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spindle-backed chair with the Eastern logo. He typified the no-neck monster stereotype of college athletes. He was thick-set and muscular, with buzz-cut dark hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow, even early in the morning. At thirty-five, he was seven years younger than I was, shorter and stockier.
    “Come in, Steve, sit down.” Babson motioned me to the chair next to Mike.
    “I got a call from a friend of mine on the Stewart’s Crossing Police,” I said as I sat down. “Rita Gaines’s body was found at her farm this morning.”
    “Oh, my,” Mike said. “I spoke to her last week.” His face paled, and Babson’s mouth opened in an “O” of shock.
    “What a terrible loss,” Babson said. “She was a real supporter of Eastern. And she was on our Board of Trustees. Oh, my. We’ll have to put out a statement.”
     “The police don’t know the details yet. But there’s at least an outside possibility it was murder. I wanted you both to know as soon as possible.” I explained about meeting Rita at the art exhibit on Saturday night, and how I had witnessed her complaint about Felae’s painting.
    “I remember that,” Babson said. “I had to ask Dr. Weinstock to take the picture down, as a personal favor to me. When Rita got hold of something she was like a dog with a bone. She wouldn’t let go.”
    “Well, the student in question wasn’t happy,” I said. “He showed up at her farm on Sunday afternoon and threatened her.”
    “The police told you that?” Mike asked.
    “My friend on the police force has been training his dog at the agility track on Rita’s farm, and he took me and Rochester to see the course. We were both there when Felae showed up.”
    Mike leaned forward. “You’re telling me that a police officer witnessed one of our students threaten a member of the Board of Trustees. And then someone murdered her?”
    I held up my hand in the universal gesture of stop . “We don’t know yet that it’s murder. The police don’t have a cause of death. All I know is that Rick called me a few minutes ago to ask for the student’s name and address.”
    “Who is he?” Babson asked.
    “All I gave out was his name-- Felae Popescu. I told Rick that only the registrar is authorized to release personal data on students. I think he grew up somewhere in Eastern Europe, but I don’t know if he came to the US with his parents, or on his own.”
     “This is a very tricky situation,” Babson said. “We have to cooperate with the police, and of course we want them to find out who killed Rita, if indeed this turns out to be a murder case. But at the same time we are in loco parentis for these students—especially a young man from a foreign country.”
    The doctrine of loco parentis meant that college administrators had a legal responsibility to look after the students in their care—and that we had to be especially careful in protecting Felae until he was formally arrested and the police took over his custody.
    “I’d better speak to Dot,” Babson said. He picked up his phone and punched in a number, then drummed his fingers on his desk as he waited for Dorothy Sneiss, the college registrar, to come on the line.
    “Dot?” Babson said into the phone. “What do you know about this student—Felix something? Yes, that’s it. You did?” He listened. “All right. Keep me informed if the police come back to you for anything else.”
    He hung up. “She provided the police with the address and phone number she had on file. If they want any information on his academic or disciplinary records, though, they’ll have to give us a subpoena.”
    Mike turned to me. “Can you ask this friend of yours to hold back the details of the investigation from the press? Until they know for sure if her death has any connection to the College?”
    “I can ask,” I said. “I don’t think Rick would release any details of an active investigation anyway.”
    Babson drummed his fingers on his desk again. “Keep