© May 8, 2005
Linda Munro

PLEASE DO NOTCOPY OR IN ANY WAY USE ANY PORTION OF THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR: LINDA MUNRO

PART ONE
TEN YEARS LATER

Sarah Grieves studied the younger students surrounding her. This was truly the first day of the rest of her life. She had given up her dream of being a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist in lieu of marriage and a family. At forty years old, she found herself single and alone. Terry, her husband of twenty two years had walked in from work one sunny, summer afternoon to proclaim ‘their marriage just wasn’t working.’ He packed his belongings as she stood silently watching, too shocked to utter a word.

Before long, two of his buddies showed up with pick ups. They loaded half of everything in the house, before she had a chance to voice a protest, a stranger showed up, serving her with divorce papers. Ever since her second month of marriage, Sarah had wanted to do the same, yet she struggled to make her marriage work. Now, one week after their youngest left for basic training, Terry had made the decision she had never found herself capable of doing.

She hadn’t shed a tear. She did nothing more than stop one of his friends from walking out with the dining room set that her mother had left her when she had passed on. When Sarah had seen the guys walk into the dining room, she immediately jumped to her feet, racing behind them.

“Everything in this room remains.” She had demanded, grabbing a golf club from the bag that Terry had sat near the doorway. “Touch anything in here and I’ll show you what golf clubs can do to a face!” All eyes had gone to Terry, who silently nodded his response. After he had left, the situation finally sunk in, she was alone. Both of her children were gone. Her daughter had married the year before and moved out of state. Her son had joined the Army. He husband had walked out the door. For the first time since they had purchased this old fixer-upper, everything was silent. She walked in to the bare living room, sunk to the floor and cried herself to sleep.

That was two months ago. Today, she began the college courses she had only dreamed of so long ago. Her curriculum was filled with literature, journalism and communications classes and she was the oldest person in the room, even older than the Professor, and that made her feel self-conscious.

She had pulled her shoulder length, honey blonde hair back, twisted it and held it in place with a barrette. It was a quick and easy fix, somewhat carefree, yet stylish. She found more compliments on this style then when she spent hours primping. Normally, Sarah did not wear makeup; today however, she had gone full force, from foundation matched exactly to her underlying skin tone to concealer two shades lighter. She had applied powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, blush and lipstick. After a forty five minute preparation, she had achieved the most natural looking results possible. Sarah was never one that liked to look as if she were wearing makeup, she wanted to look fresh, alive and since it was her first day of college where she was surrounded by children half her age, she wanted to look young, which she did; at least a lot younger than forty.

She smoked; she didn’t work out; well, unless you counted the daily exercises she had learned to help alleviate that morning stiffness or the backaches from lifting. She really didn’t eat well, as in well balanced, low carbohydrates, low fat; she ate whatever she felt like having, whenever she felt like having it. The best part of it was that her high metabolism rate had never abandoned her. Glancing around the room, she noted that her figure was just as good, and in some cases better than those of the younger crowd. Ego boosted, Sarah could not help but to smile.

“Welcome, Class!” Shock and disbelief stirred the classroom as scraggly, old Professor Elder walked through the door, addressing the class with his scratchy voice. “By the looks of the females in this classroom, I would say you were all expecting John Grant to be teaching here.”

His gray eyes scanned the room from behind the coke bottle lenses of his Buddy Holly glasses. His long, lean body was accented by the checkered slacks hitched nearly to his breastbone. The sleeves of his bright red shirt rode halfway up his arm. His white hair stuck out, Buckwheat style. His smile was broken by his missing right front tooth.

“Grant had a mishap yesterday.” Holding up his hand as if anticipating a barrage of questions, he continued. “He’s in the hospital, but he is doing fine. I’m just stepping in to cover for him until he can come back. That may be a while, so I suggest you get accustomed to my way of teaching.”

A collective moan echoed through the room.

A big smile crowded his thin face. “I’m so happy that we can come to terms.”

