Everyone laughed. Then Lucy turned to Chris. “Maybe not thinking is all right for you and T. S. Eliot, but not for me. As Allen Ginsberg said, ‘We eat reality sandwiches,’ implying that reality confronts us all the time, whether we like it or not. So why not develop an appetite for it?”
“Yeah, Chris,” Phil chimed in, “if reality’s a sandwich that’s always in your face, you might as well take a bite. Otherwise you’ll just become emaciated and then die, right?”
“Which brings me to Professor Schwartz’s second point,” Juliet said. “According to Socrates, if you care for your soul and live your life according to philosophical principles, there’s no reason to fear death.”
“I agree that fear of the unknown is irrational,” Jimmy said. “If there is another life, there’s no reason to believe it won’t be a better life, and you might as well look forward to it. But if there isn’t one and you’re simply dead, then you won’t be able to feel whatever pain you imagine death entails. In the end, if you’ve led a philosophical life, fulfilling your inner self as well as your overt responsibilities, then you’ll have nothing to regret. You’ll be able to face death with serenity.”
“That depends,” Phil countered. “If you’re like Chris and believe that people can’t face life, then what makes you think they can face death? But if, like Lucy, you look forward to growth and change, then—who knows—death, the most profound change, might be the thing you look forward to the most.”
“Speaking of death, I thought I saw a dead man today, and let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.”
The five freshman looked up to see Caitlin holding her tray. Phil noticed that she looked enervated, her normally vibrant eyes dulled by fatigue.
“Hi, everyone,” she said. “I haven’t had anything to eat all day and I’m voracious. Mind if I join you?”
“Sorry, Caitlin,” Juliet said. “We were so involved in our conversation that we didn’t notice you. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Caitlin set down her tray between Phil and Chris.
“So,” Phil said, picking up on Caitlin’s entrance line, “you said you saw a dead man today?”
“Or so it seemed.”
Caitlin described in vivid detail how she’d seen Harold Hargrave lying on his couch, pallid and inert.
“Wow!” Juliet gasped. “Did you scream? I would’ve.”
Jimmy chuckled. “Are you kidding? Caitlin Ciccone, ace reporter for the Holyfield Herald, scream? Impossible.”
“I’m flattered by your high opinion of my professional demeanor, Jimmy,” Caitlin said. “But I must confess that screaming was an option that crossed my mind.”
“Why is the Herald interested in this guy?” Chris asked.
“A whole list of reasons,” Caitlin said. “Last night someone broke into the library, knocked him out with chloroform, and rummaged through his office.”
“Sounds nasty. Who do they think did it?”
“Hargrave seems to think it was a student—some guy named Teddy Prospero.”
“Hey, Jimmy, remember him?” Phil said. “Bill talked about the antagonism between him and Leo. I guess this Teddy has a little trouble making friends.”
Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, I remember. He’s the unsavory grandson of the guy whose name is all over campus. Head of some kind of fraternal organization called Arm and Hammer, or Hammer and Tongs, or Tongue in Cheek, or—”
“Tooth and Nail,” Caitlin corrected him, laughing.
“Tooth and Nail! That’s it!” Jimmy said, gratified that he’d made her laugh.
“I don’t see anything logical in this attack,” Chris said. “It seems to me that if Teddy wants to get a piece of his grandfather’s pie, he wouldn’t want to do something irrational, like commit a felony, and jeopardize his chances.”
“Crimes don’t have to be rationally motivated,” Lucy said. “Some are just random, and a lot of others are passionate, triggered by a complex set of emotions.”
“If Teddy’s such a hostile, malicious character, maybe he’s got some screwed-up reason to hate Hargrave,” Jimmy suggested.
“Or maybe it wasn’t anything personal,” Juliet said. “Maybe he was looking for something and Hargrave happened to show up.”
“Yeah, but you don’t just happen to have chloroform,” Caitlin pointed out.
Phil set down his utensils and wiped his mouth. “Any idea what the perpetrator was looking for?”
“Most likely some valuable item in the Prospero collection,” Caitlin replied, “but no one’s certain.”
Phil and Lucy fetched coffee for the table, and the group continued to discuss the case, raising various hypotheses concerning motivation and assessing the evidence for and against Teddy Prospero as the culprit.
“But if it’s not Teddy,” Juliet asked finally, “then who else could it be?”
“Someone who knows the value of books,” Jimmy answered.
“I think you’re right,” Phil said. “It’s probably someone who has an idea of what’s in the collection and wants something specific.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Well, whoever it is, we’ll never find out unless we return to the scene of the crime and investigate.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chris asked.
“That it’s time to hit the books, pal.”
“What, go to the library? Right now?”
“That’s right. Life is short and my assignments are not. Anyone care to join me?”
Groaning in feigned agony, the others picked up their trays and followed Phil to the busing station.
“Phil, are you sure you don’t want to come out for pizza?” Lucy asked. The two sets of roommates stood at the foot of the stone steps leading down from Tillinghast Library.
Phil was glad to be outside. After three hours of stale library air and the dull hum of fluorescent light, the night was cool and invigorating. Although he didn’t want to seem antisocial, a hot pizzeria didn’t appeal to him. Besides, he had promised to give his parents a call.
