It was the dead professor and not the dead girl that Niccoldi contemplated the night after the murder. He sat at his desk in his study, a half-filled glass of iceless bourbon in one hand while he read over the notes Amy had so dutifully compiled. He paused and closed his eyes and tried to picture the man: his Robert Redford looks, his ever-changing Latin quote on the upper third of the blackboard, the way he walked up and down the rows of the classroom, stopping to call on the student he thought would least expect it. He was everyone’s favorite. Even those who struggled with the work, who cursed him for his arrogance, who rejected the ancient world he so faithfully glorified, loved him in the end.
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