Of course, Cheryl is the one person on campus who didn’t want one.
“How Lindsay ended up in the Fischer Hall cafeteria kitchen is a mystery that has authorities here baffled,” the reporter goes on. The shot shifts to one of New York College President Phillip Allington standing at a podium in the library lobby, Detective Canavan looking rumpled and cranky at his side.
Coach Andrews, for some reason, is standing on the president’s other side, managing to look calm, but at the same time somewhat confused. But then, that’s how a lot of athletic coaches look, I’ve noticed, as I’ve flipped past ESPN.
The anchorman’s voice goes on, “A spokesperson from the New York City Police Department insists that even though no arrests have been made, the police have several suspects and are following more than a dozen leads. There is, college President Phillip Allington assured the academic community at a press conference earlier this afternoon, no need for alarm.”
Footage from the press conference begins to run.
“We would like to take this opportunity,” President Allington says woodenly, obviously reading from something that he’d had someone else write for him earlier in the day, “to reassure our students, and the
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public in general, that the law enforcement officials in this city are using every measure available to us to track down this vicious criminal. At the same time, we’d like to urge our students to take extra safety precautions until Lindsay’s killer is apprehended. Although it is the goal of our residence halls to foster a feeling of community—which is why we call them residence halls and not dormitories—it’s important for students to keep their doors locked. Do not allow strangers into your room or into any campus building.
While the police believe this senseless crime to be, at this time, an isolated act of random violence, we cannot stress enough the necessity of exercising caution until the individual responsible is brought to justice….”
No sooner were the words “keep their doors locked” out of President Allington’s mouth than half the students in the lobby abruptly disappeared, heading toward the elevators with anxious looks on their faces. It’s the habit of a lot of kids in buildings like Fischer Hall to leave the door to their room propped open to welcome drop-by visitors.
This is apparently about to change.
Of course, the fact that Lindsay hadn’t been killed in her room didn’t appear to occur to any of them.
Any more than the fact that there hadn’t been anything “random” about the act of violence that had ended Lindsay’s life. Her killer had obviously known her—and also the Fischer Hall cafeteria—at least passably well.
But if this fact hadn’t sunk in to the student population, it had been driven home to the cafeteria staff, who were only just now being allowed to go home after a day’s worth of grueling questioning. I’m shocked to see them come streaming out of the cafeteria shortly after the end of President Allington’s press conference, at quarter to five o’clock…well after those who were assigned to the breakfast shift usually got off work. Detective Canavan and his colleagues had really grilled them…no pun intended.
Still, tired as she must have been, Magda manages a smile as she comes toward me. She’s slathered her fingers with Purel, and is wiping them with a Kleenex. As she gets closer, I see why: her fingertips are black with ink.
Magda’s been printed.
“Oh, Magda,” I say, when she’s close enough. I put an arm around her shoulder, leading her out of the lobby and back toward my office, where it’s quieter. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Magda says, with a sniffle. The whites of her eyes are pink, her eyeliner and mascara smudged. “I mean, they are only doing their jobs. It isn’t their fault one of my little movie stars—”
Magda breaks off with a sob. I hustle her into the hall office, where at least she’ll be hidden from the inquiring gazes of the residents gathered in front of the elevator bank, home after their first day of classes—only to discover that they’ll have to seek their evening meal elsewhere.
Magda sinks into the institutional orange couch in front of my desk and buries her head in her hands, sobbing. I hasten to shut the outer office door, which locks automatically when closed. Tom, having heard the disturbance, comes out of his own office and stands, looking at Magda uncomfortably as the words “Little movie star,” and “Byootiful little baby” drift up incoherently from her knees, which is where she’s sunk her face.
Tom looks at me. “What’s the deal again with the movie star thing?” he whispers.
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“I told you,” I whisper back. For a gay guy, Tom can be surprisingly clueless sometimes. “They filmed a scene fromTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtles here at Fischer Hall. Magda was working here at the time.”
“Well.” Tom stares at her some more as she cries. “It certainly seems to have made an impression.
Considering it’s a movie no one ever saw.”
