Heâs jumped out of a top-floor window!â
EIGHT
W hat happened next was a blur of noise and confusion. Unlike the multi-storey buildings in the modernistic science complex, the Poche Building didnât have special locks and alarms. It wasnât a skyscraper. It wasnât even that big. But, at seven stories, it must have been tall enough.
Trapped inside the glass foyer by the horror outside, Dulcie found herself slinking back. Until she came to the elevators. No, she didnât want to go there. Not up. Not now. Although she didnât have a clear sense of the man who had jumped, she felt the shock of his fall. What would make someone do that? Who was Fritz Herschoft? Who had he been?
Even as her mind reeled, she found herself thinking of a young professor, barely more than a TA. Heâd had glasses and thick, dark hair that for some reason she thought of as greasy. Heâd built a name for himself â something about the attention he gave his students â but when Dulcie tried to conjure an image, she remembered an ugly man, short, plump, and beetle-like. No, that wasnât fair. It wasnât his fault if his hair was greasy or his hands clammy.
Dulcie drew back her own hands, automatically, as if afraid to touch a memory, and dropped her bag. Bending to pick it up, she was jostled, as the elevator bays began disgorging the buildingâs inhabitants. Somewhere, an alarm had gone off. She couldnât think about the dead professor now. She had come here for a reason. But even as dizziness threatened to overcome her, Dulcie kept enough of her mind focused to watch. Students, researchers. A coterie of lab techs, all still wearing their safety glasses, came down, alerted by the sirens and the panicked screams outside. None of them were Corkie.
Had she been imagining her? Seeing her student in a haze of heartbreak and hot sauce?
âExcuse me.â She pushed her way up to the guard again. In the tumult, he had gained authority. Students pressed against his desk, some crying. But their prior interaction also seemed to have bonded them, and he looked over at her with what could have been a shell-shocked smile. âIs there another way out of here? A rear exit, perhaps?â
Corkie couldnât have been involved with this. No way. But Dulcie still wanted to talk with her, even if her reasons seemed very remote and far away.
The guard nodded. âFire exit around the back. Take the stairwell door to the right there, and follow it down one flight, to street level.â Dulcie grabbed her bag. âWait! Miss? The police might want to talk to you.â
Dulcie nodded and hoped she looked reassuring. âIâll check in with them. I promise.â The guard was behind his desk, and that was surrounded by the crowd. With another nod, Dulcie turned and headed for the door.
Dulcie hadnât realized how tense she had been as she wound down the stairs, along a basement passage, and back up. Not until she shoved open that door and stepped into the alley did she find herself breathing freely. Even the cold seemed welcome. But although the rear of the Poche Building offered a relatively peaceful alternative to the front, it didnât help Dulcie with her search. The sirens were muted back here, contained by the bulk of the building. But even as Dulcie saw people scurrying on the nearby sidewalk, none of them looked like Corkie. She headed for the street and realized that a dumpster had obscured her view of the crowd.
âCorkie?â There was no way anyone in the milling throng could have heard her. The buzz from the crowd was loud. At least one woman was sobbing. âCorkie?â
People were moving in panic, some running away. Others, confused or curious, rushing in. Among the latter, Dulcie noticed a small figure, slight, in olive green, jostling furiously through the crowd.
âWait!â Dulcie called again. It wasnât her student, Dulcie was sure of that.
EIGHT
W hat happened next was a blur of noise and confusion. Unlike the multi-storey buildings in the modernistic science complex, the Poche Building didnât have special locks and alarms. It wasnât a skyscraper. It wasnât even that big. But, at seven stories, it must have been tall enough.
Trapped inside the glass foyer by the horror outside, Dulcie found herself slinking back. Until she came to the elevators. No, she didnât want to go there. Not up. Not now. Although she didnât have a clear sense of the man who had jumped, she felt the shock of his fall. What would make someone do that? Who was Fritz Herschoft? Who had he been?
Even as her mind reeled, she found herself thinking of a young professor, barely more than a TA. Heâd had glasses and thick, dark hair that for some reason she thought of as greasy. Heâd built a name for himself â something about the attention he gave his students â but when Dulcie tried to conjure an image, she remembered an ugly man, short, plump, and beetle-like. No, that wasnât fair. It wasnât his fault if his hair was greasy or his hands clammy.
Dulcie drew back her own hands, automatically, as if afraid to touch a memory, and dropped her bag. Bending to pick it up, she was jostled, as the elevator bays began disgorging the buildingâs inhabitants. Somewhere, an alarm had gone off. She couldnât think about the dead professor now. She had come here for a reason. But even as dizziness threatened to overcome her, Dulcie kept enough of her mind focused to watch. Students, researchers. A coterie of lab techs, all still wearing their safety glasses, came down, alerted by the sirens and the panicked screams outside. None of them were Corkie.
Had she been imagining her? Seeing her student in a haze of heartbreak and hot sauce?
âExcuse me.â She pushed her way up to the guard again. In the tumult, he had gained authority. Students pressed against his desk, some crying. But their prior interaction also seemed to have bonded them, and he looked over at her with what could have been a shell-shocked smile. âIs there another way out of here? A rear exit, perhaps?â
Corkie couldnât have been involved with this. No way. But Dulcie still wanted to talk with her, even if her reasons seemed very remote and far away.
The guard nodded. âFire exit around the back. Take the stairwell door to the right there, and follow it down one flight, to street level.â Dulcie grabbed her bag. âWait! Miss? The police might want to talk to you.â
Dulcie nodded and hoped she looked reassuring. âIâll check in with them. I promise.â The guard was behind his desk, and that was surrounded by the crowd. With another nod, Dulcie turned and headed for the door.
Dulcie hadnât realized how tense she had been as she wound down the stairs, along a basement passage, and back up. Not until she shoved open that door and stepped into the alley did she find herself breathing freely. Even the cold seemed welcome. But although the rear of the Poche Building offered a relatively peaceful alternative to the front, it didnât help Dulcie with her search. The sirens were muted back here, contained by the bulk of the building. But even as Dulcie saw people scurrying on the nearby sidewalk, none of them looked like Corkie. She headed for the street and realized that a dumpster had obscured her view of the crowd.
âCorkie?â There was no way anyone in the milling throng could have heard her. The buzz from the crowd was loud. At least one woman was sobbing. âCorkie?â
People were moving in panic, some running away. Others, confused or curious, rushing in. Among the latter, Dulcie noticed a small figure, slight, in olive green, jostling furiously through the crowd.
âWait!â Dulcie called again. It wasnât her student, Dulcie was sure of that.
Similar Books