“No, thanks,” he replied, shouldering his backpack. “I need to get back to the dorm and take care of a few things.”
Jimmy gave Phil a skeptical look. “‘Things,’ huh?”
“Sounds pretty slippery and evasive to me,” Chris said.
Phil laughed at his roommates’ jocular prodding. “You guys make everything sound so surreptitious. I just promised I’d call my folks tonight to let them know how everything’s going.”
“Oh my God, I forgot!” Juliet exclaimed. “I’m supposed to call home too.”
“Sure,” Jimmy said in a dubious tone. “The earth is flat, zebras don’t have stripes, and Phil and Juliet have to call their parents.” Phil tried to interrupt, but Jimmy raised an index finger in playful admonition. “Phil, don’t perjure yourself. I respect every individual’s right to privacy. If you need to do something you don’t want to talk about, that’s okay by me. I won’t pry. But do me a favor. When you’re done with your ‘things,’ would you check up on Siggy for me? I’m worried that Irwin might be on the loose, looking for a snack.”
Phil chuckled. “Don’t worry. Your fish is in competent hands. See you guys later.”
As the others began to leave, Caitlin hesitated for a moment. The thought of a luscious slice of pizza at Salerno’s was tantalizing, but duty called.
She turned to Phil. “Do you mind if I come along with you? I was thinking that if Leo was around, you could introduce me and I could interview him about the Prospero business.”
“Sure,” Phil said. “I’ll show you where his room is.”
“This pizza expedition is dwindling by the second,” Lucy said. “Let’s get out of here before there’s no one left.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” Juliet said. “I’m starving. I’ll call my folks tomorrow.”
Chris chuckled. “That’s right. Spend their money tonight; call them for more tomorrow.”
“Hey, that’s not true!” Juliet protested. “It’s my own money that I saved
from my summer job.”
“Pay no attention to the cynical cry of disaffected youth, sweet Juliet,” Jimmy said melodramatically, leading the foursome down the pathway.
“Don’t worry, Juliet,” said Lucy. “We all know you’re a frugal, prudent young woman.”
“Except perhaps where pizza is involved,” Chris teased.
As their friendly banter faded into the night, Phil looked at Caitlin. “Ready to get on the case, Ms. Lane?”
Caitlin laughed. “Sure, Mr. Kent, ready when you are. Just promise me one thing, okay?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t drag me into any phone booths for your next metamorphosis into Super-Freshman.”
They crossed College Street and made their way across East Quad. When they reached Ericson Hall, Phil shouldered his backpack and led the way upstairs. At the fifth-floor landing he held the fire door open for Caitlin, who flashed him a smile in return for the courtesy.
“Leo and Bill’s room is on the right,” Phil said, following her into the hallway.
The door to Ericson 5-A was slightly ajar and the room was dark.
“That’s odd,” Phil muttered.
“You think he’s home?” Caitlin asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he just forgot to lock his door.”
“Maybe he’s asleep already.”
Phil checked his watch. “It’s not that late, only a little after ten.” He rapped lightly on the door. There was no response. He rapped again, harder this time. Still no response. He called out softly, “Leo? You there?”
There was no answer.
“It’s no big deal,” Caitlin said. “I can talk to him tomorrow.”
Phil was perplexed. “I don’t understand why the door would be open if he’s not in. Leo wouldn’t do that.”
“Look, why don’t we just shut the door and go join the others at Salerno’s?”
“No, wait a minute. Something seems weird here. I’m going to take a look around.”
Caitlin was about to say she didn’t think that was a good idea when Phil pushed the door open and stepped inside. Instinctively, she followed him.
“Anybody home?” Phil said into the darkness. He turned to Caitlin. “Can you get the light?”
Caitlin groped along the wall, found the switch, and flicked it on. Then she gasped.
Chapter 17
Blood is Thicker Than Ink
Leo Kabnis lay prone in the middle of the room, his glazed eyes half-open, his arms splayed above his head. Blood oozed from an ugly laceration in his scalp, trickling down his temple and staining the rug. Books and papers lay scattered on the floor.
Phil let go of his backpack and rushed to his counselor’s side. He dropped to his knees and checked Leo’s wrist for a pulse. It was sluggish but tangible enough to impart hope.
“He’s okay,” Phil said. “Out cold, but alive at least. I’ll get something to put on this cut and stop the bleeding.”
“And I’ll call the campus police and tell them we need an ambulance,” Caitlin said, looking around for the phone.
Immediately after talking with the police, she dialed the Herald and asked for Bill Berkowitz.
Twenty minutes later they stood on the steps outside Ericson Hall answering terse questions from a campus police officer. Leo had just been wheeled out and taken to CHS, accompanied by Bill, and the crowd that had gathered to gawk and gossip was beginning to disperse.
“Just before you and the paramedics arrived,” Phil was explaining, “Leo came to for a minute. He said he was caught by surprise and didn’t see who attacked him. Then he lost consciousness again.”
“I see,” said the officer, making a notation in his book. “The room appears to have been searched. Do you have any idea what the assailant was looking for?”
“No, we don’t,” Caitlin said.
