"If The Fiction Romance of Troy was only a previously unknown William Shakespeare manuscript," Doctor Iagovich declared with authority in an unusually rich sounding voice. "It would still be one of the most important literary finds of the twentieth century. But apart from its authorship, several other features of the play make it a very unique literary and historical discovery. The main plot of the play--a knight named Mallory who searches for the murderer of his king in post-war Troy--echoes many of the themes present in the hard-boiled detective fiction of Chandler and Hammett. Written around 1613, during the time when Shakespeare is supposed to have retired, the play is one of Shakespeare's most experimental, with its rather unorthodox usage of iambic hexameter and octameter..."

As he lectured, I sat uncomfortably in the front row, my neck irritated by the dual assault of necktie and aftershave. Julie, clad in black blouse and slacks with a string of pearls around her neck, her blonde hair spilling onto her shoulders, possessed a seeming mixture of innocence and experience. Her doe like blue eyes, framed by blue framed glasses, were closing as they lost the battle against the sleep of boredom. I was also nodding off, grateful that my mother's tape recorder was whirring away in my sports coat pocket. Julie's head plopped onto my left shoulder, and just as suddenly jerked back up. She looked at me embarrassedly through sleep-glazed eyes. I looked around at the almost 100 people who were also attending, hoping that we were not embarrassing ourselves or, at worst, looking extremely stupid..

I turned to my right and beheld Doctor John Duncan, who responded with a look that could wither solid steel. He physically resembled Sherlock Holmes, yet his dress sense was more John Steed. He was also the reason that I, Zach Sandowicz, was attending this soiree rather than spend my Wednesday night burning my brain on TV. I was enrolled in his Shakespeare class, and my grade was residing at the wrong end of the alphabet. Serves me right for trying to attend a class when All My Children is on. Being the kind and generous soul that he is, Duncan allowed certain students to attend the lecture and write a paper for extra credit. Hey, if I can do a minimum of extra work, maybe I can attend Harvard for grad school, and be the first psychotherapist to date leggy supermodels. That is, if Julie would understand...

After receiving a standing ovation upon finishing his lecture, Iagovich handed the podium to Father Dwyer, the president of Loyola University. As Dwyer approached the podium, I turned off the tape recorder. He informed the audience about the other places where the manuscript had been displayed: Loyola Marymount, John Carroll University, andseveral other bastions of higher education, mostly Jesuit institutions. As Father Dwyer ended the formal lecture, people flooded out of the Crown Center Auditorium into the spacious first floor reception area, where Iagovich and his companion Doctor Regan would attempt to acquire funding for the further display (and possible publication) of The Fiction Romance of Troy.

As Julie and I entered the reception area, I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and apologized, "Thanks for coming with me. I'm sorry if it's boring you..."

"Don't worry, Zach," she countered. "I'll get to sleep late tomorrow--I only have History, and then it's work..."

It seemed like forever since Julie and I first met...but it had only been last semester. We were in the same Interpersonal Relations group, and we ended up having a heck of a lot in common. Mostly, we both had gone through some particularly devastating breakups. And so, for the past month, Julie and I had begun seeing each other as boyfriend and girlfriend in everything but name. Hopefully, the Dating Fairy would soon bless our union.

Julie and I walked amongst the crowd, mingling with celebrities and semi-celebrities alike. Julie and I headed first for a copious table filled with hors doevres, which was French for what normal people call "free munchies". Then, Julie and I talked to a fellow student who wrote commentaries for the Loyola Phoenix which I enjoyed), and who had also been in Julie's Moral Problems class last year. I also met some prominent Chicago politicians, assuming their purpose in attending was their not-so-noble intention of acquiring more votes. It was a real boost to my ego, being able to mingle with such a crowd: authors, athletes, politicians, celebrities, and faculty--but I wouldn't want to do it every night.

