Chapter 1 by Ken Bingham
Chapter 2 by Kathleen Volk Miller
Chapter 3 by Fred Siegel
Chapter 4 by Paula Marantz Cohen
Chapter 5 by Scott Stein
Chapter 6 by Dan Driscoll
Chapter 7 by Scott Warnock
Chapter 8 by Robert Anthony Watts

As we walked towards 33rd and Chestnut, I started thinking about Ray, wondering if he had changed as much as I felt I had. Small in stature, students still found him formidable, as well as strikingly handsome. His classes filled up moments after registration began, term after term. During my previous investigation, Ray had been a font of information and advice. I found myself wandering up to the fifth floor of MacAlister whenever I could, just to soak in the academic ambiance, eavesdrop on the highbrow intellectual conversations going on in the offices, admire the charming administrative staff, spend some time with Ray.

Willy was unusually quiet on our walk, and for that I was grateful. I like the quiet; admittedly, Ginny’s muteness attracted me to her, our need to rely on body language, our eyes. I liked “speaking” with her on our teletypwriters, but when she wanted to use a VRS, I balked—I didn’t want to hear another person’s voice say Ginny’s words.

When we got off the elevator, I immediately regretted that I hadn’t figured out some way to do this alone; this was my turf, and now I had to share it with Willy, who was expecting me to arrest some unsuspecting—and innocent—students. I led the way to Ray’s office, hoping that when I saw him, he’d again lead me into knowing what to do.

I was relieved to see his door open, and equally relieved to see his first reaction when he saw me.

“Joe!” he said, pushing back from his desk and smiling from ear to ear. His smile quickly disappeared as Willy pushed me from behind, leading with his basketball-belly, into the room.

“What’s happening?” Ray said.

Willy immediately began using the breath he had stored up on the way here, “Mr. Reebok, it seems some Drexel students have burned a bunch of books, and our guess is they were English majors.”

Ray shook his head like he must have misheard, and all he could say was, “Brebach.”

I cut in, “Look Ray. Approximately 500 Harry Potter books are a charred mess under the South Street Bridge, and we have no idea who burned…”

Willy cut me back off with a, “Who do you think might have done this?”

Ray had had enough time to recover, and now said, “Our students have great respect for literature. They come here with such respect, and after working with us it only deepens. A Drexel English major would never burn any book.”

“Okay, yeah. Whatever. But if a Drexel English major were to burn a book which student would?” Willy responded.

I stood in front of Willy so he couldn’t see my face, and simply pleaded with Ray with my eyes, a form of communication natural to me, still.

Astute and perceptive as usual, Ray said, “Try the Publishing Group intern office. If anyone around here knows what’s going on, it’s those kids. See if Ali Cahill, Andrew Segedin, or Lauren Boyle are in. I think they don’t actually keep apartments, but live down there.”

“Really?” said Willy, and began taking notes. “I don’t think that’s legal either.”

I grabbed one of Willy’s beefy arms and spun him toward the door. As I left, I turned back to Ray and mouthed “Sorry” and “Thank you” as I gave the classic helpless shrug. It felt so good to be here in MacAlister again and see Ray; it felt so good to communicate without words.

Willy entered the intern’s office ahead of me. A small narrow room with four computers, mail everywhere, and books and papers strewn about; I could tell immediately this was a place where things got done. A very tall boy with an amazing amount of dark curly hair spun away from his computer and toward us, with a smile, as we entered. I wondered what it would be like to feel so comfortable somewhere, anywhere, to expect anyone who entered the room I was in to be a friend. It broke my heart to see the young man’s smile freeze as his eyes caught Willy’s badge at his hip.

“The co-op did it,” he blurted.

“The co-op, huh?,” answered Willy. “Could you give me his name and address?”

At this, a young girl who had been engrossed by Word Scramble on her computer turned also, registered what was happening in the room, and began twirling her hair with both hands.

“Um…uh…the co-op is a girl,” the boy said.

