“I thought we were looking for a poet.”
“Two years ago he taught a class called Abstract Poetry and Criminality. Among the topics discussed were ‘Poetry: words that speak to the soul of a serial killer’ and ‘How poetry connects you to the mind of a killer.’” I hold up a finger. “And. It gets better. Also discussed was ‘How poetry is death by words.’”
“From boredom,” Lang grumbles. “Or brain scramble, just trying to figure out what the flip the poem means.”
His comment has me thinking. The barista hates poetry. Lang hates poetry. Summer clearly loved poetry. He held readings in his theater. I love poetry. Maybe The Poet doesn’t love poetry at all, as I’ve assumed. Maybe he uses it to mock those who do.
I glance over at Lang. “Did Roberts like poetry?”
He snorts. “I’d be shocked to find out Roberts liked poetry. He was a beer, bacon, and football guy.”
“Is there someone we can ask?”
“His ex-wife.”
“Call his ex-wife.”
“I need to talk to her anyway about Roberts, but I’d rather do that in person.”
“Just call her now and ask if he liked poetry. We need to know.”
“All right. I don’t have the number, but I can get it.” He idles at a stoplight and makes a few calls that finally catch up to Roberts’s ex-wife. “Susie,” he greets, and silently mouths, “ex-wife.” “Got a bet I’m trying to win. Does Roberts like poetry?” He glances over at me, and says, “She laughed. The answer is not even a little.”
“How long were they married?” I ask.
Lang relays the question and then says, “Twelve years.”
A long time, I think. “Why’d they divorce?” I ask.
Lang scowls at me, and I scowl right back.
“Ask her.”
He grimaces and says, “Why did you two divorce?”
He listens a moment and then looks at me. “He changed. He was gone all the time and when he was home he was moody and hard to handle.”
Moody and hard to handle. At least, he doesn’t fit the cool, calm calculation I’d expect from The Poet. And he doesn’t like poetry. Or so the ex-wife believes. Assuming that to be true, because I have no other option, my mind races with this bit of new information; Roberts didn’t like poetry. If The Poet did indeed kill both Summer and Roberts, then he killed a man who loved poetry and a man who hated poetry. What am I missing?
Chapter 25
We arrive at the campus while Newman is still teaching a class.
With twenty minutes left before dismissal, Lang and I enter a large auditorium on an upper level, where the lighting is dim and the students sit far below. We settle comfortably into the darkness, where we proceed to hold up a wall together. Teamwork. Occasionally Lang and I make it work.
Newman is, as expected, a tall, fit white man who, as per Chuck’s notes, is forty-two, with an apparent love for bow ties. He’s also standing center stage, discussing blood splatter.
“What if you aspired to outsmart law enforcement?” he asks his class. “Could you influence blood splatter to confuse the forensic science of a crime scene?”
The answer, I think, is yes, there are mechanisms a savvy killer might use to affect blood splatter intentionally, but there are cleaner ways to avoid detection. For instance, cyanide.
Students begin interjecting their thoughts while Lang leans over and whispers, “Better yet, why not just use cyanide?”
My lips quirk with that like-minded statement.
“Dude has a whole creepy thing going on,” he adds.
Lang has a colorful way of saying things, but he’s again proved our like minds with the same first impression. There is something off about Newman, something too perfectly pressed and put together, almost as if he’s wearing a costume.
I scan the hundreds of students dotting the stacked seating not so unlike that of the theater at Summer’s bookstore. Students who could well be the future of law enforcement. Students being taught by a man who may well be a killer, but on the bright side, there’s a lot to learn from a killer. There’s a reason why I’ve studied killers quite extensively, met with them, even. You can’t hunt and catch a killer you don’t understand.
What I learned was that you can’t fully know or trust anyone. Not your spouse. Not your best friend. Not your father. Everyone has secrets: secret fetishes, secret lovers, secret demons. Cheaters, liars, and killers lead the same double lives. I know too much to trust anyone completely.
And right now, listening to Newman lecture this class, I decide he, too, knows too much. At least, too much for our own good. Certainly, everything he needs to know to leave a murder scene squeaky clean and DNA-free. But is he the familiar evil I’ve felt from The Poet? We’re about to find out.
Chapter 26
Class ends and students leave in a scramble for the auditorium doors and with such speed, you’d think there’d been a fire alarm. The crowd blows like the wind, and with its thinning, Lang and I step into action. Side by side, we head down the stairs, neither of us looking at each other or anyone but our person of interest: Newman Smith. Some might think I’d feel nervous with the anticipation of meeting my potential stalker.
I do not.
There is no hesitation in me, no fear of a man who may well have been stalking me, and for good reason. I simply find it easier to look into the eyes of a killer than have him look from the shadows upon me. The moment you unmask your adversary, you begin to understand and defeat him.
Newman’s standing at his desk, shuffling papers, seemingly oblivious to our approach, but I do not believe this to be true. There are subtle hints to his awareness. His spine is still. His movements more robotic than natural. The fact that he retains this posture throughout our rather lengthy walk downward and toward him is also a telling factor. To me, this says he’s guarding himself from our probing stares, denying us the opportunity to study his features, and inner turmoil, at length.
We’re just stepping in front of his desk when he slides his bag over his shoulder and angles in the direction of the exit, as if he’s going to leave.
“Newman Smith?” I ask, forcing him to halt.
He pauses, almost as if he’s going to refuse to turn, but with obvious resistance, he concedes his position. He steps into a full-frontal pose behind the thick hunk of the wooden desk again. Lang and I are on the other side now, but it’s me that Newman’s sharp, green eyes fall upon, and they do so with a solid punch. In those seconds, I expect evil to wash over me. I reach for and welcome that familiar feeling, but it’s not easily accessed. But there’s something there, something unnatural, not like you and me.