Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

"When did you leave?"

"Must've been nine-thirty or ten. Got off to a late start because of the storm."

"You see anybody else?"

"When I was leaving I seen two kids come up. They had tackle but they weren't fishing. I figured they maybe had a Delco or a hand-crank and were just going to jolt up some worms."

"They were kids?"

"Looked to be teenagers."

"You know them?"

"Didn't see 'em up close. They were down at the foot of the dam, walking up to the pond. One of them was fat so they were going slow. The fat one was wearing something dark. The other one was thin and was wearing a jacket may've been gray."

"How old?"

"High school. I dunno."

"Both white?" Ebbans asked.

"What else 'round here?"

"I'd like to have a talk with those boys or one of them. You see them I'd appreciate your letting us know."

"You bet."

"You do that I'll forget to tell Fish and Game about the license you left at home."

"I've been meaning to get me one," he said. "You know how it is. One thing after another."

The First Methodist Church of New Lebanon announced today that Sunday school classes will be canceled until further notice following the vandalism of the school by the man authorities are calling the " Moon Killer. "

"Authorities" are calling?

A painting of a half-moon in blood was found on the door of the first-floor girls' room in the Sunday school building, located at 223 Maple Street, adjacent to the church.

The blood matched that from a goat whose carcass was found several days ago in the New Lebanon Grade School.

How do they know that? I didn't know that.

Attendance at the town's schools has fallen dramatically since the Moon Killer began stalking the streets of New Lebanon…

"Stalking" the streets?

Tonight will be the first full moon since the murder of the Auden co-ed …

Jennie. Her name is Jennie Gebben.

… and residents are urged to stay home from sunset to sunrise …

Bill Corde, sitting in Room 121 of the Auden Student Union, stared at that morning's Register for five minutes before pitching it out. He opened an envelope he had picked up at the office on the way over here. It contained a report from the county lab about the match between the carcass blood and the graffiti blood.

How did they know? I didn't.

A man appeared in the doorway. Corde looked up at him.

"Excuse me. I'm Professor Sayles. You wanted to see me?"

"Come on in. Sit down." Corde shoved aside the lab report and motioned with his palm toward the chair across from his miniature desk.

Sayles sat, folding his long legs slowly. He scooted the seat back. "This has to do with the Jennifer Gebben murder?"

Corde asked, "She was in your class?"

"Yes, she was." Sayles looked at his watch. A wrinkled, frayed shirt cuff appeared outside his blue blazer and stayed there. "And she worked part-time for me. In the Financial Aid Department."

"Did you know her well?"

"I try to know all my students."

"But you knew her better than the others," Corde said.

"The class she was in is large. The Civil War Centennial course is very popular. I try to know as many students as I can. I think it's important. Any personal attention in class can be very inspiring. Don't you remember?"

Corde, who had spent most of his school years trying to avoid the attention of teachers, said, "Why was she working for you? I assume she didn't need the money."

"Why do you assume that?" Sayles asked dourly.

"She wasn't in the work-study program and didn't have any student loans or scholarships. Seems she would've followed those routes before she'd get a part-time job paying five-ten an hour."

"There's something altruistic about disbursing money to needy students. Jennie helped organize last year's AIDS walkathon. And she was also a Meals on Wheels volunteer."

"For a month or two," Corde said.

"For a month or two."

"But how did she come to work for you?"

"We got to talking about how curious it was that I – a history professor – ended up in charge of financial aid and she asked if she could assist me."

"What were the circumstances of this conversation?"

"Officer." Sayles was riled. "I hardly recall."

"Was there anybody in class she was particularly friendly with?"

"I never paid any attention."

"Did you ever see her with anyone who wasn't a student?"

Sayles shrugged. "No."

"How often did you work together?"

"Several times a week."

"You see her socially?"

"No, not socially. We'd have dinner after work sometimes. Often with other people. That was all."

"You don't consider that social?"

"No, I don't."

Corde watched the man's dark eyes, which in turn studied three dirty fingernails on his right hand.

"Professor, were you asked by Loyola College to stop teaching there?"

Sayles started to reach for his red-and-blue striped tie. He stopped and tilted his head slightly, adjusting the needle valve on his indignation. "I was, yes."

"That was because you'd been involved with a student?"

"Involved with? Yes."

"And you assaulted her?"

"I did not. We had an affair. I broke it off. She wasn't happy about that and called the police to report that I'd assaulted her. It was a lie."

"Were you having an affair with Jennie Gebben?"

"No. And I believe I resent your asking me that."

"I have my job to do," Corde said wearily.

"And if you think anyone from the university had something to do with her death…" Sayles's voice grew harsh. "… you're badly mistaken. There are enough unfounded rumors about the murder already. It's hard enough running a school and raising money for it without spooking parents and benefactors. Read the paper. Your department said it was a demonic killing."

"We have to look at all possibilities."

The watch was again gravely consulted. "I have a class in five minutes."

"Where were you on the night she was killed, Professor?"

He laughed. "Are you serious?" Corde lifted an eyebrow and Sayles said, "I was home."

"Is there anyone who can verify that?" Corde glanced at the narrow gold ring. "Your wife maybe?"

His voice grew soft in anger. "I was by myself. My wife was doing research at the library until midnight."

"I understand that Brian Okun was seeing Jennie?"

"Seeing her? I'd say he was seeing her. He was sleeping with her."

In his Chinese handwriting Corde made a small notation on a three-by-five card. "Could you tell me who you heard that from?"

"I can't recall."

"What's your opinion of him?"

"Of Brian? You can't suspect Brian of hurting Jennie."

"Your opinion?"

"He's brilliant. He needs to temper his intelligence somewhat. He's a little arrogant for his own good. But he'd never hurt Jennie." Sayles watched Corde slowly write. "May I go now?"

Corde completed the card and looked up. "I -"

"Look, I can't help you. I have nothing more to say." Sayles stood and his grim surliness was at a high pitch now.

This anger seemed out of proportion to the circumstances of the questioning. At first this reinforced Corde's suspicion of the man. But one look into Sayles's face told another story. The source of the professor's indignation was contempt. Contempt at himself for loving Jennie Gebben. Whatever her talents in bed, which Corde guessed were pretty damn plentiful if both Sayles and Okun had risked their jobs to have her, Jennie was still nothing more than an average student, a suburban girl, fat at the throat, the daughter of a small-business man, a Meals on Wheels volunteer, a very ordinary young woman.

And here was Randolph Sayles, PhD, just blistered with humiliation for the love he'd spent on this common girl.