The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Newman’s standing at his desk, shuffling papers, seemingly oblivious to our approach, but I do not believe this to be true. There are subtle hints to his awareness. His spine is still. His movements more robotic than natural. The fact that he retains this posture throughout our rather lengthy walk downward and toward him is also a telling factor. To me, this says he’s guarding himself from our probing stares, denying us the opportunity to study his features, and inner turmoil, at length.

We’re just stepping in front of his desk when he slides his bag over his shoulder and angles in the direction of the exit, as if he’s going to leave.

“Newman Smith?” I ask, forcing him to halt.

He pauses, almost as if he’s going to refuse to turn, but with obvious resistance, he concedes his position. He steps into a full-frontal pose behind the thick hunk of the wooden desk again. Lang and I are on the other side now, but it’s me that Newman’s sharp, green eyes fall upon, and they do so with a solid punch. In those seconds, I expect evil to wash over me. I reach for and welcome that familiar feeling, but it’s not easily accessed. But there’s something there, something unnatural, not like you and me.

“Who are you and what do you need?” he asks, a blunt edge to his tone.

If he knows me, there’s no recognition in his eyes, but that could well be a prepared reaction, practiced even. I flash my badge. “Detective Samantha Jazz. And this”—I motion to Lang—“is Detective Langford. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“If this is about that frat party some of my students were involved in, I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

“Did they kill someone four nights ago in a bookstore?” Lang asks. “If so, yes, that’s what this is about.”

That’s Lang’s way. Shock and rock the bad cop routine while I observe and play the good cop when the time is strategically right.

Newman offers a convincing blanch. “What? I’m sorry.” He sets his bag down. “Murder? I thought they just hung the kid up naked in the frat house.”

“Just hung up naked, huh?” Lang comments.

“No. No.” Newman is holding up his hands now. “I didn’t intend to be dismissive, but the kid was alive. Murder is a whole other level of perversion.”

Perversion.

This word bothers me for reasons I’ll analyze later. “I understand you have an interest in poetry?” I interject.

He blanches all over again. “Forgive me if I’m suffering whiplash right now, but these comments and questions are all over the place. What are we talking about?”

“We’re working a case that might require a poetry expert,” I say. “We pulled your name up as a possible option.”

He narrows his eyes on me, blades of irritation spiking his stare. “I’m not falling for your bucket of tricks, Detective. What do you want? What do you really want?”

“You know what we want,” I say and turn the question back on him. “What do we want?”

“Obviously to talk about a murder in a bookstore. So why don’t we just do this?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Tell me the date and time of this murder. I’ll give you my alibi. You confirm my alibi and then go do your jobs and find the real killer.”

“August fourteenth,” Lang supplies. “All day. All night. We need every detail.”

He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “I don’t even have to look at my calendar. August fourteenth was my son’s birthday. I spent the day with my wife and family. All day. All night.”

“She’ll confirm this?” I ask.

“Of course, she’ll confirm.” His tone is arrogant and impatient. “What else?” He glances at his watch, a Rolex. I make a mental note to inquire about his paycheck. “I have a class to get to,” he presses.

Lang snorts with disgust. “And we have a dead man who’s going to his own funeral early. How old is your kid?”

Newman presses his lips together. “Twelve. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Where did you take him for his birthday party?” I ask.

“We stayed home. We’re done here.” He loads his bag on his shoulder, turns, and walks away.

My takeaway: he didn’t ask questions the way most people would ask questions. He didn’t want to know who the victim was. He didn’t want to know why we homed in on him. One might assume that he didn’t have to. He already knew.

Chapter 27

Detective Jazz seeks the answers only I can give her, that only her master and teacher hold in my palm.

Why else would she be drawn to the campus, where learning is nothing if not monumental? She clearly understands the teacher/student dynamic in play but doesn’t yet understand that these students, the ones who walk this campus, are not relevant to anyone or anything at all. She is the only student of any relevance at all, the student I once was, and to some degree will always be, to the great works.