ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS BOOK--EVEN THOSE BASED ON REAL PEOPLE--ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL.

ALL VOICES ARE PARAPHRASED...POORLY. THE FOLLOWING BOOK CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND POSSIBLE GRAMMATICAL ERRORS THAT WOULD MAKE CERTAIN COLLEGE PROFESSORS SHUDDER.

CHAPTER 12: Thursday, September 21, 1989, 4:20 p.m. Shakespeares Pizza on Ninth Street, across the street from the J-School, was and probably continues to be the ultimate neutral territory at the perpetually segregated University of Missouri-Columbia. Cool Stuff belonged to the stoners; The east side of Brady Commons to the African American students; Harpos to the Greeks and Preps; Shattered to the Goth and Alternative crowds; and The Chez to the coffee-loving Christians. But Shakespeares, with its bottled Cokes, large seating area, and pizza with a Midwestern sensibility (overly sweet sauce and too much cheese), had an All are Welcome vibe. I coasted all the way down Ninth Street to get there; Julie had stuff to do or pot to smoke and I was hungry and stressed out. It was a sunny day, the leaves on the trees were shifting to autumnal splendor, and the humidity and heat that gripped Columbia for the first part of the semester was finally letting go. I hopped off my bike out front and prepared to lock it. As I pulled out my black lock from my backpack, Mark Cooter biked by me, slowing down to a stop. In one of his hands was a large half-full, translucent plastic bag. He held the bag outright and to the side as to not roll over it. Locking my bike, I stood up---standing in front of his handlebars. Just came from Kkkkk...., he struggled with the words. The ks sounded like a bird looking for a mate in the early morning sunrise. Kinkos, I offered. Yes, Kinkos, he said, proudly getting the word out. I noticed a yellow tag flapping in the breeze that had been tied to his handlebars. The letters were written in blue block writing, spelling out CPD. I fingered the tag. I had just seen tags like this the other day outside Watts office. The initials stood for the Columbia Police Department. Oh, I just picked up my bike from Watts. I left it the other night by Shattered and the cops picked it up for safekeeping. With that, he set off again, holding the white trash bag to his side. He turned the corner at Elm Street and disappeared. I stepped inside the pizzeria and got in the long line to place my order, immediately noticing Dr. Don Dandy checking me out from a corner table by the front window. Perhaps I was fascinating today? He lifted his Diet Coke to me. I held up my reporters notebook in response.

As I shifted back and forth on my feet in line, I reviewed the events from the last few days. Foremost, I was worried about that Mutato poster on the wall at Chief Watts office. What the police knew about Brad and the Mutato was going to eat away at me. I had to get him to stop his adventures. I should go to his dorm room later, I told myself. I bit my lip and then, tried to shift my attention to the case on hand---as that at least felt within my control. The line inched up further. A blonde girl with a spiral perm in front of me was complaining about the wait. I flipped through my notebook. Lucinda and Wayne were in unlikely cahoots together, as weird as that thought was. Maddie Goldberger gave herself the greatest motive in the theft of the computer, being that she was publishing an entire yearbook on her own with no staff and no Pagemaker, but to kill for it? I figured Watts would soon be interviewing others as well---the whole Meaneater staff. So, ultimately, everyone was suspicious, but was anyone suspicious of pulling off a murder? Watts still didnt give me a rundown of all of the clues yet, particularly the murder weapon---which was likely to be the brick that felled Ashley. The more we learned the more we realized we had left to learn. The spiral perm girl placed her order and the guy behind the counter turned to me with a grunt. Plain small pizza and a Diet Coke, please. He handed me the soda and took down my name. Holding my bottle of Diet Coke, I retreated from the line and up the ramp and to the back dark booths of Shakespeares. I secured a table in the far, far back corner and pulled out my Statistics 202 textbook to review some chapters, as I feared failing that class, but placed my reporters notebook on top of it. Statistics could wait. I sipped some Diet Coke. I continued to review my notes. Ashley wasnt wearing her wedding ring when her body was found. Did someone take it? I thought. Who would want her dead? Where did the brick come from? What was with the black rubber bracelets? And Ronnies button to his jeans---did it fall off in a struggle? Was he off the hook or a real-live suspect? I immersed myself with the minutiae of details, flipping back and forth between the interview notes. I suddenly wished Julie were here to recap this stuff---I needed a sounding board. Id swing by her dorm later, I figured.

