Face of Murder

Over his shoulder as he walked toward the door, Zoe met Shelley’s eyes. This was odd—too odd. When did a murder suspect ever just willingly, even happily, go along to the station for questioning? It was as if the man was not just resigned to his fate, but glad of it.

They walked in convoy to the car: Shelley leading, then Wardenford, then Zoe. She kept her eyes on him at all times, thinking that if he really was their guy, he was surely going to bolt. She was tense, one hand itching to rest on the holster of her gun just in case.

Nothing happened on the walk out to the parking lot. Only when he was sitting in the back of their car, with the child locks on, did Zoe allow herself a moment to relax. He wasn’t going anywhere, except where they took him.

So, if he was a killer, why did he seem so pleased about that?

***

Zoe sat opposite James Wardenford, with Shelley in the seat next to her. The bare room—just a table and four chairs, one currently unoccupied—was dominated by one glass wall. Just like on TV, it was blacked out, impenetrable from this side. On the other side, a tech was watching closely, making sure that everything was picked up by their recording equipment.

“I knew you were coming for me,” Wardenford said, scratching the back of one of his ears. He looked all the world like a man who had not a single care. They might have been chatting to him in a local grocery store about the weather, for how concerned he seemed. “It was only a matter of time, really.”

“And why is that, James?” Shelley asked. She was doing her Good Cop bit. Playing the friend. It was what she was good at. Zoe, for the meantime, was content to stay quiet and observe until she had something to say.

She looked James over, reassessing as she had done so many times already. His height of five feet nine made him the correct size to have attacked the college student, Cole Davidson, at a slightly lower angle. His arms were bunched with muscles enough, though not so much to make him stand out. Still, she figured he would have had the strength for the first blow—which stunned the victims enough that they were unable to fight against the others.

It was his manner that irritated her. She knew the signs of panic or fear, the desire to not be found out. The sharp angles of the shoulders and elbows, the constant movement, the defiant lean. She had memorized all of them from textbooks before she had ever gone out into the field, and had enough experience to know now they were real.

But James Wardenford was calm and relaxed, even smiling. That did not sit well with her at all.

“The victims,” Wardenford said simply. “You were always going to trace them back to me eventually.”

Shelley shifted in her seat, leaning back. It seemed she was having a hard time figuring out what to make of him, too. She was switching back and forth between her usual tactics. “Is this a confession?”

James Wardenford laughed, free and easy. “Good lord, no. It just looks like me from the outside. I get that; I do. But considering I didn’t do it, I’m not worried at all. Once we’ve cleared this all up, I’ll be back at home before the day is out. It’s not like I have anything better to do today.”

Shelley sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment. Zoe kept quiet. She watched him carefully, wishing she was better at reading the subtle nuances of expression and movement that gave people away.

“Let’s start from the beginning, then, shall we? How does it look like you from the outside?” Shelley prompted.

“It all started with Cole Davidson, of course.” Wardenford tipped his chin a few inches up, his voice increasing in volume. He was putting on a speech, as if he was addressing a lecture hall. That only unsettled Zoe further. Truthful people didn’t look up that far. “Professor Henderson—Ralph—and I had, well, a bit of a falling out. You see, Cole had a bit of talent in English, or so it seemed. Ralph was absolutely determined that he ought to be kept on, to finish his studies, but he was here on a scholarship. There, I ought to say, since I don’t work at the college anymore.”

“What does the scholarship have to do with your falling out?”

“I’m getting to that.” Wardenford’s left eyebrow shot up an inch or two before dropping down. Was he actually reproaching Shelley for interrupting him? “The scholarship was dependent on Cole keeping up a certain level across all of his grades, and he was also taking my physics class. Taking being a loose word. More often than not, he slept through my lectures. Surprise surprise, he was failing.”

“And Professor Henderson asked you to intervene,” Shelley said. She was leaning back still, but something in her manner had changed. Zoe guessed that she had found the right tack at last. A sympathetic ear. A believer.