Tuesday, March 20
That morning I did something I hadn’t done in thirty years. I called in sick. I didn’t pretend to have a sore throat or the flu. I just called the newsroom secretary and said, “Morning Suzie, this is Maddy Sprowls. I’m taking a sick day.” Suzie said “Okey-dokey” and that was that.
Then after a nice long breakfast while I watched Regis and Kelly, I drove to Hemphill College for my appointment with Andrew J. Holloway III, Gordon’s graduate assistant, the young man who’d not only found Gordon’s body at the landfill, but also his car, fifteen miles away.
To tell you the truth, I was more than a little surprised when Andrew agreed to take me to the landfill. He didn’t know me from Adam. And to some degree or the other he was a suspect in Gordon’s murder. I’m sure if I’d been up front about my motives, he would have treated me like one of those annoying telemarketers that call at suppertime-he would have slammed down the phone like he was dispatching a cockroach. Instead I’d gone on and on about how close Gordon and I had been in college-which was true enough-and how it would do an old lady good if I could see for myself the place that not only meant so much to his life, but also unfortunately meant something to his death. I think I even may have used that icky word closure, if you can imagine that.
So, Andrew agreed to show me the landfill and I felt just awful about my-what’s that word Big Daddy used for it in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? -my mendacity!
I pulled up in front of Menominee Hall, as we’d arranged the night before on the phone. I watched a skinny kid in a baggy unbuttoned pea coat trot down the granite steps toward my Dodge Shadow. His hands were planted in his pockets. His collar was pulled up around his ears. I lowered the window. He bent low so I could see his face. “Mrs. Sprowls?” he asked.
“Andrew J. Holloway III?” I asked back.
He got in and slammed the door so hard I thought my eardrums were going to burst. “Andrew is plenty,” he said sheepishly. He had a narrow face and a huge, V-shaped smile that featured overlapping front teeth. He also had a thick streak of blue in his hair. I’m sure it was a fashion statement but it looked more like somebody had accidentally dropped a paint brush on his head.
I pulled away from the steps and looped back onto West Tuckman. “I don’t remember seeing you at the memorial service, Andrew.”
“I guess I’m not very good at those kind of things,” he said.
“They can be awkward,” I agreed.
I drove past the Puritan Square Shopping Centre, where I can’t afford to shop, and then turned left onto Wooster Pike. We headed south through the low, rolling hills. When I first came to Hannawa, Ohio, in the early fifties, those hills were covered with cow pastures. Now they were covered with houses. “Gordon was a pretty good teacher, was he?” I asked.
“Yeah-Professor Sweet really had it going on.”
Andrew had called me Mrs. Sprowls and now he had called Gordon Professor Sweet. He was an awkward, insecure, well-mannered kid. I just knew I was going to get oodles of good information out of him. “Was this your first year as Gordon’s assistant?”
“Second.”
“You’re close to getting your master’s degree then.”
“Just finish this semester and hand in my thesis.”
“Then what?”
“Start on my Ph. D.”
“Here at Hemphill?”
“Hemphill’s too small to have a doctoral program. I’ll have to go back to Ohio State.”
“Back to Ohio State? You didn’t do your undergraduate work here?”
“Wish I had.”
We took the old iron bridge over Killbuck Creek. Gradually the housing developments gave way to open fields and thick stands of sugar maples. We were in Durkee Township now. “Quite a comedown coming to Hemphill, I guess.”
Andrew finally showed some spunk. “Oh, no-Professor Sweet had built Hemphill’s archaeology department into one of the strongest undergraduate programs in the Midwest. I couldn’t believe he chose me.”
“You must be a brainiac.”
“When you’re born with a Roman numeral at the end of your name, you have lots of time to study.”
We both giggled. I liked this goofy kid. “Then you were here for his dig at the landfill last summer?”
“The summer before that, too.”
“You and Gordon must have been pretty close.”
He didn’t answer. But I could tell from the absent way he was staring out the window that he’d felt very close to Gordon indeed. I thought about my Aunt Ruby, and how much I’d idolized her, and how when she died, during my senior year in high school, I couldn’t bring myself to attend her funeral. I changed the subject before we both started crying. “I haven’t been to the Wooster Pike dump in years and years,” I said. “I’m dying to see it again.”
