Page 48 of Silent Past
The office fell quiet as they considered the possibility. Outside their window, Coldwater stirred to full wakefulness.
"Cooper would be more believable than me," Sheila admitted, something unclenching in her chest. "Whitman would see him as a natural successor to Mitchell's work, someone who truly understands what was lost when she died."
"And he's young enough, idealistic enough, that Whitman might see him as someone worth preserving." Finn's voice carried the weight of what they were considering—using Cooper as bait for a killer who turned people into frozen exhibits.
"If something goes wrong…" Sheila began. A few moments ago, she'd been more than ready to take the risks on herself. But asking someone else to sign up for those same risks was a different matter entirely.
Sheila studied Mitchell's photo, remembering Cooper's devastation when he'd learned of her death. "He loved her work," she said quietly. "Believed in what she was trying to preserve."
"Enough to risk becoming Whitman's next preservation subject?"
Sheila considered the magnitude of what they would be asking. Cooper was barely out of graduate school, his whole academic career ahead of him. But he was also their best chance to stop Whitman.
"Only one way to find out," she said, reaching for her keys.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
"Hell no!" Cooper said, pushing back from his desk so violently that papers scattered across his cramped university office like startled birds. Light filtering through venetian blinds striped his face in bands of shadow that emphasized the fear in his eyes.
Sheila stayed where she was, leaning against a bookshelf lined with anthropological texts and carefully labeled binders—Mitchell's research, preserved with an assistant's devotion. The small office smelled of old coffee and printer ink, the familiar perfume of academic dedication.
"Just hear us out," she said quietly. Beside her, Finn remained silent, his presence solid and steady against the waves of Cooper's panic.
"Hear you out? You want me to basically announce myself as bait for a serial killer." Cooper's voice cracked slightly, betraying his youth. His laptop cast blue light across scattered papers—drafts of articles he'd been working on, attempts to continue Mitchell's work even after her death. "A killer who arranges his victims in ceremonial robes and freezes them in caves."
"We would have eyes on you the whole time," Finn said. "Every precaution, every safeguard."
Cooper laughed, a brittle sound that seemed to shatter against the office walls. Outside his window, students crossed the quad in carefree groups, their normalcy a stark contrast to the tension filling this small academic space.
"Dr. Mitchell trusted me with her research," he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Asked me to protect her work, not die for it."
Sheila moved closer to his desk, sunlight catching the silver in her hair. "Don't you see? IT has to be you, James. You understand what she was trying to preserve. The importance of protecting traditional knowledge."
Cooper's eyes drifted to a framed photo on his desk—Mitchell at a dig site, her face alight with discovery. The same passion for preservation that had ultimately led to her death.
The silence stretched between them, charged with the weight of what they were asking—for him to walk willingly into darkness, to become bait for the killer who had stolen his mentor's life.
"You don't understand," Cooper said finally. "I see her every night in my dreams. The way they found her, arranged like some kind of... specimen." His fingers traced the edge of Mitchell's photo, trembling slightly. "Like she was just another artifact to be preserved."
Sheila moved closer, her shadow merging with the striped patterns on his desk. "And now we're offering you the opportunity to give her justice. To put a stop to this."
"You really think he'll buy it? Just because I was her assistant?"
"He'll buy it because you understand what she was trying to protect," Sheila said. "The importance of preserving traditional knowledge. Of keeping certain wisdom alive."
Silence filled the office again, broken only by the distant sound of a campus bell marking the hour. Cooper's eyes drifted to Mitchell's photo, to the passion in her face as she examined ancient artifacts. The same passion that had drawn Whitman's attention.
"If I did this," he said finally, each word careful as footsteps on thin ice, "what exactly would you want me to do?"
"Make a public statement," Finn explained. "About continuing her work. About not letting her death stop the research she believed in."
"Bait for a killer who turns people into frozen exhibits." Cooper's hands splayed across his desk, pressing against papers filled with Mitchell's methodology, her insights, her dreams of preservation. "And if he takes it? If he comes for me?"
"We'll be there," Sheila promised. "Every step. Every moment. You won't face him alone."
Cooper stared at Mitchell's photo for a long moment, his reflection ghosting across the glass like a man balanced on the edge of a decision that could cost him everything.
"She believed some knowledge was worth dying for," he said finally, his voice steady despite the fear evident in his eyes. "That preserving certain truths mattered more than personal safety." He looked up at Sheila, sunlight catching tears he refused to let fall. "I always thought that was academic bravery. Until he killed her for it."
