Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

Roller that I had bought from the Home Shopping Network one long, sleepless night a few weeks back?
    “Well, okay, then,” Greg said, his tone suggesting that he didn’t think I was telling the truth. In order to prove him wrong, I picked up my fully caffeinated coffee and took a long drag, forgetting that it was screaming hot. My scorched tongue reminded me for the rest of the day that a simple denial would have been appropriate under the circumstances.
    “Let me ask you something, Greg,” I said, attempting to articulate with a sore and numb tongue. “Did Carter come here a lot? Or was Saturday just a fluke?”
    “He was here every day,” he said.
    “So I guess he didn’t say anything nasty about you on his blog?”
    Greg laughed. “Oh, sure he did. But I’m a forgiving soul, Alison. It takes a lot more energy to be negative than to be positive. And I’m all about putting positive energy into the world,” he said, closing his thumbs and forefingers together on each hand. “Namaste.”
    “Namaste,” I replied, and left the store thinking that I should take a page from Greg’s book.
    I was at school within the half hour, my tongue still numb from the scalding coffee. I entered campus, feeling that I was safer here than in my own village, and started my trek to my office. St. Thomas University sits majestically, high on a hill, overlooking the Hudson. On a day like today, the walk to my office was absolutely gorgeous, a view of the river at my left the entire time. Hoping to see some of my colleagues after the nice summer break, I decided to go in through the front door of the school rather than through the secret back door that was closer to my office but which offered a far less scenic view. But when I entered the marble hallway of the main building where most classes were held, it was pretty much desolate, letting the wind out of my sails a bit. This wasn’t an auspicious beginning to the semester.
    I trotted up to my third-floor office and encountered Dottie Cruz, the poorest example of a department secretary one could find on campus. She was making her way through the Daily News, New York’s hometown paper, commenting to the guy delivering mail about the sorry state of the Mets.
    “Wright’s gotta stop swinging for the fences!” she said, getting a hearty nod from the mail guy. “Let’s get some singles, David. Save the home runs for play-off season.”
    Save the home runs? Was that such great advice? How about giving us home runs whenever you wanted? Or could? I decided to pick up my mail and beat a hasty retreat to my office. “Hi, Dottie,” I said, pulling out a stack of textbook catalogs and brochures for study-abroad programs that really didn’t pertain to my academic subject of English. Dottie and I really don’t get along; she’s an inveterate gossip, and since I’m usually the one supplying the grist for the gossip mill but am tight-lipped in her presence, she doesn’t consider me an ally. Add in that I complain vociferously about her to anyone who will listen at least once a day, and I would have to say that we had become archenemies.
    “The holy father is looking for you,” she called after me. I realized that despite her nosy nature, she never mentioned my black eye, and for that, I was most grateful.
    I turned around, unable to resist the snappy comeback. “Really? Pope Benedict is looking for me?”
    She looked confused, and rightfully so; in her world, the “holy father” was one of my best friends and the school chaplain, Kevin McManus. He was not holy, nor was he a father (except in the ecclesiastical sense), so I just referred to him as “Kevin.”
    “You know what I mean.” The mail guy had left during this scintillating exchange so she turned back to her newspaper. Seemed to me that she would have a lot of work to do for freshman orientation, but she didn’t share my sense of urgency or work ethic. But she did have a beau who was a colleague of Crawford’s, and she seemed deliriously happy every time he called or stopped by campus. I stared at the back of her head for a second before asking her a question.
    “Hey, Dottie?”
    “Yes?” she said without turning back around. I guess we were in a fight when I had considered our latest exchange just our usual banter.
    “Are you happy with Charlie?”
    She turned around, her face lighting up at the sound of his name. “Charlie? He’s the best. You know that.”
    “He seems like a nice