Andrew knew the landfill’s history better than I did: “For decades it was tiny township dump, going back to the 1920s. The city of Hannawa bought it from the township at the end of World War II, when the city’s population was exploding. It was one of several dumps the city used back then. It served the Meriwether Square area, the college, some of the neighborhoods on the city’s far west end. It wasn’t expanded into a full-blown modern landfill until 1974, when the Environmental Protection Agency got on the city’s back. It was Hannawa’s primary landfill until 1996, when the Richland Hills facility was finally opened.”
“Well, it was sure popular with students in the fifties,” I said. “We’d come out from the college to see what kind of interesting junk we could find. Half of the dorm rooms were decorated with junk from that old dump. Half of the rooms smelled like the dump, too, as I recall.”
Andrew flashed his overlapping teeth at me. “Professor Sweet used to tell us it was also where students came to drink and have sex.”
“Well-in those days what passed for sex,” I said.
We reached the road to the landfill. I pulled in and we bounced through the muddy puddles at the entrance. There was still a piece of yellow crime scene tape tied to the trunk of a tree. Andrew jumped out and unlocked the gate. We drove in. The road hadn’t changed much in fifty years. It was still a narrow, gravel-covered lane cutting straight across a flat expanse of weeds and briars. For several hundred yards the ground sank ever lower. Then after a small brook it began to rise. The road wound through a series of knobby hills, finally ending in a small, gravel-covered parking lot.
We got out of the car. There wasn’t a house in sight. “You can see why the killer wasn’t afraid to shoot a gun out here, can’t you?” I said. “It would just be a faint pop in the distance, if anybody heard it at all.”
I didn’t mean for it to be a rhetorical question, but Andrew treated it like one. He put his hands in his coat pockets and started walking toward the path that led up the side of a grassy hill. I trotted like a penguin to catch up. I tried again. “And you wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else being around, would you?”
He didn’t answer that one either. He put his head down and started up the hill. I followed. It was a dirt path but the ground was still hard from the winter. In a week or two, once the temperature climbed a bit and the spring rains started in earnest, it would be a soupy mess. “Exactly where did you find him?”
Andrew stopped and pointed into the brown, foot-tall grass, just a few feet to his right. “Right there.”
“There?” I was expecting to find crime tape and footprints and ground stained purple with Gordon’s blood. But it was just grass, tall, dry and brown, nodding ever so slightly in the late winter wind. “So that Saturday you found him-did you see his body from the parking lot?”
“If I did, I didn’t realize it was a body. I mean, you don’t exactly expect to see a body, do you?”
Andrew was shaking. And it wasn’t from the cold. I knew that because I was shaking, too. “No, I guess you don’t.”
“I started up the path toward the dig site, just like we’re doing.” He pointed again at the grass. “And there he was.”
“Did you know right away it was Gordon?”
“He was face down. And the grass was kind of covering him. But I recognized his coat. He always wore this big denim barn coat.”
“I know the police have already put you through this-and I know this is hard-but did you try to revive him?”
He shook his head, almost violently. “There was no doubt he was dead, Mrs. Sprowls. There was a hole in the back of his head. His face was all red and green and bloated. His eyes were-”
I waved off any further description. “What did you do then?”
“I ran back to my car and threw up. Right on the door. Then I called 911.”
I scanned the parking lot below us. “There’s a pay phone out here?”
“Huh?”
I spotted the tiny leather case clipped to his belt and felt like a fool. I must be the only person alive who doesn’t carry a cell phone. “Never mind,” I said. “So did the police come right out?”
“A couple of sheriff’s deputies first. Then a bunch of cars from the Hannawa police.”
“I suppose they put you through the wringer.”
It was an old expression from an old woman and it took him a few seconds to figure out what I meant. “I’m sure they think I killed him.”
I pawed the air to let him know how ridiculous I thought that was. “I’m sure they even suspect me.”
His eyes were cloudy now. “I loved the old guy, Mrs. Sprowls.”
“Of course you did. We all did.” I patted his shoulder until the sadness was gone from his smile. “Now, Andrew,” I said, “what do you say we go see that dig site of yours.”
We continued up the hill.
It was not a real hill, the kind made by God, time and the rumpling of tectonic plates. It was the outer rim of the man-made basin dug to hold Hannawa’s garbage. The slope was smooth and even, like the wall of an ancient earthen fort. We were on top in only a minute.
