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an eye on things, will you, Steve? Let us know if her death ends up having anything to do with Eastern? We had enough bad publicity over Joe Dagorian’s death. And draft a statement for me—something about how much we appreciated Rita’s support and we express our condolences.”
    “I’ll get right on it.” The statement would be easy; it was going to be tougher to convince Rick Stemper to keep me in the loop on his investigation.

5 – Schemes
     
    It was already noon when I left Babson’s office, so I detoured to the Cafette, an on-campus sandwich shop in an old carriage house behind Fields Hall. It was a worn, homey-looking place, decorated with Eastern pennants and faded T-shirts, with old wooden picnic tables and benches.
    I got extra roast beef on my sandwich so I could share with Rochester. The goofy dog jumped up to greet me as soon as I walked in the door. It was either love, or the smell of the meat. I called Rick and left a message for him, then I peeled open my sandwich. I was about to hand off a piece of meat to Rochester but I remembered what Rick had said. I had to eat my own meal before I fed the dog.
    I couldn’t hold out, though. After I’d taken a couple of bites I gave into his mournful look and fed him a piece of beef, which he wolfed down greedily. At least he didn’t like potato chips, so I had the whole bag to myself.
    When I finished eating, I took Rochester out for a quick pee, then returned to my desk to focus on Rita Gaines. I had developed a standard press release for the death of benefactors and emeritus faculty, and I plugged in what I could find about Rita’s background and her commitment to Eastern College, and how sad we all were about her death. By one-thirty I had a draft complete, which I emailed to Babson for his review. He emailed me back with the OK, and I sent out the statement to the local media.
    I looked at the clock and realized it was time to teach. I jumped up and tossed Rochester a treat, which he gulped immediately. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone, big guy.”
    When I returned to Bucks County, Lucas Roosevelt, the chair of the English department, had done me a huge favor and hired me to teach a couple of classes. So when he had called me a few weeks before and asked for a favor in return, I felt I had to oblige. He was in trouble because one of his elderly adjuncts had passed away halfway through the semester, and he had to scramble to find someone to fill in for her.
    He asked me to take over her class in professional and technical writing. I’d already taught the class when I was adjuncting, and I had a strong background in tech writing anyway. Teaching made me feel involved in the real work of the college. But more than that, I enjoyed being in the classroom, and especially teaching tech writing. I focused on the concept of audience, and on how material could be presented in a bunch of different ways—in reports, flyers, presentations, and so on. I allowed the students to choose their subjects, as long as the I got to learn about new things every time I taught, from drifting to heart disease to the nutritional requirements for school lunches.
    I walked across the campus to Blair Hall, mixing in with the restless tide of students moving between classes. I followed a bushy-haired kid whose T-shirt read “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m in the witness protection program.”
    Most of Blair Hall was dark and gloomy, with tall, gothic-arched windows and dusty fluorescent lights hung on pendants. The classrooms had rich wooden wainscoting and scuffed floors, and I had fond memories of seminars in the small rooms on the third floor, a professor and a handful of students discussing the meaning of life and literature.
    At least that’s the way I remember it. My classmates and I were probably as uncommunicative as today’s students, and our professors must have felt like brain surgeons, probing our heads for any spark of intelligence.
    My class met in a