I lost Doctor Duncan in the crowd, but catching a glimpse of Doctors Regan and Iagovich exiting the main stairwell, I prodded Julie and we approached them. As the two scholars entered the main reception area, I thought they looked like a Monty Python parody of Sonny and Cher. Doctor Edgar Iagovich was a tall, regal man dressed in a royal blue suit (with a crest over the right breast, of course) and maroon tie, his bald head surrounded with a crown of white hair, and who possessed constantly vigilant laser-sharp eyes. Doctor Cordelia Regan, on the other hand, was a short, plump red haired woman wearing red rimmed glasses and a lime green evening dress that she seemed to be stuffed into like a sausage skin, and carrying a small black handbag. They looked at each other for a moment, and then waded into the crowd. Julie and I cautiously approached them, saying "pardon me" after every five steps.

After Julie and I introduced ourselves, I remarked, "I apologize if I'm being too forward, Doctor Iagovich, but I must say that you have a very...unusual accent."

"Thank you," he replied, a slight grin of flattery appearing on his face. "I lived in Russia until I was about 18. I then moved to England, where I lived for the past 30 years and received my degree in English at the University of London."

That automatically makes you a Marxist my friend Ian might say. But then again, Brian is the kind of person who would consider Adolph Hitler "soft on Jews", so his judgment would be somewhat suspect in this circumstance.

A woman with a tray of tall glasses of champagne approached us. Doctors Iagovich and Regan each took a glass. Even though I was underaged, I took a glass, hoping I would not get carded. I took a small sip, and looked at Julie. I winked at her, and she smiled at me. I soon felt a slight twitch in my stomach--I guess champagne was not my drink.

"I lived in England all my life and am an Oxford girl," Doctor Regan said, as if anyone in the room cared to know that. "Edgar found the manuscript while going through some of Shakespeare's writings for an article he's working on--Edgar, not Shakespeare."

She took a swallow of champagne, and then continued. "I handled the literary aspect of it--making sure it was written by Shakespeare, and not one of the many people accused of writing Shakespeare's plays--while scientists at Oxford tried todetermine the physical age of the manuscript. We both came to the same conclusion--it is indeed a lost Shakespeare manuscript, never published in a Quarto or a Folio. After its mini-tour, it will be published early next year, and..."

As she spoke, I took another pull at the champagne glass. I then remembered that I had to talk to Doctor Duncan about my summary paper--I had forgotten the required length of the paper, and wanted to make extra sure, since my grade was on the line. I excused myself, put the champagne glass on a tray carried by a student, and decided to catch the elevator upstairs. Julie followed me to the elevator, and I performed the button pressing and waiting ritual.

When the red digital display above the door said 2 (the ground floor is actually the second floor, since the sublevel, accessible from the street as is the second floor, is considered the first floor--don't ask me why), the door opened. Julie, as well as several other people, turned and screamed. I nearly lost all the food I'd eaten during the course of the evening. Doctor Duncan was lying face down in a pool of his own blood. I walked in the elevator car and turned him on his back. A large silver dagger, with a dragon on the hilt, was sticking out of his belly, surrounded by a large purplish crust on his white shirt. His tan suit, had traces of blood around the lower buttons. I felt his neck for a pulse--he had one, but it was very weak. I yelled for someone to call an ambulance, and I heard someone respond that they'll use the phone in their car. Just then, I noticed that near where his right hand was on the floor, was written in blood something that looked like O | | G S.

Lieutenant Andrew Sandowicz of Homicide (better known to me in his civilian identity of "Dad") stood by the front entrance of Crown, getting statements from the various spectators to the incident. I loved police terms: a man being stabbed in an elevator was an incident, as if things like that happened all of the time. As soon as he finished with several members of the Applied Psychology Department of Water Tower campus, he called Julie and me over towards him. He asked Julie a few questions, while I saw Doctor Duncan on a stretcher carried by two paramedics out of Crown Center. All of him, except his face, was covered by a blanket, and he had an IV sticking into his arm. Luckily, he had a chance at surviving--a minuscule chance, but a chance nonetheless.

As we all stood there, Dad gave me a harsh look. People often say we look alike--we both have brown hair, blue eyes, and sharply angled noses--but Dad had a mustache and twenty-five years worth of age lines. The fact that we were both wearing the same colored outfits--blue sports coats, gray pants, and maroon ties--were helping to reinforce the resemblance.

