Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [32]
“At this stage, Mr. Jessup, we’re not assuming anything. What we’re doing is gathering all the information we can, from any source. No one’s a suspect, although …”
“… although everyone’s a suspect,” Jessup said, completing Klayman’s thought and pleased that he’d thought of it. “One of my assistants will accompany you, and stay with you for as long as you need. I’ve provided her with a list of faculty names who might prove helpful, including Ms. Zarinski’s faculty adviser during her four years here. I’ve instructed the person who’ll be accompanying you to give you every possible bit of cooperation.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
Jessup picked up his phone and asked someone named Marcia to come in. She was a stocky, thirty-plus-year-old woman in a teal pantsuit, with short blond hair, a round, open face, and whose glasses were oversized circles. After introductions, Jessup walked them into the reception area. “Please feel free to call me anytime, Detective. And good luck in your investigation.”
“We’ll start at Ms. Zarinski’s dorm,” Marcia told Klayman, leading him at a brisk pace across the street to what she described as Anderson Hall, “our largest of six residence halls. Ms. Zarinski lived there for part of her undergraduate time at the university.”
“‘Part of her time?’ Where did she live the rest of the time?”
Marcia came to an abrupt halt and consulted papers she carried. “She lived off-campus. She’d repeatedly requested a single on-campus room, but we don’t have many single-occupancy accommodations for undergraduate students.”
“Do you have a record of who paid for her schooling and housing?” Klayman asked as they resumed walking.
“No, but that’s easily obtainable.” She stopped again and scribbled a note on the top page.
When they reached the front of Anderson Hall, Marcia inserted an ID card into a slot, tripping the lock on the door. “Security is a top priority at American University,” she proudly announced. “Each student has a coded ID card for his or her dorm. That’s the only way you can gain entry.”
“The only way? Students can’t bring in guests?”
“We discourage it.” She opened the door and allowed Klayman to precede her. “Students can only enter other residence halls with an escort from those halls.”
Young men and women were everywhere, outside on the grassy knoll and in the public rooms and hallways, chatting and laughing, their energy palpable. Klayman reasoned that there were probably more students in the building that day, and at that hour, than would be the case further into the new semester when classes were in full swing.
Marcia checked her papers and led Klayman to a staircase. “Ms. Zarinski’s last room was on the second floor, west wing,” she announced, taking the stairs two at a time with Klayman in step behind. As they moved down the hallway, Klayman glanced right and left through open doors into student rooms where young men and women were in the process of decorating walls and unpacking suitcases, some with parents who helped, or stayed out of the way.
“Coed dorm,” Klayman commented.
“All the floors in Anderson are coed,” Marcia confirmed. “Some of the others have same-sex floors.” She laughed. “I still can’t get used to the notion of coed living. I wouldn’t want it.”
The room that had been Nadia Zarinski’s was occupied by two young men sitting on the floor amidst a pile of half-emptied boxes. Rock music screeched from a boom box at their feet. They looked up at Klayman and Marcia; one of them waved. Marcia stepped into the room and yelled over the music, “Got a minute, guys?” They looked puzzled. “Turn that down?” she said, pointing to the boom box. They got to their feet, and one of them clicked off the recording. Marcia introduced herself, then did the same for Klayman.
“Just take a couple of minutes,” Klayman said. “Maybe you heard about the murder at Ford’s Theatre yesterday.”
One said, “She was a student here.