The Cat, The Professor And The Poison

Twenty-four

“Candace, stop,” I called, my voice cracking. “That’s him.”

She halted and looked at me, puzzled.

But my throat felt so tight, as tight as the day he put his hands around it, that I couldn’t seem to get any words out.

The look on my face apparently told her what she needed to know. She resumed her pursuit, even faster than before.

I saw something glint in the guy’s hand and shouted, “He’s got a-”

But before I could finish the sentence, the man quickly stabbed the right front tire on the squad car.

“Hey,” Candace shouted, her arms pumping as she picked up even more speed.

But he was on the run now, too.

She took out her gun but kept it pressed at her side.

I tried to follow but couldn’t keep up. We hadn’t run far before my chest felt so tight, I couldn’t get enough air. The sight of that man had frightened me, and I felt breathless and paralyzed.

Candace stopped briefly when she reached the car. She pulled the keys from her pocket and tossed them back toward me. “Lock yourself in the car and stay there. I’m going after him.”

I had no time to argue because she was gone in an instant, sprinting in the direction he’d gone, toward the administration building.

I did exactly what she said, but now my own fear was coupled with worry for Candace. I’d felt that man’s hand around my neck. I knew what he was like, how strong he was.

So I began a little mantra to calm myself. She’ll be okay. She has a gun. She’ll be okay. She has a gun.

But maybe he has one, too, I thought as I sat in the passenger seat, my legs drawn up to my chest. And then I realized I could do something to help. I pulled out my brand-new phone that I hardly knew how to use and dialed 911. The dispatcher seemed unruffled by my near hysteria or my gasping explanation.

She told me the call had come in to a location not in Denman but close by and that she would contact the local police. An officer would come to the college parking lot.

“No,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like a nutcase. “The officer has to go after him. Someone has to help the Mercy police officer who’s chasing him. Her name is Deputy Candace Carson. She’s wearing a green and brown uniform.”

“And who is ‘him,’ ma’am?” she said.

“I don’t know. He’s wearing a gray uniform and has blond hair. She chased him behind the administration building, and where they went after that, I have no idea,” I said.

“Stay on the line until the officer arrives to help you,” she said.

“No, you need to help Candace-Deputy Carson,” I pleaded. “I’m locked in her squad car. I’m safe.”

“The caller ID says this phone is owned by Jillian Hart. Is this Jillian?”

“Yes. You have to help her. He might have a gun,” I said.

“She’s a police officer, you said?” the woman replied.

“Yes, but-”

“Then she’s well trained. She’ll know what to do. How about you? You said you feel safe where you are?” she said.

“Y-yes. I think so. But I’m scared for-wait. I hear a siren,” I said.

“Good. Stay on the line, Jillian, until the officer arrives.”

I wasn’t talking her out of sending the officer to me, so I did as she said and stayed on the line. When the squad car reached me, I saw it was the same guy we’d met earlier, Officer Dooley. He had his weapon drawn when he climbed out of his cruiser, but then he seemed to recognize me. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I did, and he took my phone and talked to the dispatcher. He seemed to be able to manage my phone better than I could because he disconnected without a problem.

“You okay aside from the flat tire?” he said.

“Deputy Carson is chasing down whoever slashed the tire. You should help her,” I said.

“I’m the only guy on duty, and they could have gone a dozen different ways. I got the word out to a state constable, though, and he should be here soon.”

“Please go after Deputy Carson. She went that way.” I started to point in the direction of the administration building, and that’s when the fist that seemed to be gripping my heart let go.

Candace was walking toward us. Strands of her hair hung loose, and her cheeks were red with exertion. When she reached the squad car, she stopped and bent, resting her hands on her thighs. Her breathing was rapid, and she nodded at her fellow officer. Between ragged breaths she said, “Thanks for showing up, man.”

“Are you okay?” I reached out the window to her, and she grabbed my hand.

“I lost him, damn it. Or more like I got lost.” She looked at the Denman officer. “Campus police wear gray?”

He nodded.

She squeezed my hand and let go. “You know one with blond hair and blue eyes? Strong guy?” she said.

“Yeah. That’s got to be Patrick. The rest of the campus cops are graying or bald. But are you saying he did this to your tire?” The officer’s expression said he didn’t believe it for a minute.

“Oh, that’s what I’m saying, all right,” Candace said. “My friend and I both saw him do it. We need an APB on him now. Can we use your cruiser to head to his place?”

“Wait a minute. I know Patrick Hoffman. He’s not into vandalism,” Officer Dooley said.

“He is if it means that with a flat tire I can’t follow him,” Candace said, her anger controlled but very apparent. “As of right now, he’s wanted for assault on this woman right here.” She pointed at me. “He attacked her in her home several days ago.”