He called me over, and I explained what had happened at my end. When I finished, he asked, "You aren't planning to do my job for me, are you?"

I smiled meekly. Whenever there's a puzzle around, I can't help but solve it. Freud would say that I wasn't toilet trained correctly, but he had a mother complex, so he should talk.

Dad didn't like it when I got involved in one of his cases--which was too often for my own good. The last time was about a week ago, when Julie and I helped solve the murder of a psychology teacher. Ever since Mom would have me do research for her law firm, I just can't help but be extremely nosy, although I think of it as a job asset.

Before I could say anything, Julie asked, "Where were Doctor Iagovich and Doctor Regan before Doctor Duncan was killed?"

"Both have alibis," Dad said without realizing he wasn't addressing a fellow officer. "Regan was talking to some bozo in the Theology Department--he corroborates her story--and Iagovich was in the fourth floor men's room. After the lecture, the three of them went their separate ways. Duncan was last seen entering his office, looking for something."

"So anyone could have killed Duncan?" Julie asked. I just stood there, my mouth gaping open in astonishment.

"Precisely. We have so many suspects it's not funny. The blade on the handle of the dagger was clean--we could not get any prints off of it," Dad said. I let out a small, sudden laugh.

"What's so funny?" Dad asked. I straightened up.

"In Macbeth, Duncan--the king--is killed by a dagger handled by Macbeth. You know," I adopted a clipped British accent, clutching my hand--"`Is this a dagger I see before me?'" I then reverted to my normal South Side mangling of the English language. "Get it--Doctor Duncan, killed like his dramatic namesake?"

Dad ignored me and continued, "There's also this business of these letters. Do either of you know what this means?"

He handed us a Polaroid of the letters written in blood. I took it, and shared it with Julie. They seemed to mock us, providing us with hidden information that seemed to defy interpretation.

"Could it be some kind of acronym?" Julie asked.

Dad casually shrugged it off. "We're looking into that right now, but our computers can't find anything with either O-I-I-G-S or O-L-L-G-S."

I stared at the Polaroid for almost a near eternity. The letters almost seemed to scream at me, although I had no idea what they were saying. I pondered a moment, attacking the problem from every angle I could imagine. Then it hit me--could we be wrong about it being an acronym?

Tentatively I guessed, "Maybe it's a number? Not OIIGS, but 01165? Or even 1165? A page number? A date?"

"That's the main problem, Zach," Dad responded. "We have no idea what it is--except that it is Duncan's way of telling us who tried to kill him. It looks like it's going to be a rough night."

As we stood there, it occurred to me that an unauthorized visit to Duncan's office might be in order. Unfortunately, if I asked Dad if I could search, he'd just tell me to sit aside and let the professionals handle the case. My hopes went further downhill when Julie started clutching her stomach, moaning with pain. When I asked her what was wrong, she said she felt really nauseous and had to get to the ladies room. I offered to take her, and we headed for the stairwell. I put my arm around her for support, as well as the fact that I darn well felt like doing so. I guess eating nothing but diced lunch meats on crackers and drinking champagne can do weird things to a woman's stomach.

When the door to the stairwell closed behind us, Julie straightened up. "Sorry to worry you, Zach, but I had to find some way to get us out of there. I don't think your father would deputize us just so we could search Duncan's office, would he?"

After quickly kissing her, I said, "Did I ever tell you that you have the eyes of Meg Ryan, the lips of Michelle Pfeiffer...."

"And the glasses of Mister Peabody?" Julie finished. "Yes, you have."

And with that, we climbed the stairs and headed for the English Department offices on the fourth floor--was it a coincidence? I thought to myself. We tried the door into the English Department's section of Crown, and found (to our surprise) that it was unlocked. Duncan's office was also unlocked--had Duncan (or someone else) come in or out? It was a rather spacious office, painted an almost blinding shade of white, with a dark oak bookcase (containing books written by and about--you guessed it--William Shakespeare himself) behind the door, and a portrait of Billy boy himself overlooking the room, placed behind a small office chair facing a large, paper strewn desk.

