must be graduate students or junior professors, so,” Walter turned and looked at Jefferson, “even though your research is so closely aligned with Edmund’s, I am afraid you can’t benefit from the funds, Jefferson.”
Jefferson just nodded his head in acknowledgment.
The new, confident Stephen, who had been rather quiet until now, could no longer contain himself. “Good God! The man has set up his will to inflate his citation count, even after he’s dead.”
“Well, think how much fun we can have at the Christmas party,” soothed C.J. , “playing ‘Guess how many citations Edmund has now?’ But Walter, dear, you are bringing this up because, why? My guess is there is a clause saying it has to be housed here.”
“Well...yes. In fact, it states it has to be housed in 40 Knollwood. At the moment, the obvious choice is Edmund and Jefferson’s offices as they are next to each other and the only offices on the top floor of 40 Knollwood. It would be an easy renovation.”
Jefferson looked up, aghast. “Do we have to accept this…thing?” asked Jefferson, obviously deeply disturbed at the idea of losing his office for a foundation from which he could not gain.
“No, not technically ,” said Walter. “But it is unlikely we would turn down that much research money for our graduate students and junior faculty.”
Just at that moment, the doors to the co nference room opened, and two Elm Grove policemen walked in.
Walter didn’t look impressed. This was his faculty meeting. Pompously he turned to the officers. “Gentleman, we are discussing matters critical to the economics department of Eaton University. If you would like to question any one of us to gather further information, we will, of course, cooperate. We will be concluding our business in approximately ten minutes, and then we can turn our attention to yours.”
The policemen didn’t even acknowledge Walter, but instead walked straight up to Stephen. “Stephen Choi. You are under arrest for the murder of Edmund DeBeyer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?”
Stephen, his new-found bravado replaced with shock and fright, looked wildly around the room as the cuffs were placed on his wrists. “What? I didn’t do this!” he cried. “I didn’t murder Edmund. This isn’t true!”
WEDNESDAY
Despite professing feelings of porcine delight to Walter only the day before, nothing about C.J.’s demeanor on Wednesday morning resembled a happy pig in mud. Rather, she approached the Economics 101 classroom like an irritated bull at an overcrowde d rodeo. Pity the eighteen-year-old fool who thought he could get the better of her that day, even for eight seconds. Lack of sleep did that to a girl. Edmund had prepared nothing for the course. Zilch. Nada. Consequently, C.J., who had not yet developed a complete professorial indifference to her students, had been up until the small hours writing a syllabus, lecture and problem set.
The only saving grace in the whole damn fiasco was the fact that Jose was the teaching assistant for the course. That boy at least had some brains and wasn’t afraid of a little work. Which was good, as C.J. wasn’t going to get carried away with her teaching obligations and grade an undergraduate essay herself. Would a five-star chef dice an onion?
C.J. did not want to think about how old and haggard she looked , thanks to her late night Econ 101 prep session. C.J. realized that in the eyes of her eighteen-year-old students, she looked fifty on a good day. Today she would be fortunate to escape without being asked if she needed assistance crossing the road.
What a sh ame Edmund is already dead , C.J. thought bitterly as she tried to blink life into her gritty, tired eyes. I would so enjoy killing
Jefferson just nodded his head in acknowledgment.
The new, confident Stephen, who had been rather quiet until now, could no longer contain himself. “Good God! The man has set up his will to inflate his citation count, even after he’s dead.”
“Well, think how much fun we can have at the Christmas party,” soothed C.J. , “playing ‘Guess how many citations Edmund has now?’ But Walter, dear, you are bringing this up because, why? My guess is there is a clause saying it has to be housed here.”
“Well...yes. In fact, it states it has to be housed in 40 Knollwood. At the moment, the obvious choice is Edmund and Jefferson’s offices as they are next to each other and the only offices on the top floor of 40 Knollwood. It would be an easy renovation.”
Jefferson looked up, aghast. “Do we have to accept this…thing?” asked Jefferson, obviously deeply disturbed at the idea of losing his office for a foundation from which he could not gain.
“No, not technically ,” said Walter. “But it is unlikely we would turn down that much research money for our graduate students and junior faculty.”
Just at that moment, the doors to the co nference room opened, and two Elm Grove policemen walked in.
Walter didn’t look impressed. This was his faculty meeting. Pompously he turned to the officers. “Gentleman, we are discussing matters critical to the economics department of Eaton University. If you would like to question any one of us to gather further information, we will, of course, cooperate. We will be concluding our business in approximately ten minutes, and then we can turn our attention to yours.”
The policemen didn’t even acknowledge Walter, but instead walked straight up to Stephen. “Stephen Choi. You are under arrest for the murder of Edmund DeBeyer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?”
Stephen, his new-found bravado replaced with shock and fright, looked wildly around the room as the cuffs were placed on his wrists. “What? I didn’t do this!” he cried. “I didn’t murder Edmund. This isn’t true!”
WEDNESDAY
Despite professing feelings of porcine delight to Walter only the day before, nothing about C.J.’s demeanor on Wednesday morning resembled a happy pig in mud. Rather, she approached the Economics 101 classroom like an irritated bull at an overcrowde d rodeo. Pity the eighteen-year-old fool who thought he could get the better of her that day, even for eight seconds. Lack of sleep did that to a girl. Edmund had prepared nothing for the course. Zilch. Nada. Consequently, C.J., who had not yet developed a complete professorial indifference to her students, had been up until the small hours writing a syllabus, lecture and problem set.
The only saving grace in the whole damn fiasco was the fact that Jose was the teaching assistant for the course. That boy at least had some brains and wasn’t afraid of a little work. Which was good, as C.J. wasn’t going to get carried away with her teaching obligations and grade an undergraduate essay herself. Would a five-star chef dice an onion?
C.J. did not want to think about how old and haggard she looked , thanks to her late night Econ 101 prep session. C.J. realized that in the eyes of her eighteen-year-old students, she looked fifty on a good day. Today she would be fortunate to escape without being asked if she needed assistance crossing the road.
What a sh ame Edmund is already dead , C.J. thought bitterly as she tried to blink life into her gritty, tired eyes. I would so enjoy killing
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