Free Murder in the English Department by Valerie Miner

guesses tonight. Nan knew she had to intervene. Kneeling on the floor, she scrambled for her shoes. Propriety, even in disaster. What the hell was she doing? She ran out into the hall with one shoe on. By the time she reached Murchie’s door, all was silent. She knocked, but heard no answer. Eerie. Nan would rather hear anything than this silence. Nervously, she rattled the door. Then she heard something. Something low. Murchie’s voice. Groaning or gasping. Then the slamming open of a window. How did she know? How much was she imagining? How much had she imagined all night? Nan rattled the handle again. No sound. Bewildered, petrified, she found herself turning back around the corner. What was she doing? Oh, yes, automatic pilot. Panic always brought out the best in her. She ran back to her office and rooted around in her purse for a credit card. Joe had showed her this trick. Confidently now, she stuck the plastic card in the lock. Calmly, as if she moonlighted as a cat burglar, she released the lock. Finally Nan flung open the door to the brightly lit office.
    The window was wide open. The first thing she saw was the yellow blind flapping wildly against the cold wind. Beneath the window, lying on the floor, was the enormous carcass of Angus Murchie, gushing quantities of a maroon substance that she presumed to be human blood. She saw three deep gashes in his stomach. Oh, god, she thought, tell me it isn’t true. She spun around as if looking for help. Noticing his cashmere sweater on the chair, she pulled it down and tried to stop the bleeding. Oh god. Oh god. His eyes were glazed as though he were focussing on some long and winding eternity. Never had anything terrified or repulsed her so. Behind him a wave of cold night air roared through the window. She shivered and rose as if in a trance.
    Nan carefully stepped over the body and looked out the window. Down below, she saw a woman with a long blonde braid down her back running toward the Northside of the campus. She must have climbed down the scaffolding being used by the masonry workers, thought Nan. What was she doing? This man was dying here in the room with her. She pulled down the big window and returned to Murchie.
    A small, pathetic rasping came from his throat.
    â€˜It’s going to be all right,’ she heard herself reassure him.
    More rasping.
    She wiped his forehead with her hand. She wanted to call for help. Yet Murchie seemed to need her here, now, beside him. He looked more peaceful at her touch, at her reassurance. Jesus, Nan realized, if she was scared he must be terrified.
    With considerable calm, Nan studied Murchie’s eyes and felt his pulse, the way Dr Charles Woodward practised on her for his first-term exams. He was breathing faintly. Every second counted. No time for outside help. She would have to try to save him herself. Overcoming nausea at Murchie’s alcoholic breath, she gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Eventually she recognized it was useless. Murchie was not responding. Oh god. O god, say it isn’t true. Nan drew away, noticing a stain of blood on her dress. Minimal compared to the large and peculiar patterns his dark blood had made on the teal Persian carpet. She sat back, telling herself that Murchie was dead. She could feel nothing for him. But she felt a great fear for Marjorie.
    Marjorie. Poor, innocent Marjorie. Stupid, careless Marjorie. Here was the letter opener lying next to Murchie’s right hand. Underneath it was Marjorie’s batik silk scarf. Nan folded the scarf, amazed to discover how profound was her instinct to protect this other woman. Nan wondered if she herself might be accused of the murder. Then she was filled with nausea from the smell of Murchie’s sweat and sex. For the first time, she noticed that his pants were down around his thighs. His penis looked like a purple magic marker. She closed her eyes which were heavy and sore. Momentarily, she contemplated whether murder