He drew in a deep breath, clutching at his chest before continuing. “This is an investigative journalism class,” he noted, walking to the desk. Lifting a shoebox, he removed the cover. “Over the years, I have collected articles from newspapers all over Western New York. I cut them out and put them into shoeboxes.” Holding the box up as if it were a special offering, he continued. “Here is one such box.” He walked to the desk on the far left side of the room, thumping the box on the desk, startling the young women sitting there.

“I’m not going to take attendance in this class.” His eyes circled the room. “If you want to come, fine, you come. If not, so be it. I get paid whether or not you show up.”

A soft murmuring rose in the back of the room. “That’s right,” Professor Elder reiterated. “I’m not the one who signed up for this class; I’m only here to help Grant out. If you want to learn, you’ll be here, if not…..” He threw his hands in the air, a symbolic surrender. “So be it.”

His energy seemed to dwindle. Using the wall, he circled the front of the room, finally coming to rest at the desk. With great effort, he pulled out the chair, falling into it. “That’s better,” he said, more to himself then the class. “Now, I suppose you all would like to know about those,” his long, crooked, shaking finger pointed to the shoebox sitting on the corner desk.

“Like I said, I have been collecting articles for years. I cut out everything from advertisements to obituaries to news articles and toss them in a shoe box. I have no order, I have twenty shoeboxes, after I cut out my daily articles, I open each of the shoeboxes and separate the daily take between them.” With a nod of his head, he added. “And that’s what you’ve got there.”

He stopped, glancing around the room, as if to assure everyone was paying attention.

“Now, what I want you to do is reach in, grab an article, and pass the box around. Once everyone has an article, the last person can bring the box to me.” With that he picked up a book and began reading to himself.

After a moment, the girl he had earlier stunned reached her hand into the box, her hand searching as if she were pulling a name for a prize drawing. Lifting her hand in the air, she held the article for everyone to see, before passing the box along.

More than ten minutes had passed before the shoebox was returned to Professor Elder. He smiled, but did not move until the student returned to his seat.

“Now, then,” he began, pushing himself from the chair. “Since no one has left the room, I take it that I at least have your interest for the duration of the day.” He plodded to the front of the desk, shuffling his fanny against it before he continued.

“I would suggest that you take out a pen and paper.” He waited, giving ample time for each student to complete the task. “Now, let’s get to work.”

“Since each of you is interested in becoming an investigative journalist, you must first learn how to use information appropriately. How to take what you have and figure out if it is really worth taking time to investigate further; that is what we are going to do today.”

“I want someone, and I don’t care who, to stand up and read your article. The rest of you are to write the who, what, when, where and why of each report. When the first person finishes reading, then someone else get up and do the same. When we finish with these articles, we are going to take a look at the information we have accumulated, see if there is anything that would indicate a need for us to further investigate.”

Taking a deep breath, he added, “Are there any questions before we begin?”

Sarah glanced around, the rest of the class sat silently. After a moment she raised her hand.”

“Yes, Miss.” Professor Elder smiled broadly, his entire face lighting up. “Would you please state your name before asking your question?”

“Professor, my name is Sarah Grieves and I was wondering, have you used this form of ,” she stopped for a moment, searching for the right word to describe the exercise they were about to embark on. “Exercise,” she spat, “in the past?”

“Yes, I have.”

Without hesitating, she added, “did your classes ever find anything worth investigating?”

“Good question.” He stood, pacing back and forth as he spoke. “I used this method for the twenty years that I taught here. Over those years, the classes sometimes found articles that were interrelated from the same time period. Some found articles that were interrelated, but separated by years, sometimes decades. But the fact remains, to date, not one of my classes has ever found enough information to found an investigation.” He stood directly before Sarah. “Does that answer your question, young lady.”

“Yes and no.” She stated, mater-of-factly. “If not one of your classes has ever formulated an investigation using this principle, then what is it that you are attempting to teach us with this exercise?”

Elder practically jumped up and down with glee. “That’s exactly what I want to teach.” He laughed pointing at Sarah. “But this is the first time ever that someone got it.”

Dumbfounded, Sarah glanced at the neighboring students trying to estimate if they understood the professor.

