A Master's in Murder Page 4

  As she stared at the full-length mirror next to her bed, Brielle’s thoughts drifted back to the first time Eric had told her he loved her. She smiled. When she was younger, she had always imagined that declarations of love happened with displays of grandeur, the way they always were in your classic romance movies. She would be standing in the rain, and her prince would run out, admit his deep and passionate feelings for her, and they would share a kiss to upstage all kisses as the raindrops streaked down their cheeks.

  That was not how it had been with Eric, though. Brielle had been sick with the flu, and she hadn’t showered in three days. Bedridden and drained, she had looked similar to how she would imagine the undead would’ve looked after rotting gloomily in an unkempt cemetery for centuries. Her wavy dark hair stuck out at every angle, kinked and knotted as if she had jammed a fork into an outlet. Puffy bags hung under her tired eyes, red patches flushed her cheeks, and she huddled tightly in a large t-shirt sprinkled with holes. She constantly woke from fitful stretches of sleep drenched in a cold sweat, feeling stuck in the center of a bitter battle of her body over whether she was in fact sweltering hot or icy cold.

  When Eric had come in that day armed with soups and juices, Brielle had covered her face and muttered numbly, “I look like a raggedy doll who got dropped in the sink disposal.”

  She heard Eric’s low chuckle, and she peeked through her fingers, smiling grimly. Grinning, he settled himself on a wooden stool next to her bed and set down his healing offerings. Reaching over, Eric gently tugged Brielle’s hands away from her face and softly caressed her warm cheeks with his fingertips.

  “I won’t argue that you probably feel that bad right now. But you want to know what I see?” he asked. As Brielle raised her eyes to meet his, Eric smiled again and stroked her hair back. “I see beautiful hair that wants to be as free as the soul to whom it belongs. I see rosy, soft cheeks that give a glimpse into the passion that pumps inside. I see wide eyes full of dreams that won’t stop looking until they find them. And a smile that lights up even the darkest sky and sends my heart on a roller coaster. Now you tell me,” he said softly, leaning forward intently, “when someone is that beautiful, how could I do anything but fall in love everyday?”

  Brielle felt tears welling up in her eyes as she remembered the adoration glowing on Eric’s face that day. He had always seen her as more than she could see in herself. He saw beauty where she saw blemishes. Saw destiny where she saw despair. Although it had never come, Brielle had often fantasized about the day she would walk down a long velvet carpet, adorned in white, to a beaming Eric at the altar. The day that now would never come.

  And yet it still felt so real. Brielle fell back on the bed, staring almost wildly at the ceiling, as if she would find there the gate to her true reality, and Eric would be waiting on the other side. Just days ago, it would’ve still been a real future. Now, one small choice to read a text had completely altered the direction of her life. But did she have to accept that shift? Brielle felt a surge of anger, wanting to lash out at Fate, to kick against its omnipotent power and order that it return the one she loved so much. In her coat pocket, her hand clasped in an angry fist around something. Numbly, she pulled out the bent card that had been given to her only days ago. Officer Ray Corey. No: 555-6946. The white letters shimmered against the white background as his words echoed through her memory: “Seeing it with my own eyes gave me… closure, I guess. Helped me progress toward acceptance.”

  She couldn’t see it. It would destroy her. But without it, she couldn’t live either. In an almost trancelike state, Brielle typed each number into her phone and raised it to her face.

  “Officer Corey? Yeah, hi, it’s Brielle Daymon. I am… was Eric Artimer’s girlfriend.” Her voice quivered and her stomach dropped queasily as she said the next words: “I want to see it—the video.”

