“You still have family in Corbin?
She hesitated. “Yes, a brother.”
“Noah Smith doesn’t,” he said. “He claims he has no living relatives. Did you know that?”
She told him that she didn’t.
“He was a loner, I guess.” He leaned back and the chair gave a creak that seemed at odds with its newness. He started shaking his right leg.
“Kept to himself in class?”
“No, he was quite outgoing. He seemed normal.” She heard herself talking too fast. She slowed down and added: “I know that’s what people always say.” She smiled, the insincerity of it hurting her facial muscles.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“He was never disruptive,?
? she said. “He never missed a class. He was good with his clinical work. Don’t tell me he has a record or something.”
“That doesn’t tell anything,” he said. “Lots of killers have never had a parking ticket.”
He wiggled in his seat, reached into a file, and slid two plastic bags onto the table. Each contained a small card. A driver’s license.
“Do you know these girls?”
The shock radiated down her legs. One license showed Holly Metzger. The other was Lauren Benish. She tried to keep her breathing even.
“Are they the ones who were killed?”
He nodded and stroked his moustache. If it were a little longer, he could play Simon Legree.
“My God.” Her hand went involuntarily to her mouth. “They were in my class.”
“With Noah Smith.”
“Yes.”
He pulled back the licenses and slid them back into the folder.
“I can’t believe it,” she said.
He swung the portfolio closed and slid his pen in his shirt pocket. He stared hard at her. “What I can’t understand is why he was calling for you out there. And you happened to be there.”
She stared back at him until he spoke again.
“The thing is, Cheryl Beth, he’s asking to see you.”
Chapter Six
The quick movement caught Will’s eye as he was crossing the wide expanse of Central Parkway headed into downtown. On the far corner, a man was down on the sidewalk. Another man, twice his size, was kicking him. Will instinctively hit the siren, a quick blurt, called for backup, and parked his unmarked car at the edge of the curb, partly blocking a traffic lane. The bumper was five feet from the fight. He swung himself out, pain and spasms clinching his strong right leg. He raised himself to his full height and used the car door and roof as support.
“Police, step back.”
The assailant was huge, with baggy black jeans and a dirty Reds cap. His pockets, embroidered with what looked like sequins, drooped nearly down to the backs of his knees. He looked over at Will and mouthed a profanity, again swinging his leg hard into the other man’s side. He was in his mid-twenties, wearing heavy black boots, with thick toes and heels, and silver buckles and chains ornamenting the tops. His rap sheet was long.
“I thought you was dead, Borders.”
“You’re going to be if you don’t step back, Junior,” Will said.