The Lesson of Her Death

our man’s likely to kill again. In this case I’d say it’s from thirty-six hours in front of the full moon till thirty-six hours after.”
    Corde and Ebbans, who’d worked together on investigations for four years, got to play the eye-rolling game.
    “Ah,” Kresge said, and wrote.
    Corde and Ebbans played the game again.
    “Well, that’s my two cents. I’ll let you boys be. Do me proud and go catch this sickie.” Ribbon left the room.
    Corde took center stage. He searched for something politic to say. “All right, I suppose we might be looking at the possibility of a serial killing here but I wouldn’t go spreading that around. We don’t want to give anybody any ideas.” Slocum seemed about to speak but remained silent and Corde continued, “Now I’m going to give us ten days to get a suspect under. And I want an ID within two or three.” From his St. Louis days Corde remembered the forty-eight/four rule in homicide investigations: If you don’t identify the perp within forty-eight hours of a killing, the odds are it will take at least four weeks to find him.
    “Also,” Slocum said, “the full moon’s coming up in seven days or so.” He was scanning a
Farmer’s Almanac
.
    Corde said delicately, “I think Steve’s got a good point. We’ve got to be aware of this moon business but we don’t want to drop other leads because of it. It’ll be something to consider, is all.” Corde opened the envelope Kresge had brought and pulled out several sheets. “Wynton here was good enough to bring us some dope on the victim and I want to go over it now.”
    Corde also opened an envelope of his own. He shook out the glossy photograph of Jennie Gebben on the volleyball court. It showed clear eyes, a competitive smile, patches of sweat soaking her T-shirt, more throatthan a girl that age would want. He noticed in the photo two metal hoops in each ear. When had the third hole been added? he wondered.
    Corde handed the photo around. Miller glanced quickly then passed it on.
    “No.” Corde said solemnly. “Take a good look. Remember what she looked like.”
    Miller was flustered for a moment then did what he’d been told.
    When the picture had made the rounds Corde said, “I flew over to see her father this morning and he wasn’t much help. There were no diaries or letters I could find but he’s going to keep looking. He says he doesn’t know of anybody who might’ve wanted to hurt her but I put the bug in his ear and he might not know it but he’s going to be looking at people at the funeral, who’s there and who isn’t. Maybe he’ll remember a boyfriend or somebody who had a grudge against her.”
    Kresge said, “That’s why you went this soon to see him? I was wondering why you did that.”
    “You were?” Corde asked absently. He turned to the files that Kresge had brought. “Jennie Gebben was twenty. She was a junior at Auden. No loans or scholarships, so I guess Daddy paid for most of it. She was an English lit major. GPA two point nine seven. Say, I’d like you to take notes on this.” Slocum and Miller picked up pens. Corde continued, “Treasurer of the Folklore Club. Meals on Wheels volunteer once a week early in the semester but she gave that up after a couple months. Worked three days a week in the office of the dean of financial aid.
    “Her classes this semester were French Reading III. Her professor was Dominique LeFevre. The Civil War to the Centennial taught by Randolph Sayles. Contemporary Literary Criticism, by Elaine Adler-Blum. Chaucer, by Robert … Ostopowiscz. Well, that’s a mouthful. And here’s another one: The Relation Between Psychology and Literature: The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. Her teacher there, I mean, her professor wasLeon Gilchrist. And a seminar group of that same class taught by Brian Okun. Finally The Roots of Naturalism, Charles Gorney.”
    Corde wondered momentarily what the courses were about. Corde had graduated in the top half of his class because his school had plenty of engineering courses. He shuffled through the file Kresge had brought him then stapled the class roster sheets together. He set them aside.
    Kresge said, “Excuse me.”
    Corde glanced up. “Yes?”
    “Just wanted to tell you, I checked with the clinic. She wasn’t seeing a therapist and had only one visit this year. It was to get antibiotics for bronchitis.”
    “No therapist,” Corde repeated. The fact was recorded neatly on a three-by-five card. He did