  8

  Brielle glanced at the nightstand where the digital clock glowed red. 1:00. The wind whistled loudly outside her window, but no movement could be seen in the sheet of blackness that covered the night sky. She rocked back and forth with her hands clasped around her knees, staring at her computer screen. The Gmail logo blinked up at her, and her mouse hovered over a single file attachment: Eric_Artimer_case01205.mp4. It had been nearly an hour since Officer Corey sent her the file. As she had reached to click the file, Brielle had felt cold perspiration dotting her hairline, and she suddenly felt like she was trapped in a vacuum-sealed room, sucking in air in desperate, sporadic bursts. The ceiling spun and glistened with black dots. For several long minutes, Brielle laid curled tightly on the ground, trying to regain control of her rasping gasps. Ragged breaths ripped at her lungs, desperately grasping for oxygen. Finally, she had hiccupped herself back to sitting position and had sat unable to click the video, frozen by terrorizing fear. She did not want to see the gruesome last moments of Eric’s life. She didn’t want to see him going from a healthy future of happiness and full experiences to the cold body she had seen lying on that hospital bed.

  Finally, almost as if acting on its own accord, Brielle’s arm reached out rapidly to click Download. With a thrill of horror, her hands flew to her face as a black and white video popped up and began to automatically play. Staring transfixed through her fingers, Brielle recognized the small street near her apartment. Small bushes lined the street, with sidewalks parallel on each side. The time in the right hand corner read 8:13 am. Brielle had only been in the test for about ten minutes. If I had just been with him… but Brielle shook the thought away. The moment she started considering alternative scenarios where she could have prevented the accident, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and she would spiral. Instead, she focused intently on the video. Anyone up at that time would have been in classes, so the street was unsurprisingly deserted.

  Suddenly, Brielle felt her heart plummet into her shoes. A dark shape had just crossed into view. Eric. Brielle felt such a deep sense of longing and heartache at seeing his tall, confident figure that she almost believed that her heart had physically torn in two. She saw him glance up the street quickly before stepping on to the asphalt. Walking diagonally across the street, Eric seemed unconcerned about any coming traffic. It was clear he had seen no cars approaching before he had begun his journey across the road. Brielle watched as Eric looked up at the sky, nearing the opposite side. Eric turned his head to look up the street behind him, and his jaw dropped.

  Brielle gasped and bit her fist, holding in a scream that was fighting to burst out. A Jeep sped into view and slammed into Eric’s right side. He flew forward, and in those few seconds, Brielle could see the shock and terror on Eric’s face. Flipping through the air, he landed face first, back onto the road. Brielle gaped in horror as he slid for several feet before finally rolling to a stop, now covered in blood. His backpack and books laid scattered across the road, and his legs and arms stuck out at odd angles, folded behind him like he was made of cheap paper.

  Brielle felt the blood rush out of her face, and buzzing like an angry hive of bees filled her ears. Pins and needles seemed to be stabbing every inch of her skin, and the beige and white window shades spun and whirled in her vision. Turning to her left, Brielle felt her sweaty palms hit the cool floor, and vomit exploded out of her mouth and nose. Hot bile stung her throat, and another wave of nausea burst out of her mouth as the image of Eric flying through the air burned in her mind.

  Again and again, her stomach contracted until there was nothing left to regurgitate. Slowly, she turned back to the video and replayed it. She retched again, dry heaving while her limbs shook. Tears splashed down her face as she watched the love of her life stolen from her in an instant. Eric crossing the street. Eric looking behind him. The Jeep. The driver’s face. The crash. Eric’s broken body.

  Suddenly, she sniffled, and Brielle’s sobs paused as her eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Something looked strange. She went back a couple seconds and paused the video. Brielle’s eyes focused on the driver as he entered the video frame
before impact. It was indeed Mr. Trent, and thanks to the open design of the Jeep, she could see that he was indeed holding his phone on his lap. However, his eyes… His eyes weren’t looking at his phone. No, they were very carefully and intently focused ahead. They were focused on Eric.

  Brielle’s mouth hung open, unsure of what her eyes were seeing. There was no reaction on Mr. Trent’s face. There was no surprise that he was seeing a pedestrian standing in front of his vehicle. There was no shock or last minute attempt to avoid the crash. If anything, he looked resolute and calculating. He looked purposeful. Hand shaking, Brielle reached out and played the video, now paying attention only to the driver. As the car hit Eric, Mr. Trent leaned forward onto the break, and his head whipped forward against the steering wheel with the force of the stop, leaving a long cut across his forehead.

