again when it started ringing. A penetrating, insistent voice came over the line. I knew the type at once.
“The final grades for fall semester freshman Human Biology,” I said, keeping my tone firm but polite, “are already in the system, but I can’t disclose your son’s grade to you and your husband… Why not? Well, your son is eighteen, is he not?”
“Nineteen,” came the high-pitched answer through the phone.
“And therefore an adult. Legally, we cannot release students’ grades to anyone without their permission…no, not for any of your son’s classes… I’m sure he did well in the class and will go on to be a fine doctor…it’s school policy, sir—” A gruff voice had replaced the shrill one on the line. “Yes, I understand that you’re paying for his education…you could ask your son directly…well, I’m sorry you feel that way—”
The father hung up the phone after a few choice words. I shrugged off the conversation (calls like this were becoming more frequent as stronger-than-ever parent-child bonds were stretched to the limit when the newly minted adults arrived to face freshmen issues; a term had even been coined for the overprotective behavior—“helicopter parenting”) and rang Oscar’s post in the TTE building. He answered at once. I got straight to the point. “Oscar, I want to go over what happened the Monday night we lost Dr. Mooney.”
“Like I told Chief Kirkland, it was a quiet evening,” Oscar began, his raspy voice crackling down the line. “Not too much student partying going on, what with the kids studying for the week’s exams. The campus was deserted except for the occasional kid out for a late-night snack or biking back from a study group—you could tell which it was by whether they were balancing a pizza box or textbooks on their handlebars. Just before eleven, I saw Dr. Mooney nearing the building, his headlamp visible from afar. The snow had just begun to fall. Chief Kirkland asked me if Dr. Mooney seemed upset or distracted and if that was why he forgot to lock up his bike. I told him that the professor seemed like his usual self. He dropped off an unwrapped gyroscope for Toys for Tots, but didn’t linger to tell me about his latest time travel trips, like he sometimes did. But that wasn’t unusual. Hewas a busy man. He seemed like he was in a hurry to get out of the snow and into the lab, that was all. Kamal Ahmad came out not long after the professor went in, maybe fifteen minutes later, carrying a stack of textbooks. He saw that it was snowing, said he wished he’d brought a knapsack for the books, waved good night, and left, stuffing the textbooks inside his jacket.”
I knew Oscar hadn’t fallen asleep at his post, but everyone had bodily needs. I took a moment to compose the question delicately. “Did you, uh—did you have to leave your post at any time during the night, Oscar?” Had someone stood in the shadows as the snow fell, hidden, waiting?
“Once, briefly,” he admitted.
So someone could have sneaked in, I thought, though that late in the day the building would have been locked and an electronic pass would have been needed to get in, not to mention the door code to the lab. I wondered if Oscar, after the bathroom break, had noticed a trail of fresh footprints in the snow leading to the front door of the building, perhaps from one of the neighboring ones or from the direction of the visitor parking lot.
He hadn’t.
“Ms. Olsen, do you have a minute?”
I almost dropped the stack of paper I had been about to feed into the printer. The incident with Dr. Mooney had made me jumpy and I’d had to resist the urge to lock my office door. During winter break, the campus was quiet and the hallways emptier than usual. It was slightly spooky. I beckoned in Chief Kirkland and slid the pastel-green paper (for flyers about the upcoming science guest speaker series) into the printer tray. I hadn’t seen the chief since early afternoon,
“The final grades for fall semester freshman Human Biology,” I said, keeping my tone firm but polite, “are already in the system, but I can’t disclose your son’s grade to you and your husband… Why not? Well, your son is eighteen, is he not?”
“Nineteen,” came the high-pitched answer through the phone.
“And therefore an adult. Legally, we cannot release students’ grades to anyone without their permission…no, not for any of your son’s classes… I’m sure he did well in the class and will go on to be a fine doctor…it’s school policy, sir—” A gruff voice had replaced the shrill one on the line. “Yes, I understand that you’re paying for his education…you could ask your son directly…well, I’m sorry you feel that way—”
The father hung up the phone after a few choice words. I shrugged off the conversation (calls like this were becoming more frequent as stronger-than-ever parent-child bonds were stretched to the limit when the newly minted adults arrived to face freshmen issues; a term had even been coined for the overprotective behavior—“helicopter parenting”) and rang Oscar’s post in the TTE building. He answered at once. I got straight to the point. “Oscar, I want to go over what happened the Monday night we lost Dr. Mooney.”
“Like I told Chief Kirkland, it was a quiet evening,” Oscar began, his raspy voice crackling down the line. “Not too much student partying going on, what with the kids studying for the week’s exams. The campus was deserted except for the occasional kid out for a late-night snack or biking back from a study group—you could tell which it was by whether they were balancing a pizza box or textbooks on their handlebars. Just before eleven, I saw Dr. Mooney nearing the building, his headlamp visible from afar. The snow had just begun to fall. Chief Kirkland asked me if Dr. Mooney seemed upset or distracted and if that was why he forgot to lock up his bike. I told him that the professor seemed like his usual self. He dropped off an unwrapped gyroscope for Toys for Tots, but didn’t linger to tell me about his latest time travel trips, like he sometimes did. But that wasn’t unusual. Hewas a busy man. He seemed like he was in a hurry to get out of the snow and into the lab, that was all. Kamal Ahmad came out not long after the professor went in, maybe fifteen minutes later, carrying a stack of textbooks. He saw that it was snowing, said he wished he’d brought a knapsack for the books, waved good night, and left, stuffing the textbooks inside his jacket.”
I knew Oscar hadn’t fallen asleep at his post, but everyone had bodily needs. I took a moment to compose the question delicately. “Did you, uh—did you have to leave your post at any time during the night, Oscar?” Had someone stood in the shadows as the snow fell, hidden, waiting?
“Once, briefly,” he admitted.
So someone could have sneaked in, I thought, though that late in the day the building would have been locked and an electronic pass would have been needed to get in, not to mention the door code to the lab. I wondered if Oscar, after the bathroom break, had noticed a trail of fresh footprints in the snow leading to the front door of the building, perhaps from one of the neighboring ones or from the direction of the visitor parking lot.
He hadn’t.
“Ms. Olsen, do you have a minute?”
I almost dropped the stack of paper I had been about to feed into the printer. The incident with Dr. Mooney had made me jumpy and I’d had to resist the urge to lock my office door. During winter break, the campus was quiet and the hallways emptier than usual. It was slightly spooky. I beckoned in Chief Kirkland and slid the pastel-green paper (for flyers about the upcoming science guest speaker series) into the printer tray. I hadn’t seen the chief since early afternoon,
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