CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I've been following the case closely since I saw a report about the first murder," Cassandra Jenkins said, leaning back in her leather chair and steepling her fingers. "It's hard to think about much else."

Sheila nodded, unsure what to make of the woman in front of her. Jenkins, a professor in anthropology who specialized in ancient rituals and astronomy, was an intriguing character. She was sharply dressed and poised, her dark hair impeccably styled, her gaze intense but not unkind.

Finn leaned against a bookcase filled with dozens of worn textbooks and journals, his arms folded casually over his chest. Sheila could feel him assessing Jenkins, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. There was something about the academic that rang an alarm bell in Sheila's head, but she remained open to the possibility that Jenkins could provide invaluable insight into the killer's motives.

But how did she learn about the third murder so quickly? she wondered. Was she just watching the news, keeping the station's number on speed dial so she could call in?

"The symbols aren't just random," Jenkins continued, her eyes lighting up with an interest that seemed surprisingly genuine. "They are a form of ancient celestial language. And they're not just scattered around the victims at random, either. They're arranged in a particular pattern—one that corresponds with the alignment of certain celestial bodies."

"Ms. Jenkins," Sheila said, "I can't help but ask: How do you know so much about the murders? You seem to know the crime scenes better than the media does."

"Oh, that's an exaggeration," Jenkins said with a wave of her hand. "I just pay attention to the details, is all." She leaned forward, fixing Sheila with her intent gaze. "I'll tell you this much: The person you're after isn't your run-of-the-mill cultist. These symbols, these practices are very ancient, not exactly… in vogue , if you understand me."

"Where would someone learn these ancient practices?" Finn asked .

Jenkins shrugged. "Textbooks. Oral tradition." She cleared her throat and sat up. "Listen, if I'm going to give you all this information, I'm going to need something in return."

Sheila and Finn exchanged a glance.

"What's that?" Sheila asked.

"I want the inside track on the investigation," Jenkins said. "If more bodies are found, I want to be the first to study the symbols."

Sheila folded her arms, her gaze hardening. "That's not typical procedure, Ms. Jenkins."

"I am well aware," Jenkins said, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. "But this isn't a typical case, is it? You need my expertise."

Sheila glanced at Finn. His face was unreadable, but she could tell from the tension in his posture that he wasn't any more comfortable with the proposition than she was.

"Ms. Jenkins," Sheila began, "it seems to me that you already have the inside track."

Jenkins stared at her, not batting an eye. "What are you talking about?"

"The speed at which you responded to the news of the third murder, not to mention the specific details you knew of the crime scenes…" Sheila paused, thinking about how to say what she was trying to say. "It's baffling, to say the least. Makes me wonder how you could know so much before the rest of the public did."

Jenkins watched her carefully. "What are you implying, ma'am?"

"I think you know what I'm implying, Ms. Jenkins," Sheila replied, her gaze steady and relentless. "You knew things you shouldn't have known. How is that?"

"I..." Jenkins began, her face pale under the harsh office lighting. "I think I'm done talking. I'd like you both to leave now."

Sheila glanced at Finn.

"I'm sure there must be a reasonable explanation," Finn said in a polite, friendly tone. "Are you friends with a local reporter, perhaps? Got the inside scoop?"

"I said," Jenkins repeated, "I'd like you both to leave. Don't make me call security."

The sudden defensiveness caught Sheila off guard. Was it possible that Jenkins was the murderer or had been involved in the murders somehow? She knew intimate details of the killings, and she was highly familiar with astrology and the occult.

What might she be hiding ?

"You know what?" Sheila said. "I don't see any reason why we can't involve you in the investigation. From the sound of it, your feedback could be invaluable. Can we trust you not to leak anything to the press?"

"Of course," Jenkins said, her demeanor shifting instantly. She visibly relaxed, leaning back in her chair, no longer intent on throwing them out. "I wouldn't dream of it, Sheriff Stone."

"Great," Sheila said, masking her unease with a thin smile. "We'll be in touch."

She rose and left Jenkins' office, followed closely by Finn.

"So," Finn said as they walked down the university hallway, "that went…strangely."

"She's hiding something," Sheila murmured. "Maybe a lot of somethings."

"You think she's involved?"

"It's not uncommon for a serial killer to want attention."

"But why the astrology? Why kill based on celestial events?" Finn asked, rubbing his chin.

"I don't know," Sheila admitted. "It doesn't make sense yet, but there's a pattern here. We just need to figure it out."

"So how do we get to Jenkins? If we go back in there and ask more questions, she'll just clam up, probably ask for a lawyer."

"We need to find a way to make her feel safe, like she's in control," Sheila mused, massaging her temples. "And that means playing into her ego. If she is involved, then she thinks she's smarter than us."

"And if she's not?" Finn asked.

"Then we're back at square one. But it's a risk we have to take." Sheila paused and looked at him. "Believing she's smarter than us might be exactly what gets her to slip up."

Finn's mouth twisted in a wry grin as he studied Sheila. "If I ever commit a crime, I sure hope you're not the one who investigates me."

