Every hallway looked the same; old, enormous, and cedar. I passed some bookcases with awards and trophies from various state competitions. I walked under the fat nose of Praetoria founder Xavior Xagyg, the canvas’s eyes eerily following me as I mounted a wide staircase, like I was approaching a throne unwanted.

I had been wandering through the labyrinth for at least twenty minutes, and it was just now that I saw some students coming my way, two lovely ladies. Within thirty paces of me they stop and look worried, like they had taken a wrong turn and found the minotaur.

“Is something wrong ladies?”

“Oh no,” the one with auburn hair lied. She looked down and told her textbooks “We’re just going to class.”

“That’s great. Can you tell me which room is Mr. Wagner’s?”

The one with long black hair and an immodest amount of eyeliner spoke up, “No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a cop, right?”

“No, I’m a dick.”

“Those are mutually exclussive?”

“Cute. I don’t work with the cops. I’m a pet dick.”

“Already got two.”

“Just tell me where Wagner’s classroom is, ok?”

They exchanged glances with awkward stances, then turned to me like the grinding wheels of a mill, “Are you here about Dan?”

“Dan who?”

Their spirits rose. “Oh nevermind. You’re looking for room 420.”

They bounced away. Great, more stairs.

Wagner was teaching class, and although it was muffled, I could hear him through the door. Discussing some poem by Keats, I just caught bits and pieces:

“Small, busy flames play…fraternal souls…I search around the poles…This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice…we together pass…our spirits fly.”

Sounded fruity to me. I never liked poetry. The class let out and the students all avoided eye contact with me as they left. I stepped in as the man was erasing the blackboard. He sniffed the air and looked over his shoulder. Steve Wagner was average height and build, was finished with going bald, and had either a perpetually raised right eyebrow or a perpetually squinting left. Maybe a little of both.

“What can I do for you Mr. …”

“Cheney.”

“Cheney.” His hands were in his pockets and he was smiling, but behind his eyes there was a grim resolve. He was deadly serious about being unconcerned. And he was good at it.

“You can tell me where you were last night.”

“At home. Is there a problem?”

I threw a photo of the hotel room on the front row desk next to him, watching those precious few seconds, where his eyes went, how he breathed. “Recognize this?”

“It’s a hotel room.”

I showed him the postcard, “This?”

“A postcard, with a kiss mark on it.”

I showed him the girl, “What about her?”

“It’s a dead girl.”

He knew her, but he’d played this game before. “You’ve got a nice job here Mr.Wagner. Folks pay a lot of money for you to teach their kids. Folks pay a lot of money to get their name in the expansive hallways I had the pleasure of trekking through. I’m not sure they’d like to hear a Praetoria teacher was involved with a murder.”

“I don’t think they’d like to hear you’ve been dragging a dead girl around those halls.”

“Don’t worry about my methods. Worry about the results.” I started to leave.

“You’re wasting your time, Cheney. And mine.”

“In prison you’ll have plenty of time. And plenty of friends too; maybe you can read them some Keats.”

I endured for a second time the stairs and the stares, wondering what kind of place Praetoria really was, if anything was different back in Xavier’s day. Wondering how big of a brush the guy used to paint that huge thing. I went out a back door. I never like to leave the same way I came in. I feel like I cover more ground that way, but I do it even when I’m not on the job. Maybe it’s a Feng Shui thing. Who the hell am I kinding; I’m always on the job.

Near a dumpster I saw a pirate. He was puffing on a cheap cigarette and counting dollars.

“You a student here?”

He looked me up and down. “Fuck no. I sell heroin.”

“Good. Here’s a fifty. Follow the teacher Steve Wagner home, and take some pictures. Get anything good and I’ll toss you some more.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You have any idea why the kids here would be told not to talk to cops about someone named Dan?”

“Dan Richardski. One kid said he killed himself, another said he was sliced up all over. Real horrorshow. No cops, no morgue. Hush hush.”

I haven’t got time for all this. I still hadn’t combed the hotel room for things the flatties might have missed.