  But no, that wasn’t right. Again, Brielle jumped back a few seconds to observe the driver. Right before hitting Eric, Brielle could see Mr. Trent tighten his grasp on his wheel and swing his head back before swinging it forward. He hit his head on purpose, Brielle thought wildly. Even before the impact, Mr. Trent had given his head momentum to hit the wheel hard enough.

  Brielle’s eyes were as wide as quarters as she witnessed the next moment. As Eric skidded across the street, for just a split second, Mr. Trent lifted his eyes back to Eric and smirked. Brielle blinked rapidly, but she had seen it: for just that split second, he had leered at seeing Eric’s broken body. After only a moment, his face sobered. Lifting his phone to his face, Mr. Trent began talking rapidly, his face now displaying terrible shock. Brielle guessed that Mr. Trent was calling 911.

  Brielle rubbed her eyes frantically and pressed palms into her eye sockets, trying to control the hysterics that were threatening to overflow. Was she perhaps losing her mind? Brielle had studied more than one case were psychological trauma had resulted in extreme post-traumatic stress disorder. She remembered one survivor of a serial killer attack who woke up the next morning having no memory of anything that had happened in the past two weeks, except for a movie she believed she had watched where a man had attempted to brutally rape and stab a young woman. She had not realized that the frightened woman had been herself. Was this Brielle’s brain trying to cope with her painful loss? Was she maybe seeing something in the video that simply wasn’t there?

  Brielle rolled quickly through the video frames until she had found Mr. Trent’s smirk, and zoomed in on his gaze. Even with the pixelated quality of the image, Brielle could still see how large his pupils remained in his bright eyes. With a wave of horror, Brielle realized that what she saw in his eyes was more than concentration. It was hunger. It was bloodlust. He was drinking in that terrible moment as Eric’s body cracked against the pavement. Brielle watched the video four more times, trying to keep a cool and level head. Who could ever want to kill Eric? It simply couldn’t be. But she could not ignore Mr. Trent’s face as it betrayed his sadistic satisfaction.

  It was 3:30 AM before Brielle, disturbed, fell back onto the cool wooden floor, her hands on her head. This didn’t make any sense. And yet the proof was right there in front of her. Eric’s death had not been an accident.

  9

  What do I do? This can’t be real. Who would have done something so grotesque and appalling to another human being? What was his name? Kevin something? How did he even know Eric? Could he have done all of this by accident? No, I could see his face. No shock, no concern. Brielle’s head swam with questions, and she aggressively massaged her temples as they pounded like a mallet against stone. Who would even believe this? Will they all think I’m crazy, desperate to hold on to Eric in any way I can? she wondered.

  Brielle’s eyes flashed open. Was she crazy? She hadn’t slept well in days, she had hardly eaten any food since the accident, and she had just underwent severe trauma. It wouldn’t be surprising for hysteria and hallucinations to follow such extreme circumstances. The thought frightened her, and her grip on her head grew tighter, as if she could somehow physically keep her mind together if she squeezed tightly enough. She remembered reading a case where a mother lost a child in birth, and the trauma caused a full-scale meltdown where she was convinced that the government had, in fact, harvested her newborn baby’s vital organs in order to support the cannibal lifestyle of some of the world’s most renowned individuals, led by none other than Queen Elizabeth. Brielle pressed her palms deep into her eyes. Is that how everyone was going to see her? Desperate for closure that would never come?

  She curled her hands into fists and sat up straight. She knew what she had seen. He’s dead, she thought fiercely. He’s dead and he’s not coming back. I know that. This isn’t some way for me to hold on to him. She pushed herself up on to her feet and began to pace around the room, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration.

  She needed to tell someone. But who? She knew the exact reaction she would get if she said a word to her mother. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, honey,” she’d say. “I know it’s hard to accept, but you just need time to grieve. I know it feels like you need to fight it, but you will find peace again.”

