Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

“You tell me how else the killer could have known so quickly that the FBI was going to confiscate the computers. Someone had to have tipped him off. It wasn’t Daria and it wasn’t me.” His face was unreadable. “That brings me back to the little group in your office.”

“I can’t believe…” She shook her head.

“I need their phone numbers, Louise.”

She wrote down the names and looked up the numbers and handed them over.

“Thank you. Now do me one more favor.” He glanced at the note before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t give anyone a heads-up this time.”

Connor walked up the library steps, his ID in his right hand. He showed it to the Howeville police officer at the top of the steps, and again to the state trooper inside the front door. On his way to the basement, he ran into the two FBI agents who’d been sent to deal with the computers.

“Hey, Jason. Claire.” He greeted them from the top of the steps, about to go down as they were about to come up.

“Connor, this your gig?” Jason Taylor called from the bottom of the stairwell.

“Not officially.” He reached the last step. “You finished with the computers?”

“Yeah. He only used that one.” Claire Mitchell told him. “And that one…there’s nothing left. He smashed it but good, took the hard drive with him. He left nothing behind.”

“Prints?” Connor asked.

“The computer’s in a public place, who the hell knows how many people have used that machine? I don’t think prints are going to help.”

“You’re finished here?” Connor started walking to the cubicles.

“Yeah. There’s nothing we can extract, with the hard drive gone.”

“You’re sure none of the others were used?”

“Positive,” Claire told him. “This guy stuck to the one machine. We ran them all six ways to Sunday and back. They’re clean.”

“You taking what’s left of the computer with you?”

“Yeah. It’s evidence.” Jason pulled a plastic toothpick from his pocket and chewed on the end of it. “It’s ours.”

Connor stood over the demolished computer. “I want prints run.”

“Connor, hundreds of people have used this machine.”

“Yeah, but only one person beat the crap out of it. Maybe he got personal with it, maybe picked up a piece or two and smashed it against something else.” He got down on one knee and stared at the cracked edge of the laminate desktop, then looked up and smiled. “Let’s get the evidence guys in here to dust everything. Every piece of the machine, every inch of the desk, the chair. I have a feeling he left more of himself behind than he’d intended.”

“Chief Thorpe,” Connor called to the head of the local police department.

“Agent Shields.” The older man nodded politely. “You’re not going to gum up my works, are you?”

“The murder investigation is all yours.” Connor held up both hands in a hands-off gesture. “But I did have a few questions.”

“Shoot.”

“The surveillance camera…”

“He took the tape with him when he left.”

“Your people dusted for prints?” Connor asked.

“Hell, yes.”

“And on the railing going up the steps?”

“Uh-huh. Just in case he grabbed it as he ran up after Miz Weathers.”

“Okay, so where else did you dust?” Connor walked with the chief to the front desk.

“Handrails in all the stairwells. The front and back doors. Hell, even the men’s room door,” Thorpe told him. “I’m guessing you’re going to want to see all the matching prints.”

“Just want to see where he’s been. I want them run against some prints I lifted off a window frame the other night. I figure if we can match those prints to the ones from the camera, to those from the computer, and to prints taken from the victim-assuming you find some latents and can lift them-we’ll know something about him.”

“What’s that?” Thorpe frowned.

“We’ll know he was in a big hurry. Didn’t have time to worry about his prints. And we’ll know that he can be panicked into acting foolishly. A good thing to know.”

Thorpe studied Connor’s face. “What else do you need?”

“Cause of death for last night’s victim?”

“The ME isn’t finished with the autopsy yet, far as I know, but the EMTs said it looked like strangulation. Marks on her neck suggested a rope or something similar. She was found facedown-”

“I know. I found her,” Connor reminded him.

“Right. So facedown on the floor, strangled; I’m thinking he comes up behind her, chokes her till she stops breathing, then just drops her right there.”

Connor nodded. “The interns said last night they could hear him chasing Mrs. Weathers up the steps, then it got quiet. Maybe he was stalking her through the stacks, then grabbed her from behind, like you suggested.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“Were you able to get the names of any of the students who were here when the killer came in?”

“Got a list of ’em. Spoke with them myself. You’re wanting to know how he got them to leave.”

“Yes.”

“He told them there was a problem, some short in the electrical system, and they were going to have to shut off the power,” Thorpe told him. “They thought he was university security, since he was wearing a uniform.”

“Did it look like what the real guards wear?”

“They said it was the same color, but whether or not it was the same, they couldn’t tell. They just knew it was brown.”

“Did you point out a real guard to them?”

“Don’t make me roll my eyes at you, Agent Shields.” Thorpe sighed. “Of course we did. They just weren’t paying attention. They’re studying, a guy comes up in a uniform, he looks like a guard, as far as the kids are concerned, he’s a guard.”

“Were they able to describe him?”

“Tall, maybe six-one, six-two. Well-built. The one girl said he looked pretty buff. Like he works out. Maybe twenty-five to thirty, brown hair, brown eyes. Caucasian, but he looked like he had a good tan. No distinguishing marks.”

“Any campus guards who fit that description?”

“I already interviewed the head of security. They have one or two guys who are almost six feet tall, no one he considers particularly buff. The guards here mostly sit around and look out the window, occasionally walk outside. He said they haven’t even had anyone to chase all summer; there hasn’t been a whole lot of activity on this campus since the spring semester ended.”

“Have you been able to talk to the guard who was on duty last night?”

“Yeah. He says he heard one of those electronic alarms, like one of the doors had been opened. He checked the schematic of the building, says it looked like one of the basement doors. He went downstairs to check it, got to the door, saw it was slightly ajar. Went to close it, someone whacked him over the head, and he doesn’t recall a thing after that.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s at home with an ice pack on his head. Sergeant Mills there at the front desk can give you his name and address.” Thorpe stood with his hands in his pants pockets. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment, thank you, but I’d like a copy of the autopsy report on Gloria Weathers when it’s available. You have my number. If you give me a call, I’ll come pick it up.”

“Will do.” Thorpe nodded and started to walk away.

“Chief, your people have done a great job.”

“Gee, thanks, Agent Shields. We live for the approval of the feds.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“Whatever.” Thorpe turned his back. “Have a nice day, Agent Shields.”