The landfill stretched out to our left-a prairie-like expanse of tall grass sprinkled with scraggly shrubs and trees. I’m no judge of space, but I bet it covered twenty or thirty acres. We turned to the right, toward a line of shaggy pines. As we walked, Andrew told me how the landfill had been constructed. “Landfills are like big bathtubs,” he said. “The first thing engineers look for is a good hydrogeologic setting, a nice mass of unfractured bedrock that won’t leak into the groundwater. They dig out a big bowl and put in a bottom liner, sometimes clay, sometimes high-density polyethylene, sometimes both. This site unfortunately has just clay.”
As Andrew described the landfill, his entire demeanor changed, his voice and his eyes and the way he held his head. Maybe he was a goofy boy with blue hair on the outside, but inside resided a smart, serious, self-assured man. I could see why Gordon chose him over all those other candidates. “You really know your stuff,” I said.
The boy in him blushed. The man in him quickly recovered. “As the garbage is dumped, it’s covered with layers of clay, sand and gravel, and finally a layer of topsoil and grass-not just for aesthetic reasons, but to keep rainwater out. But of course water does get in, and picks up contaminates as it filters down. They call that contaminated water leachate. It’s collected at the bottom of the basin in pipes and pumped out.”
“It’s hard to believe there’s sixteen years of garbage bubbling away down there,” I said. “It all looks so tidy on top. So peaceful.”
My naivete made him smile. “Despite all the science, and all the care, all landfills fail to some degree. This one included. Liners crack. Pipes clog. Roots and animals drill holes through the cover soil. People get lazy. Budgets get cut. Too much water washes in. Too much leachate leaks into the surrounding environment.”
“Garbage in, garbage out?” I quipped.
“True enough,” he said. “But then where would we archaeologists be without garbage?”
We reached the shaggy pines. And Gordon’s dig site.
Just below the rim of the landfill was a dome-shaped mound, maybe 500 feet across. “That’s the old Wooster Pike dump? I don’t recognize it a bit.”
“That’s it,” Andrew said. “The old dump road you remember came along right where we’re standing now. When the city built the new landfill they left the old junk right where it was. Covered it with dirt and threw a little grass seed around. Then they dug the new landfill basin alongside.”
“They didn’t make any effort to clean up the old dump?”
“Nope. They just covered it over and forgot about it. Which is great for us. There’s a hundred years of wonderful old stuff under there. A real time capsule.”
We headed down the slope and waded into the tall grass atop the mound. It was knee deep, cold and nasty, choked with the rotting stems of last summer’s goldenrod. “Professor Sweet lobbied the city for three years to get permission to dig here,” Andrew said. “He finally got it in 1999. But it was a couple more years before the dig actually started.”
My foot hit something. I started to tumble. Andrew caught me. “Careful, Mrs. Sprowls. There’s a stake every ten feet.”
“Booby traps for nosy old women?”
“Grid posts for nosy archaeology students,” he said. He dropped to his knees and pulled the grass away from the offending stake. It was about a foot high. Square. Marked with faded black letters and numbers that made no sense to me.
“What’s that gibberish?” I asked.
“Coordinates. Archaeology is very precise. Where something is found is just as important as what’s found. So before you start digging, you mark off the site in a grid pattern. You establish perpendicular baselines running north to south and east to west. Then along those lines you stake out digging squares. You excavate square by square, carefully recording what you’ve found, in what condition, at what depth, in what environment. Carefully boxing up the stuff you want to keep for later study.”
We continued through the grass, Andrew high-stepping like a moose, me stepping very carefully, like a pink flamingo. “It would take forever to dig up the entire dump, wouldn’t it?”
“Just about,” Andrew said. “Professor Sweet only dug for twelve weeks over the summer-ten or fifteen students working in teams of two, each team hoping to finish one ten-foot block-so, yeah, it would take a while to excavate the entire site.”
We reached the center of the mound and started down the other side. I could see now the twenty squares or so that had already been excavated and then re-covered with dirt. Lumpy and weedy. “It looks like my vegetable garden,” I said.
He offered me a weak smile and continued: “Officially Professor Sweet was studying the eating habits of postwar American families. He called his summer course Digging the Fifties: The Roots and Realities of Conspicuous Consumption. But he’d joke that he was just an old beatnik reliving his wasted youth-at the expense of his students. ‘Your parents’ tuition money, your hard labor and my boyish joy,’ he’d say.”
