Chapter 1
The challenge came as a letter, stuffed among the magazines and flyers in their mailboxes. There was no postage. No address for the sender or recipient. Just their names scrawled across the front in a thin, jagged cursive. Inside was a single sheet of paper. At the top was an image of a red splatter, the word murder, and a magnifying glass. The paper could easily have been mistaken for a cheap advertising flyer, an old-school practice gone the way of the dinosaur as smartphones and tablets became the primary source for information and advertising.
Is There a Killer Among Us?
Do you feel safe on campus? In your dorm?
Nursing student Jaime Sullivan was raped then strangled in her dorm. The campus police responded by adding a few extra patrols at night. The Sheriff's Department has moved on. Jaime Sullivan is an unsolved case. Soon to be cold and forgotten. How does that make you feel?
Who out there cares enough about those who no longer have a voice? You?
But do you care enough to make a difference?
Come Thursday the 13th Journalism Building 9 p.m.
Elliot Long knew she had to go. The thought of one more unsolved case made her blood boil. Sure, the last two years of therapy had helped her cope with her loss, but there was no reconciling the lack of justice. Besides, she had the perfect cover. She would show up at the Thompson Journalism Building at nine p.m. Thursday to check things out. If she got a bad vibe from who was gathered there, if the scene felt sketchy, she'd continue into the building like that had been her plan all along. She had every right to be in the building. She was, after all, a journalism major, and the building was literally her home away from home. Not that her tiny studio apartment could be called home. It was simply where she stored her stuff, microwaved an occasional meal, and slept. The Thompson Journalism Building was her happy place. Each Wednesday, she produced a podcast called Ask Why with a handful of her classmates and was often in the building long into the night. So she totally knew how the building should feel at nine p.m.
Using the Thompson Building as the meeting place didn’t strike Elliot as odd. She didn’t know who sent the letter, but she figured it had to be another journalism student. Someone studying investigative journalism, like herself. Maybe a senior like Joe Lennox, looking to finish their senior project and using this clever and intriguing letter to rope in subjects. Sending an anonymous letter was totally something he would do. To what end? Elliot didn’t know.
She hurried to lock her bike, wishing the bike rack was closer to the building’s entrance, not off to the side in a hard-to-see area under a cluster of trees. Ever since Jaime Sullivan’s murder, the campus had a restless, uneasy vibe, resulting in a person often looking over their shoulder and quickening their steps, even in broad daylight. Whether due to the violent nature of Jaime’s death, the unnerving reality that a killer had gained access to one of the most secure dorms on campus without being detected, or because crime on campus in general had escalated wasn’t clear. But campus life had changed after that night. An undebatable fact.
Tonight marked six months to the day of Jaime’s death, which only added to the campus edginess. South Washington University administration continued its chokehold on campus life, restricting the return to normal with ongoing ten p.m. curfews and closing the late-night study halls at dusk, rendering their name an oxymoron. Weekend evening campus activities were quashed except for sporting events that were allowed because they could afford to pay for security. A growing number of students were objecting to the restrictions, mostly guys. The violent nature of Sullivan’s death tended to leave the students, female ones for sure, nervous about venturing out. Instead, gatherings happened in dorms and the backyards of sororities and fraternities. Like when the pandemic hit, people hunkered down in place and got cozy with those they were forced to quarantine with.
The Thompson Building stood three stories tall and ran the length of a football field. Elliot knew this because the football stadium was directly behind the building. Large double doors were at the center and seemed to welcome anyone with a curious mind. Though, as with any building on campus, a person had to have the proper keycard to swipe if they wanted to enter.
Staying within the glow of the streetlights, Elliot approached the building and surveyed the three people lingering. One was a girl leaning against the building by the doors, her attention on her phone. She was shorter than Elliot’s five feet five, dressed in baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoodie with her hair pulled back into a rhinestone-covered ball cap.
The second, a guy, was a multisport athlete. A message he broadcasted in both his dress and actions. He wore a school baseball jersey and spun a basketball on his finger, stopping to occasionally dribble it between his legs. His attention jumped between the building and the seven-story clock tower that stood at the center of campus, half a block away.
Sitting on a bench talking on her phone was a dark-haired girl. She lightly tapped a worn, sticker-covered baseball bat against the concrete next to her feet. She was the third person. Not an athlete; the bat was for protection. Elliot figured the girl had walked to the Thompson Building, which meant she likely lived in one of the sororities a few blocks away.
Elliot debated if she should approach them or wait to see if someone else took charge.
