His stance spoke of the softness of academia. The protected air of hallowed halls shielding him from the realities of the world outside.
The slightly stooped shoulder curve. The narrow chest.
The low-carried paunch giving him the permanent look of a man who is wearing a child’s rubber ring underneath his plain grey work shirt.
His was a world of luncheons and learning. The dissemination of facts to a willing and, more often, unwilling audience.
After dust became dust colleagues would ask, “Who would want to kill him?”
The subterranean voices of long-forgotten children might scream in reply, “Who wouldn’t?”