Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

I didn’t want him to think; I wanted him to eat. But he just kept staring at evidence. I nibbled some more, dozed, woke up, glanced at my watch. Cripes — six forty-five.

I elbowed Bolt. “Time for the memorial service,” I said. “Let’s sneak out.”

He slid the evidence back in the envelope, I took a final swig of water, and we headed for my car. Before we reached it, a tousle-haired TV reporter rushed up, camera crew scampering behind him, and demanded to know what the police intended to do about random street crime. No comment, I said, and drove to the Pi Alpha house. Sure enough, on the lawn stood another TV reporter — slick haired this time — asking Dean Collard about the rising tide of random street crime; but the dean insisted that Maggie died in an accident caused by the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance, that crime was a thing unknown to this city, that parents could feel safe about sending children here to attend Culbert College, which combines a solid liberal arts curriculum with outstanding pre-professional majors. Impatient, the reporter glanced away, spotted me, and charged. Hastily, I hustled Bolt out of camera range, past the potted geraniums, into the house.

“The random street crime theory is spreading,” I remarked. Well, that theory did fit most of the facts. “There’s lots of support for it,” I admitted.

“Yes, lots of support,” Bolt agreed, polishing his glasses on his tie. “From some high places — the newspaper, the mayor’s office, the public safety commissioner, a deputy police chief, city council, judges, state representatives, television reporters. Odd, isn’t it, to see how many powerful men are rushing to lend support to this particular theory?”

Why was it odd for pubic-spirited guys to care about public safety? “It’s natural for some men to care,” I said, “about whether young women can walk the streets safely.”

Bolt gasped. “Natural for some men to care,” he repeated, “about whether young — good gracious, sir! Do you really think so?”

Sure, I thought so. But I had more pressing matters on my mind: I’d downed a lot of spring water. I lowered my voice. “I’ve got to find the john,” I said.

Bolt nodded sharply. “Oh yes, sir,” he said, not even bothering to speak softly. “By all means, you must find the john. That is crucial — I know that.”

Jeez, how did he know that? Does he read minds too? And did he have to keep everyone in the room posted about my physical condition? “Communication is important, Bolt,” I said, softly, “but some things are delicate. You can’t just broadcast them. Sometimes you have to be subtler, more sophisticated. Understand?”

He knit his brow. “I don’t think so, sir.”

Well, I know I’m no good at expressing things — lots of people have trouble understanding me sometimes. “Sometimes, it takes a genius,” I said, slapping him on the back in apology. With that, I left him and wandered the hallways until I bumped into a door marked “Gentleman Callers.” Essential business completed, feeling far more equal to the task of solving murders, I made my way back to the front hall and saw Bolt locked in conversation with heavyset, frizzy-haired Willie Fenz. She was wearing the same baggy jeans she’d worn yesterday, but in deference to the occasion, she’d put on a black T-shirt, marked by a helmeted profile and the words “Sympathy for the Darth.” And she was crying. Bolt said something, and she shook her head; he said something else, and she hesitated, then nodded; he said another thing, and she broke into sobs. They spoke in hurried whispers for a few moments, and then he turned away, saw me, and sighed.

“Just as you said, sir,” he said sadly. “Sometimes, you can’t just broadcast things — and sometimes, it does take a genius. Of course, the ultimate question remains. Or have you deduced the answer to that too?”

I shrugged — when you don’t know what the hell is going on, shrugging is safest — and pretended to examine the floral arrangements crowding the hallway. Every fraternity and sorority on campus had sent flowers, it seemed. While I was admiring a vase of roses from the Jewish sorority, Nu Nu Nu, a little commotion broke out at the front door.

Bianca Flanders and Nancy Rogers stood on either side of the door, shaking hands and accepting condolences. But then Fletcher Cantrell III, Maggie’s ex-boyfriend, walked in with Maggie’s roommate, Pamela Andrews, clinging to his arm. When Bianca held out a hand to Fletcher, he snarled and backed away.

“This is garbage,” I heard him say to Pamela. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But I need you.” Pamela tightened her grip. “This is so, like, emotional for me.”

“We’re all grieving, Fletcher,” Nancy said. “I think it would help you if—”

She took a step toward him, but he shoved her away. “Back off, bitch,” he said.