Dear Irene

“I hope so. Joh

“You’ve saved me having to drop this by the paper,” he said, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a file folder. He removed a 4 x 5 print from a small stack of photos, and handed it over to me. I was relieved to see that whoever had taken the picture had known how to focus a camera; sometimes the paper is asked to run a photo that is so blurred, studying it for hours will allow you to conclude only that the missing person is basically shaped like a human being.

In this photo, Rosie Thayer was smiling. The years hadn’t been as kind to her as they were to Edna Blaylock, but there was a sparkle in Rosie Thayer’s eyes that gave her image a warmth that hadn’t come through in any photos I had seen of the professor.

Pete walked back in the room and came over to his desk. He searched through the chaos on it for a moment, then turned to Frank.

“Call me.”

Frank smiled. “You’ve lost it again, haven’t you?”

Pete looked exasperated. “Just call me, damn it.”

Frank picked up his phone and punched a few buttons. We heard a muffled ringing sound. Pete went toward it, and suddenly it stopped. He turned to give Frank a dark scowl, causing Frank to start laughing.

Frank moved his thumb off the cradle and punched in the numbers once again. The odd ringing returned. Papers were flying everywhere as Pete tried to track it down. Suddenly he yanked the bottom desk drawer open, then threw some file folders onto the floor. He reached in and held up the phone in triumph.

“I forgot I put it in there for safekeeping,” he said.

Much to Pete’s dismay, I lost my struggle not to laugh. I looked over and saw that Frank was gri

He lost the grin, but said, “Sure.”

I followed him into a small interview room. “There aren’t any hidden mirrors or cameras in here, are there?” I asked.

“Not in this one,” he said.

“No recording devices?”

“Not at the moment.”

What the hell? I thought. I pushed him up against the door and then reached up and pulled his head down toward me for a kiss. He was surprised for about one-tenth of a second, then reached around me and kept it going. You’d think one of us had been overseas for six months.

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asked, keeping his arms around me. “Or do we need to make up now that we’ve kissed?”

“Sorry about this morning. I just felt hemmed in. I thought you were being a little overprotective.”

“I guess I’m not quite over being afraid for you. I don’t ever want to have to go through another night of not knowing where you are or worrying about what someone may have done to you.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I’ll never walk around believing ‘it will never happen to me’ – those days are over. But I can’t just crawl into a cocoon with you, Frank, and you know it. You would grow tired of it. You’d resent my helplessness.”

I felt him shaking beneath me. He was laughing. I couldn’t believe it.

“Irene, if there is one word I’ll never use to describe you, it’s ‘helpless.’”

Well, that made me feel better. “Thanks. But do you understand why I was upset this morning?”

“I think so.” He sighed. “I guess this means you’re getting back to being your old self.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

That started him laughing again, which somehow led to kissing again.

“Damn,” I said. “If we don’t stop now, I’m going to risk being the first person to be arrested for lewd conduct while visiting the Las Piernas Police Department.”

“Plead entrapment.”

“So you won’t be home until late, huh?”

He shook his head. “Believe me, I’ll be there as soon as I can. By the way – Saturday night there’s an office Christmas party. Want to be my date?”

“Sure. Are you still off this weekend?” I asked.

“Depends on what comes up, but it looks like it. Why?”

“Well, I have to work a day shift Saturday, and we’ll be with our friends on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I just wondered if I’d get you all to myself on Sunday. It’s Christmas Adam.”

“Christmas Adam?”

“The day before Christmas Eve.”

“Of course. You are one weird broad.” There was tenderness in that, so I didn’t challenge him.

I WAS WHISTLING as I drove off, at least, I was until I remembered what was up next on the agenda. I pulled over and called Steven from a pay phone. We agreed to meet at the college. I dropped by the paper to turn in the photo of Rosie Thayer, then found Lydia and quickly gave her the rundown on Steven Kincaid.

“You’re concerned about him being alone for the holidays,” she said.

“Right.”

“Invite him to join us, of course. What did I just tell you this morning?”

WHEN I REACHED the building that housed the history faculty offices, Steven was waiting outside the doors. He seemed agitated.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “It’s just – I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“I guess that wasn’t very kind of me.”

“No, I’m grateful. At least I’m a little better prepared.”

“Has the college done anything at all in the way of cleanup?”

“No.” His face was set in a tense frown. “Dr. Ferguson told me that after all the rumors about her, he wanted me to have a chance to remove her belongings, especially personal things, before the cleaning crew worked on the room. I assumed he was being respectful of her memory.”

To change the subject for a few minutes, and because I didn’t know what kind of shape he’d be in later, I asked him about coming over to Lydia’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas. He brightened and thanked me, and agreed to join us.

His spirits dampened again as we made our way up the stairs to the office. The place was deserted: a few days before Christmas and grades already turned in. There was a spooky silence in the building. When we reached the third floor, he stopped and turned through a door leading out into a hallway. I saw that he had already stacked about three dozen cardboard boxes near one of the office doors. He must have spent most of the time he waited for my call by hauling boxes.

“Think you’ve got enough of these?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I hope so.”

His hand shook as he put the key in the door and unlocked it. He pushed the door open and took one step in. He froze for a moment, then swayed and whirled around. He pushed past me, a horrified look on his face. He rushed down the hall to the men’s room. Standing in the doorway, I could see why he had felt sick. It was all I could do not to follow suit.

Edna Blaylock’s office was small and narrow. There was a couch against one wall, a desk facing out toward some windows. There was a small bookcase between the couch and the desk. The other wall was covered by a large set of bookcases that were absolutely full. But there was no sense of the tranquil academic life that might have normally gone on in that office.

The room had been closed up and smelled sickeningly of old blood. And plenty of it. It was sprayed all over the walls, windows and bookcase, and large pools of it had dried in black cakes on the desk and floor. Papers on the desk were matted with it. Only the couch and the part of the bookcase nearest the door were free from the dark stains. Throughout the room, there were small signs here and there of the work of the forensics team. The room was silent, but not at all peaceful.

Steven Kincaid was wrong. Nothing I had said to him could have prepared him for this.

I felt a surge of anger. Ferguson should have at least had someone in to do some preliminary cleanup. I held my breath and went over to the windows and opened them as wide as I could. Cold air came flooding in, but it was fresh air. I looked around, then pulled a large calendar with Ansel Adams photos on it off the wall. I used it to cover up the blood stain on the desk, apologizing mentally to Mr. Adams and to the stately El Capitan of Yosemite – the photo for November. That was all I had time to do before Steven returned.