The boy in the second row raised his hand. "Tell us about your cup of coffee in the big leagues." For the last few years, I've volunteered my time to speak in Dr. Royster's criminal justice class at the university. I get a kick out of sizing up the students and mentally wagering who will make it in the field and who will not. I know that less than a handful in every class will actually pursue a career in law enforcement. I'm a big draw, apparently, because of my job as a big city police detective and for my one plate appearance in a big league baseball game for the Chicago White Sox decades ago. The first question students ask is usually about my baseball career, if you could call it a career. I've heard that some students sign up for Dr. Royster's class just so they can hear my talk. It's puzzling, but flattering.

"There's really not much to tell," I told the class, walking up and down the aisles. A number of the students turned their heads downward, feigning note taking, just to avoid eye contact. Habit, I guess. I was the same way when I was in school. Heck, I hadn't said anything yet, but they were still taking notes. "My entire major league baseball career consisted of one at bat. I was called up from the minor leagues in late September when the White Sox were clearly out of the pennant race. I batted against the Detroit Tigers. I hit against a big lefty who was at the tail end of his career. He threw me four consecutive balls, and I walked. That's it. I never played again. The following year, I was returned to the minor leagues, got injured, and left baseball for good. I had a number of odd jobs after that and finally decided on a career in law enforcement. That's when I began studying criminal justice, just like all of you."

"But your name is listed in the Baseball Encyclopedia, right?" A young man wearing red and green eyeglasses questioned.

"Yes. The record books will forever show that I made one plate appearance and drew a base on balls. Everything else is zero. I had a zero batting average, zero fielding average, and zero everything. That was my cup of coffee in the major leagues." Nevertheless, the students were impressed. There's something magical about baseball. "Thaanks for asking. But, I'd like to tell you about another cup of coffee. This one helped me solve a crime, a murder, in fact. Anyone interested in hearing about it?" Everyone's hands shot up. I began ...

"It was a beautiful spring evening, April 19th to be exact, when I was called to the Pegasus, a high-rent, high-rise condominium in the West Forties. The body of one Celia Parkinson was sprawled out on the sidewalk, dead. Every bone in her body was shattered. For all intents and purposes, her death was accidental. The medical examiner had done his thing and the crowd was cordoned off by the time I arrived. I had spoken with two of the police officers that had first responded to the call. There was no evidence of foul play. It was Celia Parkinson's birthday, and her husband, Chuck, had organized a party for a number of their friends. Apparently, Celia had a little too much to drink, was careless on the balcony, and somehow, fell sixteen stories to her death. The officers had questioned the guests, but no one saw anything. Celia and Chuck were seen on the balcony together a number of times, but nothing nefarious had taken place according to the guests. It appeared to be a tragic, senseless accident."

One of the students raised his hand. "What about suicide? Maybe she deliberately jumped?"

"Good question," I said, "but suicide was ruled out. Celia had a thriving business as an event planner. She was well known in her circles and had built up a very profitable business. She had a number of events booked well into the year. She was very organized, as you would expect from someone who made a living planning events. We found listings of the upcoming dinners and parties at various high-end restaurants, nightclubs, lounges and hotels. She built the business up from scratch and loved working. None of the guests at the party, including her husband, even intimated that she was depressed or disturbed about anything. In fact, she and Chuck had plans to travel abroad during the summer. She was going to pay for the trip with profits from her business."

"I'll bet it was murder. Who were the guests? Maybe one of them was lying? Maybe there was a motive?” The lone female student in the class questioned. Her hair was bright red with blue streaks. Patriotic, I thought. I wondered if they made red and blue hair dye back when I was in school.