The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

mean?”
    “Did you invite the other three girls I mentioned, too?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Did you arrest Rachel?”
    “Not yet.”
    I gulped, unable to ask about Woody. Surely there was an age limit for this kind of thing. “Do you have new evidence?” I asked, holding my breath.
    “Other than Ms. Wheeler’s and three other students of yours lying to the police? No.”
    “This is my fault,” I said, not meaning to.
    “They’re the ones who lied to us, Sophie. That’s the crime. You did your part, encouraging them to come forward. And then coming in yourself was a nice, cooperative gesture.”
    “So I couldn’t have been charged if I hadn’t come in?”
    “Nope. More’s the pity. Anything you heard from Rachel or the other girls was essentially hearsay. You had no way of knowing if they were telling you the truth. It’s not as if you witnessed a crime.”
    “Archie led me to believe—”
    “That’s Archie. And, for better or worse, police are allowed to lie to suspects or persons of interest or . . . just about anyone as long as they’re not under oath.”
    It didn’t seem fair.
    “Well, I have something that I think will convince you that Rachel is innocent.”
    “That’s exciting. You’ve got my attention.”
    I didn’t want to disappoint him. “It’s not a hair or a fiber or anything.”
    “You’d be surprised how seldom a hair or a fiber cracks the case.”
    “Not like what we see on CSI?”
    A loud guffaw. “Like where you take a piece of carpet thread from a body and a few minutes later you have the name of the only manufacturer who makes that particular color rug and they give you a list of the four stores in New England that they sell it to, which you then put into your computer and presto a mug shot pops up?”
    I’d clearly hit a sore spot. “Yeah, like that. Not the way it is, huh?” My goal now was to strike sympathetic notes no matter what Virgil said.
    “Remember I served ten years in Boston, so I’ve seen my share of homicide crime scenes. Let me tell you, it’s sheer brute force ninety-nine percent of the time. Interviewing, walking around meeting people who knew the deceased, talking to everyone in as much of an area as you can cover. A lot of times it’s what’s not at the crime scene that will solve your case for you.”
    “Hard work will do it every time,” I said.
    “And even if you have something as simple as fingerprints, do you know how long it takes to get that processed? Forever. There’s no money, no staff. And DNA? Don’t get me started.”
    Too late. “Most people don’t understand how underfunded and overworked our police departments are.”
    “You got that right. So what’s this theory you have?”
    My turn at last. I laid out my logic to Virgil, explaining the Rules of the Yellow Sheets, according to the scientist residents of Franklin Hall. Then I summed it all up.
    “Ergo, the killer wrote the nasty comments and sprinkled the pages around, so there’d be one more thing that pointed to Rachel.”
    A long pause followed. I pictured Virgil, in all his bulk, scratching his head above his widow’s peak, thinking, not about to commit without a lot of thought.
    I blinked first. “What do you think, Virgil?”
    “Worth looking at.”
    Yes! “Can I look at the sheets of paper?” Might as well keep on this roll.
    “You can look at the photos of the sheets of paper.”
    Good enough. “When?”
    “Tell you what. Let us take a look on this end.” I wanted to rush in and offer Ariana Volens, my own handwriting expert, but I resisted. “Maybe I’ll swing by tonight and see my man Bruce, too, if you think he’ll be there.”
    I was elated. “Bruce will be at my house. He’s sort of camping there until all this is sorted out.”
    “It’s a good thing, because you certainly can’t count on the Henley PD to keep you safe.”
    I hoped that was a chuckle I heard in Virgil’s voice.
    I knew it was premature, but I couldn’t help rejoicing. All we—I was back, aligned with the police—had to do was determine whose handwriting was on the pages of Rachel’s thesis, probably rescued from the trash, and we’d have the identity of the killer.
    Giddiness set in.
    I briefed Ariana on Virgil’s response and thanked her over and over for jarring my brain into gear. I felt bad that I had to quash her idea that she come along to look at the handwriting and do her own analysis. I didn’t want to overwhelm Virgil. I promised I’d scan the