CHAPTER FIVE
Riley’s trained eyes cataloged every scratch, burn mark, and violent annotation marring Veronica Slate’s face across dozens of images on that bulletin board.
The methodical defacement—eyes meticulously scratched out, precise red lines drawn across throats—revealed the creator’s psychological state.
This wasn’t random destruction; it was ritualistic, performed with the careful attention of someone nursing a profound hatred that must have festered for years.
The words “LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER” in block letters were perfectly aligned on the cork surface, as if measured with a ruler. Malcolm Hartley hadn’t just harbored an obsession with Veronica Slate—he had cultivated it.
“My God,” Gillian whispered, her hand covering her mouth. “I had no idea.”
“How long has Hartley worked here?” Riley asked, stepping closer to examine a particularly disturbing photo where Veronica’s eyes had been burned out with what appeared to be cigarette marks.
“Three years as head of security,” Gillian replied, her voice hollow with shock. “He came highly recommended.”
“What do you make of all this?” Detective Hayes asked Riley.
“It looks like it’s about vengeance,” Riley said. “Hartley believed Veronica or her mother had wronged him somehow.”
Gillian said weakly, “Last night, Veronica said she’d tell me about him later. If only I’d pressed her then...”
“We need to find him,” Riley said firmly. “Ms. Sinclair, I assume you have Hartley’s home address on file.”
Gillian nodded. “I can access it on my cellphone and send it to yours.”
Hayes gave her his cellphone number, and she sent the address immediately.
“I’ll get my officers on it immediately. But if he’s running—”
“He might not be,” Riley interrupted. “This preparation, the theatrical nature of the murder—it suggests someone who wants recognition.”
The security guard who had let them into the building appeared in the doorway.
“Is everything okay in here?” His eyes widened at the sight of the bulletin board.
Riley turned to him. “How well do you know Malcolm Hartley?”
The guard shifted uncomfortably. “Not well, ma’am. He keeps to himself mostly.”
“When he’s not working, where might he go? Any regular haunts, favorite places?”
“Well, he spends a lot of time at the Silver Screen Café. Hollywood-themed place. Sometimes I see him there when I’m getting coffee before my shift. He’s always alone, always heads for a booth in the back room.”
Riley exchanged glances with Hayes and Ann Marie. “The Silver Screen Café,” she repeated.
Gillian stepped forward. “I know it,” Gillian said. “Local spot, popular with film buffs and studio employees. Decorated with Hollywood memorabilia.”
The guard gave the address for the café, and Riley jotted it down.
Hayes pulled out his car keys. “I’ll drive.”
“Ms. Sinclair, could you stay here and coordinate with the forensics team when they arrive?” Riley asked. “We’ll need everything documented exactly as we found it.”
Gillian nodded, her earlier shock hardening into determination. “Of course. And I’ll have security pull whatever surveillance footage we have of Malcolm’s movements yesterday.”
“Send anything you find directly to my phone,” Riley said, handing Gillian her card.
As they left the security building, Riley felt the case accelerating.
The discovery of Hartley’s shrine to hatred had shifted their investigation from theoretical to concrete.
Why had Veronica recognized him? As Riley, Ann Marie, and Hayes stepped out of the confines of the security building, the midday sun hit them with an intensity that matched their urgency.
As they passed again through the security checkpoint, the small throng of reporters was still gathered like vultures circling fresh prey. The air buzzed with anticipation, microphones poised like weapons ready to strike.
Cameras flashed in rapid succession as they approached, capturing every determined stride.
Riley squared her shoulders, her face an unreadable mask honed by years of dealing with media frenzy. “No comments at this time,” she stated firmly, her voice cutting through the cacophony like a knife through butter.
Ann Marie glanced sideways at Riley, taking cues from her seasoned colleague while keeping pace. Her posture was confident yet unassuming, mirroring Riley’s composure as she navigated through the sea of inquiries.
Detective Hayes moved ahead slightly, his broad frame creating a path through the throng. “Step aside,” he barked with authority that brooked no argument. His presence alone was enough to clear a path for them all to slip through and continue on their way to Hayes’ vehicle.
“You think he’ll be there?” Ann Marie asked as they climbed into the unmarked sedan.
“If he believes he’s executed the perfect crime, he might maintain his routines,” Riley replied.