  As for Eric’s family? Brielle grimaced. None of them had liked her very much, and Mrs. Artimer probably would be angry at her suggesting that anyone would want to hurt Eric. I could tell Jared, she supposed, but there had always been something uncomfortable about Jared and Eric’s relationship. It has always been cool, formal… empty. Whenever they had interacted, Jared always seemed to keep his distance from Eric. Brielle thought back to the funeral. Jared had hardly expressed any emotion at all. At most, he seemed politely somber. I’m not even sure he was that sad, Brielle thought with mild distress. Even in her disarrayed state, Brielle felt a twinge of annoyance at Jared’s unruffled response. But then, she admitted to herself reluctantly, everyone mourns differently, I guess.

  Sighing deeply, Brielle collapsed on her bed again and stared at her hands. Her skin, cracked and icy, looked sickly and pale, and her fingers traced the spider web of blue veins just beneath the surface. It was a moot point anyway. She knew that no matter who she told, they’d all ask the same question she was asking herself: why? Why would this random man have something against Eric, and something so drastic that it would drive him to murder?

  She froze. Goosebumps erupted across her arms as a heavy weight clunked into place in the recesses of her mind. Horror slowly began to wash over her like a chilly breeze preparing the way for a vicious storm.

  73 percent. That was the percentage of homicides committed by nonstrangers, or people known to their victim. Brielle had learned that in her Criminal Psychology class a year before. The number had made her stomach queasy that day in class. Today, it made her stomach writhe. She bit her lip as she tugged on a loose curl that had fallen from her silver clip. If anyone who personally knew Eric had been involved, that would’ve meant that they had planned his accident beforehand. But why? Most murders, she knew, were instinctive acts in life-altering moments, unplanned and recklessly fueled by a person’s most animal instincts: anger, passion, envy, lust, greed.

  To actually pre-meditate Eric’s death would be crossing a line, a horrific line, from animal to evil.

  Brielle felt a searing pain shoot through her bottom lip, and she realized that she was still biting down on it, now squeezing it tightly between her teeth, as if the painful sensation now throbbing around her mouth was a reminder that she could still feel at all. Relaxing her jaw, Brielle patted her lip rapidly with her index finger, looking momentarily like every make-up-decorated girl checking that her lipstick wasn’t smudging. As she lifted her finger to her eye line, small blots of red shimmered on its shaking tip. Brielle slowly spread her fingers out so that the dim light of her computer screen saver danced across her palms. I wonder if my hands will ever stop shaking, Brielle pondered.

  Suddenly, Brielle felt the fatigue of the past few days wash over her. It was as if she had lived one hundred lives, each one with rocky terrains, the blistering sun, and cold, sleep
less nights. The desire to find sleep and never wake ached in her bones, as if her very essence was begging her to let go of this painful existence. Wearily, Brielle let her head fall back so that her eyes fell onto a frame hanging next to the bedroom door. Legs shaking under her weight, Brielle staggered to her feet and slowly stumbled mechanically across the room to the wooden square outlining a black-and-white photo of two people laughing hysterically at some forgotten joke. They had been so happy then, so carefree. She could almost hear his hiccupping laughter echo through the lonely silence, a shadow of a life that was no longer hers. Her long fingers caressed the curves of his dark curls that danced so playfully on his smooth forehead, stroking the cool glass surface. She had almost expected to feel the warmth of his velvet skin as her fingertips grazed the outline of his firm jaw.

  The picture turned to a muddled swirl in Brielle’s eyes as tears blurred her vision, and she rested her forehead against the glass. If I could just hold him again, just once. He never knew just how far into our future I had dreamed. Hot, heart-wrenching tears trailed down her trembling cheeks as images flashed across her mind: she and Eric standing at the altar together, smiling at each other as though they were the only two in the world at that moment. Eric cradling a crying baby gingerly in his arms for the first time as Brielle smiled up exhaustedly from the hospital bed. Their wrinkled, age-worn hands intertwined as they retraced the halls of the library where they had first met decades before. A red Jeep careening into a startled Eric, sending him soaring until he crashed back onto the black road, ripping across the pavement.