As Julie rummaged through the various papers that were lying on Duncan's desk, I addressed the portrait mockingly, "You weren't satisfied to be the greatest playwright in human history, were you? You had to write this manuscript and cause so muchtrouble."

"Zach, why don't you shut up and help me search thisoffice," Julie mumbled. As I ruffled through the various tomes on the shelf, I came upon a thick red book entitled The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I opened it to page 1165, thinking maybe there was some clue--any clue at all--on that page. It turns out, it was Act V Scene ii of Antony and Cleopatra. There seemed to be nothing that was important. Just then, Julie scurried up to me, holding several sheets of yellow legal paper with writing on it. "Zach, what plays have you covered in Duncan's class until now?" "Let's see," I said , mostly to myself. "Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, Richard III, Othello...why?"

"I've got Duncan's notes here," she shook the sheets for emphasis. "There are big Is and little Is and numbers in the margins before his notes."

A tone of realization crept into her voice. "I think he's citing a specific play."

I remembered something Duncan mentioned the first or second day of class about editors using capital and small Roman numerals to break Shakespeare's plays down into smaller, readable sections. I turned the pages of the large red tome to the table of contents and skimmed the page. "Othello is the only play that begins with O," I said, mainly to myself.

Turning to the proper page, I read aloud, "…For daws to peck at: I am not what I am."

Lifting my head, I concluded. "I think I may know who--and why--Doctor Duncan was stabbed."

We left the office and headed downstairs as quickly as possible. I carried the book with me, using my right index finger as a convenient bookmark to mark off the correct passage. When we arrived there were only a few guests left, along with Regan and Iagovich. I guess waiting around to be arrested is not high on everyone's social standing. "Dad, before you let the two of them go," I said. "I want you to read this. It reveals a lot."

Dad read it and shrugged it off, unaware of what it meant. I further explained, "Duncan tested his class on & this speech--I had to explain who was speaking, situation, etcetera. The person speaking is Othello's trusted friend and confidant, who turns out to a really evil person..."

"I still don't get it," Dad confessed.

To that I responded, "The character's name is Iago."

Doctor Iagovich began to look rather uncomfortable, and he began to squirm where he stood. A look of extreme shock slowly spread itself over Doctor Regan's face, and she beheld him incredulously. I straightened myself out as best I could and thought aloud.

"I'm willing to bet the manuscript was a forgery--an extremely clever one," I postulated. "Iagovich--if that's your real name--forged the document in order to defraud the university. Duncan somehow caught onto his scheme, realized it was a fake, and threatened to expose Iagovich. It probably happened in front of the men's room--Doctor Duncan probably called him into his office. Iagovich led Duncan to the elevator, stabbed him there, left Duncan to die--no one had any reason to go upstairs--and then returned to the party. If I didn't have to see Duncan about a paper, he might have gotten away with it."

After a slight pause, Dad said, "That's nice, Zach, but do you have any tangible evidence?" Before I could speak, a small dagger suddenly slid into Iagovich's hand out of his jacket sleeve, like James West's derringer on The Wild, Wild West. It was similar to the one used on Duncan (down to the dragon on the hilt) but much smaller. Dad removed his Police Special from the shoulder holster beneath the left shoulder of his coat. As Dad attempted to aim it, Iagovich brought the dagger sharply upward, slashing Dad's right arm. The gun flew out of Dad's hand and, hitting a wall, slid down towards the floor. Dad collapsed, grasping his arm and falling towards the ground. I asked him if he was all right, and Dad nodded his head. The guests that remained stood paralyzed in fear, not knowing what to do--what exactly does Emily Post suggest when a guest assaults a policeman with a sharp object?

"You're a clever little bastard, aren't you?" Iagovich said, his voice suddenly shifting into an Irish brogue. "You're right--I am an impersonator. I work for the Irish Protestant Nationalist Front as a...procurer of funds, you might say. I was close--I would have succeeded, too, getting money from Catholic schools to fund a Protestant cause. Wouldn't it have been ironic?

All I was aware of was my heart beating wildly, and of the adrenaline coursing through my body. I didn't even notice Julie was gone--I just kept focusing on Dad, grasping his bloody arm. "But I wasn't alone, was I, Cordelia?" Iagovich said in a blood chilling voice, turning towards Regan.

