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school’s reputation—”
    “Corpseless head found in dorm cafeteria,” Carol Ann Evans, to everyone’s surprise, says. When we all turn our heads to blink at her, she adds, in a choked voice, “Tonight onInside Edition .”
    Detective Canavan shifts his weight and removes his foot from the chair seat.
    “President Allington,” he says. “In about five minutes, my people are going to seal this entire wing off from the public. And by public, I am including your employees. We are launching a full-scale investigation into this crime. We ask that you cooperate.
    “You can do so, firstly, by removing yourself and your employees from the immediate vicinity as soon as my men are through with them. Secondly, I’ll have to ask that this cafeteria remain closed until such time as I deem it safe to reopen. Unless I’m mistaken”—the detective’s tone implies that this is hardly likely—“you’ve had a student murdered on school grounds this morning, and her killer is still at large, possibly right here on campus. Possibly even here in this very room. If there’s anything that could be more damaging to your school’s reputation than that, I can’t think of it. I really don’t think postponing a luncheon—or a basketball game—is comparable, do you?”
    I guess I can’t really blame Dean Evans for bursting into a fit of nervous giggles just then. The suggestion that there might be a killer on the New York College student life administrative staff is enough to send even the most staid individual into hysterical laughter. A more boring group of people could hardly be found anywhere on the planet. Gerald Eckhardt, with his surreptitious smoking and cross-shaped tie tack, wielding a meat cleaver? Coach Andrews, in his jogging pants and letter jacket, hacking a young girl to death? Dr. Flynn, all hundred and forty pounds of him, using a circular saw to dismember a cheerleader?
    It just isn’t within the realm of the possible.
    And yet.
    And yet even Carol Ann Evans must have figured out by now that whoever killed Lindsay had complete access to the cafeteria. Only someone who works at Fischer Hall—or in the Student Life Department—would have access to the key.
    Which means someone on the Housing staff could be a killer.
    The sad part is, this doesn’t even surprise me.
    Wow. I guess I reallyam a jaded New Yorker.

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    Just ’cause you got a great big bonus
    Don’t start to think that you can own us.
    Sure, we can’t afford high-priced entertainment
    But in the condo of life, you’re still the basement.
    “Investment Banker Guy”
    Written by Heather Wells
    “You have a bunch of messages,” Sarah, our office’s graduate student assistant—every residence hall is assigned a GA, who, in exchange for free room and board, helps run the administrative aspects of the hall office—informs me tersely as I come in. “The phones are ringing off the hook. Everyone wants to know why the caf is closed. I’ve been using the gas leak excuse, but I don’t know how long people are going to believe us, with all these cops traipsing in and out. Have they found the rest of her yet?”
    “Shhh,” I say, looking around the office, in case there’s a resident lurking.
    But the office (still festooned with garlands of fake evergreen, a menorah, and Kwanzaa gourds, thanks to my slightly manic and clearly overzealous holiday decorating) is empty, except for Tom, who is back in his office—separated from the outer office, in which I sit, by a metal grate—murmuring into the phone.
    “Whatever,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes. Sarah is getting a master’s in psychology, so she knows a lot about the human psyche and how it works. Or thinks she does, anyway. “Half the people in the building aren’t even awake yet. Or, if they are, they’ve hurried off to class. So do you think they’re going to cancel tomorrow night’s game? Not