That was a terrible thought—that she might need more information. Need another death. But it did make a lot more sense than what they had already—which was nothing.
Zoe spun the two printouts toward herself and grabbed a pen from her pocket. She started to balance the equations out—adding them together. It was easy to see the spaces, now she understood to look for that kind of pattern. And it was easy to see the things on the second equation that stood out, begged to be put somewhere else.
She worked in a frenzy, forgetting that Wardenford was even in the room. This was more important than the interrogation. If he was right, this could change everything. Maybe they could work something out from this, some kind of formula, or a prediction of what the next equation would be. Any little clue along the way could help them figure out who the killer was.
That was, of course, assuming that it wasn’t Wardenford and he wasn’t stringing her along like a puppet, watching her dance.
Zoe paused then, looking up to see that Wardenford was watching her. Closely. She stopped writing. Perhaps that thought was right. Perhaps she was playing right into his hands, taking the bait.
“You don’t see things like others do, do you?” he asked, unexpectedly.
“What?”
“I’ve met people like you before. You’ve got a way with numbers and patterns, am I right? You’re a synesthete.”
Zoe instinctively looked toward the darkened glass, hoping the tech had left the room. If Shelley was the only one hearing this, it wouldn’t be so bad. But this was on record. Taped. Anyone could see it. She fought a rising sense of panic, her hand flying up to just below her collarbone, her neck. She felt that same stifling feeling that came when she sat in the passenger seat and the seatbelt seemed to choke her, but there was nothing there to pull away.
“I knew it. You remind me exactly of someone I mentored years ago.”
Zoe was torn between anxiety over her secret being outed, and the shock that he could tell just by looking at her. “What are you talking about?” she asked, hoping it would sound like a deflection but also prompt him to explain how he had known.
“I know brilliance when I see it. You have an instinctive way of working with the numbers, and it’s not just that. You’re constantly assessing things, sizing them up. I can recognize it because I’ve seen it before.”
“With your student,” Zoe replied, which was not an admission, but still encouraged him to go on all the same. She was walking a dangerous line. If anyone saw this, she would have to flat-out deny it—or come clean. At least not having the admission on tape was a slim comfort.
“Yes. She was gifted—just gifted. I noticed her skills in class, and invited her for some extra sessions to see if we could coax out that genius. Lo and behold, she had capabilities I had never dreamed of. To look at a math equation and know the answer, just like that.”
“What happened to her?” Zoe was desperate to know. After the news Dr. Applewhite had told her, of the student committing suicide, it was of the utmost interest to her. Had she been successful in life? Started a family, maybe?
“Ah, well, I don’t really know.” Wardenford coughed quietly, wearing an embarrassed expression. “I ended up quitting, you see. Coming over here to work instead. That was after my divorce; I had to get away. All my problems started there.”
“That is when you began drinking.”
“Right.” Wardenford sighed heavily. “That’s the part of the job I miss the most, you know? Nurturing young minds, helping them come to their full potential. Like you—putting the skills and talents they have to good use. Helping them to figure out what to do with the rest of their lives. I suppose all that is gone, now. No college anywhere near here is going to touch me, and I doubt I’ll have a good reference if I apply elsewhere.”
Maudlin self-pity. Zoe was just about to tell him to shut up and stop feeling sorry for himself, and go work on getting the things he wanted instead of drinking himself to death. Perhaps happily for her career, that was the moment that Shelley threw open the door and interrupted instead.
“Agent Rose,” Zoe remarked, surprised that she would break protocol by entering the interview room. Perhaps one of their superiors had arrived, and Shelley had come to warn her…?
“Agent Prime, a word, please,” Shelley said, moving back into the corridor to let Zoe out.
Once the door was firmly closed behind her and Wardenford was out of earshot, Shelley brandished her phone, indicating the source of the news that was spilling out of her. “They’ve found another body.”
Shelley’s words rolled over Zoe like a wave. There was another death. It had probably happened while Wardenford was in custody, which would mean that he was innocent.
But maybe it held another equation—another clue.
Zoe didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed. Their phantom math killer had struck again.
But that meant there was a whole wealth of more clues waiting, any of which might help them catch him and stop him in his tracks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Zoe hit the brakes, almost sending the car into a skid. She had been driving so fast down the wide, leafy suburban streets that she had almost missed the police car parked up ahead and gone right into the back of it.
They had landed outside a huge Georgian colonial, not at all out of place in this expensive neighborhood. The one thing that did set it apart were the white-suited forensics experts and uniformed police bustling outside or rushing in and out of the door in a near-perpetual routine.
Shelley was already out of her seatbelt and the door by the time Zoe had turned the engine off, and she wasn’t far behind her. They both ran across the neatly kept lawn to the entrance, flashing their badges quickly at the policeman who tried to stop them approaching from the sidewalk.
The commanding officer at the scene met them at the door, knowing from a glance that they were the FBI agents he had been told to wait for.
“Agents, you’re going to want to come and see this. It’s a brutal one. Looks like another one of our math killer’s hits.”
They followed him hurriedly up a wide staircase to a master bedroom, dodging other personnel who were coming and going with fingerprint kits and DSLRs and spare evidence bags. Zoe had already counted thirteen pairs of boots on the ground. This was clearly a big deal to the locals—and of course it would be. When wealthy neighborhoods were home to violent and brutal murders, it was normally in the interest of the sheriff or chief of police to do something about it, and fast.
“Cleaner called us in when she reported for work and found the body. Thankfully she was in the habit of speaking to her employer first rather than getting right to it, so she didn’t wipe any evidence away. The vic is a neurologist from the local hospital, Dr. Edwin North. Pretty well-known around these parts. He and his wife used to take part in all the community events, you know? Real pillars. His late wife, that is. Cancer last year.”
This running commentary was given as they ascended the stairs, and the officer paused them outside the room itself. “I’ve got to tell you ladies, this is a real bad case. Maybe you shouldn’t go in there. We’ll have the crime scene photos along to you, but you might be better off not seeing it in person.”