A true pandemonium broke out across the entire campus when Detective John Mackenzie and his men arrived, half an hour after Paul’s phone call. This is the last thing Glover needs, thought Rudolph Glover, the chancellor, as he waited for the patrol cars in his spacious office, located in a solitary, isolated building about four hundred meters from the Faculty of Arts. It was the oldest building on campus, followed by the Faculty of Arts itself, and had originally been occupied by Horatius Glover himself.

In a few minutes he was supposed to meet with the police and other authorities at the Faculty of Arts. He had not received a call from them; it was Franklyn Martin who had called him.

Like his grandfather Horatius, Rudolph considered the Faculty of Arts a constant headache. In his day, being an “artist” was just another synonym for a drifter or an unemployed person. And although he acknowledged that Arts had become the most profitable faculty in the entire university, he also believed it was the main cause of its decay.

It was not unusual for Rudolph to remain in his office until 11:30 at night, three hours after his secretary had left. After all, he had become a workaholic at a very young age. And despite his laconic nature—which more than one person mistook for arrogance or hostility—many agreed that he was the only member of the Glover dynasty who truly cared about the affairs of the campus. He had accepted the position of chancellor five years earlier, after all his relatives had refused it.

Before that, he had held numerous positions at Glover Paper Industries. Over fifty years, starting at eighteen, he had worked as a laborer, distributor, plant supervisor, accountant, operations manager, and finally CEO. It was almost by accident that he managed to finish high school, since his father insisted on pulling him out of school to have him working at the factory all day. That had begun when he was ten years old, until at eighteen he got his first full-time job there. His father believed that, as a third-generation member of a paper-industry dynasty, it was necessary for him to start learning every aspect of the business as early as possible. That was how a wealthy widower related to his small son.

He had presided over the Glover Foundation for four years, and now, if it were not for him, Glover University would be in an even worse situation than it already was. Naturally, he had studied at Glover. The Glover family business was perfectly circular: everyone studied there; all the paper used on campus came from Glover factories; the scholarship programs of the faculties were managed through the Glover Foundation; and most of the graduates of the Faculty of Finance and Business—including scholarship students—were hired by Glover Paper Industries, where they also did their internships.

In moments of great tension like this—when other men of his status might have a drink or go see a prostitute—he simply drew the curtains and looked out through the large windows behind his desk. His office had an excellent view of a well-preserved section of forest, with a splendid path that led directly to his grandfather’s mausoleum.

He had never had a close relationship with his father in childhood or youth. But over the years—and even more so now, at seventy-eight—he had learned to replace the absent figure of his father with that of his grandfather, whom he had never known. It is always easier to admire the memory of a man than the man himself.

His grandfather had been a tenacious fighter, a true survivor, who had not inherited his immense fortune—as most of the rich men Rudolph knew had—but had built it from absolute misery, working hard every single day of his life. And after his death, others had come and enjoyed the fruits of his effort without having done anything for him in life, not even having been present in his final days.

Others came, they enjoyed it, and they ruined everything, he muttered to himself, with a strange mixture of resignation and bitterness.

In the corridors of Glover University, the image of the chancellor had taken on a sinister tone among professors, staff, and students. Some even said that his building—with its ancient architecture—looked like Frankenstein’s or Dracula’s castle. “All it needs is dark clouds and thunder!” more than one had joked on several occasions. But the man behind that image was very different. He could be accused of many things, but not of being vindictive or hateful.

********

At the very same moment that the chancellor was reflecting in his office, Sergeant Charles Coretti and another officer were taking photographs at the crime scene. Detective Richard Mackenzie had already given the order that no one was to leave the building, and the police tape, along with the red and blue lights, contrasted sharply with the night calm of the campus. A sinister calm, someone might have said.

Convinced that the killer could still be on campus, Mackenzie had ordered a blockade at each of its six entrances. When the chancellor finally arrived at the Faculty of Arts, he went straight to Inspector Mackenzie to request a private meeting.

