Paul Cleave - Collecting Cooper

“Can I ask you something else, Adrian?”

“It’s my turn to ask you questions,” Adrian answers. “How do you feel when you kill somebody?”

Like you don’t already know .

He can tell Adrian that he feels nothing, no ecstasy or remorse, but he takes the other path instead. “I like to hear them beg for their lives. Is that why I’m here?” he asks. “Because you want to be like me?”

“You wouldn’t want to be like me,” Adrian says. “I’m too average for anybody to want to be like me.”

Adrian is right. Being like him is the last thing Cooper wants. “I doubt you’re average, Adrian. None of this seems average.”

Adrian doesn’t answer. Just shrugs the way an average man would when he can’t make a decision.

“What do you do for a living? Do you have a job?” he asks, wishing he could take notes.

“You think you already know, don’t you,” Adrian says, and he shuffles the books around so they’re no longer straight. “You’ve already built up a profile of me.”

It’s true, and part of the profile Cooper has come up with has Adrian sorting out colored buttons from other colored buttons, or sweeping floors, or he receives disability benefits. Does he drive? Yes, because he brought Cooper here. Does he have friends? No. Does he live here alone? Yes.

“No, I haven’t built up any profile,” Cooper answers. “Only thing I’ve been thinking about is how my friends and family are going to miss me. My mother relies on me, Adrian, to look after her.”

“You hate your mother.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because all serial killers hate their mothers.”

True. Most serial killers do hate their mothers. Cooper loves his. “You’re right, Adrian, I hate my mother,” he says, the words sitting uncomfortably. He can’t stomach the idea of her finding out he’s missing. “But she still relies on me, and I’m worried about what she’ll do if I’m not there to help her. I’m scared of her.”

“It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

“And the police? They’re going to be looking for me. Have you thought about that?”

Adrian smiles, and Cooper can tell that he has. “I’ve taken care of that. For you. You don’t want them finding out you’re a serial killer, I mean, you don’t want them knowing, right?”

“How have you taken care of it?”

“I’m tired,” Adrian says. “I’m not used to staying up late. We can talk again tomorrow if you like. I know I want to. I hope you want to too.”

“Of course I do, buddy,” he says, and Adrian winces and Cooper knows he’s pushed too far.

“I’m not your buddy,” Adrian says. “You’re trying to trick me.”

Shit. Now what? Own up? Or jump further in? “It’s true,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s already a connection between us. Come on, Adrian, you must feel it too, right?”

“You think I’m a fool,” Adrian answers, and with that, he turns away and runs up the stairs, leaving Cooper alone in the dark, angry and disappointed with himself.

It’s my first day waking up as a free man. I put my phone on charge and refuel on a bowl of cereal before heading out into the heat to find Emma Green alive and well. That’s the goal. That’s the frame of mind I’m going to keep. Yesterday was hot and today is even hotter. There are no clouds in the sky and if there were they’d probably catch fire. Mother Nature is holding her breath because there isn’t the slightest hint of any breeze. Smoke hangs to the south over the Port Hills, blazing scrub fires turning the sky out there gray. Last night I left the rental in the driveway and I suffer for that now, the steering wheel hot to touch and my sunglasses, which I left on the dashboard, burn the bridge of my nose. I leave the doors open and let things cool before hitting the road. It’s nearly ten o’clock and the traffic is much thinner than it would have been an hour ago. Everybody looks tired. Everybody looks like they want to take the day off from whatever it is they’re doing and spend it inside sleeping. It’s no different when I reach Canterbury University. The parking lot is a quarter full and the silver birches lining it are less tree than they are kindling. The people climbing out of their cars are all in a daze.

Canterbury University is a mismatch of old and modern buildings-many how you’d imagine a Soviet university to look at the peak of the cold war, the rest how you’d imagine a university to look if it were built on the moon. There are older, Gothic-style buildings of the same era as Jack the Ripper, gray stone covered in soot and bird shit and dirt picked up and dumped on them from the nor’west winds. Mixed among them are modern buildings with big steel beams and long glass frontages covered in fingerprints and streaks from whoever cleaned them last. None of the buildings have much in the way of curves, any extra shape outside of a square being a cost the university wasn’t prepared to spend. Most of the students are in T-shirts and shorts, but there are still those in black trench coats from thrift shops with black or white shirts and black jeans, badges on their jackets, both men and women with eyeliner, defying the hot weather to show off their angst. At least half of the students are walking along with their faces down, their eyes locked on their cell phones as their thumbs dance across the keys sending out texts, just the occasional glance upward so as not to walk into a wall or another cell phone user. Even more of them have white wires leading from their ears to a pocket somewhere. I ask for directions and to these people it’s like helping the elderly.

I reach the lecture hall where Emma Green’s next class is. Outside is a sculpture painted bright colors and made from wooden beams that looks more like bad carpentry than good art. I’m not sure what it’s meant to represent, or whether Superman just came along and meshed together all the bus stop benches he could find. There’s a group of students hanging about outside in the shade, sitting on the lawn. They tell me their lecturer hasn’t shown up yet. I ask them about Emma and most of them remember seeing her in the class but never really knew her. Some have been questioned by the police, and those who did know a little something about Emma are eager to go over what they told them. I spend a productive hour waiting with them; their psychology professor never shows up. It turns out their professor also teaches criminology but only to students who have taken psychology for three years. The fact it’s a psychology class means everybody offers an insight into Emma’s disappearance, some of them likely hoping an accurate assessment of the situation will get them an A. I figure that’s the norm. I figure about two weeks into studying psychology you start self-diagnosing yourself, and then everybody else. As helpful as they all are, I’m saddened by them too, there’s an excited atmosphere surrounding them, brought on by the knowledge that one of their own is about to hit the headlines in the worst way possible, and some relief too that it isn’t any of them.

“This lecturer that didn’t show up today,” I say, speaking to a girl with a dozen earrings in her left ear and hair not much longer than her nails. She’s wearing a skin-tight T-shirt with the words Underage Sperm Bank across it. “I’d like to talk to him as well. What’s his name?”

“He’s actually a professor,” she says, “and he doesn’t really like it if you make that mistake,” she says, summing him up in one sentence. “You got a cigarette I can have?”

“I don’t smoke. The professor’s name?” I ask because she appears to have forgotten I asked.