over and over again. I spend hours sitting on my couch, working through the massive information dump Chuck has given me, trying to find the pieces inside the volume that matter. I have pages of notes, lists of things to do, and a plan of attack to unravel the mystery.
History and experience tell me that The Poet wants attention; otherwise, he’d simply disappear rather than leave law enforcement a message to decode. Sadly, I give him what he wants by retiring upstairs to my bedroom that overlooks the living area, with my Kindle and the book of poems Chuck put together for me. Propped against my headboard, snuggled under my down comforter, the air cranked a little too cold, I read while eating a healthy serving of chocolate. I’ve often wondered if serial killers eat chocolate, with the same conclusion. They do not, and perhaps that’s their problem.
Somewhere in the middle of my studies, I jot down another page of notes filled with possible interpretations of the words before me. Poetry is often a bit of a mysterious, deep read, and my history interpreting it has often helped me decode a crime scene. But I don’t feel like I have enough of The Poet’s chosen words to tell me a real story.
When I finally turn out the lights, I stare into the darkness, my ice machine clunking loudly in the other room a few times while The Poet clunks just as loudly in my head. I know Roberts nicknamed him The Professor, while I call him The Poet. We could assume that means Roberts felt he was a professor, but perhaps he simply grabbed a nickname as I did, for his own mental processing. To believe he’s an actual professor could be too small-minded. Obvious assumption is a good way to get outsmarted. And yet, ironically, I feel as if I’m missing something obvious.
I shut my eyes and drift into sleep with the poem The Poet left us in my head:
Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,
Yet hope through the darkness to find
A road past the stars to a Master
Chapter 15
I wake to a beam of sunshine, to that damn poem still playing in my head, to a freezing cold room, and to something about this case niggling at my mind. Frustrated that I can’t just turn it into a coherent thought, and in need of a run to clear my head, I glance at my Apple watch. Confirming that it’s only seven a.m., early enough to avoid the scorching sun, I suit up in workout tights, a tank top, and my sneakers.
Some cops drink their way out of hell, but one glass of wine—okay, two last night—is it for me and with reason. I’m a stupid drinker. Stupid is a good way to end up dead. That leaves running, karate, and the gym. I hate fat, out-of-shape cops. It’s perhaps a mentality I inherited from my father, but one that I maintain. It’s not about body shaming or judging at all. It’s about staying alive for your family. It’s about being fit enough to save an innocent life. Because any edge you have or don’t have could cost someone their life. And sometimes having every humanly possible edge isn’t enough, as proven by my father’s murder.
Feeling that pinch of dueling emotions again, I slide a credit card into the pocket just inside my pants for a coffee run on the way home. I need that run. I really, really do.
Phone in hand, I hurry down the stairs, cross through my living room, and grab my keys from the table by the door. I exit my apartment into a foyer, which I thankfully share with no one, and then into the stairwell. Dashing down them now, I move quickly, hoping to avoid other human beings this morning, at least before my run. Not that I don’t like people. I do. It’s just that people are weird around law enforcement, all nervous and anxious, and this is one of those times when I don’t need the distraction of making them remember that I’m another tenant. I need to stay in my headspace.
I exit to a humid August morning, the sun already pressing down on me, a weight sitting on my shoulders, a burden right along with murder. I begin my warm-up walk, tuning my music on my phone to my run playlist, but then pulling up Audible and looking for poetry. I find a few options, and one includes the poet