The Lesson of Her Death

Corde tapped it. "That's interesting, I want to talk to Emily. Get over there now and have her come in."

7

Bill Corde was irritated at the fluorescent tube that flickered frantically above his head and he was exhausted from sifting for hours through the goofy and theatrical attitudes of young people on their own for the first time. He was thinking of closing up for the day and returning to the office when a young man appeared at the door. He was in his mid-twenties. A squat mass of black crinkly hair was tied in a ponytail. His face was very narrow and he had high ridges of cheekbones, under which was a dark beard. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt. "You Detective Corde?"

"That's me. Come on in."

"I got a message that you wanted to see me."

"What's your name? Here, sit down."

"Brian Okun. Is this about Je

"That's right." Corde was flipping through the index cards. Slowly, card by card, reviewing his boxy handwriting. It took a long time. He looked up. "Now, how exactly did you know her?"

"She was in Professor Gilchrist's class. Psychology and Literature. He lectures. I teach the discussion section she was in."

"You're on the faculty?"

"I'm a graduate student. Ph.D. candidate."

"And what did you do in your section?"

"They're discussion groups, as I said."

"What do you discuss?"

Okun laughed, puzzled. "Do you really care?"

"I'm curious."

"The question last week was: 'How would John Crowe Ransom and the school of New Criticism approach the poetry written by someone diagnosed with bipolar depression?' Do you know what the New Criticism movement was all about, Officer?"

"No, I don't," Corde answered. "Do you know if Je

"'Going with'. What does that mean? That's a vague term."

"Was she seeing anyone?"

Okun asked in a voice crisp with irony, "'Seeing anyone'? Do you mean dating?"

It seemed to Corde that the boy wasn't hostile. He looked genuinely perplexed – as if the detective were asking questions that could not be answered in plain English. "I'd like to know about anyone Je

Okun's eyes ricocheted off Corde's cards. "I suppose you know I took her out a few times."

Corde, who did not know this, answered, "I was going to ask you about that – do you usually date students?"

"This's a college town. Who else is there to ask out?" Okun's eyes met Corde's.

"Isn't it unusual for a professor to ask out his students?"

"I'm not a professor. I told you that. I'm a doctoral candidate. Therefore we were both students."

Corde rubbed his finger across a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee. He shuddered at the squeaky sound. "I'd appreciate you answering my questions in a straightforward way. This is a pretty serious matter. How long were you seeing her?"

"We broke up several months ago. We'd dated for three months off and on."

"Why did you break up?"

"It's not your concern."

"It may be, son."

"Look, Sheriff, we went out five or six times. I never spent the night with her. She was sweet but she wasn't my type."

Corde began to ask a question.

Okun said, "I don't feel like telling you what my type is."

"What were the circumstances of you breaking up?"

Okun twitched a shoulder. "You can't really call it breaking up. There was nothing between us, nothing serious. And neither of us saw any point in going on with it."

"Do you know who Je

"I know she went out. I don't know with whom."

Corde fa

Okun's eyes narrowed and his tongue touched a stray wire of beard. "So, a mystery man."

Corde asked, "What kind of student was she?"

"Slightly above average but her heart wasn't in studying. She didn't feel passion for literature."

He pronounced it lit'rature. Corde asked, "Was there anybody in class she was particularly close to? Other than you?"

"I don't know."

"Did you see her personally in the last month?"

Okun blinked. "Personally?" he asked the ceiling. "I suppose I'd have to see her personally, wouldn't you think? How else can one see anyone? Do you mean did I see her intimately? Or do you mean socially?"

Corde thought of the time he managed to cuff and hogtie George Kallowoski after the man had spent ten minutes swinging a four-by-four, trying in his drunken haze to cave in Corde's skull. He thought a lot better of Kallowoski than he did of this boy. "Outside of class, I meant."

"I hadn't seen her socially for a month. I assume you remember that I told you I didn't see her intimately at all."

"Do you know if there was anybody who had a gripe with her? Anybody she'd fought with recently?"

"No."

"Did she get along well with her roommate?"

"I guess. I don't know Emily that well."

"But you knew Je

Okun smiled. "Ah, ratiocination! Does this mean you've trapped me?"

Corde fa

Okun, observing the interrogation from a different plane, sighed. He descended to say, "Emily has a big mouth… I was being euphemistic when I mentioned spending the night."

"Euphemistic?"

Okun said, "It means I was not being literal. I was being metaphoric."

"I know what euphemistic means," said Corde, who did not.

"I mean I didn't have sexual relations with her. We stayed up late discussing literature. That was all. Officer, it seems to me like this is some kind of personal vendetta."

"I don't believe you're right about that."

Okun looked out of the small window as if he were stargazing then said, "I don't know whether you went to college or not but I imagine you don't have a lot of respect for what I do."

Corde didn't say anything.

"I may look like a, what would you call it? Hippie? That's your era. I may look like a hippie. But it's people like me who teach half this illiterate world to communicate. I think that's a rather important thing to do. So I resent being treated like one of your local felons."

Corde asked, "Will you submit a blood sample?"

"Blood?"

"For a genetic market test. To compare with the semen found in Je

Brian Okun said, "Fuck you" Then he stood up and walked out of the room.