Dead Soldiers by Bill Crider Page B

time.“
    “Oh, I have a feeling you’ll find the time. Try not to aggravate them too much.“
    “Aggravate? Me?“
    “Yeah, you. And while you’re at it, try to come up with some answers to those questions we’ve been talking about.“
    “Sort of like a take-home exam, right?“
    “Call it what you want to. The sooner we find the answers, the less chance there is of someone else getting shot at or killed.“
    That possibility was what had been bothering Burns more than anything. He said, “You think he’ll take another shot at Mal?“
    “Who knows? He might, or he might go after someone else. It’s like I told you: we live in a crazy world.“
    “You got that right,“ Burns said.
    “Have,“ Napier said.
    Burns looked at him.
    “You have that right. Got is the wrong verb.“
    “I know that. It’s just an expression.“
    “Yeah. I just wanted you to know that I knew what was right. Just in case you were wondering.“
    “I wasn’t,“ Burns said.
     
    I t was after midnight when Burns got home. He showered and got into bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about the list of suspects and wondering how any of them could be guilty of murder. No one on the list seemed capable of that act to Burns, though he admitted to himself that he didn’t know any of them very well. When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of toy soldiers and dead men with bullet holes in their heads and scrambled brains.
     
    T he next morning Burns felt terrible. He hadn’t slept well at all, and the inside of his mouth tasted as if a condor had nested there. He was feeling a little better by the time he got to the college, but not by much, and the climb to the third floor of the main building didn’t help. One of these days he was going to have to get in shape.
    Usually he liked to get to school at least forty-five minutes before class, which gave him time to read the morning paper and gather his thoughts before facing his students. Today he barely had time to grab his textbook and papers and get to the classroom before everyone decided he wasn’t coming at all and walked out. He made it with a few minutes to spare, and he tried to ignore the disappointed looks he saw on a couple of faces.
    The course was American lit, and about half the class looked as if they were even sleepier than Burns, which wasn’t unusual in an eight o’clock class. Many of them always looked sleepy.
    Burns didn’t take pity on them, however. He passed out the pop test that he had planned to give and waited patiently while they completed it. He took it up, gave them the answers, and started his discussion of Francis Macomber’s short, happy life. A few students were actually interested in the story because of the ending. They’d had an argument before class about whether Macomber’s wife had killed him deliberately or whether it had been an accident. Burns, feeling a little like Boss Napier, told them to look for the details in the story, and then base their decision on what they found. He told them it would be fine even when they came to different conclusions, as long as there was evidence in the story to support them. This got the rest of the class, or at least the ones who’d actually read the story, interested. By the time the bell rang, Burns was feeling pretty good, almost like a real teacher.
    The feeling deserted him almost as soon as he reached his office. Bunni was at the computer, and she told him that he’d had a call from the dean.
    Déjà vu all over again, he thought, knowing that the dean herself hadn’t actually done the calling. That would have been a job for Melva Jeans.
    “Does she want me to return the call?“ he asked.
    “Yes,“ Bunni said. “She said it was important.“
    That was another thing about calls from deans, Burns thought. They were always important, and they always had to be returned. Okay, that was two things. But the point was the same in any case. He reached for the phone, but it rang before he could