“Are you all right, Mr. Chancellor?” Mackenzie asked sincerely.

“I’m as well as I can be, considering this came as a complete shock to me,” the chancellor replied politely but firmly.

“I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you,” Mackenzie began, “but you must understand that this is an overwhelming situation. None of us wanted it, but now that we have it, the faster and more efficiently we resolve it, the better it will be for everyone.”

Despite the difference in age—Chancellor Glover was thirty-one years older—both men seemed to belong to the same generation. They were polite, workaholics, and shared a deep sense of duty. Their personalities filled the small office in which neither of them wanted to sit.

There was, however, a profound difference between them: while Chancellor Glover was a man born into fortune, forced by circumstance to assume responsibilities, Mackenzie was a self-made man who came from nothing and nowhere. Since childhood he had dreamed of being a police officer, and apart from an occasional picnic with his wife and children, a family gathering, or a beer with a colleague, there were not many activities in his personal or professional life that did not revolve around his job. Catching criminals was his only passion.

He had been just a child when the mysterious disappearance of the four students had shaken all of Leadtown County. After twenty days of painstaking searching, the boys were declared dead, but their bodies never appeared. Years later, Commissioner Murray died without ever having recovered from the shame and the sense of failure. Mackenzie grew up sharing that same feeling of frustration with the entire county, and when he applied to join the police, he did so partly to satisfy that need for justice. To him, the Horror Tales Club case was not only a tragedy for Glover, but for the entire county.

“I am fully aware that your work on this case is outside my authority,” Glover replied once again in his excessively courteous tone, “but all I ask is to be kept informed before any course of action is decided. I don’t want to become just another piece of furniture in my own university.”

While Mackenzie and Glover were politely discussing their respective positions, Sergeant Coretti and the forensic examiner Lisa Daniels were examining the body, and in another room Paul Henderson was giving his statement to another officer. Ten minutes later, Mackenzie and the chancellor entered the room.

Mackenzie had seen many crime scenes—some even more horrible than this one—and although he felt sincere sorrow for Mary, he remained calm and self-assured at all times. The chancellor, however, could not help showing a look of deep distress.

“Well, folks,” Mackenzie began, addressing his team, “what do you think happened here?”

“Estimated time of death?”

“About an hour and a half ago,” Lisa answered.

“The girl comes back from the party…” Coretti began, acting out the scene with gestures.

“Then the man—or the woman—comes in and hides there,” he pointed to a dim corner next to a bulletin board, “and waits for the right moment… but there’s something about all this that doesn’t add up…”

“Besides how the hell the killer got in and out?” Mackenzie ventured.

Chancellor Glover grew more and more uncomfortable as he listened. He had never seen a murdered person in his life, and the impression was overwhelming. He would have been more than happy to delegate this unpleasant situation to the dean, with his usual coldness and self-control, but the man was in Madison at the moment, attending an inter-university meeting.

“If that girl was so naïve that she didn’t notice someone entering her room, she must have been in some kind of trance!” Mackenzie exclaimed, visibly exasperated.

“Fire axes don’t have sharp cutting edges,” Coretti added, “and yet this one is buried deep in her skull. You have to be very strong to do something like that!” He paced the room as he spoke, gesturing wildly.

“That’s a good point,” Mackenzie admitted, “but strong men are usually very noticeable. They don’t blend easily into a crowd. And the girl would have had to be incredibly careless to stay so calm waiting for the blow.”

“She wasn’t very big—rather delicate,” Lisa Daniels, the medical examiner, pointed out. “Women have about half the bone density of men. Add to that the fact that she wasn’t an adult woman but a fragile girl, and that she was probably—”

“Drugged?” Coretti suggested, as if reading her thoughts.

“Yes!” Daniels confirmed. “How the hell did you guess?”

“Come on,” Coretti snorted. “Everyone knows that what kids do nowadays in fraternities is not exactly discuss literature or science.”