“Do you think he was really joking-or really telling the truth?” I asked.
“I think he was really doing both,” he said. “Archaeologists, if they can manage it, work in the historic periods that fascinate them the most.”
The wind was picking up. I zipped my jacket as high as it would go and pulled in my neck like a snapping turtle. “You consider the 1950s an historic period, do you?”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “No offense, but, yeah, I do. Treating the recent past like the ancient past is what the field of garbology is all about.” He gave me a primer on the subject: “The guru of the whole movement is Dr. William Rathje of the University of Arizona. He made his bones studying the burial sites of the ancient Mayan Indians. Then in the early seventies he started the Garbage Project. He applied modern archaeological techniques to studying present-day waste in landfills. He studied what households were buying and discarding. What impact modern consumption habits were having on the nation’s health and on the environment.”
I felt a few sprinkles of rain on my face. I dug the plastic rain hat out of my pocket and pulled apart its accordion-like folds. I wrapped it around my head. I can only imagine how ghastly I looked. “Well, it sounds like a lot of fun,” I said.
Andrew was much too young to carry emergency rainwear with him. He let the drops soak his hair. “It’s also a lot of hard work. Tedious work. In order to get to the stuff from the fifties we have to dig down through the garbage from the sixties and seventies. And there was a lot of garbage in those decades.”
“How well I remember.”
My joke went right over his head. “And you can’t just toss the stuff from the sixties and seventies aside,” he said. “It’s got to be sorted through and cataloged just like the fifties’ stuff. The way you draw conclusions about one decade is to compare it to other decades.”
“That makes sense.”
He had more: “And the layers of garbage aren’t predictable. Garbage was dumped and bulldozed. Older stuff pushed up, newer stuff pushed down. So it’s easy to get decades mixed up.”
I tried another joke. “You’re telling me.”
That one sailed as high over his noggin as the first one.
We circled through the excavated squares, as if there was actually something to see. The raindrops were getting fatter. “You think it’s really necessary to burrow into stinky landfills to learn that America is happily eating itself into oblivion?” I asked.
“Perception is an important tool, but it can’t hold a candle to a trowel,” he said. “There’s a big difference between what people consume and what they think they consume.”
He was in teaching mode. I knew I’d have to stand there and listen no matter how waterlogged I got. “I suppose that’s true.”
“You bet it’s true. For example, Mrs. Sprowls, what percentage of the waste put in landfills do you suppose is made up of disposable diapers, Styrofoam and fast-food packaging?”
I hate those kind of questions, don’t you? No matter what number you guess, high or low, you’ll be wrong and feel like an imbecile. “One hundred percent?” I asked sarcastically.
There was a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Actually, it’s just three percent.”
I acted quickly to repair the damage. “That’s amazing.”
The rain was coming down harder. Without saying a word we agreed to head for the car. “So while plastic is a problem it’s not the real problem,” he said as we hurried along. “The real problem is paper. It makes up forty to fifty percent of the waste stream.”
“Any idea how much of that is newspaper?” I asked.
It was an opportunity to get back at me and he took it. “Too much.”
We reached the rim of the landfill and started down, once again past the spot where someone had skillfully put a bullet in the back of Sweet Gordon’s skull. More than likely someone he trusted. “Tell me, Andrew, did you ever get the feeling that Gordon was digging for something in particular?”
“That may have gotten him killed, you mean?”
“Well, yes.”
His entire body seemed to shrug. “I’ve been wondering about that like everybody else.”
“Everybody else, Andrew?”
“The police. Professor Glass. That woman from the bookstore.”
“And just what do you tell them?”
The annoyance seeped back into his eyes. “Like I said, Professor Sweet was interested in everything from the fifties.” Before I could apologize for my inquisitiveness, he conjured up a memory that made him smile. “Every day he’d walk from square to square, asking the dig teams the same question in that same Mr. Rogers way he had: ‘Anything interesting today, boys and girls? Old soda pop bottles? Betsy Wetsy Dolls? Perhaps an old cocoa can or two?’ We all knew it so well, we’d say it along with him, like a mantra.”
We reached my car. We were soaked. By the time we reached the main road my threadbare car seats were soaked, too. We splashed through the puddles and headed north toward Hannawa. I was still full of questions: “You must have been frantic when you couldn’t find him.”
