Face of Murder

The receptionist narrowed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “You mean to tell me that you don’t even have a warrant?”

Zoe didn’t need to have the ability to read nuance and subtlety of tone and gesture to know that this was not going well. “This is extremely important. You have heard of the murders on campus?”

“I heard about them,” the receptionist agreed, shrugging her meaty shoulders up and down. “But I can’t help you, sister. You need to come back when you have a warrant. That’s how the law works.”

Zoe covered her face with her hands for a moment, trying to think of a way to explain this to the woman without biting her head off. “Look, you do not understand.”

“I understand fine enough.” The receptionist shook her head resolutely, turning her attention back to her computer screen. “No warrant, no access.”

“Zoe?”

Zoe turned, grateful to see Shelley approaching them fast. Her hair was slightly mussed, her makeup not quite as neat as usual. Zoe figured Shelley must have already been getting ready for bed when she called.

“She will not let me see the records,” Zoe said, setting her mouth in a firm line of displeasure.

“Without a warrant, right?” Shelley nodded, looking between Zoe and the receptionist as she arrived next to them. She took a breath, perhaps assessing the situation, before continuing. “May I speak with the administrator? Just to discuss further. We might need to schedule a visit.”

“No, we need to see the records now,” Zoe hissed, trying to get Shelley’s attention.

Shelley looked up at her, giving her an odd tilt of the head and raise of the eyebrows that Zoe could not decipher. “Let’s just talk to the administrator and see what’s possible. At least that way we can expedite the process.”

The receptionist made a face, eyebrows high and eyes sliding off to the side. “I’ll give him a call. But I would be surprised if he’s still in this late.”

The phone rang for eight seconds before someone on the other end answered. The receptionist could not contain the shock on her face as she spoke to them, explaining the situation. Zoe did not even try to contain her own spiteful glee when she put the receiver down and invited them to wait in the chairs provided.

The eleven minutes it took for the administrator to arrive were almost interminable. Zoe was so hopped up on the energy of maybe getting this all solved that she could barely sit still. She checked her phone for messages, her emails, examined the magazines scattered on a low side table, read every piece of literature and every poster dotted around the room. Shelley was calm and still, and though she must have been curious, she didn’t ask. Not while the receptionist was there in the room, listening.

A man in his mid-fifties came to the desk and quickly after looked their way. He was six feet tall, perhaps a fraction of an inch over. Then again, that could have been the soles of his shoes. He was thin and dressed in a sharp brown suit with a blue shirt and tie bearing half-inch-thick darker blue stripes.

“Agents?” he said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

“I’m Special Agent Shelley Rose, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Zoe Prime,” Shelley said, shaking his hand first and then pausing for Zoe to do the same. “It’s good of you to come and speak with us. I appreciate that it’s late.”

“No, no, not to worry at all,” he said. “I’m Gary Burke. I’ve just left a meeting with the hospital board, so I was still here anyway.”

“All the same.” Shelley smiled. “May we speak with you in a private room?”

“Of course.” Burke gestured toward an unmarked door off to the side. “Please, follow me in here. We won’t be disturbed.”

The room was small, but comfortable enough for the three of them. It contained just five chairs and a water machine, as well as a drooping houseplant. No doubt it was set aside for those who needed a little more privacy while they waited.

“So, ladies, how may I help you?” Burke asked, with the door closed firmly behind them.

“It’s a little delicate,” Shelley began. “You see, we’re investigating a very serious case. The details need to be kept quiet from the press, inasmuch as we can. Several murders have been reported this week, and we believe we’re very close to our suspect.”

“The deaths on the campus?” Burke guessed.

“And your colleague, too. Dr. Edwin North.”

Burke’s mouth gaped open, and his face paled. “They’re connected? Of course, I had heard about the tragic loss, but—you’re saying this is the same case?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Burke, but if you could keep that between us, it would be appreciated.”

“Of course, of course. Please—just Gary is fine.”

Zoe watched with a kind of frenzied detachment. She wanted so badly for this conversation to be over so that they could get on with really looking, checking the records and finding what they needed. It was always like watching a miracle be performed, seeing Shelley work people over. Zoe couldn’t tell if it was the words she used, the expressions, the body language, or just that she had a much prettier face, but somehow, she was always able to win them over.

It was really only a matter of time. Burke might have worked with neurosurgeons, but he wasn’t one himself. Zoe stayed quiet, knowing that the only thing she could contribute here would be to mess it up.

“Gary, right. It’s clear to us that the same perpetrator is behind all of the attacks, and your Dr. North is actually the missing link we’ve been looking for. We need to check his patient records, to find anyone who fits the bill so that we can track them down.”

“Oh, I see—yes, well, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Burke said. “I’ll just need to take a copy of the warrant for our own records.”

Shelley bit her lip and made a face. “See, that’s where it gets really delicate,” Shelley said. “We haven’t had the time to get in front of a judge, and we won’t be able to until tomorrow. We’re chasing a hot lead here. If we wait until the morning and come back, by the time we have that paperwork, the killer could be long gone.”

Burke hesitated, his composure faltering. “Well—you see—I-I’m not really supposed to allow you access to anything without a warrant. No one outside of the hospital staff, actually.”

“No, I completely understand that,” Shelley said. “And we wouldn’t want you to lose your job or get into trouble. We won’t ask you to let us see the records right now.”

Zoe shot her a look. They wouldn’t?

“There is, however, a way around this. A way we can get justice for Dr. North and stop this killer from striking again, without breaking any of the rules,” Shelley went on.

Burke cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

“You look at the records. We can give you the parameters, tell you what we’re looking for. All we need from you is a name.” Shelley smiled sweetly, spreading her hands in front of her as if to demonstrate how easy it would all be. “Tomorrow, once we have him locked up where he can’t hurt anyone else, we come back with a warrant to check the records and make official copies. That way it’s all sewn up.”

Burke looked a little unsure, but he cleared his throat again. “I suppose—for Dr. North,” he suggested.

“Yes. In his memory,” Shelley nodded.

“All right.” Burke sighed and squared his shoulders. “What am I looking for?”

Shelley turned to Zoe, who now understood that was her cue. “A recent diagnosis of dyslexia,” she said. “I can tell you that the man will be around five foot nine and one hundred and thirty-five pounds or more, but we can also consider cases that fall slightly below those figures. It should be in the last six months—most likely even the last three or four.”

“All right, I’ll input that,” Burke replied. “Those figures—you’re expecting an adult?”

“An adult or a teen, college age,” Zoe supplied, a thought coming to her. “Oh—and dyscalculia as well. Or aphasia. Anything that would cause difficulties with written communication.”

“That widens the field considerably,” Burke said, but he was smiling. “I can’t check the records of any other site, of course, but I can tell you if he treated someone here. I’ll be back in two shakes, ladies. Wait here for me.”

When the door was closed behind him, Shelley sat on one of the vacant chairs, much of the pasted-on pleasantness disappearing as she dropped. “Wow. I was just about to go to sleep, and you suddenly cracked the case.”

“Sorry,” Zoe said.

“I wasn’t complaining. So, written communication? You found something in the numbers?”

“I was reminded of something Wardenford said—that it was all out of order, jumbled up. The more I thought about that, the more sense it made. I do not think the killer knows that they are jumbled—or at least, if he does, he is not able to fix it. Neurological damage could also account for a sudden outburst of violence.”