ahead carrying large red nylon bags. The EMTs are trotting over to the anxious group. The uniformed responders struggle to navigate the throng of onlookers, and when I pull even with them, I can easily decipher the frustration on their faces. It’s taking them way too long to reach somebody. They aren’t far off the road, so everyone has become a motorist rubbernecking at the scene of an accident. A few runners bump into each other in front of me and exchange apologies. I pass by just as the EMTs arrive, and the downward-looking crowd parts just enough to allow them access and to afford me a view. The man in his forties is red-faced, breathing heavily and sitting up. His green New Balance tank top heaves rapidly along with his chest, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused.
I can feel the curtain of strain being pulled back. I know it’s just temporary and there is a lot more road ahead of me. The man being treated on the sidewalk wasn’t targeted by another person. He was simply victimized by exhaustion. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s lucky in comparison.
“Y ou okay there, kiddo?” Randy asked, and insulted, when I walked into the locker room.
They all had showered and were in the process of getting dressed in the steamy air. Randy stood shirtless in the corner, finger probing the inside of a belly button that, for a distance runner, was surrounded by an impressive amount of pale blubber. Jacob was pulling on a sock while sitting on the bench that bisected the white tile floor. He wore a look of genuine concern. He was probably wondering if the police visit had something to do with Kaitlyn and thoughts of him losing his own wife had to have flashed in front of him. Aaron stood on a scale and nodded with satisfaction as it rattled out a number.
“I’m fine,” I answered. “I’m afraid a student in one of my classes was killed last night.”
Randy never looked up as he nonchalantly withdrew his index finger, gave the digit a visual inspection and said, “Oh, yeah. Who?”
“Lindsay Behram.”
Randy’s eyes sharply shot my way as the name seemed to register.
“She took several Criminology classes. You probably knew her,” I added sadly.
Turning his attention to finding a shirt in his locker, “The name is familiar, but I can’t put a face with it.”
“I think I remember her. Real pretty girl?” asked Aaron, stepping down and releasing the scale from its duty.
Having no reason to downplay her looks, I answered, “The guys in class were always mesmerized by her. She was memorable.”
“Damn. I think she was in my Marketing 100 class last semester. That’s a real shame.” Aaron paused respectfully, and then reached up to the top shelf of his assigned locker for his fake Rolex.
Jacob, finished with his socks, stood and pulled on a crisp white Brooks Brothers shirt. “How was she killed? Car accident?”
“No. The police said she was murdered. Her body was found somewhere in the Hill district. She’d been strangled.”
Jacob shook his head in disgust. “Been a while since we’ve lost one that way. Murdered, I mean. It’s probably been ten years or so. If memory serves, that was some kind of stabbing over at Station Square. Some boy got jealous over his girlfriend dancing with someone else; and the next thing you know, the jealous boyfriend was on his way to jail and the other kid was off to the morgue. Very sad.”
Randy moved to the large wall mirror at the end of the row, threw on a fifteen-dollar, paper thin cream-collared shirt, and pawed at the buttons while asking, “Was she in any of your Psych classes?”
“No. At least not that I remember. And I don’t forget many of my students,” Jacob responded as he smoothly adjusted the cuff links on his shirt. After a moment of contemplation, he turned to me. “Why are the police talking to you about it?”
“She came by my office yesterday. They were just following her movements throughout the day. Looking for leads. I’m
I can feel the curtain of strain being pulled back. I know it’s just temporary and there is a lot more road ahead of me. The man being treated on the sidewalk wasn’t targeted by another person. He was simply victimized by exhaustion. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s lucky in comparison.
“Y ou okay there, kiddo?” Randy asked, and insulted, when I walked into the locker room.
They all had showered and were in the process of getting dressed in the steamy air. Randy stood shirtless in the corner, finger probing the inside of a belly button that, for a distance runner, was surrounded by an impressive amount of pale blubber. Jacob was pulling on a sock while sitting on the bench that bisected the white tile floor. He wore a look of genuine concern. He was probably wondering if the police visit had something to do with Kaitlyn and thoughts of him losing his own wife had to have flashed in front of him. Aaron stood on a scale and nodded with satisfaction as it rattled out a number.
“I’m fine,” I answered. “I’m afraid a student in one of my classes was killed last night.”
Randy never looked up as he nonchalantly withdrew his index finger, gave the digit a visual inspection and said, “Oh, yeah. Who?”
“Lindsay Behram.”
Randy’s eyes sharply shot my way as the name seemed to register.
“She took several Criminology classes. You probably knew her,” I added sadly.
Turning his attention to finding a shirt in his locker, “The name is familiar, but I can’t put a face with it.”
“I think I remember her. Real pretty girl?” asked Aaron, stepping down and releasing the scale from its duty.
Having no reason to downplay her looks, I answered, “The guys in class were always mesmerized by her. She was memorable.”
“Damn. I think she was in my Marketing 100 class last semester. That’s a real shame.” Aaron paused respectfully, and then reached up to the top shelf of his assigned locker for his fake Rolex.
Jacob, finished with his socks, stood and pulled on a crisp white Brooks Brothers shirt. “How was she killed? Car accident?”
“No. The police said she was murdered. Her body was found somewhere in the Hill district. She’d been strangled.”
Jacob shook his head in disgust. “Been a while since we’ve lost one that way. Murdered, I mean. It’s probably been ten years or so. If memory serves, that was some kind of stabbing over at Station Square. Some boy got jealous over his girlfriend dancing with someone else; and the next thing you know, the jealous boyfriend was on his way to jail and the other kid was off to the morgue. Very sad.”
Randy moved to the large wall mirror at the end of the row, threw on a fifteen-dollar, paper thin cream-collared shirt, and pawed at the buttons while asking, “Was she in any of your Psych classes?”
“No. At least not that I remember. And I don’t forget many of my students,” Jacob responded as he smoothly adjusted the cuff links on his shirt. After a moment of contemplation, he turned to me. “Why are the police talking to you about it?”
“She came by my office yesterday. They were just following her movements throughout the day. Looking for leads. I’m
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