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As she stepped out of the car, the chill of the Utah night air raised goosebumps on her arms. She zipped up her jacket and crossed the empty street toward the building that housed Hallstrom's apartment, a boxy structure of fading concrete nestled amidst similar-looking buildings, all huddled together as if for warmth.
As they entered the building, the stale smell of dust and old paint hit them. Heaps of wooden planks and bundles of wires piled up in the corner testified to the renovations that had been started, then stalled at some point.
“Three-oh-one,” Finn murmured, reciting the number of Hallstrom’s apartment as they headed toward the stairs. Sheila found herself wondering whether Hallstrom would even answer at this hour. It was past ten o’clock, after all. But they had to try.
Besides, if Hallstrom wasn’t here, it would only increase the likelihood that he was their killer.
The apartment complex was ghostly quiet as they ignored the out-of-order elevator and ascended the shabby staircase, its only occupants the vague hum of distant televisions and the muffled laughter of unseen residents. They arrived at 301, a door worn with age and marked by countless layers of fading paint. Finn looked at Sheila and she nodded, her heart pounding against her ribcage like a drum.
They knocked. Silence.
Finn knocked again, this time louder. Again, nothing.
“Gerald Hallstrom?” Finn shouted through the door. “We’d like to have a word with you.”
Down the corridor, a door opened, and an elderly woman with curlers in her hair peered out to glare at them. Finn flashed his badge at her, and she grumbled something before retreating back into her apartment.
Sheila was about to knock again when the door knob began to turn. The door opened, revealing a petite woman in her twenties with chestnut hair and stylish glasses.
"Can I help you?" she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
"We're looking for Gerald Hallstrom," Finn said, flashing his badge.
The woman’s face betrayed nothing. “What do you want with him?”
"We just have a few questions for him, ma'am," Sheila answered, trying to keep her tone gentle and polite.
“Is he here?”
“He’s resting. Been a long day already, and he doesn’t need you making it any longer.”
“Are you one of his students?” Sheila asked.
The woman smirked, her almond-shaped eyes glinting in the dim hallway light. “What if I am? I needed some help with a test.”
Sure you did, Sheila thought.
“Anyway,” the woman added with a flick of her hair, “it’s not like it’s a crime or anything.”
“Not a crime,” Finn agreed mildly. “But it is against school rules.”
The woman’s smile faltered. “What are you talking about?”
Before Finn could explain, a door deeper in the apartment creaked open. A figure stepped out—frail, thin, and hunched over, with streaks of gray in his long black hair. His eyes darted quickly to the woman standing in front of Sheila and Finn, then back to his visitors.
“I think I can answer for myself,” he said in a voice that was hard and cold, strained by years of lecturing. He walked toward them, leaning heavily on a cane.
“Professor Hallstrom,” Sheila said, taken aback. She hadn’t expected him to look so…feeble. Could this man really have chased down a practiced runner like Diana Morales?
"Gerald," the woman—a student, if Sheila's instincts were correct—protested, but Hallstrom waved her off with a hand.
"I'll handle this," he said. He met Sheila's gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. "What can I do for you, officers?"
“We’d like to talk with you about one of your students,” Finn said. “Diana Morales.”
Hallstrom's dark eyes flickered ever so slightly, a slight shift in gaze the only indication of recognition. "Ms. Morales?" he echoed with a touch of bewilderment.
"Can we come in to discuss this further?" Sheila asked.
