June
 
When Corrie entered the Main Auditorium of the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, she was alarmed to see it packed, almost every seat taken. The graduating class was big, but there must have been something like six or seven hundred people in the room in addition to the class.
 
Smoothing down her conservative grey suit, she made her way to the section reserved for juniors, directly behind the mass of graduating seniors in their caps and gowns. A number of seniors had submitted their theses for the Rosewell Prize. Corrie was the only junior to have done so. Even after it was completed and handed in, there had been more trouble about her submission, with some in the administration questioning whether it should even be allowed. She was pretty sure her advisor and nemesis, Dr. Carbone, was behind some of these bureaucratic grumblings, and they had only ended when Corrie came to a departmental meeting over the subject, distributed the Rosewell guidelines, and pointed out quite emphatically that those guidelines said nothing about the prize being restricted to seniors only.
 
She realized, given the general reluctance and bureaucratic pushback, that her chances of actually winning the award were slim. Carbone never failed to point out in their advisory meetings that never in the history of John Jay had a junior been given the prize, and that to do so would be a breach of sacred tradition. He made it clear he thought she was guilty of hubris, or worse, careerism.
 
She took her place among the junior class, and was surprised and a little annoyed to see that Carbone happened to be seated with the seniors just two rows in front of her. He was chatting with a young woman named Sharon who Corrie knew fairly well, a star senior who had also submitted her thesis for the prize. Corrie watched the two laughing and talking, and saw Carbone’s hand touch her shoulder. Sharon was a tall, pretty blonde who had confided in Corrie earlier in the year that Carbone had been hitting on her. She said her plan was to string him along just until graduation. She didn’t want any trouble and certainly didn’t want to ‘queer her chances’ for the Rosewell Prize. When Corrie said that was ridiculous, that she should report him, that it should be enough to be competent, Sharon had called her naïve. “You need to learn how the world works, girl,” she said. “There’s no harm in a little alpha-male ego stroking.”
 
The band struck up, and a moment later the President and fellows filed on to the stage. As the fanfare ended, a hush fell over the vast auditorium and the commencement ceremonies began. According to Corrie’s program, the presentation of the Rosewell cup was one of the first parts of the commencement, before the awarding of degrees, directly after the President’s welcome and invocation. She found her apprehension increasing as the President gave a long and flowery welcome, followed by the college chaplain who gave the invocation.

As the chaplain returned to his seat, Corrie found her heart begin to sink. It was absurd to think she was going to win. John Jay was simply too bound by tradition to give the award to a junior, no matter how good her thesis was. She’d end up looking like a jerk for insisting on submitting one. And now she’d have to spend all senior year looking at Carbone’s I-told-you-so smirk. And there was no way, no way, she’d ever come up with another thesis next year that was as good as this one. Why hadn’t she waited and just submitted it as a senior?
 
As always at times of stress, she began to feel a phantom pain in her missing left pinky: the one that had been shot off by her pursuer in the Christmas Mine. In order to complete her research she had, quite literally, given a piece of herself.

Invocation over, the President returned to the podium as the Rosewell Prize was brought out and placed on a table next to him. It was a tall silver cup with two handles, almost like a trophy, mounted on a piece of wood. The President spoke for a moment about the Rosewell Prize and its centrality as an honor at John Jay. Indeed, he said, it was the College’s highest honor.
 
There was a pause, and then he said: “This year, for the very first time, the Rosewell Committee has selected a junior to receive the award. Will Corinne Marie Swanson please come to the podium to accept the Rosewell Prize. We also ask that her advisor, Professor Gregory Carbone, also come up to present the award.”
 
Corrie sat there for a moment, thunderstruck. This can’t be happening, she thought. It can’t.
 
It wasn’t until she saw Carbone leap to his feet that she realized that she, too, had better get moving. She was seated in the middle of a long row and it took her a while to work her way out, up the aisle, and join Carbone on the stage. He welcomed her with a huge smile and a warm, phony handshake.
 
By tradition, the President explained, the advisor would speak first of his student, and then the student would be asked to say a few words.
 
While Corrie stood there, Carbone took the podium and began to speak. He was a seasoned public speaker and she listened as he, in rotund tones, talked of how he had recognized Corrie’s talents right away; how he had believed in her from the start; how it was true that she was a little green, but that under his guidance and encouragement she had blossomed. It was he, Carbone, who had come up with the idea for the thesis topic; it was he who had made the arrangements for her to go to Roaring Fork; it was he who had mentored her every step of the way through regular consultations by phone and email as she progressed. While he couched everything in kindly, self-deprecating phraseology, the meaning of what he was saying was clear: he had done it all, and she had merely followed his direction.
 