From the corner of Elliot’s eye, she caught movement in the trees behind where Bat Girl sat. A flash of white near the ground. Sneakers, maybe? She strained to see more.
The clock tower chimed nine times just as the skies opened up and lightly tossed rain down on them. They were all cutting it close to curfew.
“Crap.” Elliot pulled up her hood. She dreaded biking home in the rain. The main road to her apartment had steady traffic, a poorly designated bike path, and no sidewalk. Rain would make it harder for drivers to see her. Not checking the forecast before setting out had been stupid on her part. It wasn’t like rain was unexpected in the Pacific Northwest. She’d been so distracted by the letter she’d made a safety error. She would likely have to splurge on an Uber.
Elliot pulled out the lanyard with her student keycard as she scanned the trees once more for whatever had caught her eye. But it was gone. She headed for the front doors.
“Freaking awesome,” the athlete said as he looked around, likely for cover.
Ball Cap Girl raced to the front door and pulled repeatedly on the handle. The door didn’t budge.
Bat Girl rushed to the front door as well. “Try this.” She swiped her keycard through the digital lock.
Ball Cap Girl tugged again. Nothing.
Elliot surveyed the area around them one last time, looking for something to stand out, for more people. There was no telling how many had received the letter. Could one of the three before her be the sender? Only time would tell.
The rain increased, and Elliot fast walked to the front door. Ball Cap Girl had her hands pressed to the glass, trying to look in.
Bat Girl was knocking, as if that was going to make a difference. “Forget this shit,” she said. “Some dumbass is playing a prank.” Her annoyance was clear in the bite of her words.
Elliot beelined for the digital lock and ran her card. Don’t get her started on how the university tracked all activity through their keycards. The front door gave a hum followed by a loud click, and the lock disengaged.
Bat Girl studied Elliot with a narrowed gaze. Ball Cap Girl pulled open the door, rushed in, and held the door open with a back-stretched arm. Elliot and the dude with the basketball hurried into the large foyer.
Elliot took over holding the door and looked back at the girl with the bat. “You coming in?”
Following a moment of hesitation, the girl entered, and they stepped away from the door, letting it go to swing shut. But right before it could latch again, it was jerked open, and in stepped a tall, lanky guy with reddish-brown hair and a scruffy beard. He seemed slightly older than everyone else, with dark circles under his eyes and chewed fingernails. Grad student, maybe? Elliot glanced at his shoes. Black monochrome Chuck Taylor’s. Not the something in the trees she’d thought she’d seen.
This time the door did click shut. They stood around each other, more than six feet apart. Maybe part habit, maybe part protective instinct. The athlete held his basketball but shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat, his gaze bouncing between them.
Bat Girl crossed her arms and glared at Elliot. The bat hung from her hand. “Who are you, and why did you send me this letter? I mean, if we can call it a letter?” Her eyes narrowed further.
The rhinestones on Ball Cap Girl’s hat winked as she nodded adamantly in agreement.
Elliot shook her head. “I didn’t send any letter. And to be clear, we’re talking about this?” From her messenger bag, she pulled out the note.
Bat Girl pointed at the letter. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Elliot pointed to Ball Cap Girl. “You got one too?”
She tapped her front pant pocket as if to say that was where her letter was.
“So did I,” the jock said. He moved in a little closer while digging his note from his front pocket. He handed it to Elliot. The letters were identical.
They all looked at the last person to join them.
“What about you?” Bat Girl asked.
He wiped his forearm across the top of his head and cleared his throat. “Same letter.”
“If you didn’t send it, then who did?” Bat Girl said to Elliot with skepticism.
Elliot shrugged and looked at the others.
“I didn’t,” Ball Cap Girl said. “I don’t even know any of you.”
“I don’t know any of you either,” Bat Girl said. “And I don’t think this is a funny joke. Frankly, I don’t see the purpose of this.”
Yet she didn’t turn to leave. And she’d come in, hadn’t she?
Elliot asked, “Does anyone here know anyone else?”
The athlete jerked his head toward Elliot. “I wouldn’t say I know ya, but I know who you are.”’ His accent is subtle, southern. Probably at the University on a scholarship. And yet, he still knew who she was.
Elliot looked away quickly. She continued, “And am I correct in assuming that no one here sent the note?”
They all nodded.
“Bullshit,” Bat Girl said.
Elliot had to agree.
