Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

No shoulder holster. No weapon.

Not a cop anymore.

Stacy’s gaze landed on her ballpoint pen, a lethal weapon when used accurately and without hesitation. And most effective when the blow was delivered to the base of the skull, the jugular or an eye. She picked it up and curled her right hand around it.

“Anyone there?” she called again, forcefully.

She heard the rumble of the elevator, on its way to the fourth floor. Campus security, she realized. Clearing the building. Good. Backup, in case she needed it.

She started toward the stacks, heart pounding, pen ready. A sound came from the opposite direction. She whirled. The lights went off. The stairwell door flew open and light spilled out as a figure darted through.

Before she could shout for him to stop, she was grabbed from behind and dragged against a broad chest. With one arm he held her tightly against him, arms pinned. With the other, he covered her mouth and immobilized her head.

A man, she determined, tabling her terror. Tall. Several inches taller than she, which would put him at better than six feet. One who knew what he was doing; the angle he held her head made breaking her neck relatively easy. He had size and strength on his side; struggling would be both futile and a waste of precious energy.

Stacy tightened her fingers on the pen, waiting for the right moment. Knowing it would come. He had used the element of surprise to trap her; she would return the favor.

“Stay out of it,” he whispered, voice thick, muffled by design, she was certain. He pressed his mouth closer, then speared his tongue in and out of her ear. Bile rose in her throat, threatening to gag her.

“Or I won’t,” he finished. “Understand?”

She did. He was threatening to rape her.

The bastard would regret that threat.

Her moment came. Reassured by what he no doubt thought her immobilizing fear, he shifted. He intended to shove her, she realized. Then run. As the realization registered, she reacted. Shifting her own weight, then spinning around, she grasped hold of him with her left hand and plunged the ballpoint into his stomach with her right. She felt his blood on her fingers.

He howled in pain and stumbled backward. She did, too, falling into a cart of books. The cart tipped, the books crashed to the floor.

A flashlight beam sliced through the dark. “Who’s there?”

“Here!” she called, fighting to right herself. “Help!”

Her attacker got to his feet and ran. He reached the stairwell door a moment before the campus cop found her.

“Miss, are you all ri-”

“The stairs,” she managed to say, pointing. “He ran that way.”

The man didn’t waste time on words. He darted in that direction, radio out, calling for backup.

Stacy stood, legs wobbly. She heard the cop’s feet pounding on the stairs, though she doubted he would catch the man. Even wounded, he’d had too great a head start.

The lights came on. Stacy blinked at the sudden change. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the books and toppled cart, the trail of blood leading to the stairwell.

A woman rushed toward her, expression alarmed. “Are you all- My God, you’re bleeding!”

Stacy looked down at herself. Her shirt and right hand were bloody. “It’s his blood. I stabbed him with my ballpoint.”

The woman went white. Afraid she might faint, Stacy led her to a chair. “Put your head between your knees. It’ll help.”

When the woman did as she instructed, she added, “Now breathe. Deeply, through your nose.”

After several moments, the woman lifted her head. “I feel so silly. You’re the one who should be-”

“Never mind that. Are you okay now?”

“Yes, you-” she breathed deeply several times “-you were really lucky.”

“Lucky?” she repeated.

“You could have been raped. Those other girls-”

“Weren’t so lucky.”

Stacy turned. The campus cop who had come to her aid was back. He was young, she saw. Probably twenty-five. “You didn’t catch him, did you?”

He looked frustrated. “No. I’m sorry.” His motioned to her hand and bloodstained shirt. “Are you hurt?”

“She stabbed him with her pen,” the librarian supplied.

The campus cop looked at her, his expression a combination of admiration and disbelief. “You did?”

“I was a cop for ten years,” she said. “I know how to defend myself.”

“It’s a good thing you do,” he said. “There’ve been three rapes on campus this year, all during the fall term. We thought maybe he’d moved on.”

Stacy had heard about the rapes, had been warned by her adviser to be careful. Especially at night. She didn’t believe the man who’d attacked her was this rapist. If his intention had been rape, why the warning “To stay out of it”? Why had he been prepared to let her go? He would have dragged her to the floor, tried to get at her clothing.

No. It didn’t add up.

Stacy told him so.

“The MO’s the same. He’s attacked women alone at night on campus. All three have occurred between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m. The first right here in the library.”

“This wasn’t that guy. His intention wasn’t rape.” She relayed the sequence of events. How he whispered in her ear to stay out of it. “He was about to let me go. That’s when I made my move.”

“Are you certain of what you heard?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The cop didn’t look convinced. “That fits the rapist’s MO as well. He whispered into each one of his victims’ ears.”

Stacy frowned. “Then why let me go with a warning?”

The cop and librarian exchanged glances. “You’re upset. Understandably. You’ve had a shock-”

“And I’m not thinking clearly?” she finished for him. “I worked Homicide for ten years. I’ve been through shit a lot more shocking than this. I’m not mistaken about what I heard.”

The young officer’s face reddened; he took a step back from her. She supposed using the S word had put him off, but damn it, she’d been making a point.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said coolly. “I’ve got to call the NOPD. Get someone over here to collect evidence. Tell your story to them.”

“Ask for Detective Spencer Malone,” she said. “ISD. Tell him it’s about the Finch case.”

Saturday, March 5, 2005

12:30 a.m.

Spencer greeted the officer standing sentinel at the door of the UNO library. He was an old-timer. “How’s it going?”

The other man shrugged. “Okay. Wish spring’d get here. It’s still too damn cold for these old bones.”

Only a New Orleanian would gripe about nighttime temperatures in the sixties.

The man held out a clipboard; Spencer signed in. “Upstairs?”

“Yeah. On four.”

Spencer found the elevator. He had been asleep when he’d gotten the call. At first he thought he’d misunderstood the dispatcher. Nobody was dead. An attempted rape. But the victim claimed it had something to do with the Finch murder.

His investigation.

So he’d dragged his butt out of bed and headed what seemed like halfway across the world to the UNO campus.

The elevator reached four; he stepped off and followed the sound of voices. The group came into view. He stopped. Killian. Her back was to him, but he recognized her, anyway. Not just by her glorious blond hair, but something about the way she held herself. Erectly. With a kind of confidence that had been earned.

To her left stood a couple of the campus cops and John Russell, from DIU, Third District.

Spencer closed the distance between them. “Trouble follows you, doesn’t it, Ms. Killian?”