Calamity Jayne Goes to College (4 page)

REQUIRED IN AUTOPSY ROOM AT ALL TIMES.

I bolted for the nearest exit. I ended up yanking off my hair net and releasing my stomach contents into it, my flight surely
setting the standard for the shortest medical career on record.

Dr. Ditz, I presume?

CHAPTER 3

The trip home was somewhat subdued--mainly because I was still feeling weak and pukey from my short stint as Igor to "Emmy's"
Dr. Frankenstein. My cousin was behind the wheel and I was trying to come to terms with the reality of walking into the Iowa
State medical examiner's office, suiting up and marching smack dab into the middle of an autopsy.
With two on deck and two in the queue,
I reminded myself with a shiver.

"So, Trevor Childers works at the morgue?" Frankie said. "Huh. Guess that explains why he isn't too talkative. It's not as
if he has anyone to converse with at his workplace," he added with a smile. I winced.

"You hope." Dixie rose from the backseat like a lunatic in a bad horror flick. "Bwahhaha!" she said.

"Very funny," I snapped. "You two wouldn't find it so humorous if you were the ones holding back a bloody scalp so the M.E.
could photograph the rather prominent dent in some poor guy's skull," I said. "Not exactly my idea of a Kodak moment," I told
them.

"And you really saw the dude all laid out and cut open?" Frankie asked.

I shook my head. "Just the head," I replied. "Well, what there was left of his head, that is. But it was more than enough
for me and my Italian sub--which, by the way, I will never ever be able to eat again for as long as I live, thank you very
much."

"I guess we can probably cross Childers off our list of possible perps," Frankie said. "If he works at the M.E.'s office,
he had to pass a thorough background screening, plus a polygraph examination."

I stared at Frankie. "How do you know all this stuff?" I asked.

"
I
do my homework," he said.

Personally, I didn't want to think about homework, but there was still the issue of e-mailing my topic to the good professor
before midnight. Plus I needed to start organizing my notes on the story and figure out our next move.

I grabbed Frankie's laptop--a wireless with all the bells and whistles--and started it up, sending an e-mail to Stokes and
one to my boss, Stan, to let him know that I might be on to something we could run with in the
Gazette.
Double duty and all that.

"Is there any way you can get a list of all the students in your class?" I asked. "So we have someplace to start?"

"It's a done deal," Dixie said, and I turned to stare at her.

"How so?"

"Professor Billings has us sign in when we enter the lecture hall," Dixie explained. "She's a stickler for attendance. She's
got extra rosters stuck below the top ones to cover the entire term. I just slipped back into the classroom after lunch and
pilfered one. Nothing to it."

I'd forgotten how conniving and underhanded Dixie could be. As a general rule, these dubious talents were locked, loaded,
and aimed straight in my direction. Being in the backfield rather than the receiving end of her skullduggery was a totally
unfamiliar--and surreal--experience to say the least. I hadn't decided yet if I liked it.

"Okay, so we take the list, split it up, and see what we can come up with by Googling the names. Who knows? We might luck
out and get a break," I said. "Someone who jumps out at us as a prime suspect."

"What time should we meet to head back to the campus?" Frankie asked. "We have to make sure we're back on the scene before
dark."

I looked over at him. "What do you mean, 'on the scene'? My night class isn't till Thursday night," I reminded him.

"Yes, but our next crime is scheduled to go down this evening," he said. "And if we happen to catch the perpetrator in the
act, just think of the story that would make--not to mention the grade," he added.

I eyeballed Frankie. Where had he learned the art of manipulation?

Oh, yeah. From me.

"It wouldn't hurt your chances of cinching a spot in the next academy either," I reminded him.

He shrugged. "Everybody wins," he said.

"So, just what is the crime of the day?" I asked, not really wanting to know but figuring I'd better ask.

"A heaping helping of hit-and-run, with a vehicular manslaughter chaser," Dixie recited.

"You're kidding," I said.

"Think we need some extra help?" Dixie asked.

"I think we need freakin' Robo Cop."

We dropped Dixie off at the Daggett digs in Des Moines and headed for Grandville. Once I left Frankie at Uncle Frank's and
Aunt Reggie's--yes, he still lives at home, but I'm in no position to criticize--I stopped off at the
Gazette
to touch base with Stan.

