Chapter 4: The Victim and the Crime

The day I took the case, the file landed on my desk—a massive, brick-thick stack of paper.

I dove right in. The Ohio summer heat pressed in, making the cheap window AC rattle and spit lukewarm air. I wiped a streak of condensation from my mug and tried to focus.

First up: the statement from Chris Lang, the student who found the body. Chris was about to be a senior, sticking around Maple Heights for summer research.

At 3 p.m. on July 13, 2012, Chris got worried—he hadn’t heard from Professor Harris in two days. He and a classmate went to check. The trash by the door stank, like it had been sitting out for days.

Chris said Marcus Harris was a neat freak—never left garbage out, never missed a beat. So, odds were, he was still inside.

Worried, Chris found a firefighter to break down the door. Only in a town like Maple Heights would a student grab a firefighter before campus security.

The smell hit them first—death, not just trash. In the bedroom, Marcus lay on his back on the bed. The heat had already started to work on the body.

Chris collapsed, terrified, then managed to call 911.

That was how the police got involved.

They asked Chris about Marcus—what kind of person he was, any recent fights? Chris said Marcus was a good guy, cared about students, maybe a little stubborn, but only about work. No drama, no enemies.

Any mental health issues? Chris said Marcus was a little anxious lately—probably because of work stress.

Who else lived with Marcus? Just his dad, who was in the hospital. Any other family? Chris shook his head, then remembered Marcus had an ex-fiancée—she’d just broken things off a month ago.

Why? Chris didn’t know.

So, Marcus’s students had no idea he even had a brother. Two new people in play: the dad and the ex. I flagged it for later.

I checked Marcus’s background. Born 1978, Maple Heights, Ohio. Top science SAT score in the county, academic star through undergrad, grad school, and a PhD. Taught at my alma mater, ran a consulting business. Killed July 11, 2012, at 34.

In his photo, Marcus looked gentle and sharp—a real scholar. I stared, recognizing him. He’d been pointed out to me on campus: smart, handsome, popular. Now he was just another file in a murder case. The loss felt real—a guy my mom would’ve called a "success story."

The crime scene report was brutal. Marcus died lying on his back, with contusions, a gash on his forehead, and a swollen, blue face.

A closed, ring-shaped ligature mark circled his neck; cause of death was asphyxiation.

The bedroom showed signs of a struggle—beer bottles scattered everywhere.

The killer had pinned Marcus, beat him, bashed his head, and strangled him with a soft cloth belt.

But the belt was missing. Murder weapon: gone.

I read the report again, and my stomach lurched.

Marcus had been sexually assaulted with a beer bottle before death.

I had to set the file down and press my palms to my knees, steadying myself against the wave of nausea. Some details burn themselves into your brain, and I knew I’d never shake this one.

Was it hate? Humiliation? Some twisted urge? I couldn’t tell. All I felt was a gut-deep rage for Marcus Harris. For a moment, the law felt abstract, and only outrage remained.