Killer in barksdale

Von Bexhill

killer in barksdale

A student, brutally murdered on the second day at the University of Barksdale. Reason enough for Spencer Gore to form a team with the sports student Sara Choi and to look around the contemplative campus. Two days later there is the next murder. The detective duo is supported by one of the local police's best noses, the inscrutable Nawat, who is said to have a 98 percent sucess rate. But all suspects have a solid alibi. And no one seems to be the guy who cuts people's throat and watches them bleeding to death, or strangles them. The case is not clear. In addition, Sara has something to hide. The series of killings panics the dean. A savvy sadist threatens students' lives. And that on the second day after the semester break.

• Sprache: Deutsch
• Herausgeber: neobooks
• Erscheinungsdatum: 27. Feb. 2019
• ISBN: 9783742703798

Buchvorschau

KILLER IN BARKSDALE

1

Shufang was a skinny, pale Asian girl. Her black eyes were in a friendly face with a round chin and pronounced cheekbones. Her head, a U with pointed end, was mounted on the strong neck. She spoke as if she mean herself and not whoever hear her words. And with eyes made of black matter, she looked at you. What gave the impression what she really thought, she kept it quiet. She was tough, and well-developed muscles moved under smooth skin. Her small breasts fits her physique and were not something that immediately caught the eye. She had strong legs, arms and delicate hands. Her hair was black and chestnut red when the sunbeams broke at them. She had a nice mouth, with full, red lips. Small, white teeth glow when she cursed or bit her lips. Shufang is Chinese and means study room and that's what she did here. The University of Barksdale was founded in 1911 at a time when land was dirt cheap, wrestling was a popular sport and one knew nothing about efficient Street planning. The faculty buildings were scattered across the 500-acre campus. Like a fairy tale, they were hidden behind high hedges and in the shade of old trees. Just before the lanterns went out and the dense fog crawled across the floor between the logs, the whole area had something enchanted. Between five and six o'clock, when the snow owls sing to the moon, The boars were asleep in the wild parts of the park, you did not see anything alive except Jogger. Thirty sports scholarship students were running over the Gomery baseball field at this time of night, and there was always an assistant with a stopwatch in his hand at the finish line.

Seen from below, the terrain was a forest cut from roads and paths and nothing special. If you looked at it from a bird's-eye view, the whole genius of the landscape architect flashed on you. Barksdale Drive, where the apartment blocks and key locations were located, resembled a tree trunk. The gently curved paths and roads were twigs and branches. The buildings reminded one of hanging fruits. But it took a while to appreciate the original wilderness. For the freshman, it was like a scavenger hunt, to orientate themselves here. If they wanted to go from one lecture to the next and did not run into a local guide.

Barksdale was a forest, a place without a geographical center. Thanks to the countless spruces, cedars and pines, the name of the university not only appeared in the sport, but also local news. Whenever they were uprooted in the storm, branches fell on cars and firefighters and paramedics had to move in to clear the streets.

How fast time flies! March, again. Just like a year ago and before. The trees have taken their medicine for hair loss, a little warmth and lots of yellow sunlight. Buds sprouted and the flowers in the beds began to turn towards the sun. Students sat on cardigans and sweaters on the lawn or seized the benches flanking the roadside with themselves and their books, pretending it's not cold. The starlings and sandpipers returned from vacation on time for the start of the semester and gave the ravens' company. Except for the poor creatures who were trapped in nets in Europe and already eaten. In the forest between Eaton Hall, the Administration, and Truman Weston Justice Center, Three wild boar kids were looking for food with their mother. Only in the evening they throw the garbage cans, in the nice residential streets of the campus. During the day they just tear out the roots and make the place to a desert. Even members of Peta admitted it was too much. Sara's best friend, Wyonna Santiago from the Student Council, had been collecting signatures for weeks. She wanted to locate a pair of Canadian Gray Wolves in Barksdale, who solved the problem in a natural way. She was a lovely girl, and everyone liked doing her a favor. But watching howling wolves rushing their prey across the campus and then tearing them to pieces went too far. There was Doctor Decker's hobby of slaughtering pigs and deer on campus and providing the game meat in the churches and homeless shelters a good alternative. She refused her hobby for months because of the protests. She strikes and feels satisfaction when an animal has attacked a student. Decker says, I knew it and looks a little to satisfied. Due to Decker strike the stupid pigs have lost any fear of humans. Maybe the idea with the wolves is not bad?

