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red, dangled from the bare scalp on which a cleft an inch wide exposed the white bone of the skull. I didn’t need to see the gray tweed sleeve, nor the leather elbow patch, to know I was looking at the battered body of Professor Wesley Newmark.

Chapter Three
    It would take several hours to extricate the body of Professor Wesley Newmark from the collapsed portion of the building. By good fortune, his was the only fatality of the day. To ensure it stayed that way, the local fire and police departments cooperated in developing a plan to lift the wreckage of Kammerer House that had fallen through the ceiling to gain direct access to the end of the room where the body lay. Until then, the file cabinet could not be shifted or the office chair removed without possibly causing a further cave-in.
    There was no doubt that Wes was dead, but the “rescuers” were intent on reclaiming his body as quickly as possible. No one argued their decision, and as afternoon moved into evening and the air took on a decided chill, the observers grew more numerous, keeping a quiet vigil that seemed to spur on the men who were setting up the rigging.
    Spotlights commandeered from the drama department, along with emergency lighting from the fire department, had been hooked up to a generator to allow the work to continue after dark. The Red Cross brought in volunteers to serve coffee and doughnuts. An ambulance stood by to transport the body to the hospital morgue.
    Earlier in the day, a news helicopter had hovered overhead. Later, a crew from an Indianapolis television station arrived to record the recovery effort, and became disgruntled when it became obvious it would be a while until the body was removed.
    Wes had been a bachelor, and in the absence of President Needler, it was Harriet’s unhappy responsibility to call his closest relative, a sister in Alaska, to relate the news of his death. That call, made in the privacy of her office, had been one of only two times she’d been away from Kammerer House. The other time had been the forty minutes she’d spent helping relieve some of the pressure on Roberta Dougherty, who’d been juggling press calls and demands for interviews all day. To accommodate the small legion of reporters that had descended on campus, Harriet had agreed to an impromptu press conference in the Student Union cafeteria.
    Roberta provided Harriet with the official college statistics, which she announced to the press: one dead, eleven seen by the college nurse, six transported to the emergency room, one hospitalized.
    Roberta handed around a sheet with the statistics that had been compiled.
    “We estimate there’s about two million dollars in damages,” Harriet said. “As you can see, three houses that served as offices were severely damaged, and several larger buildings will also need repairs. The cleanup has already begun. We will be resuming classes as soon as the students who were visiting Wabash return to their dorms. We’re very grateful for that community’s generosity in providing accommodations for the night for our basketball team and the fans who accompanied them to the game.”
    Harriet deviated from her prepared remarks. “I want to add that while we are all relieved that Schoolman escaped the scores of casualties that could have accompanied a storm of this magnitude, even the loss of one affects us deeply. We are all distraught at Professor Newmark’s death. I knew Wes for many years. He was a lovely gentleman, a dedicated scholar, beloved by his students and admired by his colleagues. I speak for the entire faculty, staff, and student body when I say he will be greatly missed. And I know we all join in extending our heartfelt sympathies to his family. We plan to hold a memorial service. At that time, all Schoolman offices will be closed and classes canceled so everyone may join in paying their respects to our departed colleague and friend.”
    “Where is President Needler?” a reporter asked. “Why