“How’s the paper going?” she asked.
“Well enough, I guess. I’ve only taken the beginning course instats. I need to do more, maybe go back and hit the algebra again. I’m struggling with the math.”
“No matter what you wind up doing, stats is critical,” she agreed. “You can look at something that seems so right, and a good analysis of the statistics will tell you there’s nothing there.”
“I’ve noticed that,” he said. “In the media.”
“Nobody should be allowed in the professional media without at least a year of statistics,” she said, sipping her coffee. “The bullshit you see on TV and in the newspapers is beyond stupid. The phony research...”
“Maybe they know better but go with the clickbait.”
They talked for a few minutes, mostly about the man’s research and statistics, then he asked, “Anything new on the Barth Quill front? More cops coming around?”
Green hunched her shoulders and leaned into the table. “No. They don’t seem to be getting anywhere, the police. They’re spinning their wheels. It’s awful.”
“Itisbad,” the man said. “People have said the department... I mean, after the hassle at Quill’s lecture...”
Green nodded, now grim. “I know. It’s ridiculous. I’ve been reading about motives in violent crime ever since Quill got killed—murder never involves something like that. Quill was killed by somebody who hated him for personal reasons. Or by a crazy man. An academic feud isn’t enough...” She took a few more sips of coffee, then said, “Remember the reading I assigned on the causes of the Civil War? Did you get that?”
“Yeah, I read it,” he said. He then used her favorite word. “Interesting.”
“The authors make the point that there were serious economic stresses between the different sections of the country, but thespark that set it off was slavery. Without the emotional trigger of slavery, there would have been no war,” she said. “This murder is analogous—it takes a specific, dynamic, emotional spark to murder, even with crazy people. The anger between members of our department and his was on an entirely different level.”
“Suppose we have somebody in the department who’s a little crazy who has some kind of hidden emotional situation.”
“Like what?” Green demanded.
“Okay. This is hypothetical. Say they have an emotional attachment to you. They see you attacked, they see you called names that carry an emotional load—”
“Like ‘twat’?”
“Exactly. They decide to attack your attacker.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said. “There’s nobody that attached to me, I promise you. Not enough to kill. I would feel it.”
“We have at least two Ph.D. candidates who are close to getting their degrees. If something happened—”
“Oh, c’mon,” she said. “It could be a setback. But a reason for murder? No.”
“I’d disagree with you,” the man said, “except that I know the two people and they didn’t kill anybody.”
“Have you talked to them?”
“Chatting. You know, bull sessions.” He smiled. “As soon as I told them my alibi, they told me theirs. Theirs were better.”
“Alibis... If you were planning to kill Quill, you’d figure out an alibi. A good one, unless you were an idiot. If you weren’t planning to kill him and it was a random act, and the police didn’t catch you in the first few hours, and you didn’t leave behind specific kinds of incriminating evidence, then you won’t need an alibi because they’ll never identify you and won’t be asking for one.In fact, you could probably tell the police that you didn’t know where you were that night. Who remembers where they were on a Friday night two weeks ago? You could say you were at home, in bed, reading a book. How do they break that?”
“You don’t think they’ll get the guy?”
“I have my doubts. I even have my doubts about it being a guy.” She looked at him for a moment, then lowered her voice. “I don’t want you talking to anyone about this conversation.”
“I won’t. Scout’s Honor.” He held up the three fingers in the Boy Scout salute.
She smiled at that, then said, “You know what I think? I think he was in the library with a woman. Maybe a paid woman, for sex. And she killed him. Maybe not even on purpose. He did something she didn’t like and she struck out at him.”
“A prostitute?” His eyebrows went up. “That would explain a few things. Like why he snuck into the library after hours.”
“A man like that wouldn’t want a prostitute in his house,” Green said. “He probably wouldn’t want her to know where he lives... or even his real name.”
