Free Artist by Eric Drouant Page A

era, what’s going on at the time. I spent some time this morning talking to an Art professor out at the University. Her name is Beth Spell, she runs the Department. Here’s the schedule for Chaisson.” He pointed to the chart.
    “Okay. Chaisson spends three mornings a week in the studio. Apparently, she divided her time between oil painting and sculpture, but leaned toward the painting. I saw some of the things she did. They’re pretty good. I thought they were good but Spell said she still needed work. Anyway, the Art Studio is in this building here.” He pulled out a rough sketch of the campus.
    “This semester, and last semester, she spent boning up on history, tying together the political and social history of the late 1800’s, which is what she was interested in, to the artists of that time period. We interviewed one of her friends, or you did,” he pointed to Dupond, “and she told you that Chaisson was focused on Renoir, a French impressionist. That ties in with these two classes, European history and more importantly, French History which she took in the History building here.” He pointed it out on paper. It was across campus from the Art building. A short walk across a grassy open spot marked on the sketch.
    “Now, here’s Gloria Maro. She worked at night. Cleaned house and slept during the day according to her mother. Work started at 6pm. Chaisson’s last class was at 3pm so there’s not much chance of them crossing paths unless one stayed late or the other went in early. But,” he turned to the sketch again, “Maro cleaned in the History building before moving right next door and working in the Math building here. He says each employee worked the same building every night. It makes it easier to keep track of for him and the girls learn all the spots they have to get into.”
    “So the bottom line,” Dupond said, “is that we can tie both Chaisson and Maro to the History building but not at the same time.”
    “And Kelt?” Cassie asked.
    “Kelt we’ve got zip. Nothing ties her to the school. Or , nothing we know anyway. It’s possible she’s got some connection we haven’t heard about.”
    Cassie looked across the table at Dupond. “Are we barking up the wrong tree here? Maybe I’m reading too much into the idea of the school being the focus.”
    “How many students are in the History Department?” Dupond asked.
    Adan checked his notes. “According to Kelt there are roughly 500 students taking History for one reason or another each semester. It’s a requirement for some and an easy elective for others so there are plenty of freshman. By the time you get down to History Majors you’re talking 200 or so.”
    “It would take us ten years to look at 200 students,” Cassie said.
    “Well, I think we could eliminate the women,” Adan replied. “The rapes eliminate them. That leaves us with the men. We’re looking at about 65 male students altogether. It would still take a while to get to all of them.”
    “Put a list together anyway. If we come up with a name we can cross-check against it,” Dupond said. “And do this, too. Find out how many of them are foreign students, or foreign born.” He was thinking of Schumaker and her “To Let” information. “That should cut it way down. There can’t be more than a handful of exchange students.”
    Dupond sat back, rubbing his eyes. They’d been going at it since early morning and it was now well late afternoon. “So, let’s put together everything we have.”
    “Schumaker thinks the guy might be foreign,” said Cassie.
    “The knots. He might be a sailor,” Adan tossed in.
    “A History student,” said Dupond. “So all we have to do is find a foreign born history student who likes to sail and that’s our guy. But we’re still screwed because we don’t have any physical evidence to tie him to any of the murderers.”
    “The shoes,” Adan said. “There’s still the shoes. I heard from the FBI and they can’t match the