“Ah,” said Willy. “I didn’t expect that. But she couldn’t have been working alone. What’s your name?”

When he didn’t immediately answer, the girl twirling her hair said, “Andy Segedin.”

To this Andy blurted, “Well, you’re Ali Cahill.”

“Jackpot,” said Willy to me, before he turned back to the students and pulled his handcuffs off his belt in one motion. “Rod Reebok told us you two would be involved. We’re going to take you downtown for questioning.”

I started to interrupt, to protest to Willy that we could question them right here, when we all heard a crazy blues riff coming from somewhere down the hall, and we collectively froze.

Thinking fast, Andy took the opportunity and bolted out the door and down the narrow hallway. I followed just long enough to see that he had wisely escaped to the safety, and sanctuary, of the office of Abioseh Porter.

Willy’s came up behind me, and nudged me with his stomach as he said, “Where’d he go? Where’d he go?”

I wanted to say, “I don’t know.” I wanted to say, “He just disappeared.” But I also wanted back in the investigation unit; I wanted off traffic duty; I wanted Ginny back. I was just about to say, “The last office on the left” when that very door opened and out came the Department head, Abioseh. Andy followed a few feet behind.

During my prior visits, I had seen Abioseh on several occasions. When Ray had graciously introduced us, Abioseh seemed genuinely interested in my work and especially the specific case. He had told me to contact him if I ever thought he could be of help, and I had believed him.

Now, here I was, trying to arrest two of his students on outrageous charges with absolutely no evidence. It was downright embarrassing. I knew he had to remember the redball of the Paginator case. I wondered if he read about my reassignment, if he knew the case had been inactive. Abioseh veritably marched toward us, but did not say a word until we all walked back into the intern’s office.

“I am Abioseh Porter, head of this department. What is this I hear about your intention to arrest two of my students?”

I withered, and it seemed Willy deflated a bit, too, but then he spoke first, “We have reason to believe that several Drexel English majors vandalized a pile of books, via arson, last night.” As Willy spoke, as he heard his own voice, he seemed to gain strength. Abioseh was not an interrupter, but a very small smile started to appear at the corners of his mouth, as Willy went on, “We have reason to believe that the perps were Andrew Segway, Alexandra Cahill, and Lori Boy.” Willy loved words like “perps” and could never get a name straight, ever. I thought Abioseh’s smile was due to these issues, or the fact that Andy muttered, “I’m not even an English major.”

I didn’t want to hear “English major” anymore. I couldn’t. Ginny was an English major.

Abioseh allowed the smile to take over and light up his face, “And your name is?” he said to Willy.

“Detective William Phallic, sir.”

At this, Ali snorted and dropped one of her hands, continuing to twirl her hair with just one, looking more relaxed.

Willy’s “sir” showed me the respect Abioseh had already garnered. Willy didn’t “sir” anyone.

“Detective Phallic. I suggest you do the appropriate research.” Abioseh began. “Remember, ‘Character consists of what you do on the third and fourth tries.’ And also, ‘I think and think for months and years. Ninety-nine times, the conclusion is false. The hundredth time I am right.’”

Now I didn’t know if Abioseh was speaking to me or Willy, but I do know that Andy said, again, “I’m not even an English major.” Ali snorted again. And a girl who must have been Lauren Boyle came to the doorway.

And right at that moment, Willy’s Nextel went off and I heard Helen, our dispatcher say, “Willy and Joe? We need you at 3403 Powelton, the residence of Peter Rowling. An apparent homicide.”

Kathleen Volk Miller is the Managing Editor of Painted Bride Quarterly, a 35-year-old nationally recognized independent literary magazine. She has published fiction, personal essays, and articles in numerous publications, including Red Booth Review, The Smart Set, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. She has also published pedagogy papers, won a teaching award while at Rutgers University, and speaks at various conferences on marketing, publishing online, working with student interns, and teaching with technology.

Click here to go to Chapter 3 of Turning the Page. Its author is Fred Siegel.