Stan Rodgers could almost be a twin to that guy who used to be on
NYPD Blue.
No, not the cute one; the roly-poly bald one with thinning hair and a gruff attitude. Stan is fond of wearing those goofy
half-glasses. You know, the ones that can't decide if they want to be glasses or a lorgnette when they grow up. He has a habit
of peering over the top of them that really gets on my nerves. Probably because he's usually chewing a piece of my hide when
he's doing it.

"So, how's school going?" he asked. "What can I expect to see when I get a peek at your final grades?"

"Whiteout?" I suggested.

"That bad?" he asked. I shrugged.

"It's hard keeping all the balls in the air, Stan," I complained. "Real hard."

"Try doin' it when you're fifty, overweight, with a bum knee and two kids in college."

I shook my head. "No, thanks. I think I'll stick with my two hairy hounds," I told him. "I can't even afford obedience school
for then. Anything you want me to jump on before I head home to work on my big journalism final?" I asked. "I've already thought
of a title," I added. " 'Crime by the Books: Campus Crime Wave Linked to Professor's Lecture Series.' Whaddaya think? Pretty
catchy, huh?"

"Sure. If the story pans out," Stan said, sticking an unlit cigar in his mouth. I've never seen Stan light up. He basically
chews the thing to death. Not a pretty sight.

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. In this business you never know when a story will take off like a red-hot rocket on the Fourth of July or fizzle
like a defective sparkler," he said.

"Hey. Haven't I always delivered?" I asked, not particularly thrilled with the references to fire and fizzle considering I
might be tracking a freelance criminal.

"Yeah," Stan said. "COD."

I shook my head. "COD?"

"Corpse on delivery," he told me and chuckled. Frankly, I saw little humor in it.

"Hardy-har-har," I said. "But you'll be singing a different tune when I come home with a big fat A on my final and another
story of crime and punishment to grace the pages of your newspaper."

Stan grunted. "In the meantime, Ms. Pulitzer, run over to the courthouse and pick up the arrest reports from the sheriffs
office and Clerk of Court filings, would you?" he ordered.

"Sure, boss. Anything you say."

I stood in the doorway of Stan's office and looked across the room at my tiny little table, sad, straight-back chair and ancient
computer, then shut my eyes and rubbed both temples, emitting a low hum.

"Uh, was there something else, Turner?" Stan asked.

"It's a technique I saw on one of those late night motivational shows. 'If you visualize it, you can realize it,' they say.
So I'm visualizing my new office furniture and laptop computer," I told him. "High-back leather chair. Nice, big oak desk.
Top-of-the-line laptop notebook with mobile technology." I shut my eyes again, "Just about there. Yes. Yes. I can see it!"

"Can you also see me docking your pay for wasting my time?" Stan asked. " 'Cause I seem to recall giving you a job to do."

Phhft! My office furniture fantasy disappeared faster than M&M's from Stan's candy dish when he's not around. (Hello. It's
chocolate!)

I grabbed my backpack and hauled my cookies down the block and across the street to the Knox County Courthouse. A three-story
baby-poo shade of brick, the courthouse got a face-lift several years ago that had included new windows and a roof. The century-old
jail was still down in the bowels of the square structure. When I was a child it gave me the willies to walk by those bottom
windows and see the bars on them. All right, so maybe they still do give me cause for pause at the ripe old age of practically
twenty-four--my birthday being a week off. April I. Yes, as in April Fools' Day. No smart-mouthed remarks, people. Like most
blonde jokes, I've heard 'em all.

I entered the courthouse and headed first upstairs to the Clerk of Court's office, putting off the visit to the sheriffs for
as long as I could. I have a complicated relationship with the current sheriff. I came to know him pretty well last summer
when I was trying to convince local law enforcement there was murder afoot in our little hamlet, and the cops, now-Sheriff
Samuels among them, took me about as seriously as bridegrooms take wedding planning. Besides, this gave me a chance to drop
by and see my sister-in-law, Kimmie, who works in the treasurer's office at the county courthouse. Kimmie is married to my
older and only brother, Craig. They met when Craig was delivering vehicle titles to the courthouse one day. Craig is a salesman
for a local car dealer. I'm sure you can imagine the heat I take from him for driving a car that needs to be crushed. I'm
used to his abuse. He and his best bud from grade school, Rick Townsend--or Ranger Rick as I like to call him-- along with
some other carefully crafted, made-for-the-occasion monikers such as Bass Buster, Carp Cop, the Poacher Patrol, Rickie Raccoon,
and the Don Juan of the DNR to name a few--have hassled, harped on, heckled, and humiliated me (and there was that time they
hog-tied me, but I don't like to go there) so long and so often I need a scientific calculator to keep track.

