LITMIR.BIZ

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like the avoidance tactic it was. “Wear your navy three-piece,” she’d advised. “Think about anything but Mark.”

      Fenton rarely wore the suit because the vest gripped him like a straitjacket, and now he tugged at it uncomfortably. He’d resisted wearing a lighter blue pocket handkerchief to match his tie and socks for fear that would make him look too debonair—too much of a fairy.

      A lanky, silver-haired man bearing the name tag “A. MAYNARD” and carrying a file folder entered the room, followed by a shorter, less formidable officer. Fenton had pictured the police chief with a barrel chest, a jowly face and country drawl, but this man didn’t fit the bill.

      “Mr. Page, thank you for coming down to see us on such short notice.” Maynard’s voice exuded charm, as if Fenton had dropped in for a friendly visit. “I am Chief Maynard and this is Sergeant Hills.”

      Fenton recognized the name “Hills” from somewhere, maybe the Gazette. Or maybe Mark had mentioned him. He blinked quickly to dismiss Mark’s face.

      “Be warm and polite,” Gen had counseled. “Whatever you do, don’t let them see your peevish side.” By that, he knew his friend meant the part of him that jumped to sarcasm when he was annoyed or angered.

      When the men sat, Fenton reminded himself of his actor’s training. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

      From habit, he started to cross his leg at the knee but noticed Hills observing his every movement. A voice played in his head—Men don’t sit like that. His father would issue the admonishment right before he slapped him across the face so hard it left finger marks. Fenton planted both feet on the floor.

      “We’re hoping you might shed some light on an investigation we’re starting up,” Maynard said, opening his folder. With the file’s contents upside down, Fenton couldn’t make out any of the type, even if he squinted.

      “Do you mind if we tape our conversation?” Maynard asked.

      Fenton’s eyes followed Hills’s stubby index finger as it hit the record button on the reel-to-reel. He had to look away from the machine’s turning, turning, turning, which threatened to mesmerize him.

      For the record, Hills introduced himself and Maynard, gave the date and time, and then instructed Fenton to state his name, address, and occupation. When Fenton hesitated at first, Hills said, “Just a formality.”

      Maynard continued, “Now Mr. Page, you know about the arrests we had to make on Labor Day?”

      Fenton nodded.

      “For the tape, please, Mr. Page.”

      “Yes, I read about that in the paper.”

      “A colleague of yours at Baines, Mr. Mark Patton, was involved.”

      “I have many colleagues at Baines,” Fenton said, but he immediately worried that sounded too confrontational. Plus, he couldn’t outright deny knowing Mark. The lie could easily come back to harm him so he hurried to retract. “But of course, yes, I know Mr. Patton. Knew, I should say. He was let go a few weeks back.”

      “You’re friends,” Maynard said, glancing up from the file in front of him.

      “We crossed paths, as you do when you work in the same building with someone. But he’s not among my close friends.”

      Maynard held his eyes, his face expressionless, and Hills jumped into the fray. “Patton told us y’all liked to hang out at his place. Is that what ‘crossed paths’ means?”

      Fenton opened his mouth but closed it while he considered his answer.

      “I don’t recall being in Mr. Patton’s apartment,” he said slowly so the P’s wouldn’t trip him up. He’d drilled himself to correct his boyhood speech impediment, but it resurfaced whenever he was nervous or a shade less than truthful.

      “Really?” Maynard pressed him. “Not ever?”

      Fenton’s lips formed a tight line, as if he were trying his best to dredge up a distant memory. “Wait a minute. Is his place over on Willow?”

      “It is,” Maynard said after consulting the file.

      “You know, I think I may have been there once.” Was that too little to admit to? “Twice at the very most. So many faculty members throw cocktail parties, and it’s considered bad manners not to attend. I forgot Mark had several over the course of a few years.”

      “So you only went to parties there.”

      “Yes.”

      Maynard flipped some pages. “And do you recall what went on at these parties?”

      The question threw Fenton for a moment, but he recovered without too much delay. “Honestly, no. Like I said, there’ve been a lot of parties, and they’re a bit of a blur. I’m sure there was drinking. I’ve never met a faculty member who didn’t like to imbibe.” As intended, the light reply brought a smile to the chief’s face.

      “Anything else?” Hills chimed in.

      Fenton was stymied. Could the interview be over so soon? “Anything else . . . about Mr. Patton?”

      “About the parties you say you attended.”

      The addition of “you say” stood out, and Fenton cleared his throat—a trick he’d picked up when he needed to slow down and control his stutter.

      “There was probably music, but that’s just a guess.”

      “Any games?” Hills went on.

      “I don’t know what you mean. Like . . . charades?”

      “Like looking at photographs, say. Magazines.”

      Fenton drew in a breath as he realized where this line of questioning was headed—Mark’s impressive beefcake photos and physique magazine collection.

      He could play dumb, ask what kind of photos and magazines, but that was too dangerous. Denial looked like the best route. “I don’t remember activities like that,” he said. “I don’t know how well you know academics, gentlemen, but in my experience they tend to just drink and pontificate and then drink some more.”

      Hills snickered at that one, but Maynard acted as if he hadn’t heard.

      “Now at these parties, were there any women?”

      Fenton blinked, possibly a few too many times. “I’m sure there were. I usually attend parties with . . . a female colleague. You know, a close friend.”

      Maynard made a note. Fenton took pride in catching himself before he blurted out Gen’s name. He wondered if that had happened with Mark—an innocent interjection that gave away names.

      During an extended pause, Maynard consulted more pages of the file. Fenton slipped his watch from his vest and glanced at the time.

      “Handsome watch,” Maynard said, startling him again. Fenton hadn’t been aware he was looking at him.

      “My granddaddy’s,” he replied, tucking it back into his pocket.

      “You in a hurry, Mr. Page?” Hills asked.

      “I have a meeting in forty minutes. The other thing we academics like to do is meet. And then have a meeting about the meeting.” He enunciated each word slowly so the M’s didn’t catch up with him—tricky little bastards, just like the P’s. “I’m sorry my testimony hasn’t been terribly helpful.”

      “Oh, no, it has, and I thank you for your time,” Maynard said, slapping his folder closed and gesturing to Hills to switch off the recorder. “We may have some follow-up questions. Another day. Especially with regard to Mr. Patton’s diary.”

      Fenton feigned indignity. “Well, I’d hardly know anything about a man’s diary, would I? That’s the height of p-private m-material!” He quivered

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