Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

freshman orientation, something that I normally dreaded. I guess something positive had come out of this big, giant, tragic mess.

Eight
     
    Crawford was whispering in my ear as I tried to go to sleep that night.
    “Not tonight, Crawford. I don’t feel well,” I said, and pulled the comforter up closer to my ears; I had the air conditioner on high and the bedroom was a cool fifty-nine degrees, just the way I liked it. I had filled Crawford in on my conversation with Ginny Miller after Max and Fred had left. He had been interested, but not intrigued, as I thought he might be. Actually, he had been singularly unimpressed hearing that I had been accosted by a woman who would do anything to save her husband from the clink. He had seen suspects and their loved ones go to much further lengths to avoid jail time. “I think I have that cow flu that was all the rage a few months ago.”
    “Swine.”
    “What?”
    “It’s the swine flu. Mad cow disease, swine flu. Two different things.”
    “Thanks for the clarification. We’re still not having sex.”
    “If you don’t feel well again tomorrow, you should call a doctor.”
    “I only have a gynecologist. And my lady parts feel just fine. I don’t have a regular doctor.”
    “Then get one.”
    I took a deep breath; I didn’t feel congested but I didn’t feel uncongested, either. Somewhere in between. “Who do you think put that explosive device on Carter’s engine?”
    “Who cares?”
    “I care,” I said.
    “Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, rolling over to face the window, his back to me.
    “Don’t you think it’s weird?”
    “Yes, it’s weird,” he said. “But I just don’t care. I didn’t know the guy, but he’s responsible for you having a black eye, so as far as I’m concerned, good riddance.”
    “Crawford!”
    “Seriously. You witnessed a horrible thing. Let’s move on. We have bigger things to discuss than who put an explosive device on some crazy blogger’s car. That’s what Hardin and Madden are for,” he said.
    I remained silent for such a long time that I thought he might have fallen asleep, but that didn’t matter. I had a burning question on my mind. “Do you know anyone in the police department who might know something about car bombs?”
    “Go to sleep, please.”
    I did. I slept right through the alarm, Crawford’s shower and dressing, and the breakfast making that he undertook in the kitchen. I only awoke when he presented me with a bacon and egg sandwich, the smell of which roused me from my slumber. I sat up and looked at the runny egg, half-cooked bacon, and stale roll. But I also took in Crawford’s pleased face—he’s not much of a cook so making this sandwich must have taken a tremendous amount of effort—and decided that I needed to eat it and look like I was enjoying it heartily. He was in a much better mood than the night before.
    “I would have brought you coffee but you don’t have any,” he said. “Do you want me to go to Beans, Beans?”
    “No!” I said, a little too hastily. I didn’t want anything to do with that place. At least for the time being. “The juice is fine,” I said, taking a large gulp that sat in my midsection as though I had swallowed an entire orange. What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe Crawford’s insistence on my seeing a doctor was warranted. I figured I’d give it the day and then make a decision. I ate around the half-cooked parts of the bacon and avoided the egg yolk, feeding bits of the sandwich to Trixie when Crawford wasn’t looking. He wears a lot of equipment to his job, and putting on all of it takes an inordinate amount of time, so his back was turned for the better part of my breakfast. When he turned back around and saw that I had finished, he was clearly pleased. He’s a nice guy, that Crawford; I am glad I didn’t disappoint him.
    “I’ll call you later,” I said, getting the sense that he was heading out. “I’ve got interviews with the potential English majors from the freshman class today. Always a delight.”
    “Sounds good,” he said, and leaned over the bed to give me a kiss. “Are you sure you’re feeling better?”
    “I’m fine,” I assured him. “The weekend kind of sucked and I’m looking forward to getting back to work.” I threw the comforter back and stretched. “Did I really say that? How could I be looking forward to going back to work?”
    “I don’t know,” he said, “but try to have a good day.” And he was