The Lesson of Her Death

wife and son and he wasn’t observing his daughter’s elation because he was reading a short article in the
Register
and he was shocked.
    Cult Suspected in Auden Co-ed Murder
    He set his coffee on the table and knocked the syrup over. He didn’t notice it fall. Diane glanced at him, frowning, and righted the bottle.
    …
Sheriff’s Department investigators are looking into the possibility that a cult or religious killer may be stalking the town of New Lebanon
.…
    His eyes jumped through the article.
    …
and robbery was not a motive. Because she was killed on the night of the first quarter of the moon, there has been speculation that Miss Gebben may have been a sacrifice victim, possibly one in a chain of such killings. Sources close to the Sheriff’s Department also disclosed that death threats have been made against its personnel
.…
    Threats plural?
    …
Sheriff Steve Ribbon stated emphatically, however,that they would in no way impede the investigation. “We aren’t going to be bullied by these people, whoever they are, however sick they might be,” Ribbon said. “We have some strong leads and we’re pursuing them real hard.”
    “Damn,” Corde muttered, bringing an end to breakfast table arguments and meditations on freedom. He looked over the paper to find his family staring at him.
    “What is it, hon?”
    He handed Diane the article and told the children it was nothing. Jamie glanced over his mother’s shoulder as she read.
    “A cult?” he asked.
    Diane finished the article. Jamie picked it up and continued to read.
    His wife asked him, “What’s wrong with the story? I don’t get it.”
    “Too much publicity,” he muttered. “I think it’s best to play cases like this close to your chest.”
    “I suppose,” she said, and began clearing away dishes.
    Corde stood to fetch his gunbelt but before he left the kitchen he glanced at his wife. She was intent on dishes and seemed to have missed what was so troubling to him—that this story was a huge sign for the killer, which said, in the vernacular of Steve Ribbon,
You may’ve threatened Corde but no matter. He’s going ahead full steam and he don’t give a good goddamn about your threats. You do your worst, you aren’t stopping our boy Bill
.
    They wouldn’t go so far as to blurt out, “I was at a frat party” or “I was on a date the night it happened” or “You can ask anyone, I didn’t even
see
her that night” even though that’s what they wanted to blurt. But they were defensive and they were scared. Dodging Corde’s cool green eyes, the boys glanced from his face to hisgun, the girls to the floor. Some of them seemed inconvenienced, some were near tears. Often they did cry.
    Room 121 in the Student Union had never been put to such a sorrowful purpose.
    The room was worse than any interrogation cubicle at the New Lebanon Sheriff’s Department. It was painted beige and smelled of adolescent perfume and after-shave lotion, chalk, poster paints, bitter bad coffee and food cooking in grease. Corde sat at a lightweight metal desk he could lift: with his knees by flexing his toes and he felt ridiculous. Lance Miller was in the opposite corner of the room.
    Throughout the morning students and staff workers of the school gave Corde their version of the essay “The Jennie Gebben That I Knew.” They put their words to many uses—exonerating themselves, pressing the wound of loss, putting their names into the public record.
    Some even tried to help him catch a killer.
    In the morning alone Corde filled two packs of three-by-five cards. At one P.M. they took a break. Corde opened his briefcase to get a new pack of cards. As he cracked the cellophane wrapping, Miller glanced into the briefcase and noticed Corde staring at a photo taped to the inside. It was the one of Jennie Gebben, face shiny with sweat. Corde was aware of Miller’s watching him and closed the lid. Miller went to the cafeteria to buy sandwiches.
    After lunch Miller looked out the window and said, “Oh, boy, here he comes again.” Corde looked up and saw Wynton Kresge coming up the sidewalk. “What’s that man want?” Corde asked.
    The security chief entered the small room, carrying an envelope.
    “Hiya, Wynton,” Corde said. “What can we do you for?” Kresge set an envelope on Corde’s desk. “What’d this be?” the detective asked.
    “I don’t know. I was over to Town Hall and I saw Detective Slocum there. I mentioned I was going to be