Lovely Bad Things: A Dark Romance (Hollow’s Row 1)

HALEN

The courtroom air is a living, visceral force as it breathes over the crowded bodies in the pews. The weight of it bears down on my uncomfortable dress suit, the material too stiff, the seams slightly off-center, making the atmosphere dense as a current arcs between me and the defendant.

A shock of heat licks my skin as his soulless gaze attempts to penetrate my resolve, to try to weaken me. Slate-green and the hottest blue embers, his eyes are a thing of beauty, like being lured into quicksand.

The disarming temptation draws you close before you fall into the abyss.

The expensive black suit enfolds his leanly cut form like a sheath over a blade, striking and lethal. Only an indication of his tattooed skin sneaks past the collar. The tip of an archaic design swirls along the lower part of his neck. Inked sigils mark his fingers. He taps his thumb ring against the defendant’s table in rhythmic succession to the clicking of the A/C vent.

A crooked grin curls his full lips as I take my seat on the witness stand after I’ve been sworn in to give my testimony.

Judge McCarthy may reside over this proceeding, but this courtroom is Kallum Locke’s church. He rules over the eager mass, charming his flock, a magician with a bag of tricks.

His deception is flawless. If you can’t see past the handsome, sophisticated philosophy professor with sleek black hair and alluring eyes, then you fail to notice the gruesome crime-scene photos stacked along the wall.

The victim, Percy Wellington, was the fourth in a string of ritualistic murders that ranged across five New England states. I’d been working the Harbinger case for eleven months when I got called to the university crime scene in Cambridge.

Just twenty miles away from the third scene where I was stationed.

Right away, I noticed the differences between the cases. The distance, for one: the Harbinger killer always separated his kills by state lines. The timing: only five days between kills, whereas the killer typically waited at least two months. Which could indicate he was devolving, but then there was the method:

The Harbinger killer performed a ceremony, adorning his victims like the fabled harbinger of death and doom, the death’s-head hawkmoth. Once the victim was transformed into the moth with the face of a skull, the killer decapitated the head. This was part of his ritual to try to stave off a doomsday he believed would befall the world.

He always left a letter—written in block letters; no DNA or prints—at the scenes, forewarning about the end of times, a vague event he predicted would occur to wipe out humanity.

First responders recovered no letter at the Cambridge scene.

Rather, the university crime scene was more personal in nature. The perpetrator seemed to either hesitate with severing the head or physically struggle, using a different instrument altogether after a violent attack that left the victim disfigured.

Again, all these findings could denote a devolving offender, becoming increasingly more unhinged and desperate—but it was what transpired my final day at the scene that tipped the scales, and why I’m seated in this courtroom now.

After a brief welcome and introduction, the defense attorney, Charles Crosby, approaches the witness stand. “Miss St. James, you were only on the case for three days, is this correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” I respond.

“And in those three days, how many interactions did you have or interviews did you conduct with the defendant?”

“One,” I answer honestly. “As a specialized criminologist, I study the scene of a crime to build a profile for investigators. I rarely have the opportunity to interview suspects.”

I regret my words immediately. I can and do conduct interviews with suspects, but it depends on the factors of each case. Like this one, where it was evident within a short period who the suspect was, and I had no reason to delve deeper into my investigation of the scene.

“I see,” he says, his gaze fixed on my streak of white hair. “So when you conducted your one and only interview with Professor Locke, how much bearing did that conversation have on your profile, the one that named my client as the prime suspect?”

I incline my head. Instead of answering his baiting question, I pull out my phone and lay it on the witness bench.

Crosby immediately objects. “Not in evidence, your honor,” he declares.

I speak up before the state’s attorney can argue any point. “Counsel asked specifically for me to explain what bearing my interview had on my analysis,” I say. “I think admitting my testimony into evidence is only relevant if that interview is also admitted.”

Crosby interjects again. “Boston is a two-party consent state, your honor, and my client did not give his consent to be recorded.”

Judge McCarthy calls both lawyers up to the bench. I overhear arguments for federal law consent and expectations of privacy, before the judge dismisses the lawyers.

“Miss St. James,” the judge addresses me, “where did this conversation take place?”

“On the campus grounds, in the courtyard near the crime scene, your honor.”

“Were there others present?” she further inquires.

“Yes. Local police and federal agents were still investigating the scene at the time I spoke with Professor Locke.”

She nods. “As the conversation was held outdoors on an active crime scene and in the presence of other officials, I’m ruling there was no expectation of privacy, and I’m allowing the recording to be admitted. Let’s hear the interview. I’m curious.”

I open the voice recorder app and hit Play on the file.

The sound is muffled as it crackles over the small speaker from where I slipped my phone into my back pocket. I was standing opposite Kallum on the university grounds, just feet away from the marked-off crime scene.

The afternoon air was crisp and smelled like burnt leaves. The lowering sun cast the lush grounds in shades of umber and smoky taupe, imbuing a sense of calm despite the unsettling yellow tape strung around the quad.