"You're a nosy little boy, aren't you, Mr. Sandowicz?"she asked sarcastically, pulling a small gun out of her purse. She then shifted and said, "All the world's a stage, and all of the men and women are merely players, they have their entrances and exits...some much sooner than others."

She aimed the gun at me. I did the only thing I could at that moment--I cracked, "I don't think that's exactly how it goes."

She scowled at me, and her finger tightened around the trigger. I could see the hammer of the small pistol pull back, about to strike the bullet.

"You're right--I am being picky," I said, trying to alleviate my own fear. She took aim, pointing the barrel of the gun at my heart. Just then, Julie's voice shouted behind her, "Drop it, sister!"

When Regan turned around, I kicked my right foot upward, knocking the gun out of her hand. Julie kept her covered, holding the gun Dirty Harry style, her left hand grasping her right wrist. Iagovich sprang forward with the knife, heading towards her about to slash her face. I leapt in front of him, and moving my right arm in a semicircle, pushed the hand that clutched the dagger away. Bending my left arm upward in a right angle, I brought it painfully into his left elbow, bending it the wrong way, making him drop the dagger.

After kicking it away, I ran towards Dad, and helped him on his feet. I untied my tie and wrapped it around his arm like a make-shift bandage. I half carried him towards Julie, who held the gun nervously over the pair. Dad took the gun from her, and covered the pair, wincing in pain as he held the gun. He shouted for someone to call for backup. I saw someone--I think it was Hilary from my Statistics class--head for a pay phone.

Before I left, Dad and I both looked at Julie. "Drop it, sister?" we both asked incredulously. "I didn't know what else to say," Julie responded, shrugging her shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, a paramedic was wrapping gauze around Dad's arm. Dad had his jacket off, and the left sleeve of his shirt had been cut off, exposing the wound in all of its gory glory. Luckily, the wound wasn't deep and didn't require stitches. Julie and I stood there, holding each other--to be honest, she was holding me since I was shaking like a leaf. After we saw that the paramedic was finished with Dad, we approached him. Dad looked up at us.

"I talked with your psych teacher,"--there was some contempt in Dad's voice, since he had as much regard for psychologists as he did for rapists and criminals "He said you don't have to attend to class tomorrow, since you went through all this. Also, Zach, your Shakespeare class, obviously, is canceled for tomorrow. I suggest you spend your time off working on homework. I expect straight A's from you, dude."

Dad's attempt at being hip and with it was really pathetic, but at least he tried to understand me.

After Dad told one of the officers to give us a ride home, Julie and I turned to each other, heading for the door. "Well, at least you'll get a good grade on yourpaper," Julie remarked. I responded, "Yeah, after all I went through."

We then walked past Iagovich and Regan, who were hand cuffed and escorted by several intimidating FBI agents. As we passed by, Iagovich muttered something. Julie and I, much to the chagrin of the agents, walked closer to hear him more clearly.

"Arrogant little punk," Iagovich spat. The look on Regan's face suggested similar sentiments. "You interfered with our attempts--we might have brought peace to Ireland if not for you," he said in a voice that reeked with unnerving sentiments.

"Yeah, right, nearly murdering someone to prevent your little scheme from succeeding," I snarled. "Where is your conscience?"

"`Conscience is but a word that cowards use'" Regan responded coldly, without any emotion. "`Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.' King Richard the Third, Act Five, Scene Three. 'In obtaining one's goals, a conscience can be the deadliest thing to have.'"

There was a slight pause, and then Julie said, "I read The Comedy of Errors in high school, and there's a quotefrom it that I think is appropriate. Would you like to hear it?"

The pair scowled at the idea, but Julie continued. "Act One, Scene One, line 97," Julie said, ignoring them. "`We may pity, though not pardon thee.'"

With that, the two of us began to walk away from them, planning to visit Doctor Duncan in the hospital as soon as possible.Wrapping my arm around Julie, I realized that both she and Big Billy Shakespeare had one thing in common:

They both seemed to know exactly the right thing to say in a given situation.