by Lev Raphael
Sitting near him, I felt as drawn to Stefan as if we’d just met, as if everything about his body, his smells, his textures, the different shades of skin, the curves and whorls and bulk, as if all of it were intoxicating and unknown.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
He quoted my favorite line from Prizzi’s Honor: “Right here on the oriental?”
I laughed and led him inside.
Later, well after dinner and a second trip to the bedroom, we lolled in bed with the TV on more for noise than anything else.
Suddenly I remembered that I hadn’t even looked at my mail. This was a sore point with Stefan. Perhaps after all the years of rejection slips, now that his career was established and secure, he was quite greedy for mail. He had preternaturally good hearing, and when he was working at home, he could tell when the mail carrier’s little jeep was a few houses away. He could hear it start up and pull to a stop, could hear mailbox doors clank shut. If he wasn’t dressed then, he’d hurriedly throw some clothes on and get ready to rush down the driveway to the mailbox as if he were a retiree expecting a sweepstakes win. Stefan’s eagerness to pounce on the mail and rip it open was amusing to me; just as he was frustrated that I could actually enjoy using a letter opener to calmly, neatly get into whatever had come for me.
Now he seemed amazed. “Your mail at the department? You haven’t looked at it yet?”
“It’s just one of my little ways,” I said. “You’ve had ten years to get used to it.”
He shook his head as I padded off to my study, turning on lights as I went. While I waded through the pile of boring letters and brochures about conferences, new publications, department memos about nothing significant, and requests from Wharton scholars around the country for information and help, I thought it all could have waited until the morning. But then I found a note on a piece of plain white Xerox paper that was folded not very neatly in thirds and stuffed into an unsealed envelope.
It read, “Please forget what we talked about.” It was signed “Bill.”
I felt momentarily disoriented, and somehow imagined that Bill Malatesta had left this for me after our talk on the deck. But how had he gotten into the house? I had left the front door unlocked when I got home; surely I would have heard him sneak into the house and enter my study?
I bore the note back to Stefan, who read it as if expecting a message in disappearing ink to suddenly pop up between the lines.
“This is strange,” he brought out, looking from me to the note and back.
I crawled in next to him and he took my hand, squeezed it. “I don’t get it, unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Well, at the department party, we were just bullshitting some, and then he said he needed my help. Could that be it? But it’s not like he actually said anything specific that I could forget about.”
Stefan shrugged, peering at the note.
I said, “Don’t you think everyone’s acting a little crazy today? Maybe it’s more than Perry’s death. Maybe it’s sunspots, or a change in barometric pressure.”
“It could be global warming,” Stefan suggested.
“The war in Bosnia?”
“Anxiety about the national debt?”
We went on like that for a while, amusing ourselves.
9
THE NEXT MORNING THERE WAS A FRONT-PAGE story on Perry Cross’s death in the Michiganapolis Tribune. There was the suggestion that he might have been drunk, but nothing about an autopsy.
“He didn’t drink that much at our house,” I said to Stefan, who agreed. If anyone was likely to get in an accident, it was me that night: all the Pernod, then the wine. I was lucky I hadn’t passed out or tripped in the bathroom and knocked myself unconscious.
If Perry wasn’t drunk when he left our house, but was drunk when he drowned, it would have been afterwards, I thought, feeling guilty. He could have gone out drinking, or gotten drunk at home. I had poured it on at dinner, bragging to destroy Perry’s confidence, and look what had happened.
I could see the news from Rose Waterman’s perspective. It did look bad. People would be reading the newspaper and thinking, those SUM professors—that’s all they do is drink and get themselves in trouble or dead. Whether it was true or not, just the suggestion was bad publicity at a time when more budget cuts were looming once again in a state that claimed to support higher education but often seemed quite hostile to those who provided it.
Stefan sat next to me at the kitchen table, reading aloud as I drifted off. He quoted the county prosecutor, who was reported as saying, “The injuries Dr. Cross sustained were not inconsistent with an accidental death.” Pressed, the prosecutor also said Cross could have fallen from the bridge. There would not be an inquest, and the article didn’t mention a memorial service one way or the other. Clearly the reporter hadn’t done much thinking on this article. There was a quote from Lynn Broadshaw: “Perry Cross was a fine addition to a substantial department. Unfortunately we will never get to see the full flower of his teaching, research, and service.”
“Oh God,” I moaned. “The land grant troika!” Not just speeches but casual remarks by administrators at SUM almost always used the three terms—teaching, research, service—that summed up the university’s mission as a land grant institution, that is, a university built on land originally granted by the federal government. The incantation had a dry and—perfunctory feel—the way ancient veterans in wheelchairs were given places of honor at Memorial Day parades, their shriveled little smiles, their fragile waves empty footnotes to history.
As often as not, the university was touted as being larger than the sum of its parts, because of teaching, etc. The consistent punning on SUM/sum had of course led our in-state rival, the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, to call us SCUM and DUM(B) and so on. The abuse appeared on T-shirts and bumper stickers all over the state. I actually found the nastiness a relief from the high-toned ponderous blather we suffered at the hands of our president and his minions.
