But when you work in Death Dorm, those kinds of things happen with alarming frequency.
4
You’re not fat
You’ll be all right
Just say no to snacks
And you’ll see the light
“Big Boned”
Written by Heather Wells
Detective Canavan has had his hair cut since I’ve last seen him. It’s been buzzed into a severe crew cut, so tinged with gray it looks almost blue beneath the fluorescent light above my desk (I put in a desk lamp for rosy ambience, but the detective’s apparently chosen not to turn it on. I guess homicide detectives don’t care about rosy ambience). He’s scowling into the phone he’s clutching to one ear, glancing up at me as I walk in as disinterestedly as if I’m a rat that’s wandered out from behind some Dumpster.
“Yeah,” Detective Canavan says into the phone. “I know good and well what the city’s gonna say. They’re happy to shut down a street if someone wants to film an episode of Law & Order on it. But if the real NYPD wants to launch an investigation on an actual murder… ”
The door to Dr. Veatch’s office opens and a CSI type comes out, gnawing on a taco. I can see that he’s already paid a visit to the café before stopping by to photograph blood spatter.
“Hey, Heather,” he says, with a wink.
“Oh, hey,” I say. “The café’s opened for lunch already?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Special’s beef tacos. Oh, and turkey pot pie.”
“Mmmm,” I say longingly. The waffles seem to have been a long time ago.
“I know,” the forensics guy says, with a happy sigh. “I love it when we get called to Death Dorm.”
“That’s Death Residence Hall,” I correct him.
“You better not be dripping hot sauce on my crime scene again, Higgins,” Detective Canavan says crankily, as he slams down my phone.
Higgins rolls his eyes and disappears back into Owen’s office.
“So,” Detective Canavan says to me, as I sink into the blue vinyl chair opposite my desk, the one usually reserved for anorexics, basketball players, and other problem residents. “What the hell’s going on here, Wells? How come every time I turn my back, someone’s expired at your place of employment?”
“How should I know?” I demand, every bit as crankily. “I just work here.”
“Yeah,” Detective Canavan growls. “Tell me about it. Well, at least this time, whoever offed your boss did so from the street, not from inside the building, for a refreshing change. So where were you this morning, around eight o’clock?”
My jaw drops. “I’m a suspect? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
His expression doesn’t change. “You heard me. Where were you?”
“But after all we’ve been through together. You know me!” I cry. “You know I’d never—”
“I already heard about the paper, Wells,” Detective Canavan says shortly.
“The… the paper!” I am, to put it bluntly, flabbergasted. “Oh, come on! You think I’m going to shoot a guy in the head over a ream of paper?”
“No,” Detective Canavan says. “But I gotta ask.”
“And who even told you?” I demand hotly. “It was Sarah, wasn’t it? I’m going to kill her… ” I swallow, instantly regretting my choice of words, and give a nervous glance at the grate separating my office from the crime scene. I can hear subtle sounds of activity coming from behind it, the murmur of measurements being read off, as well as the steady crunching of tacos.
“Wells.” Detective Canavan, ever phlegmatic, looks bored. “Cut the dramatics. We all know where you were at eight o’clock this morning. This is just a formality. So please be the team player we all know you are and say—” He raises his voice to a falsetto that I realize, with an insult, is apparently meant to be an imitation of my own. “I was in bed around the corner hitting the snooze alarm, Detective Canavan… ” He holds his pen poised over his statement form, ready to scribble exactly that.
I begin to feel myself blush. Not because I don’t sound anything like that—I don’t think. But because—well, that wasn’t where I was this morning.
“Um,” I say. “Well… the thing is… That wasn’t where I was this morning. The thing is, um, this morning, I, um. I went running.”
Detective Canavan drops his pen. “You what?”
“Yeah.” I wonder if, considering how many members of the NYPD are currently swarming around the Washington Square Park area, looking for evidence in Dr. Veatch’s murder, I should ask them to keep an eye out for my uterus. You know, just in case they happen to find a stray one.
“You went running,” Detective Canavan says, in tones of incredulity.
“I’m not trying to lose weight, just get toned,” I say lamely.
Detective Canavan looks as if he’s not about to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. He has, after all, daughters of his own.
“Well, you must have walked in this direction on your way back to your place to change before work,” he says. “Did you see anything then? Anything—or anyone—out of the ordinary?”
I swallow again. “Uh. I didn’t change at my place. I changed at… a friend’s.”
Detective Canavan gives me a look. And I do mean a look. “What friend?”