“Not really. It was odd that he didn’t show for his eight o’clock class but-”
“Friday morning, right?”
“Yeah. I just figured he’d overslept or he was sick or something.”
“You were a student in that class?”
He nodded. “ The Making and Breaking of Archaeological Doctrine.”
“So what did you do when he didn’t show?”
“You know-the old ten minute rule.”
“If the professor doesn’t show up in ten minutes you take off like a P-92?”
I’d succeeded in baffling him again. “Take off like a P-92?”
I laughed at myself. “If I get any older I won’t be able to communicate at all. It’s an old saying, Andrew. The P-92 was a real fast airplane when I was a kid.”
He said “Oh” and I said, “So where’d you take off to?”
“I figured I’d better check in with Karen, the department secretary. I thought maybe if he was sick he might’ve left word for me to teach his one o’clock.”
“He wouldn’t have called you directly?”
“He’d never missed a class before. I wasn’t sure.”
“So you were just being a dutiful graduate assistant?”
“Right-but Karen said she hadn’t heard from him either.”
“Was she concerned?”
“She’d figured he was in class.”
The rain had slowed enough for me to put my wipers on low. “Is that when you started looking for him?”
“Sort of. I called his house and left a message on his answering machine. And then I hung out in his office for a couple hours and studied, in case he showed up. Then I had a quick lunch out of the vending machines downstairs.”
“Then taught his one o’clock class?”
“Babysat was more like it. Then I taught my own two o’clock and after that I drove over to his house. The doors were locked and the porch light was on and his car wasn’t in the drive.”
“You try to talk to his neighbors?”
“No-I still didn’t think anything was wrong.”
“But you were looking for him,” I pointed out. “You must have been a little worried.”
“I guess I was beginning to wonder if something was wrong. But who knows? Maybe he had a family emergency and had to leave town? It sure didn’t occur to me he might be lying dead somewhere.”
We crossed back over Killbuck Creek. The water under the bridge was brown and rising. That end of the county has a lot of low, flat valleys. If the rain continued-and it looked like it might-there’d be a flood story for someone to write that night. “When exactly did you find Gordon’s car?”
“Not until the next morning. When I was running.”
“So that’s how you stay so skinny.”
“You think I’m skinny?”
“I think you’re skinnier than me,” I said. “You didn’t try to contact him Friday night then?”
“I did try to call Karen once more before going to work. But she’d already snuck out for the day.”
“I didn’t know you worked.”
“I deliver pizzas on weekends. Papa John’s on Fridays. Domino’s on Saturdays. Sometimes on Sundays for Carlo’s. It’s amazing how much tip money you can make if you’re willing to sacrifice your social life.”
I took that to mean he didn’t have a girlfriend. “So you saw Gordon’s car while you were running?”
“That’s why the police are so suspicious of me. They think it’s all a little too neat.”
“Have they actually said that to you?”
“Not in so many words. But they’re sort of scientists, too, aren’t they? They come up with a hypothesis and see if the evidence supports it. So they’re thinking, ‘Hey now! How convenient is that? The kid first finds the professor’s car and then his body. Maybe it’s part of some wily plan to make himself look helpful instead of guilty.’”
I figured it would be better to drive in silence for a while. Good gravy, what if Andrew Holloway III did kill Gordon? What if his finding Gordon’s car and then his body was indeed part of a wily plan to hide his guilt? What if his agreeing to take me to the landfill was also part of that plan? To turn me into a collaborating witness? To show the consistency of his story? I pictured myself on the witness stand, some smart-ass assistant city prosecutor making me look like a total doofus. “Was he there for his Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday classes?” I finally asked. “Assuming he had Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday classes.”
“He didn’t teach Tuesdays and Thursdays. But I saw him that Thursday.”
“That Thursday before he disappeared, you mean?”
“We met at Wendy’s for lunch like always.”
“Like always?”
“We met at Wendy’s every Thursday at noon,” he said. “We’d talk about the classes I was teaching and the classes I was taking. We’d talk about his plans for the summer dig. He liked their chili.”
Finally I had an opportunity to ask a question I’d been itching to ask all morning. “That particular Thursday would have been the day after the Kerouac Thing. You go to that?”
“No way. I went the year before. It was really lame.”
