Read Online Voice Mail Murder by Patricia Rockwell - Free Book Online

spot while they rested their feet for a while.
    “You realize . . . Jesse . . . don’t you,” she scolded gently, causing the boy to flush a bright red as she leaned towards him and directed a finger his way, “that this is the second day of class? Psychology of Language met yesterday for the first time. Why didn’t you come see me earlier?”
    “I . . . I. . .” he muttered, looking down between his legs at the linoleum floor, rocking almost painfully back and forth. She cringed because she certainly didn’t intend to make him feel this badly about registering a few days late. There were numerous valid reasons for a late registration and she was happy to entertain his. But this student seemed mortified by her question.
    “It’s okay, Jesse,” she assured him. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to make sure you understand that you’re already behind in my class and . . .”
    “Dr. Barnes,” he looked up at her, big soulful eyes pleading, but of course, she was used to students with big soulful eyes pleading for all sorts of things—late entry into a course, higher grades, excused absences, and more. “I’m really sorry. I was registered for another Psychology class for my general social science requirement, but it had a lab that conflicted with practice, so I had to drop it and take something without a lab—and your class doesn’t have a lab, so I thought it would be perfect!”
    Pamela laughed to herself. Yes, she was sure many students considered Psychology of Language a perfect option because it didn’t require a lab session as did many of the science and social science courses that students had to take for their core requirements. She, however, considered it perfect because of the subject matter which she loved—but she would have time to convince young Jesse of this fact as time went on, she thought.
    “Yes, you are probably right,” she assured him, noticing him calm, “Psychology of Language is a perfect course. At least I think so. What do you have to practice that prevents you from taking a lab?”
    “Oh. Football.”
    “Football? You mean you’re on the football team?” she asked him.
    Yeah,” he shrugged, “but not on the starting line-up. I just sit on the bench.”
    “Even so, that’s very impressive,” she told him. He smiled, then his face broke and his head fell into his hands.
    “Jesse?”
    “Sorry, Dr. Barnes.” He glanced shyly up at her, his face awash in pain. “It’s been really hard, you know, with what happened to Coach.”
    “I can imagine,” she said quietly, and waited for the boy to speak further. She could sense that he had more to say.
    “I can’t think about class. I’m sorry. I didn’t even go to the classes I was scheduled for yesterday. I went today, but that’s when I found out about the lab and . . . everything got all mixed up . . . and Coach Dooley told me I’d have to change my schedule, but I just can’t concentrate on school . . .”
    “Of course, you can’t,” she said softly. “No one would expect you to. This must be a traumatic experience for you—for all the team.“
    “It’s horrible,” he said, again, staring intently at the pattern on her floor. “Why would anyone hurt Coach? Why? He was the best . . .”
    “I don’t know, Jesse,” she said, her heart breaking for this young man who obviously had far more important problems to deal with than which social science course to register for. Her breath caught as she listened to him speak.
    “He was great to us . . . to every one of us . . . not just the starters. Yeah, he pushed us; he pushed us really hard, but he cared about each one of us. I mean, Dr. Barnes, he knew what each guy’s major was; he knew what classes we all were taking. Sometimes he’d call our teachers personally if any of us were having a hard time. He wanted everybody on the team to do great—not just on the field, but in school too. He was like a parent. I mean, he was so proud when we got