The Dead Student by John Katzenbach

the evening off. She made her way past wooden pews and podiums, beyond golden crucifixes and marble statues, under the watch of stained glass martyred saints frozen in windowpanes. Andy hated church. Her mother, who sometimes filled in for an absent organist, and her dead father had been regular Sunday service folks, and they’d hauled her to church for as long as she could remember, until the moment she’d fallen in love with Moth and abruptly refused to go any longer. She paused, looked up at one of the images in the windows—Saint George slaying the dragon—and told herself, They would hate me here anyway, because now I’m a killer. The thought made her throat dry and she tore her eyes away from the stained glass images. She crept forward until she could hear the murmur of voices down a corridor. There were some empty offices on either side of her and a small anteroom at the end. She feared her feet made loud, clumsy clunking sounds, even though the opposite was true. Andy Candy was lithe and athletic. Moth had once called her My Ninja Girlfriend because of the way she could sneak from her house after midnight to meet him without waking her parents or even rousing the dogs. This memory made her grin.
    She slipped into the anteroom and saw a wide set of double doors at the rear. These opened into a larger room. There was wood paneling and a low ceiling. She glimpsed leather chairs and sofas spread around a circle at the far end of the room, and she clung to a wall and started to listen just as a round of weak applause greeted someone who’d just spoken.
    She craned her head and peeked around the corner—drawing back sharply when she saw Moth stand up.
    “Hello, my name is Timothy, and I’m an alcoholic.”
    “Hi, Timothy,” came the established response, even though he was no stranger to them.
    “I have fifteen days sober now …”
    Another round of applause and some exhortations: “Good going.” “Way to go.”
    “As many of you know, it was my uncle Ed who first brought me here. He was the one who first showed me my problem and then showed me how to get past it.”
    Andy Candy could hear the silence, as if the gathering at Redeemer One had caught their collective breath.
    “You know Uncle Ed died. You know the police think it was a suicide.”
    Moth paused. Andy Candy bent to hear everything.
    “I don’t think so. No matter what they say, I don’t think so. You all, everyone here, you all knew my uncle Ed. He stood up here a hundred times and told you how he’d licked his drinking problem. Is there anyone here who thinks he would kill himself?”
    No response.
    “Anyone?”
    No response.
    “So, I need your help. Now more than ever.”
    For the first time, Andy Candy could hear Moth’s voice start to quiver with emotion.
    “I need to stay sober. I need to find the man who killed my uncle.”
    These last words seemed high-pitched, as if stretched out and wrung tight before being knotted together.
    “Please help me.”
    She wished she could see the silence in the room, see the reactions on the faces of the people gathered there. There was a long pause before she heard Moth again.
    “My name is Timothy and I have fifteen days sober.”
    She retreated as she heard people begin to clap.
    “How was your night?” Andy Candy asked.
    “Okay, I guess. I’m not sleeping great, but that’s to be expected. And you?”
    “Same.”
    Moth was about to ask why but did not. He had many questions, not the least of which was why Andy Candy was home when she should have been finishing school. Moth thought he was using up his last bit of reasonable behavior by not asking Andy Candy to share her mystery. He guessed she either would or wouldn’t sometime in the future. He told himself to merely be glad—no, overjoyed —that she was helping him.
    He shifted in the passenger seat. He was nicely dressed—khaki slacks, black and red striped sports shirt—and he had a student’s backpack on his lap. Notebooks.