image : gregory peck as charles butler
"Good evening, students." The dean of the science department entered the cave-like space with a disheartened expression, closing the door tightly behind him.
He was greeted in turn by the six friends and Dr. Philip Bird, who sat in a half circle before him. The room was almost totally dark, musty smells coming from the walls. It wasn't the first time the society had met in a basement.
"Thank you for convening on such short notice." The dean was talking to the friends, not to the other professor. "As I'm sure you've all noticed, our efforts of late have been focused on the Gale Smith case. The local authorities are doing their best, but for the purpose of unearthing evidence, our reach goes a little farther than theirs does." The dean made his way a little farther into the room and leaned against a dusty worktable.
When he loosened his tie, Mary felt silly for having changed clothes for the meeting. She sat, ramrod posture, on a box that she'd draped her coat over, fearing accidentally leaning against something. She'd never seen such a dirty room. Next to her, Douglas was leaning against the wall, either totally unaware or just totally uncaring.
"I can't give you much," The dean admitted quietly. "I'm unable to disclose the details of the investigation, as it is ongoing and we're cooperating with the authorities. But since you are the couriers of our information, I think it's important that you are able to know the gravity of the situation. Our suspects include some students, some professors, and some townspeople. The murder took place in the Cornerstone Café, a place I'm sure you all frequent. The poison is presently untraceable and unidentified. All we know is that the poison seems to target the nervous system. Gale Smith's cause of death was uninhibited suffocation."
Douglas raised a hand, but the dean answered the question before it could be asked.
"It appears he simply stopped breathing, Mr. Martin."
No one spoke. Little could be said that would be appropriate in such a moment, so all elected to remain silent.
Even Dr. Bird was quiet, rubbing his forehead with one hand. He looked exhausted, his eyes red and carrying dark bags. His shoulders hunched low and there was a slight tremor in both hands. Mary guessed that no one was sleeping very much.
"I hope you all will act with great vigilance from here on out. We don't know how dangerous the situation is; without a motive we can't say for sure if Gale Smith was the only intended victim. All of you, please, be very careful." The dean straightened and backed toward the door. "Thank you all for your hard work and discretion. I'll see you all soon." With that, he turned and let himself out, disappearing up the stairs with soft footsteps.
Charles let out a deep sigh, getting up off the barrel that he'd perched on. "Glad to know we still know nothing."
{ tenebrous }
"Have you been here all day?"
Mary looked up with a start, eyes wide as they met those of Douglas, who stood peering over her shoulder. As soon as she snapped back into the present, aware of her immediate surroundings, she knew she should have been aware of him by the scent of his cologne and soap alone. The moment she drew her attention from the comings and goings of others, she noticed the signs of his presence. His gaze skated over the library editions of Woolf and Hemingway and Chaucer, laying on the table among essays and notepads with coffee stains. Mary put an ink-blackened hand to her chest and breathed out shakily. "Don't frighten me like that."
He leaned back with an amused smirk and pushed his hands into his pockets. His jacket was hanging loosely around his arms and chest, the shoulders puffed too squarely for his frame. It used to fit him nicely, but now sagged as though borrowed from a larger man. "You look like you've been camping here for days." His hair, which had been oiled that morning, fell messily over his brow as an indication that his homework had him mussing it again.
She tossed the copy of Beowulf that she had in one hand to the table, causing her teacup to rattle in its saucer as though disturbed by an earthquake. "You try getting through these books in a reasonable amount of time. You know, I think you could swap out one brick from the Great Pyramid with War and Peace and no one would notice?" Her round face and softly angled eyebrows gave her the appearance of a gentle, wide-eyed, naïve woman, but behind the deceptive features he knew there was an immense store of anger and frustration towards her professors.
Douglas stared at her, trying to remember if War and Peace was the one by Dostoyevsky or the one by Tolstoy. He soon gave up, taking a seat at Mary's table. She sat in a dark corner of the Cornerstone Café, where she could see everything in the dining room. He knew there was no coincidence to the location of her study session. Ever since Gale Smith's death had been announced, ever since it was proclaimed to be a death by poison, she had been doubly aware of the people around her. The moment the news had spread, her mind had instantly begun pinning the guilt of the crime on every face she saw. From her perspective, any one of the seemingly innocent college students could be a ruthless killer. "What are you doing here, Mary?"
"Preparing for the three papers I have due next week." She grumbled, wiping ink off a bibliography page with a napkin. She wasn't looking at him, but rather staring at the people around them, scanning the faces who entered and approached the counter. Her hand reached distractedly out for her teacup and skimmed over the top of it, tipping it over in its saucer.
Her friend caught her hand by the wrist, righted her cup—which was empty—and took up the teapot, pouring her some more. The tea that streamed into the cup was tepid and room temperature. He heaved a great sigh, wondering why she hadn't gone for more hot water while she was trying to nonchalantly stake out the café. "That would probably go better if you were actually reading." Douglas commented, picking up the Hemingway and flipping through it. His eyes were still burning from the three hours he'd just spent buried in his own textbooks, so he didn't see any of the words.
