The Lesson of Her Death

detective here who’s doing most of the legwork. Bill Corde. Good man.”
    “Bill Corde. Been doing this sort of thing for a few years?”
    “Yessir, he has.”
    “What approach is he taking?”
    “Well, he’s thinking that it was somebody who knew her. Most likely somebody at the school.”
    Mahoney was nodding in a way that said to Ribbon he was troubled. “Playing the odds.”
    “Beg your pardon?”
    “He’s taking the cautious approach. Statistically most people are killed by somebody—”
    “—they know.”
    “Exactly. But from what I’ve read about this case it’s a little stranger than most. Some twists and turns, you know what I’m saying?”
    “I hear you.” Ribbon’s voice lowered. “I’ve got a load of trouble with what’s happening here. There are some, you know, cult overtones to the whole thing.”
    “Cult.” Mahoney was nodding again, this time agreeably. “Like she was a sacrifice victim or whatever. Right. Those goats and that blood. The moon and everything. Whoever picked up on that idea was doing some good law enforcement work.”
    Ribbon’s caution was on the ebb but he said, “I still have some trouble with you getting involved, Mr. Mahoney. I—”
    “Charlie,” Mahoney chided. “Charlie.” He lifted his thick hands, with their yellow-stained index fingers, heavenward. “At least do yourself a favor and let me tell you about the reward.”
    “Reward.”
    “Mr. Gebben is a very wealthy man. He’s offering twenty-five thousand dollars for apprehension of the killer.”
    Ribbon chewed on his cheek to keep the rampaging grin at bay. “Well, my, that’s generous.… Of course you can imagine that rewards like that generate a mess of bounty hunting. We got a lot of people in this county own guns and can carry them legally.”
    Mahoney frowned as he corrected himself. “Should’ve said: the reward is for professionals only. For law enforcers. That way there’s no risk of people who don’t know what they’re doing getting hurt.”
    “Mr. Mahoney.”
    “I’m a cop, you’re a cop …”
    “Charlie
. Charlie, it might not look good for … Well, politically is what I’m saying, to have an outsiderhere. It might look like we don’t know what we’re doing.”
    “It might also look like you thought so highly of the community that you had the foresight to call in some special help.” Mahoney took a leisurely moment to study his watch. “Well. There you have it. Now, you can kick my ass out of here tomorrow if you want. But I’m stuck in town for the night at least and don’t know a soul. How ’bout you and me get a drink and trade war stories. There’s not much else to do in this town, is there?”
    Ribbon almost made a comment about one pastime being raping co-eds by moonlight but caught himself. “Well, there are,” he said, “but ’cept for fishing none of ’em’s as fun as drinking.”
    She lifted the card off her desk with a trembling hand and stared at it, the little white rectangle. It was stiff and the corners were very sharp. One pressed painfully into her nail-chewed thumb, which left a bloody smear on the card.
    Emily Rossiter started to sit on the bed but then thought that
they
might have sat here. They’d probably looked between the mattress and the springs. They’d felt the pillow. They’d run their hands along the same sheets where she and her lover had lain. She dropped the card and saw, as it flipped over and over, the words
Please call me
.…
Det. William Corde
flash on and off then disappear as the card landed in the wastebasket. She wondered if even the trash had been violated. Emily walked into the hall then into the telephone alcove.
    She made a call and stiffened slightly when someone answered. “It’s Emily.… I have to see you. No, now.” She listened for a moment to vehement protests then answered defiantly. “It’s about Jennie.” The voice on the other end of the line went silent.

    “So I go like you are too much why don’t you just sit on it and then Donna’s like he is too totally much it’s like you know like his eyes have this total hard-on and I go …”
    Philip Halpern thought:
Shut. Up
.
    In the room he and his sister shared there was one telephone. His sister, fourteen, used it most of the time.
    The cool breeze of an April evening flowed through the window, rippling the green sheet that separated Philip’s side from his sister’s. Taped on the poorly painted walls were dozens of creased