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boots
that came up over her ankles. Except for her unconvincing auburn hair a little
too long for her age, she looked like she was easing comfortably into the post-hot
phase of her life.
    “This way, please.” She led us into her office.
    There was another woman standing there. “This is
Christine Hardtke,” Mary Dawson said, “our Director of International Programs.
Christine oversees our study-abroad programs, as well as the International
Students Association.”
    Christine Hardtke said “Pleased,” as she nodded at
me and Ryan. For some reason, she didn’t extend her hand, which I’m fine with,
especially now, at the height of snot season.
    “Good to meet you both,” I said. “Detective Karen Seagate.
My partner, Detective Ryan Miner.”
    Mary Dawson waved to the two chairs. Ryan and I
sat down. Christine took a chair that was facing Dawson’s desk, turning it so
we all formed a rough circle, and settled into it.
    “I’m just going to slip behind my desk,” Mary
Dawson said, “so I have access to Maricel’s records if Christine doesn’t have
them.”
    Christine waved a folder. “I think I have it all
here.”
    Ryan said to Christine, “As Detective Seagate said
to Dean Dawson earlier, we’re very sorry this happened.”
    I said, “Yes, of course. We’ve met with our chief
of police, and he’s told us this is our highest priority. We’re going to put
whatever resources are necessary into this, and we’re going to solve this case.”
    Dean Dawson nodded, apparently taking some comfort
from my words. “Was this an accident?”
    No.” I shook my head. “No, this was a homicide.”
    Mary Dawson pulled back at the word.
    Christine Hardtke was expressionless. “What can
you tell us about the nature of this crime?”
    I picked up a very slight German accent, the kind
that suggested English was her third or fourth language, and that, yes, she probably
spoke it better than me. Her glasses had rectangular tortoise-shell frames that
set off her light brown hair, which was cut short. She was medium height,
athletic and comfortable in her body. Her close-cut pantsuit, dark crimson
wool, buttoned just below her significant breasts. An abstract pendant of gold
and silver hung on a thin chain around her neck. The lace border on her bra was
clearly visible through the pale cream boat-neck blouse.
    “At this point,” I said, looking at her
inexpressive face, “we don’t know very much. Her body was recovered near the
river, off the Greenpath, a few hundred yards east of campus. We haven’t
performed the autopsy yet. But we know she was attacked by one or more persons.”
    “Do you have any suspects?” Mary Dawson leaned in
toward me, her elbows on her desk, shaking her head as if this whole thing was
unbelievable. I guessed she spent most of her time in a gentler world.
    “Unfortunately, no,” Ryan said, “it’s too early
for that. Her body was recovered only a few hours ago. What we’d like to do at
this point is collect any information we can. Try to understand who she was, what
was going on in her life.”
    “Of course.” Dean Dawson nodded. “Christine, can
you sketch in her background?”
    “Certainly.” Christine Hardtke looked down at some
papers in a folder on her lap. “Let me begin with the basics. Maricel Salizar,
age 21. Born in Manila. Father unknown, mother deceased.”
    Ryan said, “Do you have a date on the mother’s
death?”
    “Sorry, no.” She looked up at Ryan and then me. “She
graduated from the Manila Regional High School almost two years ago.”
    I held up a finger. Christine saw it and paused. “Let
me go back a second,” I said. “No father, mother dead? Do you know who took
care of her?”
    Christine Hardtke turned a page over. “St. Mary’s
Children’s Home in Manila.” She saw Ryan writing this all down. “No need,
Detective. I’ve made you a copy of this file.”
    “Okay,” I said, “how did she get here to CMSU? Are
there other students from the