dormitory,” the reporter intones, “a tragedy that has led some on campus to refer to the building as Death Dorm.”
I glance at Tom when the announcer says this. He presses his lips together, but otherwise says nothing.
Poor guy. His first professional gig out of grad school, and it has to be at Death Dorm. I mean, residence Page 35
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hall.
“This morning, Fischer Hall cafeteria workers arrived at work to make another grisly discovery: a human head in a pot on the school stove.”
This is met by a collective “EW!” by Tina and most of the rest of the students—not to mention a few administrators—gathered in the lobby to watch the broadcast. Tom actually groans and drops his face in his hands in anguish. Pete, the security officer, doesn’t look too happy, either.
“The head has been positively identified by grieving family members as belonging to New York College sophomore and varsity cheerleader Lindsay Combs,” the reporter goes on, as a photo of Lindsay fills the screen. It’s the photo that was taken the night she was crowned Homecoming Queen. Her smile is as dazzling as the tiara in her honey-colored hair. She’s dressed in white satin and holding a dozen red roses in her arms. Someone outside the frame of the photo had flung an arm around her shoulders and the tiara had tipped rakishly over one of Lindsay’s unnaturally green eyes. I seriously don’t understand why she thought this was a good look.
“According to witnesses, Lindsay was last seen yesterday evening. She left her room at approximately seven o’clock in the evening, telling her roommate she was going to a party. She never returned.”
This much we already knew. Cheryl had come by the office in tears earlier, heartbroken over what had befallen her friend—and roommate…a roommate she’d never even gotten a chance to swap midnight giggles or shots of Southern Comfort with, since Lindsay had been dead before Cheryl ever even moved in.
Lindsay’s original roommate, Ann, had taken the news a little less hysterically, and had been able to give the police their only lead…the one about the party. Of course, relations between Ann and Lindsay apparently not having been the best, the girl hadn’t been able to tell Detective Canavan WHICH party Lindsay had been going to…and Cheryl, incoherent with sobs, hadn’t been much help in that department, either. In fact, Tom had had one of the RAs escort Cheryl to Counseling Services, where she’s hopefully getting the help she needs to cope with her grief…and the fact that she’s pretty much guaranteed a single room for the rest of the year.
Of course, Cheryl is the one person on campus who didn’t want one.
“How Lindsay ended up in the Fischer Hall cafeteria kitchen is a mystery that has authorities here baffled,” the reporter goes on. The shot shifts to one of New York College President Phillip Allington standing at a podium in the library lobby, Detective Canavan looking rumpled and cranky at his side.
Coach Andrews, for some reason, is standing on the president’s other side, managing to look calm, but at the same time somewhat confused. But then, that’s how a lot of athletic coaches look, I’ve noticed, as I’ve flipped past ESPN.
The anchorman’s voice goes on, “A spokesperson from the New York City Police Department insists that even though no arrests have been made, the police have several suspects and are following more than a dozen leads. There is, college President Phillip Allington assured the academic community at a press conference earlier this afternoon, no need for alarm.”
Footage from the press conference begins to run.
“We would like to take this opportunity,” President Allington says woodenly, obviously reading from something that he’d had someone else write for him earlier in the day, “to reassure our students, and the Page 36
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
I glance at Tom when the announcer says this. He presses his lips together, but otherwise says nothing.
Poor guy. His first professional gig out of grad school, and it has to be at Death Dorm. I mean, residence Page 35
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
hall.
“This morning, Fischer Hall cafeteria workers arrived at work to make another grisly discovery: a human head in a pot on the school stove.”
This is met by a collective “EW!” by Tina and most of the rest of the students—not to mention a few administrators—gathered in the lobby to watch the broadcast. Tom actually groans and drops his face in his hands in anguish. Pete, the security officer, doesn’t look too happy, either.
“The head has been positively identified by grieving family members as belonging to New York College sophomore and varsity cheerleader Lindsay Combs,” the reporter goes on, as a photo of Lindsay fills the screen. It’s the photo that was taken the night she was crowned Homecoming Queen. Her smile is as dazzling as the tiara in her honey-colored hair. She’s dressed in white satin and holding a dozen red roses in her arms. Someone outside the frame of the photo had flung an arm around her shoulders and the tiara had tipped rakishly over one of Lindsay’s unnaturally green eyes. I seriously don’t understand why she thought this was a good look.
“According to witnesses, Lindsay was last seen yesterday evening. She left her room at approximately seven o’clock in the evening, telling her roommate she was going to a party. She never returned.”
This much we already knew. Cheryl had come by the office in tears earlier, heartbroken over what had befallen her friend—and roommate…a roommate she’d never even gotten a chance to swap midnight giggles or shots of Southern Comfort with, since Lindsay had been dead before Cheryl ever even moved in.
Lindsay’s original roommate, Ann, had taken the news a little less hysterically, and had been able to give the police their only lead…the one about the party. Of course, relations between Ann and Lindsay apparently not having been the best, the girl hadn’t been able to tell Detective Canavan WHICH party Lindsay had been going to…and Cheryl, incoherent with sobs, hadn’t been much help in that department, either. In fact, Tom had had one of the RAs escort Cheryl to Counseling Services, where she’s hopefully getting the help she needs to cope with her grief…and the fact that she’s pretty much guaranteed a single room for the rest of the year.
Of course, Cheryl is the one person on campus who didn’t want one.
“How Lindsay ended up in the Fischer Hall cafeteria kitchen is a mystery that has authorities here baffled,” the reporter goes on. The shot shifts to one of New York College President Phillip Allington standing at a podium in the library lobby, Detective Canavan looking rumpled and cranky at his side.
Coach Andrews, for some reason, is standing on the president’s other side, managing to look calm, but at the same time somewhat confused. But then, that’s how a lot of athletic coaches look, I’ve noticed, as I’ve flipped past ESPN.
The anchorman’s voice goes on, “A spokesperson from the New York City Police Department insists that even though no arrests have been made, the police have several suspects and are following more than a dozen leads. There is, college President Phillip Allington assured the academic community at a press conference earlier this afternoon, no need for alarm.”
Footage from the press conference begins to run.
“We would like to take this opportunity,” President Allington says woodenly, obviously reading from something that he’d had someone else write for him earlier in the day, “to reassure our students, and the Page 36
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
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