High, gothic arches framed the central courtyard of the university. Stone benches and birch trees shrouded the crime scene where the mutilated body of Professor Wellington was discovered by passerby students.

The victim had been removed, the site in the process of being cleared, as the dean was anxious to return the university to its stately status.

I had felt Kallum’s eyes on me as I walked the scene my last day there. Actually, I had felt his eyes on me the whole time I had been at the prominent Ivy League institution. But this was the first time I looked directly into those eyes—one green, one blue—as he stood before me with a curious glint flashing behind his predatory gaze.

His all-black suit was tailored. Like him, it was stylish and youthful. Quite unusual for a tenured professor with such high accolades. He’d achieved a prestigious reputation by the age of thirty-six, albeit one where he was admired as much as he was regarded dangerous—but dangerous in a dark and mysterious vein.

The bad-boy of academia.

His silent broodiness and blackwork tattoos added to the effect to trigger gossip in the hallways. Yet, as a distinguished professor, Kallum was revered as an expert in all things esoteric philosophy, occult, and antiquity.

I didn’t know much about the esteemed Professor Locke at that point, other than a couple of his published research papers I’d previously read—but something in the way he was studying me, like one of his cryptic artifacts, made me wary enough to hit Record on my phone.

His first words to me: “You’re an intriguing little thing.”

I felt the hairs on the nape of my neck lift away from my skin. When I didn’t respond, he said, “You’re not a law official.”

“No,” I confirmed.

“But they trust your opinion.”

“Some of them, I suppose.”

“And what is your opinion? Halen, isn’t it?”

“It is, but it would be inappropriate and unethical to discuss my findings with you, Professor Locke.”

“Because I’m a suspect? And please, it’s Kallum.”

“Yes, because you’re a suspect, as are most of the university staff and students. Then there’s the obvious fact I won’t discuss an active investigation with any person outside of the case.”

“That’s hardly any fun.”

“That’s the rules.”

“Rules are definitely no fun.”

A long beat of silence followed where he drew closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m not used to the Boston weather.”

“You get accustomed to it, just like you get accustomed to drifting below radar, unseen in the shadows, trying to appear unremarkable.”

“Is that how you view yourself here?”

“I was referring to you, Halen.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talk—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. All these self-important, big-dick detectives trying to make their case, while here you are, the only one with actual, impressive credentials, the only one who can piece together what happened here, and you haven’t spoken a word.”

I inhaled an unsteady breath. “I’m not reporting to the local authorities or the FBI on this case,” I said, but a sense of dread flared. He had looked into me. “I should leave here now, actually.”

He walked right up to me, got close enough I could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne, feel his breath trace a path across the contours of my throat and collarbone in the wake of his trailing gaze. Then he inhaled a deep breath, as if pulling me into his lungs.

“I’d like to know what thoughts you keep silent, what you’re so worried might slip past those trembling lips.”

I only stood there, staring up into his shadowed face, the sun at dusk a darkening halo behind his head.

“Wellington was the opposite,” he continued. “He couldn’t shut his fucking mouth. He was a despicable human being. Maybe that’s why the killer cracked his jawbone and tore his face in two, split his skull with a tire iron.”

I swallowed. “That’s very specific.”

“One can only presume, of course.” His smile taunted me. “If I were his wife, I mean, I’d probably be fucking my personal trainer too and want my husband to shut the fuck up permanently.” He winked before he took a step back. “I’ll see you around, little Halen.”

The recording ends, and I feel the collective shiver roll through the courtroom.

For just a moment, the illusion is broken, and the people seated in the pews glimpse the disturbed monster beneath the handsome veneer of the man at the table.

I felt the same chilling shiver ricochet through my bones the moment Kallum confessed the details of the murder to me, and I knew I was looking into the eyes—no matter how alarmingly beautiful—of a sadistic killer, one with no empathy or remorse.

As tension builds in the room, I say, “In answer to your question, Mr. Crosby, yes, my conversation with Professor Locke had bearing on my profile. The particular detail, that of the object used to dismantle the mandible, that is the jawbone of the victim, hadn’t yet been revealed to the public at that time. Professor Locke wanted me to know he had been the one to silence the victim, and he was going to get away with it.”

“Objection,” Crosby interrupts. “Move to strike. The witness cannot know what my client was thinking, your honor.”

“On that, I agree,” Judge McCarthy says. “Motion to strike from the record granted. Proceed.”

Crosby addresses me again. “Miss St. James, with no expectation of privacy on the scene, is it possible Professor Locke could’ve overheard detectives or crime-scene analysts discussing this detail of the crime during those three days on university grounds?”

“Anything is possible,” I’m forced to answer, as he’s using the ruling to admit my recording against me.

“Is there any other element in your report, other than this one brief conversation, that led to your conclusion as the defendant as the prime suspect?”

I roll my shoulders, relieving the itch of the polyester material. My gaze drifts to Kallum, who no longer wears an arrogant grin. His features are sharp and tipped with malice. A prickling sensation webs my nerves, encasing me in cold.

