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seem to affect his work ethic.”
    Rocky gave his wife a sideways glance.
    “The ultimate question, though, I guess,” said Rocky, “is what was the likelihood that he would have finished this creative work and earned his dissertation?”
    “I’ll let you decide,” replied Trudi, opening a drawer in her desk, removing a folder, and selecting a small stapled typed manuscript from inside. “Here.” She handed the article to Rocky. Pamela leaned close to her husband and looked over his shoulder as he read a paragraph from the paper aloud:

    “Swirling,
    Whirling
    The bloody vortex pulls me down
    Down to the eternal abyss
    Overhead
    The black vultures of death circle
    Watching
    Waiting
    To pick the flesh from my dissipated body
    Only my soul remains
    And that you have killed
    With your loveless eyes”

    Rocky put the paper on Trudi’s desk and shook his head.
    “Is that good poetry?” asked Pamela.
    “Not by my standards,” answered Trudi, “and unfortunately not by the standards of members of his committee. I tried to tell him that. He said he’d improve it. He did do some rewrites. But, Rocky, Pam, nothing really improved. This is about the best of it. And it’s generally awful. Just garbage. Six years. Six years of this young man’s life and all he had to show for it was this.”
    “You couldn’t talk him into going back to the other project?” asked Pamela.
    “I tried, Pam, but he was adamant. I had about reached the end of my ideas. I was going to have to tell him that I couldn’t approve his new dissertation proposal and that we were going to drop his assistantship—and he knew it.”
    “No more funding,” said Pamela.
    “Right,” said Trudi, “and once that happened, all he’d have to live on, as far as I know, would be that deejay job which is only four hours on Saturday. He couldn’t make much money from that.”
    “So, in a way, his murder solves the problem of funding,” said Rocky, looking at both women.
    “What would he have done without his assistantship?” asked Pamela. “Did he have family that would support him?”
    “As far as I know, there was no one. He was a loner. He never spoke about a family. He was very closed mouthed about his private life. I guess though, that the police will find out about that. Won’t they?”
    At that moment, a large man wearing a grey overcoat appeared in the door, followed by a uniformed police officer.
    “The police will find out about what?” he asked the threesome sitting in the small office.
    “Oh, Detective,” said Trudi, standing, “we were just wondering about Ted’s family. I don’t know if he had any relatives. This is my colleague Rocky Barnes and his wife—Pamela. This is the detective in charge of the investigation of Ted’s murder. Detective Shoop.”
    “Dr. Barnes and I have met,” said the tall man, entering a few steps into the office, eyeing Pamela with a frown, “We spent quite a bit of time together following the death of Charlotte Clark in the Psychology Department last year. Didn’t we? I’m delighted to finally meet your husband, Doctor.” He turned to Rocky and shook his hand. “You have my sympathies, Mr. Barnes,” he whispered as he bent towards Rocky.

    Chapter 6

    Previous week--Tuesday afternoon, December 11

    Daniel Bridgewater sat in a back booth at Sam’s Diner, a small eatery on the highway near the entrance to his carpet factory. His coffee cup was half-full and he was gazing at the photo that he had removed earlier from the album in his office. He hardly noticed when one of the waitresses popped up beside him, coffee pot in hand.
    “Refill, Mr. Bridgewater?”
    “Sure, warm ‘er up,” he replied, smiling at the young woman whose name tag proclaimed her as “Amy.” “Then have a seat.”
    “No can do, Mr. B,” replied the waitress, her pony tail flipping jauntily as she spoke. “Some of us have to work for a living.”
    Daniel peeked around the corner of the booth. He was the only