Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“But why?” Stacy stood and began to pace, too agitated to stay still. “The way it looked to me, Cassie was killed first. Beth simply because she was there. It didn’t look as if they’d been robbed or raped.”

She paused, glanced back at Billie. “The police asked if she had a computer.”

“They asked me about it, too.”

“What else did they ask you?”

“Who Cassie hung out with. About her game group. If she had any enemies. Run-ins with anybody.”

Standard stuff.

“Did they ask about White Rabbit?”

“No.”

Stacy brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her head throbbed. “I’m thinking they asked about the computer because they didn’t see one.”

“She took it everywhere with her. I asked her once if she slept with it.” Billie’s eyes filled. “She laughed. Said she did.”

“Exactly. Which means her killer took it. The question is, why?”

“Because he didn’t want the police to see something on it?” Billie offered. “Something that would lead them to him. Or her.”

“That’s my theory. Which leads me back to this person she was meeting with.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Ask around about it. Talk to Cassie’s gamer friends. See if they know anything about this White Rabbit. Find out if it’s played on the computer or real time. Maybe she told them about this White Rabbit person.”

“I’ll ask around, too. A lot of gamers come in here, somebody’s bound to know something.”

Stacy caught her friend’s hand. “Be careful, Billie. You get any negative vibes, call me or Detective Malone right away. We’re trying to expose someone who’s killed two people already, two that we know of. Believe me, he won’t hesitate to do it again to protect himself.”

Tuesday, March 1, 2005

9:00 a.m.

The University of New Orleans sat squarely on 195 acres of prime Lake Pontchartrain-fronted property. Established in 1956 on a former U.S. navy air station, UNO catered mostly to those living in the metro region of Louisiana ’s largest city.

The campus couldn’t compare to the state’s flagship school, Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, or to the ivy-covered prestige of uptown New Orleans ’ Tulane University, but it had managed to secure itself a solid reputation of quality for a medium-size university. The schools of Maritime Engineering, Hotel and Restaurant Management and of all things, Film, were particularly highly rated.

Stacy parked in the student lot closest to the University Center. The UC was the hub of social activity on campus, particularly since most of the students lived off campus and commuted. If a student wasn’t in class or at the library studying, they were shooting the breeze in the UC.

It was there, Stacy was certain, she would run across Cassie’s friends.

She entered the building, found a table and dumped her backpack before scanning the cavernous room. She hadn’t expected a crowd this early, and she didn’t get one. Numbers would begin to swell after the first classes of the day concluded, reaching maximum capacity at midday, when students stopped for a bite of lunch.

She bought a cup of coffee and a muffin and carried them back to her table. She sat, unpacked Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, the novel she was reading for her class on Later Romantics, but didn’t open it.

Instead, she sweetened her coffee and took a sip, thoughts scrolling forward to her goal for the day. Make contact with Cassie’s friends. Question them about White Rabbit and the night of Cassie’s death. Get something solid to move forward on.

She had spoken with Cassie’s mother the night before. She’d called to express her condolences and to make arrangements for Caesar. The woman had been in shock and her responses to Stacy’s questions had been robotic. She’d told Stacy that as soon as the coroner’s office released Cassie’s body, she planned to take her home to Picayune, Mississippi, for burial. She’d asked Stacy if she would help arrange a memorial service. She thought it would be best to hold it at the Newman Religious Center on campus.

Stacy had agreed. Cassie had had a lot of friends; they would want the opportunity to say goodbye.

And the police would want an opportunity to see who attended the service.

Killers, particularly thrill killers, were known to attend their victims’ funerals. They also had a proclivity for visiting their victims’ graves or revisiting the scene of their crime. Through those activities they relived the sick thrill they had derived from the act.

Had Cassie and Beth’s murders been thrill kills? Stacy didn’t think so. Neither shooting had the ritualistic aspects of most thrill kills, but that didn’t exclude the possibility. She’d found that for every rule, there was an exception-especially when it came to human behavior.

Stacy caught sight of two members of Cassie’s game group. Ella and Magda, she remembered. They were laughing as they made their way from the concession line to a table, their expressions carefree.

They hadn’t heard yet.

She stood and crossed to their table. They looked up and smiled, recognizing her. “Hey, Stacy. What’s up?”

“May I sit down? I need to ask you something.”

At her expression, their smiles slipped. They motioned to one of the empty chairs and she sank onto it. She decided to ask about the game first. Once she told them about Cassie, the chance of getting a coherent answer was slim.

“Have either of you heard of a game scenario called White Rabbit?”

The two women exchanged glances. Ella spoke up first. “You’re not a gamer, Stacy. Why so interested?”

“So you have heard of it.” When they didn’t respond, she added, “It’s really important. It has to do with Cassie.”

“Cassie?” The woman frowned and looked at her watch. “I expected her to be here already. She e-mailed us both Sunday night. Said to be here by nine this morning, she had a surprise.”

A surprise.

White Rabbit.

Stacy leaned toward them. “What time did she e-mail?”

Both women thought a moment; Ella answered first. “Around 8:00 p.m. for me. Magda?”

“The same, I guess.”

“Have you heard of the game?”

They glanced at each other again, then nodded. “Neither of us has played, though,” Magda offered.

Ella jumped in. “White Rabbit is…sort of radical. It’s totally underground. Passed from gamer to gamer. To learn the game, you have to know someone who plays. As a group, they’re really clannish.”

“And secretive,” Magda added.

“What about the Internet? Surely you can find information about it there?”

“Information,” Ella murmured, “sure. But a player’s bible, not that I’ve seen. You, Mag?” She looked at the other woman, who shook her head.

No wonder Cassie had been so excited. What a coup.

“Is it played online? Or real time?”

“Both, I guess. Like most.” Ella frowned slightly. “Real time is Cassie’s favorite. We all like getting together as a group to game.”

“It’s more social that way,” Magda offered. “Playing on the computer is for the folks who can’t find a group to play with or who don’t have the time to devote to real play.”

Ella jumped in. “Or are in it simply for the thrill of it.”

“Which is?”

“Outmaneuvering and outwitting their opponents.”

“Did Cassie mention meeting someone who played?”

“Not to me.” Ella looked at Magda. “You?”

The other girl shook her head once more.

“What else can you tell me about it?”

“Not much.” Ella looked at her watch again. “It’s weird that Cassie hasn’t shown up.” She looked at her friend. “Check your cell pho-”