“You want to teach us to ask questions?” A male voice called from the back of the room.

“Exactly,” replied Elder. “You’ll never, ever figure out if you have enough to investigate something without asking questions. I can see that I have an intelligent class on my hands.” He made his way towards the desk he had recently occupied. “For the first time in years, I can honestly say I am excited about teaching.”

Plopping himself on the desk, his smile engulfing his face he asked; “so who wants to begin?”

Without hesitation, Sarah stood, her voice crisp, clear and pleasant to the ear, she began reading. “Bee stings kill women in own bed. Critendon. May 12, 2004. An autopsy showed that forty two year old Crystal Cummings of Critendon died due to bee stings. Earlier this week police responded to a 9-1-1 call from eleven year old Catherine Cummings, who returned home from school to find her mother dead in bed, huge welts on her face, neck and upper torso. After a careful investigation, the police ruled out any wrong doings. The family had recently began renovating their old home and apparently stirred up a nest of bees.”

“It was apparent by the scene in the bedroom, that Cummings panicked when she saw the bees, more than likely enraging the bees by swatting at them. Her emergency bee sting kit sat on the bed stand, just inches away from where Cummings died of an lethal dose of bee venom.”

“Cummings was the President of Glorified Glass; an offspring of the now defunct Glass is Us. Funeral services will be at Wakely Manor, Saturday April 15. The family requests that memorials be made to the Insurance Institute of Highway Safety, as Cummings felt that safety was number one for her customers.”

Sarah took a deep breath and looked up at Professor Elder. “Very good.” He said, sliding to his feet. “Now, tell me Sarah, the who, what, when, where and why?”

Glancing at the clipping she responded. “The who is Crystal Cunningham; the what is her death, the when was sometime prior to April 12 of 2004; the where was at her home in Crittendon and the why was her allergy to beestings.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s check it out the information one more time. Does anyone else have a suggestion for who?” His head bobbed back and forth, reminding Sarah of the old bobbly headed hula dancer that her father had at one time glued to the dashboard of an old Corvair.

A lanky male with scraggly brown hair and a pot marked face stood up. “I have an entirely different set.” His voice was irritatingly high pitched.

“Go ahead.” Sarah thought she caught the briefest expression of disbelief on Professor Elders face.

The male turned, first to the right, then back and to the left; like the dolls they had on agitating washing machines from Sarah’s youth. His eyes were a dull brown, his lips too red and his clothing a bit too tight despite his thinness. “My Name is Eric Crandall.” He bowed towards Elder. “I would say that the who would be the police, the what a possible murder, the when would have been May 10, 2004, where the Town of Crittendon and the why being a murder investigation.” He produced an additional semi-bow and sat.

“Excellent, excellent.” Elder’s head bounded up and down, while he clapped his hands with glee. “You are both correct. Make sure you all write both answers down; you never know when something will connect. Okay….” He leaned against the desk. “Who’s next?”

Eric pushed his chair back, but before he had a chance to rise, another male jumped to his feet announcing, “I’m Kent Travis.”

Kent was dressed in jeans and a light blue button down shirt, the first two buttons undone. His physique said sports enthusiast to Sarah. His sun streaked hair was not too short as seemed to be the style amongst campus affiliates, but it was also not too long. She thought him vain when she realized his hair was sprayed stiff, the way she recalled her older sister keeping her hair. His crystal blue eyes sparkled, his smile lighting them up like a small electric charge.

“Blaze lights up early morning sky. September fifteenth. Flames destroyed a vacant building at 4732 Lexwood Avenue this morning. The building has housed many city businesses over the years, until it was obtained by Glass in Us in the early 90’s. The building has been empty since the scandal that rocked the city in 2000. Firefighters from six districts were called in to fight the blaze. No cause has been listed, but arson investigators are still at the scene.” He looked around, flashing his pearly whites before he concluded. “The who is either the building at …” His eyes ran across the brief article. “4732 Lexwood Avenue or the firemen. The what is of course the fire. The when is September fifteenth, although I have no idea what the year is. The where is at 4732 Lexwood Avenue in the city, but of course, there is no indication as to what city. The why appears to be arson, although we are not yet positive.” His smile had been fading with each word spoken.