Just then, Sheila noticed a group of administrative staff chatting near a water cooler. "Let's see if we can get some inside information," she murmured to Finn.

Sheila put on a friendly smile as she approached the group. "Good morning, ladies," she said.

A woman with a bright floral blouse smiled politely. "Good morning. Need help finding your way around, Officers?"

"Is it that obvious?" Finn chuckled .

"We're actually here on official business," Sheila said, "but we're trying to get a feel for the place. How long have you all been working here?"

"Oh, ages," the woman replied. "I've been here for fifteen years now. I'm Carol, by the way. This is Debra, and that's Susan."

"I'm Sheila. This is my partner Finn. After fifteen years, you must know all the ins and outs of this place. Any interesting characters we should know about?"

The women exchanged glances, their expressions growing guarded. Carol cleared her throat. "Well, you know how academia is. Everyone's a character in their own way."

Sheila nodded, realizing they weren't going to volunteer information easily. "We're particularly interested in the Anthropology department. Have you noticed anything unusual there lately?"

Susan shook her head. "Can't say that we have. It's been pretty quiet."

"Why do you ask?" Debra asked. "Is something wrong?"

Finn stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We're investigating a sensitive matter. Anything you could tell us would be helpful and, of course, confidential."

The women shifted uncomfortably. Carol glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry, but we really should get back to work."

As they turned to leave, Sheila noticed Debra hesitate. "Debra, was there something you wanted to add?" she asked.

Debra bit her lip, glancing at her colleagues. "It's probably nothing, but...well, Professor Whitaker from Mathematics has been acting strange lately. Especially around the Anthropology building."

Carol shot Debra a warning look. "I'm sure it's nothing. Professor Whitaker is just...eccentric."

"How do you mean, strange ?" Sheila asked.

Debra lowered her voice. "He gets all nervous, always looking over his shoulder. And whenever Professor Jenkins is around, he practically runs the other way."

"Debra," Susan hissed, "we shouldn't be gossiping about faculty."

Sheila nodded, understanding their reluctance. "We assure you, this isn't just about gossip. It's very important we speak with him. Where might we find Professor Whitaker?"

After a moment of hesitation, Carol sighed. "His office is in the Euler Building, third floor. But please, don't mention we said anything. "

"Of course," Sheila said with a smile. "Thank you for your help."

"He gets nervous and looks over his shoulder," Finn repeated as he and Sheila made their way to the Mathematics department. "You really think this is worth pursuing?"

"Hey, it's something. There's no telling what it could mean."

They found Professor Whitaker, an elderly man with a pronounced stoop and thick, owlish glasses, locking his office door.

"Professor Whitaker?" Sheila called out. "Do you have a moment?"

Whitaker turned, eyeing them suspiciously. "Who's asking?"

"Officers Stone and Mercer. We wanted to ask you some questions about Professor Jenkins."

Whitaker's demeanor immediately changed, his face paling visibly. "Questions?"

"About an ongoing investigation. A homicide investigation."

"I...I'm not sure I can help you," he said, glancing nervously down the hall.

Finn stepped in. "Professor, we understand you might have concerns. We assure you, anything you tell us will be kept confidential."

Whitaker hesitated, keys jingling in his trembling hands. "It's not that simple. There are...implications."

Sheila sensed his unease. "Professor, if you're worried about your safety or position here, we can offer protection and discretion."

After a moment of internal struggle, Whitaker sighed. "Very well. But not here. Meet me at the coffee shop across the street in ten minutes."

As they left the building, Sheila kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. The campus was busy with students rushing to classes, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

"You think he'll show?" Finn asked as they waited at a crosswalk.

Sheila nodded. "He's scared, but he wants to talk. Whatever he knows, it's eating at him."

They crossed the street, the aroma of fresh coffee growing stronger. Just as they reached the shop's door, Sheila spotted Whitaker hurrying across the campus lawn, constantly looking over his shoulder.

Inside the coffee shop, they chose a quiet corner booth. Whitaker arrived moments later, out of breath and visibly nervous.

"I'll have a chamomile tea, please," he told the waitress, his voice barely above a whisper .

Once the tea arrived and Whitaker had taken a few sips, he seemed to calm slightly. "What do you want to know about Cassandra Jenkins?" he asked, his eyes darting between Sheila and Finn.

"We've heard there might be some...unusual activities she's involved in," Sheila said carefully. "Can you tell us anything about that?"

Whitaker's hands tightened around his mug. "There's a group of them that meet every now and then. They use one of the study halls after hours."

"What are the meetings about?" Sheila asked.

"I don't know," Whitaker murmured, glancing around nervously. "But whatever it is...it involves candles, incense, and some strange drawings they make on the floor in chalk. I've seen them because they don't always clean the chalk up properly—sometimes you can still see the faint outline."

"Outline of what?" Finn asked.

Whitaker hesitated, then leaned in closer. "If I had to guess? They look a lot like constellations."