Jeffry Lindsay - Dexter in the Dark

Just to watch; sometimes it was enough. Of course there was the sure knowledge that watching would lead inevitably to the surging heat and glorious flow of blood, the overwhelming pulse of emotions throbbing from the victims, the rising music of the ordered madness as the sacrifice flew into wonderful death…All this would come. For now, it was enough for the Watcher to observe and soak in the delicious feeling of anonymous, ultimate power. He could feel the unease of the other. That unease would grow, rising through the musical range into fear, then panic, and at last full-fledged terror. It would all come in good time.

The Watcher saw the other scanning the crowd, flailing about for some clue to the source of the blossoming sense of danger that tickled at his senses. He would find nothing, of course. Not yet. Not until he determined that the time was right. Not until he had run the other into dull mindless panic. Only then would he stop watching and begin to take final action.

And until then-it was time to let the other begin to hear the music of fear.

HER NAME WAS JESSICA ORTEGA. SHE WAS A JUNIOR AND lived in one of the nearby residence halls. We got the room number from Kurt, and Deborah left Angel to wait at the kilns until a squad car arrived to take over.

I never knew why they were called residence halls instead of dormitories. Perhaps it was because they looked so much like hotels nowadays. There were no ivy-covered walls bedecking the hallowed halls here, the lobby had lots of glass and potted plants, and the halls were carpeted and clean and new-looking.

We stopped at the door of Jessica’s room. It had a small, neat card taped at eye level that read ARIEL GOLDMAN & JESSICA ORTEGA. Below that in smaller print it said INTOXICANTS REQUIRED FOR ENTRY. Someone had underlined “Entry” and scrawled below it YOU THINK ?

Deborah raised an eyebrow at me. “Party girls,” she said.

“Somebody has to do it,” I said.

She snorted and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and Debs waited a full three seconds before knocking again, much harder.

I heard a door open behind me and turned to see a reed-thin girl with short blond hair and glasses looking at us. “They’re not here,” she said with clear disapproval. “For like a couple of days. First quiet I’ve had all semester.”

“Do you know where they went?” Deborah asked her.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Must be a major kegger somewhere,” she said.

“When was the last time you saw them?” Deborah said.

The girl shrugged. “With those two it’s not seeing them, it’s hearing them. Loud music and laughing all night, okay? Major pain in the butt for somebody who actually studies and goes to class.” She shook her head, and her short hair riffled around her face. “I mean, please.”

“So when was the last time you heard them?” I asked her.

She looked at me. “Are you like cops or something? What did they do now?”

“What have they done before?” Debs asked.

She sighed. “Parking tickets. I mean, lots of them. DUI once. Hey, I don’t want to sound like I’m ratting them out or something.”

“Would you say it’s unusual for them to be away like this?” I said.

“What’s unusual is if they show up to class. I don’t know how they pass anything. I mean,” she gave us half a smirk, “I can probably guess how they pass, but…” She shrugged. She did not share her guess with us, unless you counted her smirk.

“What classes do they have together?” Deborah asked.

The girl shrugged again and shook her head. “You’d have to check like the registrar,” she said.

It was not a terribly long walk to see like the registrar, especially at the pace Deborah set. I managed to keep up with her and still have enough breath to ask her a pointed question or two. “Why does it matter what classes they had together?”

Deborah made an impatient gesture with her hand. “If that girl is right, Jessica and her roommate-”

“Ariel Goldman,” I said.

“Right. So if they are trading sex for good grades, that makes me want to talk to their professors.”

On the surface, that made sense. Sex is one of the most common motives for murder, which does not seem to fit in with the fact that it is often rumored to be connected to love. But there was one small thing that did not make sense. “Why would a professor cook them and cut off their heads like that? Why not just strangle them and throw the bodies in a Dumpster?”

Deborah shook her head. “It’s not important how he did it. What matters is whether he did.”

“All right,” I said. “And how sure are we that these two are the victims?”

“Sure enough to talk to their teachers,” she said. “It’s a start.”

We arrived at the registrar’s office, and when Debs flashed her badge we were shown right in. But it was a good thirty minutes of Deborah pacing and muttering while I went through the computer records with the registrar’s assistant. Jessica and Ariel were, in fact, in several of the same classes, and I printed out the names, office numbers, and home addresses of the professors. Deborah glanced at the list and nodded. “These two guys, Bukovich and Halpern, have office hours now,” she said. “We can start with them.”

Once again Deborah and I stepped out into the muggy day for a stroll across campus.

“It’s nice to be back on campus, isn’t it?” I said, in my always futile effort to keep a pleasant flow of conversation going.

Deborah snorted. “What’s nice is if we can get a definite ID on the bodies and maybe move a little closer to grabbing the guy who did this.”

I did not think that identifying the bodies would really move us closer to identifying the killer, but I have been wrong before, and in any case police work is powered by routine and custom, and one of the proud traditions of our craft was that it was good to know the dead person’s name. So I willingly trundled along with Deborah to the office building where the two professors waited.

Professor Halpern’s office was on the ground floor just inside the main entrance, and before the outer door could swing shut Debs was already knocking on his door. There was no answer. Deborah tried the knob. It was locked, so she thumped on the door again with the same lack of result.

A man came strolling along the hall and stopped at the office next door, glancing at us with a raised eyebrow. “Looking for Jerry Halpern?” he said. “I don’t think he’s in today.”

“Do you know where he is?” Deborah said.

He gave us a slight smile. “I imagine he’s home, at his apartment, since he’s not here. Why do you ask?”

Debs pulled out her badge and showed it to him. He didn’t seem impressed. “I see,” he said. “Does this have anything to do with the two dead bodies across campus?”

“Do you have any reason to think it would?” Deborah said.

“N-n-n-o,” he said, “not really.”

Deborah looked at him and waited, but he didn’t say anything more. “Can I ask your name, sir?” she said at last.

“I’m Dr. Wilkins,” he said, nodding toward the door he stood in front of. “This is my office.”

“Dr. Wilkins,” Deborah said. “Could you please tell me what your remark about Professor Halpern means?”

Wilkins pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, hesitating, “Jerry’s a nice enough guy, but if this is a murder investigation…” He let it hang for a moment. So did Deborah. “Well,” he said at last, “I believe it was last Wednesday I heard a disturbance in his office.” He shook his head. “These walls are not terribly thick.”