The Gazebo
They stood in the foyer of the administration building with their coats dripping meltwater on old tile, the hall smelling faintly of floor polish and chalk that hadn’t seen a real blackboard in a decade. Finals were over, campus half-empty. Outside the tall windows, the quad lay brittle and colorless under a thin winter sun. “Dean Whitaker will see you now,” the secretary said, and a door clicked open. Whitaker was a compact man in his late sixties with a runner’s wiry calm and a polite bafflement already set on his face. “Detective Bennett. Dr. Hale.” His handshake was dry, efficient. “I admit I was… surprised by your call. After so many years, why the renewed interest in Frankie Davis?” “Because we missed something,” Bennett said. “And because the pattern might start here.” The dean’
- Writer
