There were six dollars in the wallet and a student ID that had expired seven years ago. Paul Brofman, the name was, and he looked back at her with the smug, awkward look that Vandyk remembered from kids in her own college days.

He was maybe thirty, thirty-one now, and the eleven years that had passed since the picture was taken hadn’t improved his looks much. He would have been awkward and too-eager, she thought, when he was alive; even in death his face held a trace of excitable self-interest. In his inner coat pocket she found a little notebook filled with self-quotations; his observations were shallow and his wit stale, which as an epitaph she found almost tragically pathetic.

That was all. Nothing there to tell her what he’d wanted, if he’d wanted anything. She eased him back down and went inside to call the police. Six dollars wasn’t nearly her rate.