“Watching a lot of moldy oldies trying to relive their golden bohemian youths, you mean?”
He blushed. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. That’s exactly why I stopped going.”
“He was really into all that beat generation stuff. Professor Glass, too.”
The next question came out of my mouth all by itself. “Speaking of Professor Glass-you know about their cheeseburger argument?”
“Everybody knows about the cheeseburger argument.”
“Did Gordon bring it up at Wendy’s? I understand they got into it at the Kerouac Thing.”
“Not that I remember.”
“He say anything at all about the party?”
“Just that I’d missed a groovy evening.”
“He actually said groovy?”
“He was always using goofy words like that.”
My mind drifted to all the wonderful late-night talks Sweet Gordon and I had in college. How the hip words of our generation sounded even hipper when he said them. How much I liked him, even though I was hopelessly in love with Lawrence Sprowls. “Did he seem okay to you that day?” I asked Andrew.
“A little wasted maybe. But for the most part he was his jolly old self.”
We reached Hannawa and inched through the heavy, noontime traffic toward West Tuckman. “Where’d you grow up, Andrew? Your voice has sort of a southern Ohio twang to it.”
“Circleville.”
“Oh, the annual pumpkin festival! That must be fun!”
“It’s a riot,” he said. His voice that told me that he was not exactly proud to be from a town that celebrates pumpkins.
“I’m from LaFargeville, New York,” I said in the same voice. “Three hundred people. Seven thousand cows.”
I didn’t take the same route back to the college. Instead I took the Indian Creek Parkway and wound through the bare oaks toward the athletic fields at the northern edge of the campus. It’s a somewhat isolated area, flatter than a pancake, separated from the campus and its adjoining residential streets by the creek and a long shale ridge. There are soccer and lacrosse fields there, the practice fields for the track and football teams, tennis courts, a winding asphalt jogging path, and, of course, the four back-to-back baseball fields where Dale Marabout told me Andrew had found Gordon’s car. Like the Wooster Pike landfill, it would be a perfect place to go unnoticed, especially in March when every day is shittier than the last. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said.
What could he say? We were already there, pulling into the parking lot alongside the baseball fields. “Where exactly was Gordon’s car?” I asked.
He pointed. “In front of the restrooms there.”
I drove up to the restrooms and stopped. We were a good two hundred yards from the jogging path, which presumably Andrew was using for his morning run. “You were able to recognize his car from quite a distance,” I said. My question sounded an awful lot like a police question and I immediately wished I’d asked it less skeptically.
“Professor Sweet drove an old pea-green Country Squire station wagon, the kind with fake wood panels on the sides. Big as a battleship. Not too many of those on the road anymore.”
It sounded reasonable. There weren’t too many 1987 Dodge Shadows on the road anymore either. “I’m sure you were relieved to see his car.”
“I figured maybe he was around here somewhere,” said Andrew. “Using the restroom. Hiking along the creek or something. But his car doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. And his briefcase was on the back seat. His whole life was in that bag.”
“Now you got frantic?”
“I checked the restrooms-both sides-and yelled his name. I got in his car and started it-I thought maybe he’d had car trouble-and it ran just fine. Then I ran back to my apartment and got my car. I drove to his house again and then came back to the ball fields. I drove all over the place.”
“And then you drove out to the landfill?”
Andrew’s head bounced up and down like a basketball.
“I think I would have called the police first,” I said.
He raked back his wet hair. “I almost did. But I felt a little foolish, know what I’m saying? Like I was overreacting. I thought maybe he’d arranged to meet somebody here and drove out to the dig with them. He was always going out there. Even in the winter. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
Up to that point Andrew’s story had made sense to me. Now I could see why the police were interested in him. Why would he think Gordon was at the landfill if his car was here? With the doors unlocked and keys in the ignition? With his briefcase on the back seat? Wouldn’t Andrew suspect foul play by now? Wouldn’t he call the police by now? Even the dopey campus police? No matter how foolish he felt? There simply had to be more to the story, even if this Andrew J. Holloway III was telling the truth. “I apologize for putting you through all this again,” I said.
He tried to smile. “I know I don’t have the greatest alibi,” he said. “I can account for the hours I take classes and teach, and deliver pizzas, but I spend an awful lot of time alone in my apartment.”
I drove him back to Menominee Hall.