“Ex…”

Elder began, but was cut off by Sarah who asked, “Do you know which newspaper this may have come from Professor?”

Rubbing his chin, he contemplated the question. “Well, I have so many newspapers delivered to my home, I cannot say for certain, but I can offer an assumption.”

“Let’s start with that.” Sarah had no idea why she had taken control of the situation, but she certainly was enjoying herself.

“Well,” he slid off the desk and started pacing the floor. “You see, I subscribe to newspapers from all over Western New York. Only six of these newspapers print articles referring to the city without actually naming the city; The Buffalo News, The Niagara Gazette, The Olean Times, The Democrat and Chronicle, The Post Journal and The Observer.”

Sarah had been jotting down the names of the newspapers as Elder rattled them off. Tapping her pen against the paper she asked, “You named three newspapers without the names of the city in the title.” Elder was clapping his hands again. “I am enjoying this so much. I have never taught such a responsive class. Okay, the Democrat and Chronicle is a Rochester newspaper. The Post Journal is a Jamestown newspaper. The Observer is a Dunkirk newspaper.” He stood over Sarah as she jotted the city names next to the newspaper names. ”Are there any other questions Sarah?”

“Not at the moment.” Her voice was flat.

Looking around the room, Professor Elder asked, “Does anyone else have anything before we move on?”

“I do.” The voice was melodic, mellow.

All eyes turned to the petite golden haired girl who barely reached five foot tall. Her hair, naturally curly, hung in ringlets around her face, her skin was pale and flawless; the combination gave her the appearance of a porcelain doll. “My name is Virginia Hanley, my friends call me Ginny.” She turned around, offering a mock bow similar to what Eric had.

Turning her attention to Sarah, she asked; “Sarah, would you please read the last paragraph of your article again.”

Without standing, Sarah grabbed the article from the desk, her eyes scanning to the bottom of the paper. “uh – hmmm,” she cleared her throat. “Cummings was the President of Glorified Glass; an offspring of the now defunct Glass is Us. Funeral services will be at Wakely Manor, Saturday April 15. The family requests that memorials be made to the Insurance Institute of Highway Safety, as Cummings felt that safety was number one for her customers.”

Her mouth formed a perfect o, as she reread the paragraph in silence, her eyes finally rising to meet Ginny’s. Neither spoke, they simply nodded their understanding.

Turning her attention to the Professor, Sarah spoke softly. “I don’t think we’ll need to find the newspaper that goes along with Kent’s article.”

Professor Elder was looking back and forth between Sarah and Ginny, his mouth hanging opened. “Well, I’ll be.” His voice was so low; the students had to strain to hear him. “After all this time, it looks like we may have something to investigate.”

Four students jumped from their seats at the same time, each reading the article they had pulled from the shoebox.

“Whoa! Whoa!” cried Professor Elder.

Everyone stopped talking and stared at the old man.

“I have a better idea,” he declared. “Rather than reading each of the articles out loud, each of you read your article to yourself; if you see anything that indicates a connection to Glass is Us, or the general vicinity, stand up, but don’t say a world Once you have finished reading the article, if you find no reference, slide the article to the top of the desk. In the meantime, Sarah, Kent, come to the front of the room please.”

The room turned deathly silent as the duo dawdled towards the front of the room.

Professor Elder had pulled a handful of articles from the shoebox. Pushing the box towards the trio, he whispered. “Divide these amongst the students. Let’s see if we can find anything else.”

They nodded in unison, Sarah grabbing the box. Kent grabbed a handful of articles to disperse to the class. Sarah reached in, pulling the top article from the pile. ‘’CEO of Ill Fated Glass is Us Found Dead.’ Without reading further, she slipped it onto the pile the Professor had kept for himself.

His eyes scanned the headline before gazing into hers. Shaking his head, he whispered, “all these years I have been so busy cutting out articles, I never paid attention to what was written in them.”

Sarah turned, readying herself to hand out her portion of the article, six students stood at their desks.

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