The front door hummed then clicked to disengage, and Professor Libby Whitehorse Snyder entered. She shook out an umbrella before putting it in the stand next to the door. Life in the Pacific Northwest was all about umbrellas and rain gear. Professor Snyder was a tall, middle-aged woman with short gray bobbed hair and a no-nonsense demeanor.
Surprise crossed her face as she took in the students. “Elliot?”
“Hello, Professor. We... ah…” Elliot had no excuse for why she was there or why these students, who weren’t supposed to be in the journalism building at night, were, in fact, in the building.
“We’re being pranked,” Bat Girl said. “Someone sent us a note telling us to be here at this time on this day. Saying we were being called on to solve the Jaime Sullivan case. I stupidly let curiosity get the best of me.” Arms crossed, she rolled her eyes.
Professor Snyder said, “Jaime Sullivan, you say?”
Elliot nodded and handed the note to her professor. “It's weird, right?”
Professor Snyder slid on a pair of reading glasses, glanced at the note, then looked over their rims at Elliot. “Not as weird as getting a phone call from an unidentified caller saying I had to get here right away, that Jaime Sullivan’s killer was getting away with murder, and I needed to stop them.”
“Was the caller a man or a woman?” Elliot asked.
Professor Snyder shrugged. “Hard to say. The quality of the call was bad.” She looked at Bat Girl. “I almost ignored it.”
The athlete asked, “So now what?”
Professor Snyder jerked her head to the hallway. “Let’s go to my office.”
They followed her down the hallway, not in a line but each of them moving in the same direction while keeping their distance.
Professor Snyder slid a key into the lock and twisted the knob, swinging the door open with a kick. She leaned in slightly to switch on her light, not fully entering the room. Elliot had seen her do this before. In class, the professor had told them about a time when, on assignment, she’d returned to her motel only to find a stranger with a knife waiting in the room to silence her. She had a four-inch scar running from her scalp, across her forehead, and to her right eye as a daily reminder of that night.
Professor Snyder’s shoulders stiffened, and Elliot sensed something or someone was waiting in the room. She moved around her teacher to look inside. On Professor Snyder’s desk was a box. The kind reams of paper came in. Taped to the side of the box was a large manila envelope, and written on it in bold, black strokes was CAMPUS MURDER CLUB Case #1.
Elliot scanned the room before entering, wanting to make sure it was empty.
Professor Snyder moved into the room toward her desk. “I’m calling security. Don’t touch anything, Elliot.”
But Elliot couldn’t help herself. At home she had a similar box and wondered if like items were inside. Case files. Pictures of evidence. Police reports.
Elliot lifted the lid as Bat Girl came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. Together they peered inside.
“Elliot,” Professor Snyder hissed. She snapped her fingers to get Elliot’s attention.
Elliot smiled apologetically at her professor. “We won’t touch anything else.”
Jaime Sullivan’s story had been reduced to items stored in a box, items collected in her final moments of life. A journal, a collection of newspaper articles clipped together, random pieces of mail, seven index cards with a date written on each one—not one date the same—and a stack of crime scene photos.
Horrible photos too. Jaime naked and left discarded without a care. Images of the room, a broken lamp on the floor. A chair overturned.
But Elliot knew that wasn’t Jaime Sullivan. All her research told her Jaime Sullivan was a girl who had defied the odds. She’d spent half her life bouncing between shelters and homelessness, and yet she managed to graduate high school with honors and go to college on a full scholarship. By all accounts, Jaime had been a positive person who looked for the silver lining.
Eventually, though, Jaime would be forgotten, and from the way things were going, her case unsolved. A fact that made Elliot both angry and sad.
“Is this what I think it is? Is this evidence?” Elliot asked Bat Girl.
Bat Girl said, “This looks like the actual evidence that is stored in the property room at the police station, but I can’t be sure. It’s not properly bagged and tagged. So maybe it’s not actual cataloged evidence?”
She pointed to a clear sealed bag that held the journal. No label was affixed to identify it as evidence. Elliot was familiar with the labels she was talking about.
Bat Girl used her thumbnail to spread out the photos. Small labels were affixed to the bottom left corner and read #1 of 26, #2 of 26, etc. “These are labeled correctly. But they aren’t considered evidence, more part of the case file. I’m not sure about the rest of the stuff, but I doubt any of this is real evidence.”
“Why do you sound unsure?” the athlete asked.
Bat Girl shrugged. “Whoever put this here could’ve removed the evidence tags. If that’s the case and we get caught with these, it’ll look like we stole them. And that’s a felony.”