Sara stood in front of a park bench. Gray pigeons that never fly anywhere unless someone ties a letter around their legs, waiting beside the trash cans along the way. Shufang Choi, the world called her Sara, because her first name sounded too much like a Disney movie, watched them. A mentally retarded animal had been chopping on a soda can for several minutes, trying to eat it. The question automatically comes up. Does poisonous color taste good and do pigeons get high? Elephants get intoxicated when given the opportunity. Even majestic jaguars eat mushrooms and spend hours in another world. What do cats hallucinate? Wings and floating above the jungle? Dream pigeons of being smarter! Another fool of the species tried to eat a big rock. Only her extreme reproductive instincts guarantee that the species survived. It was just a bird, but he should have known better. If you were intoxicated, cement would be banned and sold per ounce. It was a question for Misses Brown. Biology was her job and ornithology her only hobby. Often she lurked in the evening in camouflage clothes, and in the most unlikely places with the binoculars in front of the eyes on a rare bird and frightened the students to death. The birds bore names such as cow dung, sheep scarecrow or spoon finder and were inconspicuous, could not sing and had nothing to do with cows, sheep or spoons. In addition to her love for spying on Midwestern birds, she liked to disguise herself. One day she gave her lectures, such as an English country lady, headscarf in green trousers and tweed jacket, and marched in rubber boots on the podium. Sometimes she preferred the look of a pharaoh. Saris, turbans and jiggling gold jewelry on arms and feet. Sara looked away, she needed a break, the stupid animals started to make her angry. They aroused primeval urges, Sara wanted to kick them like a football. Students and teachers cycled past her. Some wore helmets, most did not. Some smiled, but the vast majority did not. Faces as if they were doing the tour de France. Although everything was as it always was, just a tad more shabby than last year, Sara sat back and floated over Vasser Street past the baseball field toward Roosevelt Way. A person does not need the world to be ecstatic, but she had a good reason to be in a good mood, which was reflected positively in her appearance.

She was so tall that she was small but not tiny even though she was on the border. Sara's black hair was not very short, not like in the new shampoo commercials. It reached to her shoulders and was a pure compromise between beauty and the demands of the sport. No one tries to force the opponent with both shoulders on the mat when the hair was under him and was torn out in tufts. The one and a half decades of training in a notorious Beijinger athlete's forge

had prevented her having to fight with too many kilos. She was lean and tough, like a tractor tire. The tires that burn for weeks on the garbage dump. What gave her heart-shaped face charm was black eyes when she took off her glasses, at least. With her naive, black eyes behind glasses she appeared, that representatives of obscure financial institutions tried to give her a student loan. At each campus festival, Hare Krishna and Jehovah's Witnesses rushed for a conversation about God on Sara. She smiles, says no, thank you, you are to be envied, you believe in god, despite the shit that happens around us, if he exists, he will not help, or he can not help, which means he is not all-powerful.

Contrary to first appearance she had a very sharp mind, often she was just distracted, which is why she sometimes seemed naive. Sara's mind was screwed together on one of the university's academic production lines. She was interested in motivation and with a sports science diploma from Barksdale, the doors in China were wide open. She could teach at a university or find work in one of the schools of the Ministry of Sport, Kaderschmiede is the most appropriate German word. Sara came from the Richards lab, where thirteen rats in wheels create the electricity that shocks themselves if they do not travel a certain distance in a given time. In Sarah's experiment, pain is the motivation. The experimental animals (colony A) were physically healthy, but suffered from extreme stress symptoms. There is a reason why top athletes like Neanderthals had a limited life expectancy. Now she was thinking about repeating the whole experiment with pigeons.

A regulation ordered the rats to be killed after a series of tests. For the animals of colony A presumption probably. She knew three students who had brought their boa constrictors and kept the animals in the dorm in terrariums. In contrast to the appearance, she had the figure of a figure skater, she came back two days ago with gold of the Universiade in freestyle wrestling up to 52 kilograms. That's why she looked like she wanted to hug the world. Because Barksdale was chronically short of money, she was given a bungalow for the victory.