The officer looked at Phil.
“Sorry, sir. No idea.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t hear an altercation or see anyone suspicious?” the officer asked.
They shook their heads.
“Did Mr. Kabnis have any enemies or adversaries? Do you know anyone who was angry with him or who might have wanted to hurt him?”
Phil glanced at Caitlin, who shrugged her shoulders. “Well, officer,” he said, “Saturday at dinner I saw him get into a vehement argument with a guy named Teddy Prospero.”
“This was a good idea, Caitlin. It really hits the spot. Thanks for buying.”
“You’re welcome.”
They sat at a corner table in Java Jones, the cafe in the Student Center, sipping cappuccino and staring gloomily around the sparsely occupied room.
“Are you sure Leo’s going to be all right?” Caitlin asked.
“The paramedics told me he’ll need stitches, and he probably has a concussion, but he should be okay in a couple of days.”
“You know, I think I’m still in shock. I just can’t believe this happened.”
“Neither can I. Leo’s such a nice guy. Why would anyone want to attack him?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that this makes two people assaulted in two days.”
“What do you mean?”
Caitlin sighed. “It’s weird,” she said, pushing her hair back from her forehead, “but I can’t help thinking that what happened to Leo is somehow connected to last night’s incident with Harold Hargrave. Do you think Teddy Prospero’s behind it?”
Phil rubbed his chin pensively. “I’m no detective, but if I were, I’d be talking to that guy.”
There was a long, melancholy pause as they finished their cappuccinos.
“I think I’d like another one of these,” Phil said. “How about you—my treat this time?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
While Phil placed his order at the counter, Caitlin anxiously drummed her fingers on the table. The vivid, unsettling image of Leo unconscious and bleeding on the floor kept invading her mind’s eye. Violence, she thought, was not even remotely among her expectations for college. But there was no denying it now. The insulated, harmonious world of study and recreation she had envisioned had been shattered, decisively, by the assaults on Hargrave and Leo. And it seemed that she too, in an indirect way, had been violated—she and everyone else who had come to Holyfield College blithely assuming it would be safe. If people were being attacked in their offices and dorm rooms, anyone and everyone was vulnerable, and who could predict what might happen next?
Caitlin’s gaze fell on the pile of books spilling out of Phil’s backpack. There were three paperback textbooks, two spiral notebooks, and a hardcover bound in heavy blue library buckram. Curious to know what Phil had taken out of the library, she scrutinized the title printed on the spine: A Garden of Words: The Life and Work of William Shakespeare. Aha, she thought, our discussion after the radio panel must have really stimulated him.
She removed the book from the pile, then almost dropped it when she saw the name of the author on the title page: Margaret Hargrave. What a strange coincidence, she thought. Could Margaret be related to Harold? As she began thumbing through the pages, she was surprised again when a thin envelope suddenly slipped out of the book into her lap. She looked down at the name written on the front of the envelope and her mouth fell open.
“Here’s your cappuccino,” Phil said.
Caitlin almost jumped out of her chair. “Phil, don’t scare me like that!”
“I’m sorry. Hey, you still seem pretty shaken up. Maybe you shouldn’t have any more coffee.”
“No, I’m okay,” she said hoarsely. “I was spacing out and you startled me, that’s all.” She clutched her cup and took a quick sip.
“What were you spacing out about?” he asked.
“I—you’re not going to believe this.”
“Believe what?”
“I found something in your book.”
“You what?”
“In your Shakespeare book—something fell out of it.”
“What are you
talking about?”
“Look,” she said, retrieving the envelope from her lap and holding it up so he could see the handwriting. “It’s a letter addressed to Leo.”
“I still don’t see why you’re in such a rush,” Phil said as they sipped their cappuccinos. “Why can’t we just hang onto it until Leo gets out of CHS or give it to Bill for safekeeping?”
Caitlin released an exasperated sigh. “Okay, I’ll explain it again. It’s a matter of ethics, Phil. This letter may contain vital information—perhaps a clue to the identity of Leo’s assailant or maybe even something that poses a further threat to him. Do you really want to risk the potential consequences of failing to divulge something like that?”
“Of course not, it’s just that—”
“I’m glad you agree. Then we’ll deliver the letter to Leo tonight,” Caitlin said decisively.
Phil was skeptical. “But it’s almost midnight, and we don’t know what room he’s in or if he’s in any condition to read it.”
“Don’t be so intractable, Phil. I’ve got a strong hunch there may be something crucial in that letter. If you don’t want to take it to Leo, then I will. Are you going to trust me on this or am I going alone?”
The threat was enough to dispel Phil’s reluctance. He acquiesced without further complaint.
Caitlin’s plan worked like a charm. From a pay phone at the cafe she called CHS and asked for Leo’s room number, explaining that she was a concerned friend who wanted to check on his condition and see if she could visit him in the morning. Then they hurried over to the building, slipped up the back stairs to the third floor, and tiptoed down the hall. The only impediment was the nurses’ station, which to their great relief they found momentarily unoccupied.
Minutes later, Leo sat up in his bed in room 312, awake and alert. His injured head was wrapped neatly in a white gauze bandage.
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