A Function of Murder Read Free Page A

hope they’re ready.”
    “The students or the world?” she asked.
    “Both.”

In the air-conditioned comfort of Benjamin Franklin Hall, the math and science building,
     my feelings were different. Now I really didn’t want the party to end.
    This time the awarding of degrees was individual, some might have said drawn out,
     in Franklin’s large lecture hall. Each math and science major, twenty-five in all,
     made an Oscar-like speech, thanking parents, roommates, the groundskeepers, and—big
     thrill here—us, the faculty.
    To close the ceremony, the new graduates lined up to receive their official gift from
     the college: a letter opener with a replica of the college seal attached at the top.
     The blade was sterling silver, with a point sharp enough to open acceptance letters
     for grad school or jobs, we claimed.
    “I’d love to have the contract for those,” Fran said, as the last letter opener was
     removed from its box and oohed and aahed over. “Imagine the number of alumnae who
     have them.”
    “We should have done the calculation during thespeeches,” I said. “Multiply one hundred years or so of graduates by—”
    “Maybe next year,” Fran said.
    We repaired to the first-floor lounge to await food and drink from the caterers. With
     students, parents, faculty, and guests, the room was stretched to its limit and many
     took to the hallways.
    At the close of every school year, I hated the idea of losing a class of senior math
     majors, plus all the science students I’d gotten close to over four years. I could,
     however, understand why they’d want to swear off grueling homework, pop quizzes, exams,
     and grades for the rest of their lives.
    As always, there was a whole lot of clinging going on, and many promises were made
     while a mix of the graduates’ musical favorites played in the background. Pitbull
     and Lady Gaga were prominent, as were the surprisingly long-lasting Black Eyed Peas,
     who dated back to before most of these students were born.
    “I’ll never, never lose touch with you,” Jeanne Flowers, near tears, swore to Bethany
     Riggs.
    “We totally have to hook up in California in August,” Bethany said to Nicole Johnson.
    “I’ll tweet and text you every day,” Nicole told Jeanne.
    And so on, with Claudette, Heather, Jessica, and a dozen other flushed young women.
    I could have written the script.
    After fifteen years of college teaching, I usually came pretty close with my estimate—it
     would take two or three months for all but a few graduation-day promises to fall off
     to zero; only one month if European travel intervened.
    Kira Gilmore, one of today’s academic stars, rushed up to me and nearly knocked me
     over with her energetic hug. At close to six feet, a large-boned Californian, Kira
     towered over me, her five-foot-three math prof. Only a couple of weeks ago, Kira had
     impressed a professional mathematics society with aresearch paper based on her thesis—the application of mathematical models to political
     science. Knowing Kira’s innate shyness, I was doubly proud of her performance.
    “I’m coming back here so often, you won’t even know I graduated,” Kira said now. “You’ve
     been the best teacher and the best adviser, Dr. Knowles.”
    I thanked her and hugged her back. As much as I cared about her, I hoped Kira would
     not keep her promise. What I wanted most was to see her move on.
    “Here comes the food,” Nicole said, getting down to basics, and illustrating that
     the transition from starving student to sophisticated graduate wasn’t immediate.
    Group hugs broke up and cameras were put away for the moment as the caterers hired
     by the Franklin Hall faculty entered the lounge with large trays, a pleasing, aromatic
     trail in their wake. The food line formed as soon as the trays of delectables hit
     the table.
    Our building, at the northwestern edge of the campus, was party central all year round,
     not just for graduation. Franklin