Without being asked, the chancellor felt compelled to offer an explanation.

“At Glover we have had to take several unpleasant measures regarding drug issues… but you know how young people are…”

Out of courtesy, Mackenzie avoided asking the chancellor to specify those measures. It would undoubtedly have been an embarrassing situation for him. He remained silent for a moment.

“What really intrigues me,” he went on, “is how clumsy this person was. Leaving this toy in her forehead… this is amateur work. We should be looking for a novice, not a professional.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, sir,” Lisa intervened. “Maybe our man did that so the weapon wouldn’t be found in his possession later.”

“That makes some sense,” Mackenzie admitted.

Daniels dusted the axe with powder, in a futile search for fingerprints.

“You have to admit our friend was pretty bold,” Coretti said, “and at the same time had the incredible luck of getting in unseen, killing a possibly drugged girl without her making a single scream, and then leaving without anyone seeing him!”

“Not to mention,” Mackenzie added, “that all of this must have taken at least ten minutes, including moving the body. Is this guy a clone of Houdini?”

The fluorescent light revealed nothing. Naturally… what kind of idiot commits a crime with bare hands? This procedure, as Daniels had repeated again and again, was nothing more than a useless formality.

Mackenzie watched the patrol cars through the window. This is going to be a complicated night, he thought. Although in his twenty years as a police officer he had spent countless nights away from home, he had never fully gotten used to it. This time his mind drifted to his wife Sarah and the kids. That roast duck must have been delicious, he thought. And little Matthew, always fluttering around me…

“There’s something else, sir,” Daniels said, unaware that she was interrupting his thoughts. “The girl was not killed here. Her body was brought in afterward.”

“All right, Daniels, take a blood sample for a drug test, while Coretti and I check tonight’s surveillance recordings,” Mackenzie said at last, taking Coretti by the arm in a friendly gesture. “I have a feeling we’re going to catch that bastard before the night is over.”

“Yes, sir!” Daniels managed to say, though Mackenzie and Coretti were already in the hallway.

With Glover still present, Daniels took a syringe with anticoagulant and inserted it into Mary’s jugular vein.

“Well, I suppose you need a little privacy…” Chancellor Glover said, leaving, visibly disturbed.

Daniels felt a great weight lift from her shoulders at those words. She was very shy with people outside her circle of work, family, and friends—especially while she was in the middle of a procedure.

“Yes, sir, very much so,” she heard herself say. “Would you be so kind as to ask Coretti to call an ambulance service?”

This time it was Glover who felt relief. He now felt like a stranger on his own campus. And that girl… what kind of beast was capable of something like that? She had a bad reputation, but that did not justify such an abominable act. What kind of cursed place has the university my grandfather built from nothing become?

Surprised by the violence of his own thoughts, he walked down the corridor looking for Coretti. He was deeply worried that the matter would leak to the press. But his hands were tied, and Mackenzie could not reassure him. Leadtown was not exactly a city—there was no way people would not find out. At that moment, Mary Pattison’s murder would be the talk of the streets.

********

In the main hall, Fred Tyler was trying to calm Ginger Frattini, who was suffering from a strange and poorly justified nervous breakdown. After all, the girl was not part of her family, and although the situation was very sad and frightening, she had not even had the unpleasant experience of seeing the body. But… she was Ginger Frattini. What else could one expect?

In another corner of the same hall, Debbie was trying to locate Mary Pattison’s parents on her cellphone. Almost half an hour had passed since the ambulance had arrived. Her body must already be on that cold iron table, Fred thought. This will be a terrible moment for her parents.

Debbie and, to some extent, Peggy Lodge were the only ones acting with efficiency and clarity. The rest were in a state of passivity. Chancellor Glover had gone home and, instead of being a stabilizing and supportive presence, the professors were only adding to the unpleasant and theatrical atmosphere that hung in the air. The most annoying of all was, without a doubt, Franklin Martin, who—as usual—would not stop making comparisons between his student years and Glover’s present day.

