Page 38 of Absent Remorse

“Erratic?” Simon said.

“He would set strange puzzles in dead languages for his students. He lashed out physically at one of our staff members. She agreed to drop the charges if he left the university, but he still wasn’t happy about it. He acted like he was being wronged by us, rather than just receiving the consequences of his actions.”

That sounded very promising indeed.

“Do you have a name for this former professor?” Simon asked.

“Professor Alvin Quern,” the Dean said.

Simon took out his phone, looking up the name. There was a police file there, giving more details, showing how he’d attacked a female lecturer named Audrey James. Another name beginning with A. Could that be a coincidence? Another moment or two let him find Quern’s social media. There was a video there of a middle-aged man who was presumably the professor whittling a piece of wood.

The combination was far too much to ignore.

Simon thought about contacting Amber, but it was probably better to leave her to continue making progress on the puzzle. In the meantime, he needed to go speak to Alvin Quern.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

When Simon saw the place that was supposedly Alvin Quern’s, he felt certain that there had to have been some kind of mistake. Academics, even ones who had been let go, tended to live in nice houses in the suburbs, not in warehouse spaces that seemed barely fit for human habitation.

Still, it was definitely the address that he’d gotten from the DMV, and maybe it made sense that someone who had lost control to the point of killing four people wouldn’t live anywhere that seemed remotely normal.

Simon approached the door and found it open, the interior lit by strip lights high above. He drew his gun almost automatically because something about this situation didn’t feel right. Was he walking into a dangerous situation with no backup?

Simon stepped into the warehouse, looking around as he did so. The interior wasn’t quite what Simon might have expected from such a place. Oh, the walls were still bare metal, and the floor looked like some kind of easy to clean material that was probably there in case of oil or chemical spills, but there weren’t racks of shelving or crates.

Instead, it looked as if the entire contents of someone’s home had been moved in there: rugs, furniture, statues, paintings, everything. A large rug in the middle of the floor seemed to form a kind of living area. A bookcase sat at one side, not quite big enough to hold the stacks of books piled up next to it. A couple of desks sat there, one looking like a standard academic’s desk with works in progress and books piled up, the other, strangely, with a couple of computer screens and several cameras.

“Hello? Professor Quern? My name is Agent Phelps, with the FBI. I need to talk to you.”

Simon braced himself for someone trying to run from the warehouse, but there was no sudden burst of movement, no sudden rush of a suspect for the door.

What there was, instead, was a groan from behind a couple of antique chests and a wardrobe. Simon moved forward quickly, heart beating faster, covering the angles as he went. Was it possible that the killer was here? That he’d chosen to strike here just to close down a potential line of inquiry?

Was it possible that the killer was still here?

Simon moved around the living area carefully, trying to keep a clear line of sight ahead of him so that he could bring his weapon up to deal with any threats. He advanced on the space behind the wardrobe quickly, efficiently.

Simon saw a figure rising up there and levelled his gun, ready to meet the threat.

“Freeze, stay where you are!” Simon said. “FBI!”

He found himself staring at a middle-aged man with tangled hair who clearly hadn’t shaved for days. He was unathletic and unmuscular, overweight and unhealthy looking. He was wearing a tweed suit that clearly hadn’t been cleaned in a while, a broken pair of spectacles sitting in the top pocket. He seemed to be swaying gently as he stood there, obviously trying to focus on Simon. He seemed to remember the existence of his broken glasses and then put them on his nose.

“Who… what’re you doing here?” he said in a voice so slurred that Simon could barely make out the words.

Simon knew the reason for it even without having to look past the man to the empty bottles that littered the floor there. He could smell the alcohol from where he was standing.

“Alvin Quern?” Simon asked.

The other man pointed at Simon unsteadily, then vaguely back at himself.

“I…I’mAlvin Quern. I think. Who are you?” He almost fell over as he stood there waiting for the answer.

This was the man Simon thought might be the killer? This drunk? Simon couldn’t imagine anyone incapable of even standing up straight being able to plan and execute four murders, let alone put together the puzzle box that had pushed Amber to her limits trying to solve it.

Except… what if this was a lie, a carefully calculated distraction designed to put him off the scent? What if Quern were merely pretending to be drunk to try to make it obvious that he couldn’t have committed the crime?

Simon wasn’t sure if he believed that. It would require that Quern had heard him coming and yet had somehow decided not to run. Besides, if he was acting, he was doing a good job of it. Simon had seen enough drunks before to know one when he saw one.

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