Dooley shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to get it. You have to take me to his house now,” Candace said.

“The constable is on the way. Why don’t I call him to check out Patrick’s place?”

“Just do something. He’s getting away,” Candace said.

Dooley returned to his squad car while Candace reclaimed the keys and opened the trunk. I got out, too, but she waved off any help from me as she pulled the spare tire out.

She was mumbling to herself as she used the tire iron to loosen the lug nuts.

After making his call, Dooley saw what she was doing and hurried over to the Mercy cop car. “Let me do that,” he said.

She looked up at him with a venomous stare.

He held up both hands in mock surrender and said, “Okay. I understand. Let me check with the constable. See where he’s at.”

Candace didn’t turn around but shouted, “Get Hoffman’s plate number and put out an APB. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry. He is one bad wannabe cop.”

Just then Lawrence Johnson appeared as if out of nowhere. But I had been a little preoccupied, as in terrified, so no surprise I wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Candace.

“What’s happening out here?” he said.

Candace had the car jacked up now and said, “Here’s what’s happening. Your campus cop is a bad guy. He could be a murderer. Can you pull the personnel files on Patrick Hoffman?”

Dooley said, “You never said anything about murder.”

“I just did.” Candace removed the slashed tire, and I swear she almost kicked it once she laid it on the pavement. “Does he drive a squad car?” she asked.

“They use bikes. It’s a small campus.” Johnson picked the spare up and positioned it for Candace so she could complete changing the tire.

She didn’t give him the evil eye, just accepted his help. “Guess I won’t find any evidence on his bike.” She wiped her forehead and left a grimy streak on her skin.

Between the messy hair, the dirty face and her obvious anger, Candace seemed about as stressed out as I’ve ever seen her.

“I’ll finish this,” she said to Johnson. “Meanwhile, can you give me everything you’ve got on Hoffman?”

Johnson nodded and headed back toward the administration building. Seems he was wise enough to assess the situation and realize he needed to help any way he could.

Dooley’s cell phone rang, and he answered. He turned away from Candace, probably hoping he wouldn’t agitate her by anything he might say to the caller.

As Candace was easing the cruiser down with the jack, Dooley turned back around and said, “Hoffman’s van is gone, and no one answered the door at his place. He’s probably skipped. But the constable did get the plate number from the database. He’s put out the APB.”

“Van? What kind of van?” Candace said.

“White. He has a commercial license, but why, I don’t know,” Dooley said.

“White van. That fits,” Candace said as she held her hand out to Dooley. “Sorry if I’ve been a jerk. I’m just pissed that rat bastard got away from me.”

They shook hands.

Lawrence Johnson came back to the parking lot and brought us all very welcome bottles of cold water as well as copies of Patrick Hoffman’s personnel files. The constable, Hank Myers, showed up a few minutes later, wanting to get a more complete picture of the situation. South Carolina has a constable system made up of retired officers or volunteers with police experience.

Constable Myers said he’d be glad to lead us over to Hoffman’s neighborhood so Candace could poke around there, check with the neighbors about what kind of person he was. Candace took him up on the offer.

Unfortunately, Hoffman lived in a section of small homes that turned out to be rentals mostly occupied by students. At least the one student who hadn’t left town told Candace and Constable Myers as much. Candace decided she’d be wasting her time canvassing this neighborhood. Before we took off for Mercy, Myers said that if that guy was anywhere in his territory, he’d find him.

We drove home in silence for the first hour, but I kept checking my cat cam, fearing that Patrick Hoffman would show up at my house and make good on his threats to hurt my cats, or perhaps harm Kara. But the two cats who still liked to live above the basement were sound asleep. No Kara, and thank goodness no Hoffman to be seen.

“We’re missing something, aren’t we?” I finally said.

“Maybe, but we’ve found a huge piece of the puzzle: Patrick Hoffman. Now we have to figure out how he’s connected to VanKleet’s death.”

I nodded. “Since he was on campus all the time, he could have seen what the professor was doing.”

“Maybe he was upset about the cats and the ferrets, too,” she said, “but was he working alone? Lawrence Johnson said he didn’t know anything about Hoffman’s private life, or who his friends were aside from the other campus cops.”

“Could students have been helping him?” I asked.

“Perhaps. Though after interviewing Rosemary, I think Evan was right. This student group doesn’t seem all that organized. Rosemary just wanted to be heard about something-about anything. Militant activism-and I don’t see her as that kind-seems like a cause that you carry with you, and is pretty secretive, right?”

“True. But there is one person who might know more about Patrick Hoffman than we learned today,” I said.

Candace smiled and pressed down on the gas so hard, we almost lurched. “You’re absolutely right.”