I was what you would call "ambivalent" when it came to Ranger Rick. Dark brown hair and warm maple syrup eyes, the guy is
tanned and fit and oh so easy on the peepers. And he knows it. He can also be a bossy arrogant know-it-all with a tendency
to irritate to such a degree that one will be found in the pharmacy aisle with the Preparation H and Tuck's Pads seeking blessed
cooling relief. It was Rick Townsend who saddled me with the colorful "Calamity Jayne" monitor that is harder to shuck than
the husks of roasting corn ears when you're wearing mittens.

Lately the good ranger had been giving me some not-so-subtle signs that he was ready to move our volatile relationship to
a whole new level. While the idea of volatility as it pertains to passion in a relationship is, I admit, something that has
definite appeal (as does the ranger in question--on occasion) I was somewhat concerned that the mixing of such unpredictable
and dissimilar components could generate a combo so combustible and potentially explosive that the Haz Mat crews would have
to be put on standby.

And there were also other questions that probably needed answers before I considered giving my heart-- or other crucial body
parts--to someone else for safekeeping. Like, what the heck is romantic love, anyway? I love my family and friends. And my
critters. But what does the let-me-put-my-tongue-down-your-throat-and-see-you-naked kind of love really look like? Feel like?
How will I know when I'm in it, and can I expect it to last forever? Can
anyone
expect love like that to last forever anymore? Okay. I hear you. Pull out the fiddle and rosin up the bow, 'cause that sounds
like the words to a country-western ballad. Am I right?

Still, on the subject of everlasting love, I really had to ask myself, was I even ready for that kind of love? I'd only just
begun to discover a direction for my life, plotted a course, however elementary, and ever-so-slowly started to take kindergarten
steps in that direction. Was I ready to share my life's highways and byways--not to mention detours, roadblocks, and potholes--with
another person?

With all the uncertainty tied to my love life, the question that plagued me the most, the one that really needed an urgent
answer, was also the one most prone to cause compulsive nail-biting and obsessive appearance anxiety: Was I really ready to
show my naked body--wibbly-wobbly bits and all--to someone who wasn't a medical professional and paid to look at it? That,
my dears, was really the question. The idea of exposing my healthy, homegrown, raised-on-country-sunshine-and-toned-on-the-back-of-a-horse
hips and thighs to a guy who makes Hugh Jackman look old, wizened, and out of shape, frankly made me more than a little phobic.

As a result, much to my gammy's dismay (she had the hots for Townsend's granddad, Joe) I wasn't falling into the sack without
the proper protection. Uh, I'm talking coronary care here. I wanted to make certain both the timing and the man were right
for longer than a roll or two in the hay, regardless of how rock-my-world glorious the rolls might be.

"Hey, Kimmie!" I greeted my sister-in-law, an extremely pretty girl with dark blond hair and brown eyes. Kimmie always looks
so fresh and energetic. Her makeup is always just-so (except when my brother is being an insensitive dorf-wad and she cries
and her mascara runs) and she has the best fashion sense of anyone I know, which I totally envy. I can't wear a pair of socks
the same color.

I stopped at her counter and leaned my elbows on the varnished wood. "How's it going? Any news from the baby beat?" I asked.

Kimmie had been trying to convince my brother, Craig, that he was ready for fatherhood. So far, with minimal success. The
two had been married for going on four years now and Kimmie wanted a baby. Craig still wanted to sit in a straw-covered boat
and take potshots at Daffy Duck and crawl on his belly in a cold, wet cornfield to carry out sneak attacks on goosey, goosey
gander. And all, I might add, with the undermining assistance of a certain "fishy and foul" officer.

"Your brother is slowly coming around," she said with a glint in her eyes and a set to her mouth I hadn't seen before.

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm intrigued. Please explain."

"Well, let's just say I decided that a period of abstinence might give us both some clarity on the situation," she said.