Mary turned to look at him, bitterly shoving a notepad at him and accidentally pushing two pencils off the table as a result. "Then what are these notes from, I wonder?" The notepad was covered in carefully scribbled notes regarding Beowulf, the pages indented by the force of Mary's pen. They were nice to look at, but Douglas couldn't begin to understand the chaotic scrawl of Mary's penmanship. He blinked down at them only for a second before bending over and retrieving the fallen writing utensils.
He pushed the notepad back. "And what are you going to do when the weekend is over? When you have to go to class and you can't sit here for twelve hours watching people?"
Mary rolled her eyes at him and dropped her chin into her hand tiredly. She had been there since the café had opened, early that morning. "I'm an English major, Douglas, I can skip a few days of classes." Her eyes floated away from him and went back to watching.
"And this is your chimeric plan? Keep a list of every one who comes in here? Try to narrow down the suspects from there? That's the entire campus you're working with. And what if he doesn't come back? What if the next victim is killed in the library?" Douglas leaned in. "You can't catch him like this. We're not even supposed to be trying."
Mary scowled at him, offended by his condescending tone. "I'm finding the regulars. I'm learning the relationships, the interactions. I'm learning the faces. Getting familiar isn't a waste of time. What if someone turns up dead, and they are someone I've learned is in here about the time that they were killed?" She drew in a deep breath. "It's not a waste of time."
Douglas watched for a few seconds.
"And I'm learning the shift rotations. The first person with the opportunity to poison someone is the person who prepares their food."
That much he couldn't deny. Regardless, gave a shrug and set his bag down on the ground. "How much longer are you going to be here?"
"Probably until they close."
{ tenebrous }
Music played delicately through the radio, ringing clearly through the air, unconfined by walls or solid surfaces, carrying through the open field and fading out a few yards away. Charles didn't hear it until he was close enough to Betty to see the redness of her cheeks and hands, and the dampness of her clothes as she sat in the wet grass, her back leaned against the trunk of a tree. She was at the farthest point of the field outside the boarding house, staring off into the trees like she couldn't feel the cold around her. The radio was sitting in the grass beside her, but her eyes were so glazed over that Charles doubted she heard any of the classical tunes emanating from it.
His boots squished through the grass and slopped through the mud as he approached, the worn tread of his soles sliding and sending him lurching with nearly every step. His coat was an old one, threadbare with time and use, and he had no intention of dousing it in standing rainwater and chilling himself further, so he slowed his movements until he felt more controlled. By the time he'd ambled up to Betty, she'd noticed his approach and turned to watch him, expression still dazed as though she was still making her way back to the present moment. "What are you doing out here, Charlie?" She questioned, the tip of her nose red.
"Making sure you're not entertaining any foolish notions of throwing yourself into the creek." Charles caught himself with a gloved hand against the trunk of her tree, leaning his hip against it to stay upright as his foot set down on a slick root and skidded beneath him. "You're not planning on throwing yourself into the creek, are you?"
She didn't grace his ridiculous question with a proper answer. "I'm just thinking." She hadn't realized how cold she'd gotten until he had shown up. She could feel the numbness in her face, in her fingertips, in her toes. When she had wandered out there that afternoon, she had had no intention of freezing herself to death in the middle of a daydream, but one strong gust of imagination had caught hold of her, and off spiraling into her own head she went. "Go on back inside, Charles, I'm coming." She reached up and used the tree as an anchor to push herself to her feet.
Once they were both standing beneath it, she noticed the heavy look in his eyes and paused, confusion swarming her racing thoughts. "Are you alright? What's the matter?" She stared at him for a few long seconds as he gave no answer. She poked one mitten clad hand to his chest once, then again. At last his eyes flicked down to hers, and he gave her his old familiar smile.
"Let's go in, shall we? It's freezing out here." He took her by the hand and started the treacherous march through the swampy grass field back to the boarding house with Betty in tow, hardly stopping for her to swoop low and snatch up the small radio by its handle before it could be forgotten and never heard from again. "What are you doing all the way out here, anyway, Bee?"
Betty meant to give him an incredulous glance, but only found herself staring strangely at his shoulder from behind him. "I told you, Charlie, I was thinking. I lost track of time. What's going on with you?"
He cast her a glance over his shoulder. "I don't know what you mean."
"You're all up in your head. What's wrong?" She took a few running steps to catch up and walk alongside him, slipping in the mud. He caught her by the elbow with his other hand, and soon switched from pulling her by the hand to linking arms and stringing her along nearly at the shoulder. So preoccupied was he that he didn't seem to remember their height and stride difference, but Betty chose to do what she could to keep up rather than try confronting him for it again.
