Blood Wolf’s Path - стр. 13
“Well, Cherry, your theories. What do you see?” I asked, giving her a chance to shine.
“Well, it’s a murder. No weapon here, likely one perpetrator. I can tell from the footprints in the sand—only one person ran away from the scene,” Cherry observed smartly.
“Good. Now here’s a stumper—why are the bodies so close together? Let’s say the killer was alone. He stabs one victim. Why didn’t the others run?”
“Hmm, maybe they were drunk. I see beer bottles…” Cherry said.
“Maybe. Or maybe the killer was one of their group and took them out all at once. Then, after wounding each, finished them off.”
“So it’s a planned killing, not spontaneous? And the killer knew the victims? Maybe they were students and the killer a classmate,” Cherry suggested.
“Most likely. This wasn’t a robbery—nothing’s scattered. And the killer’s white,” I said.
“Why?” Cherry didn’t like that one bit. She was one of those Black folks who hated any mention of skin color.
“Because the victims are white. Unlikely they were close friends with a Black guy. That only happens in movies.”
“But I’m Black!” Cherry exclaimed.
“And are we friends?” I said, giving her a look like she was an idiot.
I put on gloves and searched the victims’ pockets. As I suspected, they were classmates—that much was clear from their IDs.
“Well, Cherry, let’s head to Fisher College. Beacon Street,” I said. We were done here.
“What about forensics?” she asked.
“We don’t need forensics. We’ll have the case wrapped up by evening. Let’s roll!” I photographed the IDs and walked off, Cherry hesitating a moment before following.
On the way to the college, I called ahead and spoke with the dean, a woman who assured me the victims’ classmates would be ready for questioning by the time we arrived.
The dean met us at the door—a large Black woman of about fifty with plump lips and a huge backside.
“Hello, Miss Perthington…” I greeted her. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Good afternoon. Such a tragedy… The students are in the lecture hall. But you understand that…” she trailed off.
“We just need to clarify some details. We’re not accusing anyone.”
I winked at Cherry to let her know everyone was a suspect.
The large lecture hall, decorated with portraits of unknown men in stiff suits, was depressing. It smelled like old shoes. About fifty students sat slouched in their chairs, staring at their phones.
“Hello,” I began. “Here’s the thing. Jimmy Lungova, Berry Kontova, and Snetta Kushka have been murdered.” I read their names from my phone. “I know you knew them, liked them, maybe were friends. But we need to find the killers. And the easiest way is while the trail’s still hot. I have one small request.” I paused.
“With me today is well-known psychologist Cherry… Cherry Campus. Don’t let her youth fool you—she’s from the FBI. She’s going to determine whether the killer is among you. Remember, this is an investigation, and you’re all suspects. Now, do exactly as I say. I’m going to count to five, and on five, raise your right hand. Cherry will instantly spot the killer with her method. Ready? One… two… three…”
On “three,” a huge guy, built like a boar, bolted from the room. Cherry and I had to give chase. The bastard was fast, and within thirty seconds we were sprinting down Beacon Street after him. Cherry kept up, and I drew my revolver, emptying the cylinder into his legs. I hit him—he tumbled and crashed into a trash can.