While he spoke, Corrie, irritation and mortification increasing by the minute, tried to think of what she should say. She could take the “Sharon” route and thank Carbone, the President, and everyone else, say a few words about the value of perseverance and hard work, and that would be it. Such a speech would leave everyone with a nice warm glow and make Carbone an ally for life—or at least, not an enemy who had the power to hurt her career. Or she could yield to her instincts and revert to the Corrie of old, tell everyone Carbone was full of crap, and rip him a new one in front of the entire college. She might get reprimanded, or even put on probation—but it would be worth it to see the look on Carbone’s self-satisfied mug.
 
Carbone, gripping the cup, wrapped up his panegyric and turned to Corrie to present her with the award. She took one handle and he paused, holding it for a moment to allow a flurry of flashes as the photograph was taken with them together. When the photo-op was over, he took the cup back and held it for her while she stepped up to the podium.
 
A hush fell on the audience. What was she going to say? In a growing panic, her eye roamed the vast hall and then fell on a small figure in the back. Willard Bloom.
 
 Of course.
 
She began with a generic series of thank yous to the college, the President, her professors and fellow students. And then she went right into the heart of it. “I owe a huge debt of gratitude,” she said, then hesitated, watching out of the corner of her eye as Carbone leaned forward and opened his mouth in preparation for acknowledging her thanks. “To Mr. Willard Bloom,” she continued, “the Archivist of the Red Museum. It was actually Mr. Bloom” (she subtly emphasized actually) “who gave me the idea for my thesis. Mr. Bloom led me to the Doyle diary with its mention of the “grizzled bear” killings. It was he who directed my attention to the article in the Times about the disinterment of the graveyard at Roaring Fork, which gave me potential access to the remains. He made the connection. And it was Mr. Bloom who suggested to me that a thesis on perimortem carnivore trauma to human remains would be of relevance to forensic science. Mr. Bloom was the one person without whom my research wouldn’t have been possible.”
 
She paused, had a sudden idea, wondered if she should follow it through, and then thought the hell with it. “Mr. Bloom, would you please come and share the podium with us?”
 
Bloom rose, blushing deeply.
 
“Please, come up so we can all acknowledge you.”
 
After more hesitation, he made his way up the aisle and mounted the podium. He was still red with embarrassment, but she could also see also that he was deeply moved, that this was an important moment for him. It was clear that Bloom was unused to being acknowledged or thanked for his important contribution to the college.
 
She looked around, then went on: “May we all, all of us together, applaud Mr. Bloom, not only for his support of my work, but for his support of all our work and of this great College, by his excellent, thirty-year service keeping the Red Museum archives as a resource to us here at John Jay and to criminal justice in general. The archives are nothing less than the history of law enforcement in the city, stretching back two centuries, and as such it is one of the great—if unsung—resources available to the City of New York!”
 
This elicited a huge swell of applause, which caused Bloom to blush even more as he stood there, nodding this way and that, anxious to sit back down. Corrie, with a sideways glance at Carbone, still standing and holding the Rosewell cup, saw the man’s face darkening, his smile so rigid it had become a grinning rictus. Corrie plucked the Rosewell cup from his hands and turned toward Bloom.
 
“Take the handle, Mr. Bloom,” she said. “The cup is yours as much as it is mine.”
 
He took the handle and she raised it the cup. “Here’s the real photo op,” she said as they held the trophy over their heads, generating a flurry of photographs and applause. “Thank you everyone—thank you and God bless you!”
 
Now people were on their feet and cheering. Corrie took the cup, embraced Bloom, who was fighting back tears, and followed him as he hurried off podium. It happened so fast that they momentarily left behind a stunned Carbone, still standing rigidly, like a deer in the headlights. So confounded was he that the President himself had to place his hand on Carbone’s shoulder and lean over, murmuring gently that it was time he, too, took his seat; a suggestion that was nevertheless caught on the live mike, generating a smattering of laughter.
 
   
 
When it was all over, and Corrie was leaving the auditorium amidst a crowd of professors, well-wishers and friends, she spied, to her shock, a ghostly figure dressed in an elegant black suit, lounging just outside the auditorium doors. It was Pendergast. He had on his face an expression that hinted—if such a thing were possible—at a smirk.
 
He came over and shook her hand. “Excellent, Corrie. Most excellent.”
 
“I couldn’t have done it without you. And—Oh my God—I just realized I forgot to thank you! I’m so embarrassed—”
 
He held up a pale hand. “I was truly dreading you might. I find public praise directed at myself disagreeable and offensive. I’m perfectly aware of your feelings.”
 
“Well, despite that, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. For everything you did, and for coming to the ceremony.”
 
“I wouldn’t have missed it. And that was a most satisfactory performance, by the way. I enjoy nothing more than seeing a pompous, vainglorious ass put in his place—particularly with such finesse. A bad habit, but one I find very hard to break.”
 
And he slipped away into the crowd before Corrie could say another word.