to eyeball the second floor. Each apartment had a door opening up onto a walkway that was visible from the street.
On my second trip around the block, I found a parking space on the street. As I evened my rear bumper with the car positioned in front of the open space and shifted into reverse, I swiveled my body in order to parallel park. My foot had started to release the brake and move toward the gas pedal when I caught sight of them. The two men were standing on the second floor outside an apartment. Hartz was knocking on the door while Shand stood watch. The detectives were positioned on either side of the door and didn’t appear to be engaged in any unnecessary chatter. Any decent police academy hammers those two things into your brain when it comes to approaching a residence: 1) never stand directly in front of a door in case someone starts blowing holes in it; and 2) shut the hell up so you might hear what is going on inside.
Hartz knocked two more times, and the frustrated-looking detectives exchanged glances before walking toward an exterior stairwell. Deciding that I didn’t want to stick around and shoot the breeze with them again, I shifted the car back into drive and slowly pulled away. Not being a big believer in coincidence, I didn’t think it was too much of a stretch to conclude that they were looking for Steven and had come up empty. There was no way that they had let the entire weekend pass without trying to interview him. Not with a high-profile case like this one. They either hadn’t been able to find him during the past two days, or they were attempting a follow-up interview for some reason. Regardless, I realized it was highly unlikely I’d be able to speak with Steven prior to his meeting with the dean.
Back on campus, I pulled into my designated parking spot and sat listening to the radio. As I pondered my situation, Tom Petty was singing “Breakdown” in the background. I could wait outside the Whitlock Building in hopes of catching Steven on his way in, but I didn’t even know what time the meeting was. Silo said the meeting was scheduled for the afternoon, but I couldn’t make out a time in his appointment book.
Looking at my watch, I was surprised to see it was almost noon. I was supposed to meet the guys for our usual Monday run in half an hour. I initially dismissed the idea, finding a seven-mile run trivial at the moment; but considering my limited choices, I got out of the vehicle and started the trek over to the recreation building. A hard run usually clears my head, and at this point I had clutter piled up in every corner.
We met in our usual spot in front of the recreation building, and stretched our hamstrings, quads, and calves. The skies were clear and the thermometers were supposed to tease us today with a high of around sixty. Randy’s extreme exuberance for the unusually nice weather was evidenced by his wearing shorts and a T-shirt he had picked up at some 5K race a few years ago. He looked as if the weekend had recharged him: he was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet doing his best Rocky Balboa imitation. I hated it when he was in a good mood—it made him unbearable when he got on a roll. He had a temporary moment of panic when he noticed a small streak of dirt on his ankle that he must have gotten while stretching before I had come outside. The panic subsided when he brushed it off easily. If the man could run in a plastic bubble, I think he would. I could just see him rolling down the Boulevard of the Allies like a giant runaway hamster.
Aaron was more apprehensively attired in a long-sleeved shirt—made of something no human can pronounce, and similarly constructed long pants. He was wearing his Brooks. Wednesday, it would be his Adidas. He rotated shoes so the muscles in his feet and legs wouldn’t get used to the exact same movements. I know, it sounds crazy; but according to the modern literature on the subject, he was right to do so. The things we
On my second trip around the block, I found a parking space on the street. As I evened my rear bumper with the car positioned in front of the open space and shifted into reverse, I swiveled my body in order to parallel park. My foot had started to release the brake and move toward the gas pedal when I caught sight of them. The two men were standing on the second floor outside an apartment. Hartz was knocking on the door while Shand stood watch. The detectives were positioned on either side of the door and didn’t appear to be engaged in any unnecessary chatter. Any decent police academy hammers those two things into your brain when it comes to approaching a residence: 1) never stand directly in front of a door in case someone starts blowing holes in it; and 2) shut the hell up so you might hear what is going on inside.
Hartz knocked two more times, and the frustrated-looking detectives exchanged glances before walking toward an exterior stairwell. Deciding that I didn’t want to stick around and shoot the breeze with them again, I shifted the car back into drive and slowly pulled away. Not being a big believer in coincidence, I didn’t think it was too much of a stretch to conclude that they were looking for Steven and had come up empty. There was no way that they had let the entire weekend pass without trying to interview him. Not with a high-profile case like this one. They either hadn’t been able to find him during the past two days, or they were attempting a follow-up interview for some reason. Regardless, I realized it was highly unlikely I’d be able to speak with Steven prior to his meeting with the dean.
Back on campus, I pulled into my designated parking spot and sat listening to the radio. As I pondered my situation, Tom Petty was singing “Breakdown” in the background. I could wait outside the Whitlock Building in hopes of catching Steven on his way in, but I didn’t even know what time the meeting was. Silo said the meeting was scheduled for the afternoon, but I couldn’t make out a time in his appointment book.
Looking at my watch, I was surprised to see it was almost noon. I was supposed to meet the guys for our usual Monday run in half an hour. I initially dismissed the idea, finding a seven-mile run trivial at the moment; but considering my limited choices, I got out of the vehicle and started the trek over to the recreation building. A hard run usually clears my head, and at this point I had clutter piled up in every corner.
We met in our usual spot in front of the recreation building, and stretched our hamstrings, quads, and calves. The skies were clear and the thermometers were supposed to tease us today with a high of around sixty. Randy’s extreme exuberance for the unusually nice weather was evidenced by his wearing shorts and a T-shirt he had picked up at some 5K race a few years ago. He looked as if the weekend had recharged him: he was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet doing his best Rocky Balboa imitation. I hated it when he was in a good mood—it made him unbearable when he got on a roll. He had a temporary moment of panic when he noticed a small streak of dirt on his ankle that he must have gotten while stretching before I had come outside. The panic subsided when he brushed it off easily. If the man could run in a plastic bubble, I think he would. I could just see him rolling down the Boulevard of the Allies like a giant runaway hamster.
Aaron was more apprehensively attired in a long-sleeved shirt—made of something no human can pronounce, and similarly constructed long pants. He was wearing his Brooks. Wednesday, it would be his Adidas. He rotated shoes so the muscles in his feet and legs wouldn’t get used to the exact same movements. I know, it sounds crazy; but according to the modern literature on the subject, he was right to do so. The things we
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