The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

carrying a heavy load of books and papers, I’d walk up, as a gesture toward fitness. Today I was lugging only a light fabric purse. But stairwells were notoriously scary, full of hollow sounds and creaking boards. I recalled a few dozen movies where nasty things happened through the door marked “STAIRS.” Didn’t fugitives enter and exit that way? Didn’t hit men wait there?
    Riding in the elevator wasn’t that appealing either. Bruce, I knew would have reminded me of the elevator scene in The Silence of the Lambs . Brownouts were all too common during heat waves like the one we were suffering through. Even barring nefarious characters lurking about today, if there was a power outage, I’d have no hope of rescue.
    In the interests of speed, and trusting technology more than the criminal element, real or imagined, I took the elevator. The ages old car rattled up past physics to the biology floor, where unpleasant odors seeped through the cracks, and then to chemistry. There was something to the old joke about how you could tell which floor you were on in Franklin Hall: If it smells, it’s biology; if there’s a glow, it’s chemistry; if something’s not working, it’s physics. No one had come up with a good description of mathematics. That suited me just fine. I’d never tell.
    The trip seemed endless. I pushed the button for the fourth floor repeatedly. It was a wonder I didn’t accidentally hit the red alarm knob. Finally, I stepped out in one piece and breathed a sigh of relief.
    Keith’s office was far down the hallway to the right, the last office in the crook of the L, overlooking the tennis courts. Every step I took toward that goal generated a loud echo. Every intake of breath seemed to bring a new, unpleasant smell to my nose.
    I walked by familiar signs on the bulletin boards on both sides of the hallway.
    My favorite had always been the cartoon-illustrated flyer listing “Six Major Dangers” in a chemistry lab. Burns, fires, spills, cuts, hazardous waste, and the one that stood out among all the rest today: poisons.
    The vast number of warning signs seemed to be mocking me as I made my way toward Keith’s office. “DON’T HEAT A STOPPERED FLASK,” said one. “WEAR GLOVES WHEN CLEANING SPILLS,” shouted another, and “KNOW PROPER DISPOSAL PROCEDURES,” read another.
    I would have bet that Keith was responsible for many of the signs and warnings. He was probably the most safety and security conscious faculty member in the building. A lot of good it had done him.
    As I approached Keith’s office, I could see that the crime scene tape had fallen from the doorframe, the last several feet of it lying in a heap to the side, daring me to go in. I reasoned that a dangling piece of tape simply meant that a policeman had been a little sloppy in removing the warning. He’d fully intended to let the world know the room was now open to the public. Like me.
    For no good reason, I used the hem of my shirt to turn the knob. You might have thought I’d chosen my wardrobe in anticipation of breaking and entering. I was wearing a brown paisley top, which wouldn’t show dust marks, over black cotton pants. The real reason for the conservative dress was to look serious for my interview at the police station, in case Archie’s personality ran parallel to that of Henley’s dean. The door opened easily and I stepped into Keith’s office, as I had many times in the past.
    But this was a different room, matching neither the way I’d always seen it, nor the description Virgil had given me of it as a crime scene.
    Not a surprise: The office had been stripped of the main pieces of evidence—I saw no lethal bottle of potassium chloride and no yellow pages that were allegedly from Rachel’s thesis. There was no white chalk line on the floor as I’d envisioned either. Today’s law enforcement officers had new techniques, I supposed. I checked the trash for the party cake, in case no one thought to look there.
    Only Keith’s bookcases and the walls of his office looked as they did the last time I was here. Two walls were peppered with degrees, certificates, and photographs of Keith with distinguished scientists. Here and there were framed articles of his that had appeared in technical journals. I couldn’t imagine doing that with my own articles, but that was Keith.
    “If we don’t promote ourselves, no one will,” he’d said often.
    Whatever works, I’d thought.
    His newest award, the