The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

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 that our killer quoted. I start the audio and begin my run.

I’m about a mile in when I stop dead in my tracks with the words: A road past the stars to a Master in my ear and now in my head. I pause the audio, and the obvious interpretation to that poem that I should have already realized is crystal clear now: A road past the stars to a Master means to God. This just confirms my earlier conclusions. He doesn’t just think his victim was beneath him, he thinks he’s God. Or a god. When you think you’re a god, you think you’re untouchable. He might actually be a professor, after all, an arrogant one who believes we might find him, but we can’t catch him.

My mind goes to Roberts. Did Roberts prove him wrong? Did he get too close and move away too slowly?

Chapter 16

I finish my run with a sense of unease that I can’t quite name and a decision to go to the university on my way to the station and find out who runs that poetry club. With my book still blasting in my ears, I step into the coffee shop and a line about five deep. I wave at Dave behind the counter, a mid-twenties medical student who I chat with rarely, but we’re friendly. He grabs a cup and writes up my order on the side, showing me it’s done and offering me a smile before helping his next customer.

I mouth a thank-you and continue to listen to my audiobook, but as we step forward, a tingling sensation slides up and down my spine, followed by a now-familiar evil. Which is crazy. The Poet is not here. That would mean he’d have had to follow me home last night.

A low breath trickles from my lips with that very real possibility. Discreetly, I glance to the jam-packed seating area of wooden tables, where a good twenty people of various sizes, ages, and attire are enjoying their coffees. What I don’t see is a male with dark hair, but of course, the reality here is that The Poet may well have worn a wig to the poetry readings. I begin a closer inspection of each person when someone taps my shoulder. I jerk around to find the woman behind me pointing at the counter. I glance in that direction to discover that the line has cleared.

With a quick apology, I step to the counter. Dave is now talking to me, but my audiobook is still playing in my ear. I quickly fiddle with my phone and somehow manage to hit the wrong button. Poetry blasts from the microphone right at Dave, and I’m certain everyone waiting for their drinks at the end of the bar, and perhaps then some.

I punch the button again, ending the noise. “Sorry about that.” I pull out my card and hand it to Dave.

“Poetry?” he inquires, ringing up my order.

“Words for the soul,” I say automatically, something I used to say when I ran my poetry club, which became my thing only because I neglected a class in college. My professor made running the club my punishment, and extra credit, but it didn’t turn out to be a punishment at all. The puzzles in the poems intrigued me and created a bonding experience with my grandfather, who spent countless hours helping me prepare for my club meetings.

“Words for the soul?” Dave asks with a snort. “More like a bunch of nonsense words thrown together to mean nothing, but to each their own.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” I agree, as he hands me back my card. “Much like analyzing someone’s bowel habits for a living. Which we both know is in your future.”

He laughs. “Got me there. Have a good one, Sam.”