of some of the girls from Waycliffe who live in the city and stay in New York year-round.”
Quinn sipped his coffee and sat back in the upholstered booth. A smattering of cheering and applause came from the bar, where the recorded ball game was being shown. Someone hitting a home run and rounding the bases yesterday. “What about Waycliffe?” he asked. “Was Macy happy there?”
“She said she was. And just in the past year she seemed to be maturing, becoming more ... practical. She was always a scholastic brain and made top grades. Waycliffe had her in their Vanguard program for gifted students. She seemed to have done a good job of adapting to college life.”
“Did she mention any particular friends she’d made?”
“Some, but their names don’t come to mind. Macy wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, but people liked her.” Rena’s lower lip began to tremble.
Quinn guessed that the photo of her dead daughter was on the screen of her mind. Or maybe the murder itself, reconstructed from the horrible wounds. The recent past playing out again, like the ballgame. The Macy in the crime scene photos hadn’t looked peaceful and composed, as in the morgue shot. Rena hadn’t seen the crime scene photos, but she knew what had happened to her daughter, and she could imagine how it had been done.
She took a slow sip of her drink. “Last time I talked to her on the phone, Macy did seem to hint that something at her job was bothering her, that it didn’t seem right.”
“What does that mean, ‘did seem to hint’?” Quinn asked.
Rena shook her head. “I don’t know, exactly. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Maybe it was just something I inferred. Macy had a way about her. Maybe because she was so smart. When we talked, it was always like what she meant was floating somewhere between the lines. It was kind of unsettling. Like once when she phoned me from her dorm room.”
“So what exactly did she say on the phone?”
“I can’t quote her verbatim. One thing I remember: she said it was possible somebody’d slept in her bed while she was gone.”
“Maybe her roommate.”
“She didn’t have one. The students in her dorm have small sleeping rooms without space for much more than a bed and a desk.”
“Did she have a key?”
“Yes, but the door hadn’t been locked. Hardly anyone in the dorm locks their room when they’re only going to be gone for a short while. That’s the sort of college it is.”
“Everyone there is trustworthy?”
“Apparently. Or rich enough that they don’t have to steal.”
“Very exclusive?”
“You have to have brains, money, or connections in excess even to think about going there. In Macy’s case it was brains. She scored perfect or near perfect on every aptitude test she took.”
“Where had she been the evening of the bed incident?”
“She’d attended a group discussion at the home of one of her professors. You know, drinks, snacks, endless analysis or political posturing.”
For a moment it struck Quinn that on a certain level Rena might have been jealous of her daughter’s superior intellect.
“Maybe she just forgot to make her bed,” Quinn said.
“And forgot she forgot? That wouldn’t be like her.”
Rena bowed her head and the lip trembling began again. She looked as if she was about to cry, but with great effort she gained control of her emotions. She methodically unwrapped her plastic straw and then plunged it like a lance into liquid and took a long series of pulls on her Diet Coke, almost emptying the glass.
Quinn didn’t tell Rena that serial killers were sometimes driven to get into their intended victims’ minds by learning intimate things about them, even sneaking into their homes and mimicking their experiences. Like sitting and watching their TVs, reading their e-mails, wearing their clothes, using their combs or makeup. Or lying in their beds.
“Where exactly is Waycliffe College?” he asked. “I mean, if I wanted to drive
Quinn sipped his coffee and sat back in the upholstered booth. A smattering of cheering and applause came from the bar, where the recorded ball game was being shown. Someone hitting a home run and rounding the bases yesterday. “What about Waycliffe?” he asked. “Was Macy happy there?”
“She said she was. And just in the past year she seemed to be maturing, becoming more ... practical. She was always a scholastic brain and made top grades. Waycliffe had her in their Vanguard program for gifted students. She seemed to have done a good job of adapting to college life.”
“Did she mention any particular friends she’d made?”
“Some, but their names don’t come to mind. Macy wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, but people liked her.” Rena’s lower lip began to tremble.
Quinn guessed that the photo of her dead daughter was on the screen of her mind. Or maybe the murder itself, reconstructed from the horrible wounds. The recent past playing out again, like the ballgame. The Macy in the crime scene photos hadn’t looked peaceful and composed, as in the morgue shot. Rena hadn’t seen the crime scene photos, but she knew what had happened to her daughter, and she could imagine how it had been done.
She took a slow sip of her drink. “Last time I talked to her on the phone, Macy did seem to hint that something at her job was bothering her, that it didn’t seem right.”
“What does that mean, ‘did seem to hint’?” Quinn asked.
Rena shook her head. “I don’t know, exactly. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Maybe it was just something I inferred. Macy had a way about her. Maybe because she was so smart. When we talked, it was always like what she meant was floating somewhere between the lines. It was kind of unsettling. Like once when she phoned me from her dorm room.”
“So what exactly did she say on the phone?”
“I can’t quote her verbatim. One thing I remember: she said it was possible somebody’d slept in her bed while she was gone.”
“Maybe her roommate.”
“She didn’t have one. The students in her dorm have small sleeping rooms without space for much more than a bed and a desk.”
“Did she have a key?”
“Yes, but the door hadn’t been locked. Hardly anyone in the dorm locks their room when they’re only going to be gone for a short while. That’s the sort of college it is.”
“Everyone there is trustworthy?”
“Apparently. Or rich enough that they don’t have to steal.”
“Very exclusive?”
“You have to have brains, money, or connections in excess even to think about going there. In Macy’s case it was brains. She scored perfect or near perfect on every aptitude test she took.”
“Where had she been the evening of the bed incident?”
“She’d attended a group discussion at the home of one of her professors. You know, drinks, snacks, endless analysis or political posturing.”
For a moment it struck Quinn that on a certain level Rena might have been jealous of her daughter’s superior intellect.
“Maybe she just forgot to make her bed,” Quinn said.
“And forgot she forgot? That wouldn’t be like her.”
Rena bowed her head and the lip trembling began again. She looked as if she was about to cry, but with great effort she gained control of her emotions. She methodically unwrapped her plastic straw and then plunged it like a lance into liquid and took a long series of pulls on her Diet Coke, almost emptying the glass.
Quinn didn’t tell Rena that serial killers were sometimes driven to get into their intended victims’ minds by learning intimate things about them, even sneaking into their homes and mimicking their experiences. Like sitting and watching their TVs, reading their e-mails, wearing their clothes, using their combs or makeup. Or lying in their beds.
“Where exactly is Waycliffe College?” he asked. “I mean, if I wanted to drive
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