“Not much of an article,” Stefan concluded.
“Did Perry deserve more?”
Stefan shook his head.
“Don’t you love Broadshaw about Perry flowering? The guy was a stink weed, nothing would have flowered—and do not give me any Baudelaire shit about Flowers of Evil.”
Stefan smiled a bit guiltily—I had obviously headed him off. Then his expression changed, and he pushed away his coffee. “Will you talk to Bill Malatesta about the note?”
“I have to, don’t I? I don’t understand what’s going on. And if there’s something he doesn’t want me to talk about, I should at least know what that is, right?”
“You really think he snuck back into the house after he talked to you?”
I wasn’t sure.
Stefan left before I did, and I didn’t tell him about Sharon’s suggestion to start looking into Perry’s death myself. I knew it would make him angry because he’d insist it wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t let this thing drop.
I looked up the number of the Medical Examiner—Dr. Margaret Case—and was surprised at how readily her secretary put me through. I’d expected having to explain myself in detail, but apparently my name and saying I was a faculty member at SUM was enough.
“Professor Hoffman, this is a treat. Neil loved your class—he said you were the best teacher he had all year. He talked about you a lot.”
I flushed with pleasure and mumbled something about her son’s writing.
“How can I help you?”
I told her I’d like to see her in a professional capacity, as soon as possible.
“What about?”
I was afraid she’d say no, so I hedged. “Actually, I’d prefer talking about it in person.”
There was a hesitation on the line, but I heard her shuffling some papers. “I have a free half hour just before lunch—at eleven-thirty.”
I took it. She gave me directions to the office downtown and I raced over there. The building surpr
ised me. Her office was in the Department of Health and Social Services; the squat beige brick building was teeming with mothers and children, and filled with light from huge windows and skylights. Maybe because of the children, everything inside was splashed in primary colors. It was bright and a little disappointing. I’d expected someplace dark and full of tension, filled with nervous bureaucrats racing around from one crisis to another. The only racing I saw was the toddlers hurtling off to grab or investigate something shiny or pretty, with anxious mothers charging after them.
I found the Medical Examiner’s office down half a dozen corridors. Her secretary was so cheerful I wondered if it was an act.
Dr. Case came out as soon as she was buzzed, to usher me into her office. She had the same no-nonsense air as Attorney General Janet Reno, and was almost as large and imposing. But the resemblance stopped there: she wasn’t dowdily dressed, had no glasses, and her hair was curly and dark blond. And she didn’t look at all like her son, Neil, who was short and dark.
The office was jammed with books and files and mugs from scenic spots all around Michigan. Except for the cheerful colors, it could have been any office back on campus.
The ME smiled broadly, waiting for me to begin.
“This must be exciting work,” I said.
She laughed. “Not really.”
“But going to a crime scene, or whatever—”
“Oh, the police usually don’t like me around, getting in their hair. I generally meet the body at the morgue. And it’s really not what you see on television—it’s all pretty cut and dried.” She frowned. “Not the best choice of words, I suppose.”
Neil’s mother was so relaxed and welcoming that I was about to tell her why I’d come. Before I could, though, she asked me, “Are you doing some sort of research about death investigation for a book?”
“No. I came because of the man who was found dead on campus yesterday morning. Perry Cross. He was my office mate.”
She nodded. “I wondered if that was it.”
That startled me. “Why?”
Dr. Case shrugged. “He was a professor, you’re a professor. It seemed obvious. I suppose this has been a shock to you.”
I nodded, trying to look mournful as opposed to overly curious. “How did he die? Do you know yet?”
“I shouldn’t tell you before the information is public, but it’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”
When she paused, I said, “I don’t know anything about medicine.”
“Fine, then I’ll keep it simple. According to the pathologist’s report, in layman’s terms it was massive head injury, hemorrhaging.”
“What happened?”
“There were wood splinters in the wound, and mud, so all that’s consistent with his having sustained the damage through falling from the bridge and striking a half-buried log in the river. Apparently the Campus Police on the scene made a similar assumption, and they were right.”
“He didn’t drown?”
“Well, when you find a body in the water, it’s always harder to determine the cause and manner of death. And there aren’t any witnesses. There was water in his lungs, but he may have been dead before most of it got in.”
“You said they found wood splinters. How do you know that wasn’t from a—from a baseball bat or something?”
It must have been a very naive question, because she seemed to make an effort at keeping a straight face. “Processed wood is very different.”
“Oh. But was it … an accident?”
Now she frowned. “Honestly? If someone pushed him,” and here she shoved out her hand as if in someone’s back, “we couldn’t know. But given how much alcohol was in his system, I’m ruling it an accidental death. I go by the preponderance of evidence—that’s my standard.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know anything that would change that?”
“Not at all!” I cursed myself for being too vehement. I went on more calmly: “It’s just that the whole thing surprised me….”
She nodded a bit suspiciously, but then seemed to remember me as her son’s professor. I thanked her for her time and we chatted briefly about Neil’s current classes on my way out.
