Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men by Robert N. Charrette Page A
Book: Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men by Robert N. Charrette
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Authors: Robert N. Charrette
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with Winston on Friday. None of the reports mentioned anything unusual about the body's condition, which puzzled John. If Winston had died of the beating John had given him—too likely a possibility—the body should have been decomposing. But it wasn't. So John was not the killer.
Right?
If John hadn't killed Winston, the jock had gone on with his life after their encounter on Friday. But if Winston had gone on with his life, some of the bruises would have begun healing. There wasn't any mention of evidence of "systematic abuse," as the media liked to call repeated beatings. To all appearances, Winston had been beaten and killed on Wednesday night.
The coroner was reported to place the time of death at one in the morning, a not uncommon time for drug deals. Who else would be out there at that time of night?
The killer, for one. But not John. John had been home in bed. Asleep. Which was where Winston should have been.
For all John thought Winston had been an ass, he had never known the jock to use more than alcohol or mild stimulants. Just over-the-counter stuff. Being on the basketball team meant too much to Winston; he wouldn't have risked losing that. Winston's being down on the south side didn't make sense.
There had to be more to the story. Where had Winston been for five days? And had he spent those days dead or alive? Normally John liked mysteries. But normally he wasn't a part of them, one of the suspects. Suspects? Not really. He seemed to be the only one who suspected him.
His stomach flopped and he thought about heading for the men's room. He waited it out, scowling at the vid wall. When he felt as though he could walk safely, he headed home. He took the shortcuts, not for speed but because there were fewer people to see him along those byways. Once home, he shut himself in his room. He even told Faye to shut up and go away.
Mysteries, but not mysteries for him to solve. He was just a student. Maybe a killer. He didn't sleep much that night, worrying at the problem.
He stumbled through his Friday morning classes in a daze, struggling to piece the facts he knew into a picture that made sense. He spent the dead time between classes wandering around the campus with no real destination in mind. The walking seemed to keep him calmer, let him think more clearly. Slowly he came to the conclusion that it was physically impossible for him to have beaten Winston to death. Dead men don't lie around for five days without decomposing. The bruises of the fatal beating must have overlain those that John had given the jock. The south side thing had to be what it appeared to be. Winston must have had a hidden side that his friends didn't know. That kind of thing happened all the time with serial killers. Why not with victims?
Feeling better, he headed for the student-center cafeteria. He put a Coke and a plate of the daily special on his card. The anonymous collection of brown, green, and yellow things on the plate didn't look much like food, but state law required the mess to be nutritious. A day without solid food had left him hungry enough to enjoy it. By the time he was washing down the last of it with his Coke, his attitude was improved considerably.
Awake, awake, sleeping beauty. You are being followed.
What?
Two men over by the concession stand.
John thought they looked more interested in the magazines than they did in him.
But they haven't been more than a block away all morning.
Really?
Really.
Dredging his memory, he realized that he had seen those two before. One or the other of them had been somewhere nearby all morning. Coincidence, surely. They had business on campus and just happened to be in the same places. Yet there was something ominous about their presence.
His watch beeped. He had lab in ten minutes, and he'd be late if he didn't hurry. Enviro lab in the Dunstan Building. Just like last week. But not like last week—Winston wouldn't be carousing along the walk when John got out.
Telling
Right?
If John hadn't killed Winston, the jock had gone on with his life after their encounter on Friday. But if Winston had gone on with his life, some of the bruises would have begun healing. There wasn't any mention of evidence of "systematic abuse," as the media liked to call repeated beatings. To all appearances, Winston had been beaten and killed on Wednesday night.
The coroner was reported to place the time of death at one in the morning, a not uncommon time for drug deals. Who else would be out there at that time of night?
The killer, for one. But not John. John had been home in bed. Asleep. Which was where Winston should have been.
For all John thought Winston had been an ass, he had never known the jock to use more than alcohol or mild stimulants. Just over-the-counter stuff. Being on the basketball team meant too much to Winston; he wouldn't have risked losing that. Winston's being down on the south side didn't make sense.
There had to be more to the story. Where had Winston been for five days? And had he spent those days dead or alive? Normally John liked mysteries. But normally he wasn't a part of them, one of the suspects. Suspects? Not really. He seemed to be the only one who suspected him.
His stomach flopped and he thought about heading for the men's room. He waited it out, scowling at the vid wall. When he felt as though he could walk safely, he headed home. He took the shortcuts, not for speed but because there were fewer people to see him along those byways. Once home, he shut himself in his room. He even told Faye to shut up and go away.
Mysteries, but not mysteries for him to solve. He was just a student. Maybe a killer. He didn't sleep much that night, worrying at the problem.
He stumbled through his Friday morning classes in a daze, struggling to piece the facts he knew into a picture that made sense. He spent the dead time between classes wandering around the campus with no real destination in mind. The walking seemed to keep him calmer, let him think more clearly. Slowly he came to the conclusion that it was physically impossible for him to have beaten Winston to death. Dead men don't lie around for five days without decomposing. The bruises of the fatal beating must have overlain those that John had given the jock. The south side thing had to be what it appeared to be. Winston must have had a hidden side that his friends didn't know. That kind of thing happened all the time with serial killers. Why not with victims?
Feeling better, he headed for the student-center cafeteria. He put a Coke and a plate of the daily special on his card. The anonymous collection of brown, green, and yellow things on the plate didn't look much like food, but state law required the mess to be nutritious. A day without solid food had left him hungry enough to enjoy it. By the time he was washing down the last of it with his Coke, his attitude was improved considerably.
Awake, awake, sleeping beauty. You are being followed.
What?
Two men over by the concession stand.
John thought they looked more interested in the magazines than they did in him.
But they haven't been more than a block away all morning.
Really?
Really.
Dredging his memory, he realized that he had seen those two before. One or the other of them had been somewhere nearby all morning. Coincidence, surely. They had business on campus and just happened to be in the same places. Yet there was something ominous about their presence.
His watch beeped. He had lab in ten minutes, and he'd be late if he didn't hurry. Enviro lab in the Dunstan Building. Just like last week. But not like last week—Winston wouldn't be carousing along the walk when John got out.
Telling
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