The Darkness - Jason Pinter [96]
A small thing perhaps, but I considered it a sign of the
times. For years, after the mayor and cops had cleaned
the city up, New York was known as one of the safest big
cities in the world. Like any city, of course you needed a
modicum of common sense, the knowledge that despite
this change if you wandered into the wrong neighborhood
at the wrong time you were playing Russian roulette.
But now, New York didn't feel quite as safe. There was
a constant tension, a thickness in the air, that something
combustible could ignite at any moment. There were too
many people out of work, too many people unable to afford
their homes, too many businesses hanging on for dear life.
And when a city is being stretched like a piece of taffy,
just the slightest bit of tension will cause it to snap.
The Columbia University department of history was
located in a building called Fayerweather Hall. It looked
like a building transported from Victorian England,
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redbrick and laced with intricate scrollwork. It felt as out
of place in Manhattan as I did several years ago.
We entered the building and the receptionist, a middleaged woman whose nameplate read Carolyn, directed us
to William Hollinsworth's office on the first floor. The
door to William Hollinsworth's office was wide open. I
entered first, Jack following me.
Hollinsworth was about forty years old, with a severe
crew cut and intense green eyes. His hair was specked with
gray, and he wore a pair of square-rimmed reading glasses
that sat on the tip of his nose. He wore a well-cut gray suit
jacket that did little to hide the taut frame underneath.
I'd met many athletes, cops and military personnel
over the years, and they fell into one of two categories.
Either they continued their fitness routines to a T after
leaving their vocation, or let themselves go entirely. Bill
Hollinsworth clearly had not let his post-military career
become a detriment to his fitness.
"Professor Hollinsworth?" I said.
He stood up, removed his glasses.
Hollinsworth was not a tall man, maybe five-ten or
eleven, but he stood up straight as an arrow and held his
shoulders back like he was expecting a salute.
"You must be Parker," he said. Jack had followed behind
me, and peeked his head out. "And Jack O'Donnell."
"It's a pleasure, sir." Jack extended his hand. Hollinsworth took it, shook it, then motioned for us to sit down.
Jack took his seat, and I noticed him rubbing his hand
and grimacing.
I closed the door to the professor's office, took a seat
as well, and glanced around the room.
The former Special Forces officer kept his office as
clean and free from excess debris as he kept his body. The
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bookshelves were all neatly aligned, every paper neatly
arranged. Even his in-and out-boxes, which were full,
somehow managed to be perfect examples of immaculate
care. There were no picture frames, no trinkets, no souvenirs, posters, awards or plaques. Nothing that led you to
believe that William Hollinsworth had anything in his life
but his work.
If the sign of a sick mind was a clean desk, then
William Hollinsworth was Hannibal Lecter.
The professor sat back down, folded his hands and
crossed his legs.
"Mr. Parker. Mr. O'Donnell. What can I do for you,
sirs?"
"Professor Hollinsworth," I said.
"Bill," he said with a smile. "I ask my students to call
me Professor Hollinsworth, so unless you've just applied
here to be an undergraduate I don't expect the same formalities from you, Mr. Parker."
"All right then, Bill, as we told your secretary, we're
here from the New York Gazette. "
"Carolyn did mention that to me, yes. What can I do
for you?"
"Twenty years ago, you were a member of a Special
Forces unit in Panama. Is that correct?"
Hollinsworth shifted in his chair. He clearly wasn't expecting this line of questioning.
"That's right," he said. "I was there for a little over a year."
"You were with Operational Detachment Bravo, along
with ten other men and women. Correct?"
"That's correct,"