Not far from Debbie, using her notebooks as pillows, Jane slept deeply, projecting even more strongly that innocent image that made everyone want to protect her.

********

Mackenzie ordered Paul to play the video tape again, trying to detect some detail that might have gone unnoticed. But the recording showed only Mike Grant helping Mary down the hallway to her room. Grant did not even go inside; he simply said goodbye at the door. During the two hours both before and after Mary and Mike arrived, the tape showed no one entering or leaving the room.

“Does anyone else have access to these video tapes besides you?” Mackenzie asked.

“No, sir,” Paul replied. “Guarding these tapes is one of my responsibilities.”

Mackenzie hesitated over his next move.

“Coretti,” he said at last, “do you remember that guy from the video store on Main Street?”

“Yes, he’s a genius at what he does,” Coretti confirmed.

“Good, because we need to send him these tapes.”

“It’s strictly necessary to rule out possible tampering,” Mackenzie told Paul. “Personally, I believe you, but as a police officer—like you—I have superiors, and I can’t rely only on your word.”

They both felt the explanation was unnecessary, but Mackenzie did not like to leave any doubts about his work. And Paul was polite enough not to comment.

“Do you know that boy?” Mackenzie asked.

“Not very well,” Henderson replied. “I know he’s a troublemaker; he studies law, I think… and he’s apparently a good football player. A lot of girls say so, and some from this faculty used to go out with him.”

“Do you know where we can find him?”

“At his fraternity, ΣΔΠ.”

Mackenzie turned to Coretti.

“What time is it?”

“Two thirty.”

Mackenzie turned back to Paul.

“Tell me about that girl,” he said. “Do you know if anyone had problems with her?”

Paul laughed.

“Oops,” he apologized. “Almost everyone around here disliked her and Therese, her roommate. I had to sanction her several times for noise, drinking, and… other substances, you know. But I don’t know anyone who hated her enough to want to see her… you know.”

“What did the guys say?” Mackenzie asked Coretti.

“Pike and Billy reported half an hour ago that neither they nor anyone else has seen anyone leave the campus in the five hours we’ve been here. And I asked the head of the security team to check their tapes: same result.”

“We’ll have to analyze that material too.”

“Well, I think you and I should stay out of this for now. Go with Martha and try to have a little fun…”

Coretti smiled discreetly at the private joke.

“At two thirty in the morning?”

“Yes. You have understanding neighbors,” Mackenzie replied.

“Which of the boys will be the lucky ones tonight?”

“I’m thinking Smith and Dover.”

“Well,” Mackenzie said, putting an arm around the shoulders of both Coretti and Henderson, “the three of us need to get a little rest, because our friend the killer was not as transparent as we assumed.”

********

At the very moment Mackenzie, Coretti, and Paul were reviewing the video tapes, Therese Glendenning was staggering her way from ΣΔΠ to the Faculty of Arts. Some of the boys returning to their fraternities said there were police cars and an ambulance parked at the entrance, and Phillips mentioned that he had heard a girl had been murdered.

If only Mary hadn’t left the party so early! she thought. She would have gone with her, but she had started feeling dizzy too soon. And Mike—good old Mike!—had decided to escort her… and now that same “gentleman” Mike had left her to walk back alone!

She was not drugged into unconsciousness, just a little woozy, because unlike Mary, she knew when to stop. Although there were lights in many parts of the campus, the night had its usual atmosphere of loneliness for her. It felt as frightening as always. She had not liked walking outside at night since she was a child.

She was crossing the deserted square in front of ΔΠΤ, surrounded by large maple trees, when a tall figure suddenly appeared from among the trees ahead of her. She tried to run back, but the stranger was faster and grabbed her, clamping a hand over her mouth.

There was the crack of a branch…

…and two seconds later, only silence; with the trees, the moon, and the wind as the only witnesses.