It was a tradition and as old as the university. A 1-story sloping roofed house, covered with red shingles and an L shaped, wide veranda on the Roosevelt Way. It faced the house from the Dean, which was a pretty sight. It had square flower boxes in front of the blue lattice windows on the first floor where Maria Brown planted vegetables and kitchen herbs. She was in the fast lane and the immense amount of training before the student Olympics had paid off. From now on there are no long queues, in front of the only bathroom with a tub on the sixth floor of the Elizabeth Warren residences. You had to put your name in a long list on the door, if you wanted hot water in the bathtub.

. She lived in one of six aging brick towers near the campus entrance. Sarah's new home was a bungalow in an idyllic street full of brightly painted brick houses with gardens. The 5th Avenue of Barksdale. In which Dean, professors and staff of the University lived secluded from students and the outside world. Living here was a luxury allowed only the genius Andy Lau and the two best athletes. Barksdale did not do much on academic dance floors, but in sports and wrestling it was a power. Seven of the last ten wrestling US champions were made in Barksdale. Sara Choi did not wear a tracksuit, black shorts, green T-shirt to celebrate her move, and she had braided her shoulder-length black hair with blue office gum to two braids. Braids that stood out like antennas and emphasized their small protruding ears. She would have dressed better, but the two washing machines in the spooky cellar had been broken for weeks and you had to scrub everything by hand.

She danced humming around a gentle curve, past chest-high hedges and bushes and stopped, as if she had hit a glass wall. In front of Sara's house number 13 parked a moving van labeled Breedle & Neatt. Workers carried in boxes. Not her things, because her entire belongings were in two tightly packed suitcases with the house manager of the dorm. She blinked and jumped immediately with the feeling that her house was in flames up the stairs. As fast as lightning she took off her shoes on the porch and walked barefoot into the house. Unable to formulate an explanation, she looked around. The room was sparsely furnished and that would not change after Sarah's move. On the wall of the window was a long, blue leather sofa with a side table topped by a lava lamp. In front of the sofa, a coffee table with two outstretched legs covered in jeans, magazines and an empty pizza box. A creeping cold was in the air and seemed to come from the sofa. The milky sun conjured faint reddish patterns through the half-closed checkered blinds to the wall. The incident light and the unaccustomed doing of the workers colored the room into a theater setting. Romantic comedies started this way or serial killer movies, she was still undecided. Moving crates piled up on the wall of the open kitchen. From Bluetooth boxes on the windowsill came Hip Hop music, and not the good ones. It sounded like what a crazy cop on LSD would dream. Shots, screams and sirens and a rapper with the voice of a lisping young boy. On the antique wing chair next to the sofa, boxes were packed with brand-new shoes. Three withered potted plants on the white kitchen island silently begged for water. She promised it, as soon as it was done here. Of course there was an explanation, maybe the intruder did not know Arabic numbers and was wrong about the house? How dumb can someone be?

She had to admit the burglar, was not ugly. His soul was thoroughly ruined, but he did not look that way. Broad shoulders, cute snub nose and dimples in the cheeks. He looked like a blond John Atkinson Grimshaw painted youth or Dorian Gray in the Hammer movie of 1945, English somehow. Maybe because he was blond, with the hairstyle of a poet from the 19th century. He wore a white and too tight T-shirt, which was supposed to emphasize his chest muscles. His jeans were at least three sizes too big and the edge of his Gucci boxer shorts looked out of his waistband. Accessories can ruin an impression. Around his right wrist he wore a swanky clock that looked as if he had been a pimp during the semester break. If he had really bought the Clock, she was so tasteless that her eyes burned. Why did he not tie a thick gold bar around his neck? He was six feet tall, presumably because she could not fumble in the boxes and look for a tape measure and measure him. He was athletic-built, too muscular for a marathon runner, but Sara could picture him on the rowing bench of a boat. A slave galley where thieves belong. Barksdale did not have a rowing team! It was founded too late to own slaves like Columbia, Princeton,