The Deadhouse

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Authors: Linda Fairstein
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective
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bitter cold, making their way from classrooms to
living halls to dining facilities. There were bunches talking on the
great steps of Low Memorial Library, which was festively adorned with a
giant wreath, and I imagined they were making plans to meet at parties
or nearby bars and apartments. It wasn't much of a stretch to recall
the feeling of invincibility in that period of my life, the sense of
security the academic community offered—the endless possibilities of
youth, fueled by intelligence and energy.
    Yet one year ago, the Columbia campus had been rocked by the death
of a talented and popular athlete, found in her dorm room with her
throat slashed, killed by another student she had been dating, who
threw himself in front of a subway car hours later. That followed the
similar killing of a brilliant law student the preceding year, also by
a former boyfriend who had stabbed her repeatedly.
    I began to think of all the cases I had handled with students from
schools throughout the city and to make a mental list of what the
relationship was between victim and offender, so I could pull the files
and examine the facts. For the students at King's, the illusion of the
sanctity of the university setting was about to be shattered.
    "Want to stop by my place and relax for a bit before we head to the
soiree?" The party was held at the Park Avenue Armory, on Sixty-sixth
Street, just a few blocks from my home.
    "Sure. Is Jake gonna be there tonight?"
    "No. He doesn't get back to New York until Sunday." The schedule
Jake Tyler had as a political correspondent and stand-in anchor for
Brian Williams on
NBC Nightly News
made his life even less
predictable than my own. It was a pleasure, for a change, to be
involved with a lover who had no complaints about my unavailability
when I was called out on a major case.
    I parked the car and we went upstairs. As soon as I put the key in
the door, I could smell the delicious scent of the Douglas fir that I
had bought two nights ago on my way home to serve as a Christmas tree.
I had been raised as a Jew and was observant in the Reform tradition,
but my mother's religious upbringing was entirely different. Her
ancestors were Finnish, and she had converted to Judaism when she
married my father. Our family tradition combined elements from both of
their backgrounds, and although I had lighted the candles on a Hanukkah
menorah earlier in the month, I always looked forward to decorating a
tree and rediscovering the boxes of antique ornaments that my mother
had collected throughout her life.
    "I'm going to freshen up. Make yourself useful. Pour us a drink."
    "Mind if I use the phone? I was gonna meet some of the guys down the
street at Lumi's for a drink before the party."
    "Of course. Anybody I know? Invite them over here. And while you're
calling, check with your office to see whether there's a final on the
autopsy results. Then you can start putting some of those bulbs on the
top branches of the tree that I can't reach. Don't peek at the pile of
presents. I haven't finished wrapping yours yet."
    I went inside to wash my face, add a colorful scarf to my black
suit, slip into a pair of higher heels, and spritz some Caleche on my
neck. I played back the messages on my answering machine. The usual
freeway greeting from Nina Baum in L.A., a callback from one of my
sisters-in-law in response to my question about what the kids wanted
for Christmas, and the persistent voice of
Post
reporter
Mickey Diamond begging me to give him any kind of scoop about the
Dakota investigation. I held my finger down on the delete button.
    Chapman had rested my Dewar's and his Ketel One on the coffee table
while he hooked and hung some of the fragile old ornaments. "That one
belonged to my grandmother. She landed at Ellis Island when she was an
infant, just before Christmas in 1900, a century ago. It's a glass
bird, hand painted, that her father bought for her that year."
    "Think she'd approve of the way you make a living?"
    "She

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