication.

His hand rose, fingers cupped as if to caress her cheek. They hovered, inches from her face, then abruptly, he blinked, dropped his hand and stepped back. “I have a few more questions.”

She blushed, disoriented. “I don’t know anything more than I said in there.”

“You’re telling me this ‘assault’ was actually consensual groping.”

She nodded, struggling to regain her composure. Surely he’d heard a dozen versions of the incident. “Didn’t the women tell you?”

He ignored her question.

Trying to distance herself physically as well as emotionally, she stepped back and silently studied him. An expressionless mask covered his face, but she felt his anger behind it.

Taking a slow breath, he widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest, making him look bigger and more authoritarian. “I was told Ms. Hammond didn’t
drink. She’s underage. She reported being unable to remember events, blocks of time, which is consistent with a date rape drug’s effects.”

Meg sighed and crossed her own arms. Relieved he was putting a professional spin on the conversation, she pushed the surge of attraction firmly into its corner. “Not being able to remember is consistent with being drunk, hung over and embarrassed the next day too.”

“Was the man—”

“Her boyfriend, Brad.” Another prime example of too much money and not enough parental involvement during his formative years.

“—giving her the drinks?”

Meg shoved her exasperation aside and pulled up her teaching tone—calm and even. “I wasn’t there when Didi was drinking, but Brad didn’t show up until later. After she was already in the fountain. Dancing her little heart out, by the way.”

He ignored that. “You didn’t observe the transfer to the fountain or the preceding events.”

“I was in the library.”

“So you don’t know if she was coerced or not.”

Meg’s patience evaporated. She flung open her hands. “Look, I don’t know how you got dragged into this, but Didi screwed up and, like always, she’s trying to make it someone else’s fault.”

He looked at her for a long moment. The muscle in his jaw jumped. “I was asked to investigate.”

He didn’t say by whom.
Didi’s family was wealthy and well-connected. Her father probably told the police chief his precious baby was attacked, and these guys got stuck coming out to look into it. For half a second, she felt sorry for the detective.

“Can you verify your whereabouts?” He removed a notepad from his jacket pocket.

“Excuse me?” Her sympathy fled.

“Ms. Hammond apparently drank with someone,” he said patiently. “I need to know who was there and who
wasn’t
involved. You said you were in the library. Can anyone confirm that?”

“Why do I need—” She bit off the rest of the question.
He’s just doing his job
. “The people around me. I signed out some reference books. The check-out slip shows I left at midnight, just before the library closed. I walked back over here afterward. That takes about ten minutes.”

He frowned. “You walked back alone? That late?”

“I usually do.”

“Don’t you have an escort service? Especially now?”

“A couple of students caught up with me. We heard the noise at the fountain and went to investigate.”

He asked a few more questions about the bacchanal. “Okay. That gives me a clearer picture of events. What’s your name and number?”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” His pen hovered over his notepad.

“Why do you need my name? I already told you what I know.”

“Investigation? Witness? Statement? Any part of that you missed?”

She rolled her eyes to cover her embarrassment. “You don’t think this was a kidnapping and assault any more than I do. Surely you have better things to do.”

With a sigh, he lowered his pen. “Sometimes you gotta go through the motions, okay? And yes, I have better things to do. So let’s wrap this up, and I’ll help Agent Meyers gather the last of these incredibly informative statements.”

He fished in his pocket and handed her his card. “Call me if you remember anything relevant. Now, let’s try this again. Name?”

“Meg Connelly.”

“A good Irish name.” His smile lit up his face.

She inhaled sharply. Lord, he was intoxicating.

“Number?”

“Just call the house phone.” He didn’t need to know she didn’t have her own line.

Or how to reach her, period.