Chapter 3: The Art of Patience
The north gate was already a mess by 8:00 a.m. George sat in his wheelchair under a flamboyant tree, watching the crowd. To the other students, he was just a tragedy in a chair. To George, they were data points.
The guard at the gate checked his watch, then slipped behind the hut for a smoke. *8:15.* He did it every morning.
"George! You're out early," Chris said, dropping onto the bench beside him. He was out of breath, sweat soaking through his shirt.
"The library AC is down," George said, not looking away from the gate.
"Forget that one. I saw the results for Fluid Mechanics," Chris hissed, leaning in. "28 over 30? The Professor was asking who you are. He said your method isn't even in the textbook."
"The textbook is outdated," George said. His fingers traced the rim of his wheel. "The formula they teach is inefficient."
"Inefficient or not, you're a genius, man. Please, help me with the assignment later. My dad is already complaining about my grades—if I fail this semester, he'll cut me off completely."
George finally looked at him. Chris looked desperate. Simple. Predictable. "Bring the book to the room later."
"You're a lifesaver! I owe you one," Chris grinned, slapping the wheelchair's armrest.
George didn't smile. He went back to the gate. He wasn't thinking about fluid mechanics. He was wondering how long a body would take to cool down in a basement with no windows.
At Panti, the air was dead. Two desk fans just pushed the heat around. Anyi stood in front of her whiteboard, staring at the photo of the victim's hand.
Femi walked in with two cups of water. "The lab results are out. You're not going to like this."
Anyi took a cup. "Just talk, Femi."
"The time of death for all three girls is around 1:00 a.m. But the bodies? They were all staged at exactly 3:17 a.m."
Anyi stopped drinking. "All of them?"
"To the minute," Femi said. "We checked the CCTV near the first scene and the dashcam from a patrol car near the second. 3:17."
He wiped his face with a handkerchief. "This guy is timing the patrol rotations. At 3:15, the night shift usually stops for food at the toll gate. He has a two-minute window where the road is empty. He hits it every single time."
Anyi looked at the board. The red strings didn't look like a map anymore. They looked like a schedule.
"He's not just a killer, Femi. He's performing. 3:17 is his signature."
"Signature or not, the guy has nerves," Femi muttered. "To arrange a body like art and still check his watch? He's not normal."
Later that night, George wasn't in the chair.
He walked through the shadows of the Arts block, his limp subtle. He wore a dark hoodie and kept his head down. In the dark, he was just another student heading home late.
He stopped near the library entrance. A girl was standing there, arguing with someone on her phone. She looked tired. George studied her neck. Too short. Her proportions wouldn't fit the layout he had in mind.
*No.*
He kept moving. He stopped near the old anatomy theater, a brick building that had been slated for renovation years ago. He leaned against the wall and waited.
A few minutes later, a tall girl turned the corner. She was walking fast, her heels clicking on the concrete. She had long, tapering fingers and a slender frame.
George watched her. He didn't feel a rush; he just felt the satisfaction of a man finding the right tool for a job.
He followed her at a distance to the girls' hostel. 11:42 p.m. She struggled with the heavy gate, her right hand reaching for the latch in the same clumsy way every time.
*Predictable.*
George turned back toward the boys' hostel. He needed to be in his room before the midnight check.
Back in his dorm, George sat at his desk. The blue light from his laptop hit his face.
He had a CAD program open. He wasn't designing a building; he was designing a scene. He'd imported the dimensions of the anatomy theater floor and a 3D model of a human form.
He dragged the digital limbs until the symmetry was perfect.
*Forty-five degrees. Thirty degrees. Three-inch gap.*
His hands were steady. He picked up a pen and wrote a line in the back of his notebook, hidden behind calculus notes:
**3:17. Tuesday. The Theater.**
He closed the book. The city was noisy outside, but in here, everything was finally quiet. The art was starting.