I continued. “The textbook for this class is entitled Permission Theory: Redefining Abnormal Behavior, and for those of you not familiar with the author, handsome devil that he is, let it be known that he’s a bit of a narcissist who enjoys listening to the sound of his own voice almost as much as he does forcing others to listen to it.”
Most of the room laughed. Those who didn’t had their heads buried in their syllabi to see that, yes, I, Dylan Reinhart, was indeed the author of said textbook.
“This of course brings us to rule number two,” I said. “You will attend every class. Your only excuse for missing a class will be your own death or someone else’s, provided this someone else either breast-fed you, coached your Little League team, or routinely put a five-dollar bill in your childhood birthday card and signed it Love, Grandma and Grandpa.”
A student in the first row, obviously a freshman, was typing feverishly on his laptop. I remained silent until he finally looked up at me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He swallowed hard and glanced at his keyboard, confused. “I was…um…taking notes,” he said meekly.
“Rule number three,” I announced with a little added volume. “You will not take notes in this class. I repeat, you will not take notes. What you will do is listen. The premise of this course is to challenge the long-standing conventional thinking about abnormal behavior, and as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing more abnormal than my lecturing to a roomful of stenographers.” I paused, smiling. “Are there any questions?”
This time, no one raised a hand. Geniuses or not, they were all still students at Yale. They didn’t get there by learning slowly.
“Good,” I said. “Now let’s get started.”
But before I could, a noise in the back of the room had every head turning. It was only the door opening, nothing more.
Still, there was something different about it.
Sometimes you just know the sound of trouble even before she walks into the room.
Chapter 2
“SHIT!” SHE announced from the top of the aisle as she realized everyone was staring at her. Immediately she slapped her forehead. “Shit, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “Lucky for you, I don’t give two shits about someone cursing in my class.” I stepped out in front of the lectern. “Welcome.”
Writers can spot their own books a mile away, and she had mine tucked under her arm. “You’re Professor Reinhart, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “And you are?”
“Clearly interrupting,” she said.
She was either a student or someone who happened to look young for her age. I couldn’t tell.
For sure, though, she was attractive. The proof wasn’t so much the way the male students were staring at her but rather the female students. If you don’t understand that, then you probably have no clue why women buy expensive shoes. Hint: it has nothing to do with men.
“I’m sorry, I still didn’t get your name,” I said.
“It’s Elizabeth,” she answered. “Elizabeth Needham.”
“Are you a student here, Ms. Needham?” I asked.
“At Yale?” She laughed deeply from her gut. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Apparently I am,” I said.
She looked around the room. “I mean, no offense, of course.”
“I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say none taken. But if you’re not a student…”
“Then who am I? Yes, that’s a good question,” she said.
“Will there be a good answer?”
“How about I just sit in on the class and we’ll talk afterward?”
She half tiptoed over to an empty chair in the back row. For good measure, she gave me a nod as if to say, “Carry on.”
Whoever she was, she had balls.
As if the entire class were sitting midcourt at Wimbledon, they all turned their heads back to me—whoosh!—to see what would happen next. The ball was clearly in my court.
“Sixty-eight thousand, two hundred and thirty dollars,” I called out.
Whoosh! went everyone’s head back to her.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“That’s the cost of a year at Yale, Ms. Needham, of which approximately forty-nine thousand dollars is for tuition,” I said.
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“No, I’m asking if you have your checkbook.”
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
With that, she stood with a huff and began walking toward the door. I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. My damn conscience. It’s my Achilles’ heel.
“I hope I didn’t offend you, Ms. Needham,” I said.
She stopped, raising a palm. “That’s quite all right. For the record, though, it’s Detective Needham. The reason I’m here is because I’m pretty sure someone wants to kill you.”
Then whoosh!
She was gone.
Chapter 3
“GO AFTER her!” a few students shouted.
I was tempted, but I figured if someone really did want me dead there was no better place to be than in a roomful of potential witnesses.
I stayed put and delivered my lecture as planned. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best lecture I’d ever given, and maybe I rushed through it just a wee bit. A guy can compartmentalize only so much.
I obviously needed to talk to this woman, and I knew it would take only one call after class to know whether she was still on campus.
“No,” said the guy who answered the phone at the New Haven police department. “We don’t have a Detective Elizabeth Needham.”
I didn’t think so. There was something “big city” about her. Or at least a bigger city than New Haven. That meant she traveled a distance to see me. No way she would leave without our talking.
Sure enough, within seconds I felt the vibration of a text message. She’s a detective, she flashes her badge, and the dean or some other keeper of all things confidential coughs up my cell number.
Meet me @ Jojo’s.
No address and none needed. A coffee shop that everyone on campus knows. It was close by, too.
A few minutes later, I was walking toward her at a table in the back. She had my book and some colored folders laid out meticulously, everything perfectly aligned. She was peering at me with her dark brown eyes over an oversize mug.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said, taking a seat.
Of course, the charm of Jojo’s, on Chapel Street, is that there’s nothing fancy about it. Wooden tables and chairs on a scuffed-up wood floor were scattered about, and some grandma-style curtains were hanging in the windows. Very college.
“How was the rest of class?” she asked. Her flashing of a wry smile would’ve been redundant.
“A third of the students wanted me to chase after you while another third actually thought you were a plant—you know, someone I hired. The course is about abnormal behavior, after all.”
“And the remaining third?” she asked.
“Too busy wondering what grade they’ll get if someone does indeed kill me before the term is over,” I said.
I waited for her to tell me that she’d been a tad melodramatic; that no one really wanted to kill me. Instead she opened the folder directly in front her. It was green.
“Let’s back up a bit,” she said.
She reintroduced herself. Elizabeth Needham, NYPD detective second grade. I could call her Elizabeth, though.