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at least,” Martin said abstractedly. At Brandy's curious look he said, “He had to know Latin, but he wouldn't correspond in it. But you're right—we may find people on the Internet who knew him better than anyone on campus. Create a form letter. We'll send it to all his e-mail correspondents, and fax it to everyone else."
    “Good idea,” said Brandy. “Thanks."
    She could type perfectly well, so once Martin called up the word processing program for her, Brandy soon had the message composed. “Put in your e-mail address,” Martin told her. “Most people will answer you by tomorrow."
    “I don't have an e-mail address,” said Brandy. “I'll put in the department fax number."
    “Okay,” said Martin, “but add my e-mail address, too. I'll send it from my account. Most people will e-mail rather than fax because it's easiest to hit ‘Reply.’ I'll pass any messages on to you—unless there's something you don't want me to see."
    “I can't imagine what,” said Brandy. They sent the e-mail messages, then printed out a copy of the letter for Brandy to fax from the police station.
    “I don't know what to look for next,” said Brandy.
    “In that case, I can't help any more now,” said Martin. “I have another class in thirty-five minutes. What you should do is back up the hard drive, then take the computer to your department expert."
    “What department expert?"
    “Don't you have a—I guess you'd call it a forensic computer expert?"
    “In Frankfort. If we can't find out what we need, I guess we just have to pack up the computer and send it.” Brandy eyed the large but delicate machine doubtfully.
    Martin chuckled again, that deep, soft sound he had made last night. It sent a thrill through Brandy, even though he was laughing at her ignorance. “You remove the hard disk and send that, back it up and send them the backup, or shoot them the contents via modem. But let me look first, okay? If it's not tampering with evidence?"
    “That would be a huge help,” said Brandy, knowing the chief would not bother Frankfort unless he was sure that the Land case was murder. “Now,” she said, “can you help me access Land's state records?"
    “Not from this computer. I can do it from my own with a couple of marginally legal hacker's tricks. But your computer has a perfectly legal police network program, and you have a police I.D. If you like, I can come down to the station after my last class and show you."
    “You have no idea how much that would help,” Brandy admitted.
    But she wasn't at the station at the agreed-upon time. Back downtown Brandy found notice of a parole hearing next week for one Rory Sanford, whom she had arrested a couple of years ago. She entered it on her desk and pocket calendars, and sat down to see what files she could clear off her desk.
    “Lunch time!” announced Church. “Let's go over to Sturgeon's."
    Sturgeon's was a favorite eating place of Murphy's police. In the morning it was a bakery, with the best doughnuts and pastries in town. At noon it became the place to get huge hamburgers and fries, heart attack heaven.
    Brandy decided she could afford the calories. Tomorrow she'd try to eat at a place with a salad bar.
    Sturgeon's was plain but clean, tucked into a strip mall between a supermarket and a furniture store. Its customers provided whatever atmosphere it boasted.
    It was overlap time; the pastry case was down to the last lonely glazed barnyards and cake doughnuts, the apple fritters having sold out early. A few of the morning crowd still sat talking, crumbs of shattered white glaze revealing their recent indulgence. But the smell of hot grease was in the air, the sizzle of hamburgers sputtering on the grill.
    The room was crowded with tables, the square Formica kind designed to seat four, which the customers moved about and joined together as they needed them. Men in jeans and cowboy boots occupied two tables, while women in the denim or polyester of housewives grouped at