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the door
wide open. It would just be inviting trouble.”
    "I think I’ve got enough for now, Ms.
Barnes," Shoop said, suddenly, closing his notebook and sticking it
back in his shirt pocket. "Should I have one of the detectives
drive you home?"
    "No," she answered, "I'd really rather drive
myself. I'll need my car tomorrow."
    "Fine," he noted, rising, grabbing his
overcoat, and heading towards the door. "I'll be downstairs in the
lab, probably for several more hours, while the Crime Scene folks
collect evidence. If you change your mind, just come by. I’ll want
to talk to you again, I'm sure." He handed her his card. "If you
think of anything--or anybody--that you didn't mention, please give
me a call." He turned and loped down the hall.
    Pamela stood and watched him go. Then she
sank back into her desk chair, shaking her head. This did not look
good for the department—not at all.
     
     
     

Chapter 4
     
    Pamela left her office and exited the
building as quickly as she could. The Blake Hall parking lot was
lit up like an airport runway. Several police vehicles, the
coroner’s van, and other cars were parked helter-skelter, with
their various lights blazing and blinking. Pamela almost ran to her
car, covering her panting sounds as she quickly unlocked her door
and jumped inside. It was hard to shut the door because of the
wind, but she finally managed to get inside and start the
motor--her fingers trembling badly. She carefully maneuvered her
Civic into reverse and out of the small lot, being careful not to
speed—not something easy for her. Wanting to get home as fast as
she could, she still didn't want to do anything that would
jeopardize her safety or cause her to risk breaking a law--however
minor. She already had a few moving violations and tonight was not
the time to acquire another.
    She drove slowly down the winding campus
streets she knew so well. The old brick buildings with white wood
trim, the towering white columns and the enormous elms and oaks,
interspersed with magnolia and cypress always made the campus feel
like a page from Civil War history. Here and there the streets and
the sidewalks were cracked from years of wear and the many
hurricanes whose remnants had managed to blow far enough north to
reach their small town of Reardon. She passed the library—closed
now after 11:00 p.m.—the largest structure on campus, right in the
center of campus, with sidewalks jutting out from it at all angles,
going to all the various different buildings that surrounded it.
Although much of the campus was in disrepair, it still maintained
its old Southern charm, Pamela thought, sort of the Blanche DuBois
of the academic world. It was a deceptive look, however, because
Grace University was a renowned research university which offered
doctorates in five areas—although not in Psychology, her field,
which offered Masters’ degrees only.
    As she left the campus grounds and headed
onto Jackson Drive, Reardon’s main street, she noticed at once that
there was hardly any traffic--not unusual for this late on a
Tuesday night. Very few cars were on the streets. The whole place
had a ghostly appearance—unlike the Blake Hall parking lot she had
just left. She was not accustomed to driving this late at night.
Her night vision was not good and she just didn't like driving at
night--and alone--this night especially. With clear roads ahead,
however, she picked up speed.
    As she passed Reardon’s downtown area, neon
signs from some businesses twinkled on either side of the street.
One side street, she knew, wound around behind the city square
where the famous Reardon Coffee Factory was located. The Coffee
Factory was actually a misnomer, because Romulus Reardon, the
town’s founder, had established the business during the Civil War
to produce coffee substitutes for the Confederate troops when real
coffee became impossible to import due to Union blockades. His
efforts had been so successful that his line of alternative