“People saw it,” I say to him crossly. “Don’t you have something you should be doing?”
He sighs. “I’m waiting for someone from Counseling Services. We’re going to be holding grief counseling here in the office from five to seven, to help residents cope with what happened to Lindsay.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. He already knows.
“I told them no one was going to show up,” he says beleagueredly. “Except maybe Cheryl Haebig and the RAs. But it came down from the president’s office. The administration wants to look like we care.”
“Well.” I nod at a sobbing Magda. “Here’s someone who needs some grief counseling.”
Tom pales at my suggestion. “She’s your friend,” he says accusingly.
I glare at him. “You’re the one with the master’s degree.”
“In college student personnel! I have to tell you, Heather.” He looks frightened. “I don’t know about this. I mean, any of this. Things were a lot simpler back in Texas.”
I glare at him even harder. “Oh, no,” I say. “You arenot quitting on me, Tom. Not because of one little murder.”
“Little!” Tom’s face is still ashen. “Heather, nobody back home ever got their head whacked off and left in a pot on a stove. Sure, couple kids got crushed to death every year under the bonfire structure. But murdered? Honestly, Heather. Home’s looking pretty good right now.”
“Oh, right,” I say sarcastically. “If it was so much better back there, how come you waited until you got here to come out of the closet?”
Tom swallows. “Well…”
“Let’s talk about your quitting later, okay?” I flop down on the couch beside Magda. “I’ve got other things to worry about right now.”
Tom throws Magda one last panicky look, then mutters, “Okay, I’ll just, um, finish up this paperwork,”
and disappears back into his office.
I sit beside Magda, resting a hand on her back as she cries. I know this is the right thing to do as a friend…but as someone who works in a helping field, I’m not sure this is what I’m supposed to do.How could Dr. Jessup have hired someone like me? I wonder. I mean, I know I’m the only who applied, and all. But I am thoroughly unfit for this job. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do in the face of sorrow like Magda’s. Whereis that grief counselor, anyway?
“Magda,” I say, patting her back through her pink cafeteria smock. “Um. Look, I’m sure they don’t really suspect you. I mean, anyone who knows you knows you couldn’t have had anything to do
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with…what happened. Really, don’t worry about it. No one thinks you did it. The police are just doing their job.”
Magda raises her tear-stained face to peer at me astonishedly.
“That’s…that’s not why I’m upset,” she says, shaking her head until her—tiger-striped blond, this week—curls swing. “Iknow they’re just doing their job. That’s all right. None of us did it—none of us could do that.”
“I know,” I say hastily, still rubbing her back. “It’s horrible of them to suspect you. But, you see—”
“It’s just,” Magda goes on, as if I hadn’t spoken, “I heard…I heard it wasLindsay . But that couldn’t be.
Not little Lindsay, with the eyes, and the hair? The cheerleader?”
I stare at her. I can’t believe she didn’t recognize Lindsay back when she’d been looking into the pot.
It’s true I probably saw Lindsay more often than Magda did, on account of her affection for my condom jar. So it isn’t any wonder I had no problem recognizing her. Is it?
Or isthis the job I’m suited for? Recognizing the faces of dead people who’ve been boiled for a while?
What kind of position would this even qualify me for? I mean, there can’t be any demand for someone with a skill like this, except maybe in the few societies that are left that still practice cannibalism.Are there even any of these?
“Yes,” I say, in answer to Magda’s question. “Yes, I’m sorry. But it was Lindsay.”
Magda’s face crumples again. “Oh, no!” she says, with a wail. “Heather, no!”
“Magda,” I say, alarmed by her reaction. Which, really, if you think about it, is way more natural than mine—which had been to flee the area for the warmth of the St. Vincent’s ER. Or Sarah’s, which had been to make bad jokes. “I’m so sorry. But if it’s any consolation, Cooper told me the coroner thinks she was strangled first. I mean, she didn’t die from…from having her head chopped off. That didn’t happen until later.”
Not surprisingly, Magda seems to find little comfort in this piece of information. I really do suck at grief counseling. Maybe I should go into accounting.