When at last they had reached the front door of the boarding house, stomping off their shoes, Charles let go of her arm and turned to her with a dark and distracted expression. "I'm just feeling out of sorts today, Bee. Let's play some chess, shall we? Just for an hour or so?"
She nodded slowly, almost afraid to decline him. "Sure, Charles. Let's play chess." It didn't take much wondering to figure out what could possibly be weighing so heavily on him. The events on campus had been taking their tolls on the minds of everyone, particularly the students. Not only did they find themselves mourning the loss of a student, one of their classmates, one of their friends, but they all inevitably had to come to the realization that any one of them could be next. The utter depravity of a killer murdering young adults in college was not merely a headline in a newspaper, or even a memory of a darker time.
It was yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and it was here, and over there, and everywhere they as a student body frequented every day. It was all around, and unrelenting, and unforeseeable. No one was at ease or at rest, and no one had any clue of what to do about it.
{ tenebrous }
Strolling through town after dark, Charles whistled softly to himself, kicking stones along the path in front of him. His breath clouded before his face in the dim light of the street, the moon brightly hanging overhead. Cold seeped through his jacket and lay against his shoulders and back, sending chills down his arms.
He lit a cigarette, tossing his lighter back into his pocket. Jazz music toned softly from a restaurant across the street, drawing his gaze to the warm light streaming out of the windows and the muted sounds of laughter and conversation. The townspeople had gone to dinner and checked the problems of the world at the door with their hat and gloves, while Charles carried them with him through every second.
He shook his head, curled his shoulders in, and walked on.
Stress knotted stiffly in his chest, the foreboding deadline of his articles weighing closer and the two incomplete assignments due the next day threatening to choke him, but rather than turning back towards the boarding house to get his work done, his mind detached further from the responsibilities. He paced on and on until the assignments had fallen to the back of his mind, and no matter how significantly they weighed against his near future, he didn't find himself caring about them anymore.
His eyes coasted over the dark shape of a clothing store. All of the lights were out, the manager and workers having locked up and gone home hours ago. His feet carried him closer, expression thoughtful as he gazed within. The shadowy silhouettes of the clothing racks and mannequins drew him in, heart pounding.
Charles tried the doorknob.
As expected, it didn't budge. Glancing quickly over both shoulders, he pulled a filing kit from his pocket and set to work on the lock, which yielded with a gentle click. Holding his cigarette between his teeth, Charles put one hand to the doorknob and the other to the frame, checking it up and down for any sort of alarm system. The top of the door tapped against a bell as he pushed it carefully open, stopping him.
Once assured that it was no sort of trip line meant to alert a tenant, he pushed the door open until he could fit a shoulder through. The bell leaned against the door frame but made no sound.
Reaching in hesitantly, checking his surroundings once more, he stretched out his arm and seized the first thing his fingers touched—a pair of gloves. Shoving them into his pocket, he locked the door from the inside, pulled the door closed, and walked on down the sidewalk.
{ tenebrous }
Edward, Hayley, and Betty all occupied the dining table in the boarding house well past midnight, each of them reading quietly in the lamplight, when Mrs. Nichol's husband came in from outdoors, unwrapping his scarf and peeling off his gloves.
He looked up to see the three students as he stomped his boots on the rug before kneeling to untie them. "Evening, kids," He murmured to them kindly. "Everyone else tucked in already?" His fingers were red and stiff as they fought coldly with his laces. He puffed out a heavy breath from his doubled over position.
"I believe so, sir." Edward responded.
Hayley set down her book and rose, offering to pour Mr. Nichols some freshly brewed coffee, which he accepted gratefully. She padded softly to the stove, retrieved a cup, and filled it from the percolator. "You worked late tonight," She commented curiously, handing him the drink as he finally put his shoes aside and shrugged out of his jacket.
Thanking her and taking the coffee, Mr. Nichols nodded seriously. "Sadly, yes." He took a slow, hesitant drink and leaned back against the counter tiredly. For a second, he just tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed.
Edward and Betty both set their homework aside, sharing concerned glances. The quiescent man was a deputy to the town's sheriff; news brought back after midnight was never good news. The flickering light of the oil lamp illuminated just enough of the deputy's face to cast shadows beneath the heavy bags under his eyes and sharpen the creases of his brow.
At last, he opened his eyes, took another long sip from his coffee and set the cup on the counter. "It breaks my heart, but we found another body on campus tonight." He pushed himself off the counter, eyes downcast and head shaking tenderly. He carried himself with the stature of a man who had looked into the sightless eyes of a child and lost a little bit of himself.
As the three students rose to attention, wide awake at the news and alarmed by the sudden reality of it, Mr. Nichols had already started heading for the stairs. Nearly there, he turned back and glanced at each of them with a saddened expression. "Looks to be the same way that the Smith boy went out." His shoulders dropped. "It's a crying shame." Mr. Nichols turned away and started up the stairs. "A crying shame."