"I told her I'd respect her confidence."

She looked for a way to pry this information out of him. Not finding one she said, "Impossible. It's a vicious rumor. Leon isn't well liked -"

"No?" A tiny note went onto a stiff white card.

"Don't make anything out of that," she snapped. "Professors can be like children. Leon has an infantile streak in him, which he has trouble controlling. He makes enemies. People as brilliant as he breed rumors. You didn't answer my question. Is he a suspect?"

"No."

"He was reading a paper at the Berkeley Poetry Conference at the time of the killings," she said.

"Did you know that before or afterward?"

"I beg your pardon?" she asked cautiously.

"I'm curious if after Jennie was killed you suspected something about Professor Gilchrist and checked on his whereabouts at that time."

The eyes went to steel cold. "I have nothing further to say to you, Detective."

"If you could -"

"She was killed by a psycho!" The dean's shrill voice tore through the room. "The same one who vandalized the grade school and churches. The same one who murdered Emily. If you'd taken this psychopath seriously, instead of digging into banal college gossip, Emily would still be alive today."

"We have to explore all angles, Dean."

"I'll guarantee you that Leon did not have relations with Jennie and he didn't have anything to do with her death or Emily's. Now if you'll excuse me I'm in the midst of emergency funding meetings, which by the way are necessary largely because you people haven't caught this madman."

When Corde had left the office Dean Larraby snatched up the phone and snapped to her secretary, "Is Gilchrist back from the Coast? When's he expected?… Who's his teaching assistant?" Her foot tapped in anger while she waited. "Who, Okun? Give him a call and tell him I want to see him. Tell him it's urgent."

Charlie Mahoney was pretty tired of New Lebanon. The incident that had cemented this opinion was a bad meal at Ewell's Diner – particularly bad meat loaf (gristle), extraordinarily bad mashed potatoes (paste) and moderately bad bourbon (oily). This cuisine was followed by an early evening in the motel room where he was now lounging in front of a small TV that was not hooked up to cable. The exact instant when boredom became loathing occurred during a Channel 7 commercial break – four straight minutes of grating ads for products like hog feed and cultivators and used cars and kerosene.

Who the fuck buys kerosene from a TV ad?

He lay on the sagging bed and looked up at the stucco ceiling. Stucco. Who invented stucco? And why would anybody put it on a ceiling where you had to look at it all night long because there was nothing else to do? How many college sluts had lain here on this bed with their legs in the air and stared at this ceiling thinking stucco who the fuck invented stucco Jesus when is this son of bitch going to finish?…

When Mahoney's thoughts got tired of Midwest decor they ambled over to Richard Gebben.

Mahoney, not a man with much heart to spare for anyone, least of all an employer, had sat with perplexed but genuine sympathy as he watched Richard Gebben absently drive the toy Christmas truck back and forth on his desk, back in St Louis.

Gebben Pre-Formed We Fabricate the World.

"Jennie's mother, I don't know when she's going to come out of it. She may never. She doesn't cry anymore. She doesn't do anything but sometimes she has these, I don't know, bursts of energy, Charlie. She'll be lying in bed then she leaps up and has to polish the silver. The silver, Charlie. For Christsake, we have a maid."

A jet had begun its takeoff run and the tenor roar filled the beige office. The DC-10 was well over Illinois before Gebben spoke again.

"Jennie," he had said, addressing Mahoney, not the spirit of his daughter.

He had proceeded to speak about reputation. About the media, about misunderstandings. He had spoken about troubling discoveries. Then he paused and the truck stopped rolling and as he stared out the window at a tall gray McDonnell Douglas hangar Richard Gebben spoke about his daughter the whore.

To Mahoney – a man who had seen evidence of just about every sexual act humankind could think of- the fact that Jennie slept with women as well as men was unremarkable. What was a little boggling, at least in the age of AIDS, was the sheer volume of both men and women she'd had between her legs.

"Charlie, I don't care what you have to do. This fellow Corde is going to be taking her life apart. He's already been looking for diaries and letters. I can't let that happen, Charlie. You know what happens in investigations like this. They look at every little detail of somebody's life. They make up stories about people. The newspapers just love that crap. You know, Charlie. It happens all the time. You saw it happen."

No, Mahoney had never seen it happen. What he saw happen was Ismalah R dissed Devon Jefferies who went home to his crib on South Halsted, picked up his MAC-10 then came a'calling to spray Ismalah R with forty or fifty rounds and the asshole just died where he stood and nobody made up a single fucking thing about him at all.

That was what Mahoney had seen.

And what he saw now was a pathetic Richard Gebben with his pitted face and moist eyes, trying to save what little remained of his daughter.

Well, that was how Gebben had explained Mahoney's mission to New Lebanon, and ten thousand dollars had bought Mahoney's unwavering acceptance of it along with a generous number of encouraging nods and mutterings of sympathy thrown in.

But Mahoney knew there was more.

Gebben had taken many business trips to places that had a light market share of the Gebben Pre-Formed steel sheeting business, if any at all. Unnecessary trips. To Acapulco, Aspen, Puerto Vallarta, Palm Beach. And he was always accompanied by a sultry blond secretary or young marketing assistant or steno typist. This was the role model he had been for his daughter. It was a lesson she had learned, and learned well, and maybe it had killed her.

And, who knew? Maybe Gebben himself had even come to visit Jennie late at night, Mommy fast asleep…

As a cop Mahoney had seen a good deal of emotional pain. He remembered walking up three flights of shit-stinking stairs in a tenement, knocking on the door to deliver some news to a young woman. She listened, nodding vigorously as she held her daughter, who had little plastic toys tied into her hair where pigtails sprouted from her scalp – tiny trains, soda bottles, dogs, dolls. The woman saying, "I unnerstand, I unnerstand," and Mahoney thinking, Understand? You poor bitch. There's nothing complicated here. Your old man just got blown away in a drug deal…

But Mahoney knew of course that it was complicated.

So complicated she would never unnerstand it. As complicated as Gebben's reasons for wanting his daughter's secrets to stay hidden forever. Reasons that Charlie Mahoney, lying on a lumpy bed in front of a flickering Ralston Purina commercial, would never completely figure out.

Not that he needed to. He had his ten thousand dollars and he had a specific job.

Which arrived at that moment in the form of Steve Ribbon, who knocked and called, "Hey, Charlie? I'm a little late, sorry. You in there, Charlie?"

"Right with you."

Mahoney let him wait for a full minute then stretched and stood and opened the door.

Ribbon grinned shyly like a police cadet on graduation day. The sheriff, who had ten years on Mahoney, looked like a youngster and Mahoney thought, Damn if these small towns didn't preserve you real well.

"Steve," he said ebulliently, "how you doing?"

They shook hands. Ribbon walked in, saying, "I like that. The way you kept your hand in your jacket when you opened the door."