The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

performance, the other twenty-five percent being those who wanted Henley to remain a women’s college.
    The subject of President Aldridge’s message this evening was Henley College’s great loss. The text, as I expected, included a tribute to “one of our finest professors.” Also as expected, there was no mention of a murder on campus, simply “an unfortunate tragedy” and a “sad occasion for the entire Henley family.”
    There would be no more classes for the summer session, which had another week to go. Instead, President Aldridge encouraged faculty to hold department meetings and to contact our summer students to work out a smooth ending to the term and a mutually agreeable grading procedure. She called for a full faculty meeting on campus on Monday morning at ten.
    I was sure the president’s decision to cancel the last week of summer classes was due in part to the designation of Benjamin Franklin Hall, one of its major buildings, as a crime scene, temporary as it was. It seemed a good plan to keep the area clear until questions were answered. As much as I hoped that things would be resolved in record time, I was glad there was still a month before the fall term started, which would give everyone time to gain equilibrium and get things in order. And hopefully have closure on what had happened to one of our finest professors.
    A knock on the door came, finally, at eleven thirty.
    Detective Virgil Mitchell, all six feet and two hundred and fifty pounds of him, give or take, filled my doorway. He scuffed his shoes on the welcome mat as if he’d just come in from a blustery storm of rain, snow, or sleet. I had a flash of an unpleasant image: who knew where his shoes had been?
    More important, why was the detective whom I was counting on to help me clear Rachel’s name looking so dour?

CHAPTER 5
     
    Tonight Virgil and I skipped a high five, our usual greeting. Instead he gave me a hug that nearly brought me to tears, though I hadn’t been moved to cry before that moment.
    “I’m sorry about your colleague,” he said, resulting in a full outpouring from my eyes.
    It wasn’t only Keith Appleton’s death that I was weeping over. Every loss, big or small, for whatever reason, reminded me of so many other losses, other deaths.
    Virgil patted my back then let me leave to collect myself. When I got back I was glad to see he’d helped himself to a beer.
    “Technically, I’m off duty,” he said. His wink told me he knew it was an unnecessary explanation.
    “You forget my in with Internal Affairs,” I said, coming back to normal now.
    Virgil unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He’d already flung his jacket on a kitchen chair. I sympathized. Who else other than priests had to wear a tight collar even in hot weather? And in New England, the summer months were hot twenty-four seven. Period. No cooling off at night. You could be up all night and not feel a breeze or relief from the humidity. I tried to keep from staring at the large dark circles around Virgil’s armpits.
    “You must be exhausted,” I said. And unbearably hot.
    He saluted me with his beer. “You got that right.”
    I led Virgil to the den, the coolest room in the house, where we took seats across from each other. He reached over and picked up an L-shaped piece from the wood puzzle, which I’d emptied onto the table as soon as I’d solved it. He looked at the frame, frowned, then put the piece down and gave it a pat.
    “This is me giving up,” he said.
    I smiled, remembering what a little humor felt like.
    Virgil’s hairline made a deep V on his forehead, much like Bruce’s widow’s peak. I’d often teased that there must have been something in the water at Camp Sturbridge where they’d met as teenagers. Bruce would then rattle off a list of famous people who shared their hairline, including Leonardo DiCaprio and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Only once did I throw in a mention of Hannibal Lecter’s V hairline.
    All other physical resemblances between Virgil and Bruce ended at the hairline, however, as Bruce was shorter by three inches and lighter by about ninety pounds.
    “Appreciate this,” Virgil said, between swigs of his beer.
    I’d put out a bowl of pretzels. They were gone in a flash. I was sorry I’d dumped my cheese and fruit dinner down the disposal but that wasn’t the fare Virgil would have liked anyway. I couldn’t think of any more tasks or small talk to skirt the conversation I’d ostensibly been waiting