Her secretary was on the phone, apparently reading from some report. I heard “facial fractures and cranial contusions” before the office door closed behind me. Outside, the knots of mothers and children made my little interview seem more unreal. I’d been talking about death and injury but everything I saw shouted of life.
So. Now I knew more about Perry’s death, but it wasn’t enough. I had to go to the Administration bridge and check out where they found his body. That was an obvious step that might make the next steps clearer.
But first there was Bill Malatesta. I knew Bill taught on the same days that I did, so I called from home to leave a message for him at the EAR office to call me or come to my office in the half hour I had between my first and second class. Surely that would be enough time to figure this thing out.
I have often taught some of my best classes on cruise control, and my first class was terrific. Even though I was full of curiosity about Bill’s note, and wondering about Perry and how Stefan was dealing with all this, I managed to say all the right things when we discussed a set of student essays. I could feel the approval, the admiration, the understanding. I managed to be clear and helpful without being at all authoritarian or intrusive. When I came back into the classroom after the five-minute break, the noise level was high, as it gets only when students are excited and pleased because they’re learning something.
How was I doing so well?
Of course, it wasn’t just me. They were my favorite group of students this semester: a good relaxed group, self-motivated, with more than half a dozen people who liked to talk and had something valuable to say (not a typical combination). It certainly helped that our shabby high-ceilinged room with the scarred seminar tables and gauged wooden chairs was such a strong contrast to most campus classrooms where the seats were nailed to the floor and everything looked sterile, mass-produced. Somehow the barriers between us all were lower, helped along by sitting around the four grouped tables and having to face each other when we talked.
I was soon back upstairs in my office, glowing.
Even Bill’s sour face when he knocked and came in didn’t faze me. He looked so different in loafers, blue broadcloth shirt, chinos, and black V-neck sweater: like someone auditioning for a role he wasn’t sure he wanted.
He wouldn’t look right at me, as if I were a headmaster who had found his young pupil cheating on an exam.
I waved to the seat by my desk, and Bill came to sit there reluctantly, poised as if to charge off. I brought out the note and handed it to him.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
He tried to smile but must have known he looked sick and unconvincing.
“It’s your note, right? What’s it about?”
“You’ve gone through his stuff already?”
“What? Whose stuff?”
“Perry’s.”
“I don’t get it. This is for Perry? Then why was it in with my department mail?”
“Shit!” he hissed, smacking a palm to his forehead, cursing himself: “Asshole, asshole, asshole.”
“The note was for Perry,” I said as if trying out the words. Perry’s mailbox was right above mine, and occasionally mail of his had been popped into my mailbox by mistake. But nothing like this. No wonder I’d been confused.
I suddenly felt like a trespasser. What was I supposed to say now? Should I ask Bill to leave? Yet he didn’t seem outraged as he had yesterday afternoon at my house; just defeated, drained.
He breathed in deeply, nodded a few times. “You try to keep things quiet, but it never works, does it?” Now he looked at me and I felt our connection was finally back. We were friends again, or—given the difference in rank and power—at least friendly. Bill laid the note face down on my desk.
“I’m not surprised you weren’t Dr. Cross’s best bud or a
nything. I don’t think he was that great a guy. His students didn’t like him. Even when you figured he was new here, trying himself out, even when you gave him that, he still was kind of—”
“He was a schmuck,” I said briskly, and Bill nodded, grateful. Abusing even a dead professor doesn’t come easily to a graduate student; just disagreeing can be tricky enough. Many graduate students live in fear of making a mistake in a seminar, or idly saying something that could be misinterpreted and then ending up having earned a professor’s enmity without really understanding why. I’d heard that in our department the attrition rate of Ph.D. candidates was very high: two out of three never got degrees.
“I was working on a paper in the library one night, just before closing,” Bill said, “And Dr. Cross—”
“Let’s call him Perry, it sounds more natural.”
“Okay. Perry. Perry walks by and we start chatting. He sounded really interested in my research. And then he asked if I wanted to have a drink in town. So we headed out, and had a couple of drinks, at Jimbo’s.”
It was a loud student hangout in town that I usually avoided.
“And then he said—right in the middle of something completely ordinary—that I looked kind of haunted, and was somebody in the department hassling me.” Bill sighed as if recounting a terrible accident he’d seen. “He asked me if somebody had been sexually harassing me.”
That was Perry, I thought, rude and prying. And on the mark.
“I was so surprised I said yes.”
“How did he know to ask?”
Bill gave a big Italian shrug that was as beautiful as it was helpless. And I thought of the way Perry had made Stefan come out to him that night in New York. It was all about power.
Now Bill hesitated. Up to this point, he had been on somewhat safe ground talking about a professor who had died. But going further could be dangerous to him. I knew that. I had seen other schools where accusations of sexual harassment had been covered up, denied, squelched, or brutally controverted. Nobody came out of it with their head up, nobody, even those on the fringes—because it could poison whole departments with people taking sides, slandering each other, threatening lawsuits, acting like Stalinists.