I look at the lawyer. “My analysis was primarily based on the evidence at the crime scene. The defendant meets the physical profile to commit the crime, and he also has a history of discord with the victim.”

“But that’s not physical evidence,” Crosby states, walking the length of the courtroom to stand near the jury box. “That’s considered circumstantial, correct?”

“Circumstantial evidence is still evidence that shapes a crime-scene profile,” I say, feeling my hackles rise. I belong in the field, not in a courtroom where my words can be twisted. But this crime is far too important to me not to make myself heard.

The lawyer turns my way. “Shapes a crime-scene profile,” he parrots. “But a profile is a theory in itself, not hard, factual evidence.”

“Objection,” the prosecutor speaks up. “Is Mr. Crosby done questioning the witness, your honor?”

“Sustained.” The judge rules in the state’s favor. “Counsellor, do you have any further questions for this witness? Let’s keep it on point.”

“My apologies, your honor,” Crosby says, then gives me a leering smile. “Just one last question for Miss St. James. Is there any evidence—any DNA, fingerprints, hair, fibers…anything at all—that points to my client as the culprit of this vicious, heinous crime?”

A lawyer never asks a question they don’t already assume they know the answer to. The case against Kallum was built on circumstancing facts. With no DNA, no witnesses, the detectives and federal agents had to take motive into account.

Wellington’s wife was looked at hard, but a cheating spouse offing her husband was the weaker motive compared to professional rivalry and revenge. Wellington had insulted Kallum during his keynote speech at the university just hours before his murder.

Then there was Kallum’s confession to the knowledge of the weapon—the lug wrench from Wellington’s own car. He had been first attacked in the parking lot.

And Kallum had no alibi.

Those key pieces narrowed the scope on him when the state was clambering for an arrest to be made.

Then there’s the other, more allusive reasoning.

My gut instinct.

After investigating too many macabre crime scenes, I’ve walked in the footsteps of many killers to build profiles, and I can sense when I’m in the presence of a killer.

The intense and alarming feeling I get when I’m around Kallum bleeds all rational thought and reason from my mind, leaving me with only one conclusion: “Professor Locke committed this crime,” I say, talking around the lawyer and his question. “Physical evidence cannot always be recovered, but the fact is, if you let this sociopath walk out of this courtroom, you’ll be letting a killer walk free.”

The judge raps her gavel on the block. “Miss St. James, I expect better behavior from a professional in my courtroom. Are you through with your outbursts?”

“Sorry. Yes, your honor.”

“Good,” the judge states. “The jury will disregard the witness’s statement.”

A fiery ache lodges in my throat as I meet Kallum’s watchful eyes. His mouth tips into a cruel, lopsided smirk.

Crosby rests his palms on the witness stand, drawing my attention. “Miss St. James, you’re a crime-scene criminologist, correct?”

I reach for a stable breath. “Yes.” He knows this.

“You profile, for lack of better terminology, the scene of a crime.”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s fair to say you’re not technically qualified to analyze my client’s mental state”—he makes air quotes; why, I’m not sure—“am I correct?”

And I realize I declared Kallum a “sociopath” in open court.

“I do hold a doctorate in psychology and a doctorate in criminology,” I say, glancing at the twelve members of the jury. “But no, I don’t conduct psychological evaluations.”

“Do these doctorates allow you to have your own patients?”

My eyebrows draw together. “I don’t—”

“Let me rephrase,” Crosby says. “Do you have, or have you ever had, patients within your own practice, Miss St. James?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“I see. Thank you for your time. No further questions.”

I go to stand, and the state’s attorney rises. “I’d like to cross, your honor.” The judge allows, and the lawyer stays standing at the table. “Just one question, Miss St. James. All credentials aside, why are you certain the defendant is guilty of this crime?”

I remove my gaze from the court. I don’t look at the crime-scene images, or the lawyers, or Kallum. I look only at the jury, making eye contact with a few. I’m being seen, being heard, stepping out of the shadows to ensure the people tasked with a difficult burden understand exactly who Kallum is.

“If you can’t convict Kallum Locke beyond a shadow of a doubt for this crime,” I say to them, “but you see the danger in allowing him to walk free, then it’s your responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

While the defense attorney argues for my statement to be stricken from the record, and the judge instructs the jury to disregard what I’ve said, I step down from the witness stand and head toward the isle.

There’s no taking back what I said. My testimony will be omitted, but every person seated in this courtroom heard.

As I walk past the defendant’s table, I can feel his proximity like a black hole, his pull like the gravity of the moon shifting the tide. I purposely keep my gaze aimed ahead, refusing to meet his eyes as I draw closer to the gate.

I’m almost free, until his hand reaches out and his fingers brush mine. The feel of his skin is a heated current, snapping like a live wire finding a connection.

My gaze crashes into his long enough for his words to reach me.

“Time and tide wait for no man.”

I push through the gate, fleeing the courtroom and his threat. It wasn’t anger or resentment I saw there in that evil gaze; it was amusement. Kallum was thrilled I’d stepped out of the shadows, and that I’d done so for him.