“It’s just…” Magda sobs, “it’s just that Lindsay—she was so sweet! She loved it here so much! She always wore her uniform on game days. She never did anything to anybody. She didn’t deserve to die like that, Heather. Not Lindsay.”
“Oh, Magda.” I pat her arm. What else can I do? I notice that each of Magda’s nails has been painted in the New York College school colors of gold and white. A major college basketball fan, Magda never misses a game, if she can help it. “You’re right. Lindsay never did anything to deserve what happened to her.” That we know of.
Oh, see? There it is again! Where does that kind of jaded cynicism even come from? It can’t be because I’m a washed-up former pop star trying to put my life together, only to be told I have to take remedial math.
Can it?
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“People are gonna try to make things up.” Magda’s gaze on mine is intense. “You know how people are, Heather. They’re gonna try to say,Well, she shouldn’t have been seeing so many boys, or something like that. But it wasn’t Lindsay’s fault she was so pretty and popular. It wasn’t her fault boys buzzed around her like bees to honey.”
Or flies around horse manure.
God, what iswrong with me? Why am I blaming the victim? I’m sure Sarah, if she were here, could tell me. Is it out of some desire to distance myself from what happened to Lindsay, so I can be, like,Well, that could never happen to me, because the boys aren’t exactly buzzing around melike bees to honey. So no one will ever strangle me and then chop myhead off?
Or is there some other reason I can’t help thinking there might be something more to Lindsay’s death than a “random act of violence”? Was she really all sunshine and school spirit? Or was she actually hiding something behind those iridescently green contact lenses?
Magda reaches out and grasps my hand in a grip so tight that it hurts a little. Her eyes—still swimming with tears—are bright as the rhinestones she sometimes has implanted in her nail tips.
“Listen to me, Heather.” Magda’s carefully lined lips tremble. “You’ve got to find the person who did this to her. You’ve got to find him, and bring him to justice.”
I’m on my feet at once. But I can’t go far due to Magda’s death grip on my hand.
“Mags,” I say. “Look, I appreciate your faith in my investigative abilities, but you’ve got to remember, I’m just the assistant hall director….”
“But you’re the only one who believed those other two girls, last semester, were murdered! And you were right! Smart as he is, that Detective Canavan, he couldn’t’ve caught their killer—because he didn’t even think they’d been killed. But you, Heather…you knew. You’ve just got this way with people….”
“Oh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Yeah. Right.”
“You may not think so, but you do. That’s why you’re so good at it. Because you don’tknow you can do it. I’m tellin’ you, Heather, you’re the only one who can catch the person who did this to Lindsay—who can prove she really was a nice girl. I’m begging you to at leasttry ….”
“Magda,” I say. My hand is starting to sweat from her grip on it. “I’m not a cop. I can’t involve myself in their investigation. I promised I wouldn’t….”
What is Magda even thinking? Doesn’t she know that this guy, whoever it is, isn’t shoving people down elevator shafts? He’s strangling them, and chopping their heads off, then hiding their bodies. Hello, that is a lot different. It’s a lot more deadly, somehow.
“That little pom-pom girl has the right to a good and proper rest,” Magda insists. “And she can’t have it until her murderer is found and brought to justice.”
“Magda,” I say uncomfortably. How would a grief counselor respond, I wonder, if one of his patients demanded that he solve the brutal slaying of the individual the patient was grieving over? “I think you’ve been watching a few too many episodes ofUnsolved Mysteries. ”
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Apparently this was not the proper way to respond, since Magda just clutches my hand harder and says,
“Will you just think on it, Heather? Just think on it for a while?”
Magda had once told me that, in her youth, she had been a beauty queen, runner-up for Miss Dominican Republic two years in a row. It isn’t actually that hard to believe now, as she gazes up at me with all the intensity of a pair of headlights set on high. Beneath all that makeup, the drawn-on eyebrows, and the six-inch-high hair, there’s a dainty loveliness that the entire contents of the Duane Reade cosmetics aisle couldn’t hide.