Hayes started the engine. “Or he could be halfway to Mexico by now.”
“I don’t think so,” Riley said, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “This isn’t over for him.”
“You think there’s another target?” Hayes asked.
“I’m not sure yet. But Hartley’s obsession seems tied to both Veronica and her mother. There’s something deeper here than just fixation on a celebrity.”
***
Bill Jeffreys stepped out of his Bureau-issued sedan into Jefferson Bell University’s main parking lot.
The campus sprawled before him—red brick buildings with white trim, pathways lined with mature oaks, students moving between classes with the energy of a new semester.
Under different circumstances, he might have appreciated the scenic beauty and the crisp September air.
Instead, his eyes automatically scanned for threats, cataloging exit routes and sightlines with the habitual vigilance of his profession.
He checked his watch—11:53 AM. April would be waiting in the student union.
The union hummed with midday activity—students hunched over laptops, groups gathered around tables, the scent of coffee and grilled sandwiches filling the air. Bill spotted April immediately, seated at a corner table with a clear view of the entrance. Smart girl.
April raised a hand in greeting as he approached. She wore a Jefferson Bell sweatshirt and jeans, blending in with every other student.
“Bill,” she said, standing to greet him. “Thank you for coming.”
He gave her a brief, reassuring hug. “Of course. Your mom would have come herself if she could.”
They sat across from each other, Bill positioning himself to keep the entrance in his line of sight.
“Have you seen him today?” Bill asked, his voice low despite the ambient noise of the busy commons.
April shook her head. “No. Not since that time in the cafeteria last week. I still can’t believe he was one of Mom’s students. He seemed so... normal.”
“That’s what makes someone like Dillard dangerous.”
“He never mentioned Mom. Not once.”
“What did you tell you about himself?”
“Not much. He mentioned that he was working in a local bookstore until he could save up enough money for tuition. Other than that, we talked about books we’d both read. At the time, I just thought he was making conversation.”
Bill leaned forward. “I’d like to speak with your professor. The one teaching the American Politics class that Dillard was auditing.”
April nodded. “That’s Professor Elena Winters. Her office hours should be starting now. I can show you where her office is.”
“Good,” Bill said, standing. “I’ve also arranged for campus security to increase patrols around your dorm and classroom buildings. And I’d like you to check in with your mother or me at regular intervals until we locate Dillard.”
As they walked out of the student union into the midday sunshine, students streamed past, backpacks slung over shoulders, engaged in animated conversations or staring at phones.
“Professor Winters’ office is in Hamilton Hall,” April said, pointing toward a stately building across the quad. “Second floor. She’s really nice—intense about politics, but fair. She lets people audit classes pretty freely, says it encourages civic engagement.”
“Has security spoken with you yet about Dillard?”
“This morning,” April confirmed. “They took down his description and said they’d check the visitor logs and surveillance footage. But if he wasn’t officially enrolled...”
“We’ll find him,” Bill assured her, though he knew that if Dillard had any sense—and obsessives like him were often quite cunning—he’d be keeping his distance from campus now.
They crossed the quad, Bill maintaining a position slightly behind and to April’s right—a protective stance instinctive to his training. He noted with approval that she walked with awareness, her gaze systematically scanning their surroundings.
“There’s Hamilton,” April said, gesturing toward a four-story brick building with white columns framing the entrance. “Professor Winters’ office is Room 237.”
As they climbed the steps to the entrance, Bill felt a peculiar mixture of emotions. Pride in April’s composure. Anger at Dillard. And something deeper, more personal—a fierce protectiveness.
He realized with sudden clarity that somewhere along the line, April had become like a daughter to him.
Not just Riley’s daughter, but someone he cared for deeply.
He thought of his own sons, now living far away with his ex-wife Maggie, and felt the familiar ache of their long absence—an ache somehow soothed by his new growing bonds.
“It’s this way,” April said, leading him down a hallway. She stopped before a door with a small nameplate reading “Prof. Elena Winters, Ph.D.” Beneath it, a handwritten note announced “Office Hours: M-W-F 12–2 PM.”
“Do you want me to wait?” April asked.
Bill shook his head. “No need. Why don’t you head to your next class? Text me when you get there, and again when it’s over.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to handle this, April. Try not to worry.”