I was writing up a list of questions when I heard the bathroom door open and close and then felt a shadow fall over my already dark table. I didnt look up, instead just guzzled my soda. The shadow didnt move. And I didnt react to it. Moments passed. Finally, the shadow cleared his throat. Again, I did not look up. But I did address the shadow as I sketched down a few more questions. Ronnie. Could you please put some pants on? Standing in front of me, bottomless, but wearing a Cure T-Shirt, was Ronnie Bolt. He grinned and slid, bottom and all, on the cool wooden booth across from me. Sasha. Ive been looking everywhere for you. He played with the black rubber bracelets around his wrist nervously. He seemed pensive; more than usual. Hows the investigation coming? he finally asked. How did your meeting go with Watts? I answered back with a question. He nodded. Watts believes that my button and pants being at the scene of the murder is nothing more than--- Coincidence? I answered back, haltingly, digging for info. He nodded. Watts seems to take pity on me. As if I were a freak. But he doesnt think I did it. I wanted to believe him. Better a freak than a murderer, I remembered thinking. Are you and Rad getting along better---since he gave me and Julie the story over you? I asked, changing the subject. He looked up at me and smiled. A genuine smile. Ronnie had a beautiful smile. Even nice skin and hair. If it werent for the naked thing hed be quite the catch. News at 11, he replied back, with a hint of mystery. Fair enough. Ronnie asked me how the interviews went, and I told him, honestly, that I didnt have many new developments. He tapped his finger against the table, thinking.

The key to this is the scene of the crime---and all the clues left behind, he finally said. I agreed and I told him that Julie had gone to the newsroom earlier to sketch out the murder scene for that precise reason. I saw his reaction change slightly---his amber eyes turning darker. When did she do that? I opened my mouth to answer when the loudspeaker called out a plain small cheese pizza for Sara Willowski. With a grimace, I excused myself from the table. I headed back to the cash register, my backpack on my arm. The cashier told me I owed five dollars, the price of a small personal pizza and a soda and I pulled out my green Boone County National Bank checkbook. As I made out my check, I heard the cashier call out another pie, this one to go, for Bobby Benson. I signed my check and handed it over, and noticed that Bobby was standing next to me, his eyes red and his skin oddly translucent. He looked like he had been crying. Always crying. Five dollars, the cashier told him, as I watched Bobby intensely. I hadnt seen anyone mourn before. No one had ever died in my family. He appeared crushed to the core. He seemed so removed as if his entire spirit had left the state of Missouri and only his body remained. Five dollars, the cashier said to Bobby again. Sniffling, Bobby nodded and jammed his hand into the right front pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out empty handed and weakly smiled at me. Sheepishly, he jammed his hand into the left hand pocket. Choking back a snort, he pulled out a fistful of ones and quarters. As I stood there, partly to extend my condolences, partly out of curiosity, Bobby counted out the money to the cashier. But because he was shaking, the money slipped from his hand and the change fell to the floor in a pitter-patter. I put down my pizza on the counter and bent down to help him pick up the change, as did Bobby. I swept my hand across the dusty floor and scooped up quarters and dimes, which I cupped in my hands and gently dropped back into his open hand. Something in that change caught my eye, however. Sitting among the dimes and nickels, was a simple, small, silver-colored ring. Instinctually, I reached for it, but Bobby suddenly made a fist with his hand. Is that Ashleys ring? I asked him with a loud hush. But it wasnt on her body, I thought,

when she was found. How did Bobby get it? He didnt answer me. He jammed the ring back into his pocket. He simply paid the cashier and with an uncomfortably loud sniffle, smiled weakly at me and backed away and out the door, a box of pizza in his hands. My head was rushing. I grabbed my now lukewarm cheese pie and raced up the ramp to tell Ronnie. I jogged to the back booth. But Ronnie, and his nakedness, were not there. And my notebook, with all my notes from the interviews with Watts, was suddenly, and unmistakably gone as well. But my Stat 202 book, however, sadly remained. Stat 202 was unavoidable.