Nick Stephenson - Panic

“I’m fine! And besides, I reckon I saved your life. Without me, who knows what that sicko would have done.”

Pausing for a moment, the consultant turned to face Albert. “You’re right, I owe you a debt of gratitude. If you ever need anything from me, just ask. I officially owe you one.”

The group reached the heavy wooden doors that opened out into the entrance lobby of the library. The doorway itself was nearly twenty feet high, but was dwarfed by the fourteen enormous columns above that helped support the library’s hulking stone frame and its contents of nearly two million books.

Inside, the cavernous main hall rose over three stories from the polished floor to the gilded ceiling, with long, three-tiered chandeliers that hung at regular intervals across the room. Despite the ornate lighting, the room received most of its illumination from the tall windows that stretched the height of the walls, letting in enough sun that Leopold wondered why the lights were switched on at all. The library smelled of cold stone and polished oak, and was silent enough that he felt a little self-conscious breathing. The only faint noises were the soft clacks of computer keyboards and the scribble of pens and pencils on notepads.

After a short ride in the elevators, the doors opened out onto the sixth floor of the library and Leopold set off in the direction of the faculty offices, with the others close behind.

The rare books and manuscripts section was more modern than many of the other areas of the library, with controlled lighting and glass-fronted display cabinets stretching out the full length of the corridors. As they walked through, Leopold glanced with interest at the selection of ancient texts, artwork, and tablets that sat behind the reinforced displays.

“There’s over four thousand years of history housed up here,” he said. “And around fourteen miles of manuscripts stored alongside about half a million books detailing the entirety of human civilization. Right here is the culmination of all mankind’s achievements since we learned how to write.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” said Mary. “I’ll be sure to check something out on the way back. Do you think they’ll give me a library card?”

He gave up and sighed. “Just don’t touch anything.”

“Roger that.” She gave a mock-salute and rolled her eyes.

They soon found the office area, exactly as Marty had described. There were five offices in total, each facing out onto a central reading area with three tables and some scattered chairs. The only sound was the buzz of an overhead neon light in its final throes and the soft thrum of the air conditioning. Leopold spotted Locke’s office in the far corner, just a windowless door with his name written in magic marker on a scrap of paper and taped to the wood. Leopold knocked gently.

“Come in,” a muffled voice came from inside.

Leopold opened the door and stepped inside, followed closely by the others. Professor Locke’s office was a mess, with boxes of stacked papers lining the edges of the walls and loose manuscripts and battered textbooks scattered around the floor. Locke himself stood with his shirt sleeves rolled up, sweating from what Leopold assumed was the effort of unpacking all the heavy books. The professor was short and overweight. His dark hair was slicked back with greasy hair gel, and his white shirt was littered with various stains, both old and new, all of varying color. Set on one of the shelves where he had finished unpacking was a half-eaten sandwich. The room smelled like mustard.

“What do you want?” Locke asked, leaning against the bookshelf and wiping his brow with the back of his forearm.

“Professor Brian Locke?” asked Leopold

“Yeah. Like I said, what do you want? You ain’t students of mine, and I got work to do.”

“We’re here to talk to you about Christina Logan. One of your students, right?” said Leopold, taking a step forward.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Leopold Blake, and this is Mary Jordan of the NYPD. The tall gentleman is my security officer, Jerome, and this is a private consultant, Albert Fitzgerald. We’re working with Christina’s father, Senator Logan.”

Locke took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, contemplating. He picked up the unfinished sandwich and took a large bite, dropping crumbs onto his already-filthy shirt. He continued speaking with his mouth full.

“Yeah, that’sh me. What’sh thish all about?”

“When was the last time you saw Christina?” asked Leopold.

Locke finished his mouthful of sandwich and made a smacking noise. He kept the rest in his hand as he spoke, pausing only to wipe his mouth.

“Erm… Must have been a couple days ago during class. Why? Where is she?”

“She’s been kidnapped,” said Mary, holding up her police shield.

Locke dropped his sandwich. “Wh – what? Is she okay?”

“We have evidence that you were sending Christina threatening emails. Can you explain?”

“No! I w – wouldn’t! She’s a student of mine. Why would I want to do that?”

“The computer in the basement. I have a copy of the entire hard drive, along with security records of you in the building at the time the emails were sent.”

Locke began to sweat, tiny beads of perspiration forming on his greasy brow. Jerome cracked his knuckles and Locke flinched slightly, considering his options.

“Okay, okay! I admit it! I sent her some… unsavory emails. But I would never hurt her!” said the professor, palms up.

“What relationship existed between you and Christina?”

“There was no relationship. Nothing more than professor and student.”

“Then why send those messages? Were you in love with her?”

“I – I asked her out once. She said no.”

“That’s it?” said Mary, folding her arms.

“W – well, I asked her out again and she got pretty mad. Threatened to report me to the dean. Little bitch. I got a little mad,” said Locke, avoiding the police sergeant’s stare.

“The last email said that you knew some kind of secret. What did that mean?”

“N – nothing! I was just… bluffing! Wanted to scare her a little, that’s all. I swear!”

Mary frowned. “You’re lying, Brian. Tell us the truth.”

“I’m not lying!” he said, trembling.

“Your voice raises in pitch by several tones when you lie,” said Leopold, interrupting. “You also stutter, and you can’t stop playing with your hands.”

Locke looked down at his hands and shoved them into his pockets. “Fine. Ask your damn questions.”

“There’s only one thing I’m interested in,” said Leopold. “Tell me about this so-called family secret. Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

Locke slumped in his desk chair and took a deep breath. “There was a fundraising benefit held at the University last month, and my department was invited. I noticed that Christina and her father were there as well, so naturally I kept and eye on them during the meal.” He paused.

“Keep going,” said Leopold.

“I first noticed something was a little odd when I went to the bathroom just after the appetizers. I remember, it was this really great French onion soup with the nicest little -”

“Get to the point, Brian,” said Mary.

“Oh – right. Yeah, so I go to the bathroom and I see these guys out in the hallway, all dressed up in business suits and looking like they were waiting for someone. I heard one of them mention Logan’s name. Sounded like they were pretty desperate to speak to him.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well, I went back to the table and waited for the senator to get up and leave. Then I followed him. He met with the guys in the suits and they went into a room together. It all felt a little cloak and dagger to me, so I listened in.”