Academic Curveball

by James J Cudney

  Thankfully, Officer Flatman was out on patrol. The sheriff escorted me to her office to cover the final details of last night's events. “How are you holding up, Little Ayrwick?” she asked. The tweed coat was back today, but this time it was paired with a pair of corduroys and heavy-looking hiking boots.

  “I'm okay, but I'd be a bit better if you called me, Kellan. I think we're past the formalities, April, and might look to build a friendship,” I suggested hoping it would go over well despite her messy hairdo.

  “Sheriff Montague will do for now,” she replied with tentative ease. “I prefer to keep a strict line between business and pleasure, and I don't believe I'd consider us friends.”

  I had no choice but to accept her decision. At least I knew to approach her carefully today. I wasn't about to get any answers if I pushed too much. “I'd be happy to read and sign the final statement. Any leads you can share? Lorraine Candito was a close family friend.”

  Sheriff Montague softened at least one level on the friendliness scale. “I'm sure it's been quite a shock for you all. I trust Connor shared the contents of the note?” She continued after I nodded in confirmation. “He's going through the security logs right now and will be updating me within the hour. I'm hoping once he finishes, we'll know a little more about who was in and out of Grey Sports Complex.”

  “Do you have an estimate of what time she was pushed out the window?” I asked.

  “Between five forty and six fifteen,” Sheriff Montague replied. “Minutes after your call with her ended. She died instantly after hitting the statue. There was little pain, if any, if that helps.”

  “It does, thanks.” I crossed my legs and relaxed into the couch in her office. I hoped we were having an open dialog but wasn't sure how much she'd reveal. “Have you given any thought to my concerns about the changes in the grades? I'm starting to get suspicious of a few students who are conveniently in the middle of what's happened to both women.”

  “I'm not at liberty to say what I've found out, but I'm learning to appreciate how you've been able to pick up information we wouldn't necessarily come across.” She leaned forward on the table and handed me the statement her team had prepared. “I'm not saying you have any freedom to get involved in the investigation, but perhaps having someone like yourself on the inside has come in handy. It's led me to a few other discoveries.”

  I smiled and assumed that meant I could continue poking around in different areas. After quickly looking over the statement detailing everything I'd seen last night—making a few small changes to correct the inaccurate grammar Officer Flatman had employed—I signed off. “Thank you. I'm not trying to intervene. It's crystal clear how important it is not to muddy the collection of evidence or risk any issues with apprehending a suspect.”

  “I'm glad we're on the same page here,” she said before standing. “If I learn anything of importance from Connor's security log research, and I believe you can provide further insight, I'll be in touch. For now, be cautious what you say to the students while teaching their classes. We might be dealing with some clever folks.” At least she'd chosen to wear a more stylish pair of boots today.

  I took her silence as my cue to leave, which I was more than happy to do since we'd seemed to find a potential understanding with one another. I wasn't sure how much I believed her desire to separate anything personal from anything professional. I didn't think Sheriff Montague refusing to call me Kellan yet referring to my former best friend as Connor instead of Director Hawkins was a prime example of her so-called strict line. Nor was that comment she'd made at The Big Beanery about how fine a man Connor was.

  I wanted to hit the fitness center but had no desire to go back to the third floor of the Grey Sports Complex given what had last happened there. I changed into a pair of jogging pants and a long-sleeve thermal shirt—it was still a bit chilly—and laced my running shoes. I felt like a kid again as I ducked in the back seat of the Jeep when someone walked by. I didn't need to be caught in my briefs or without a shirt, but I wasn't keen on asking Sheriff Montague if I could use the bathroom in the sheriff's office to change my clothes. As I ran through the roads near the base of the mountains and Crilly Lake, I compiled a list of ways I could check the alibis for Carla, Jordan, and Striker without outright asking them. If they were responsible, any direct questions would give them too much alarm. If they weren't involved in the murders, it would seem a little creepy for a professor to ask them where they were those nights.

  Once the run was done, I pulled into my parents' driveway and slipped inside the house. I showered and changed while my mother heated dinner, then headed downstairs to see if I could help. It looked like she'd finished following the housekeeper's instructions on how to warm the honey-roasted pork loin, butternut squash, and green beans. Luck was on my side as she'd already started to set the table with the meal. We all sat and talked about our days.

  “Looks delicious, Mom. You've excelled in your chef skills tonight,” I began.

  “It's not that hard to follow a few steps on a piece of paper,” she giggled.

  “You've totally come so far with this talent,” I replied.

  “I suppose I could win home cook of the year, eh?” she teased.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow's classes?” inquired my father not interested in engaging in our little banter on my mother's lack of cooking skills.

  “I have a few materials to read over tonight, but yes, everything looks to be in shape,” I confirmed. The rosemary garlic sauce on the pork loin did taste phenomenal.

  I explained everything I'd discovered about Striker's grades to my father. I also told him I'd updated Sheriff Montague about all of the students in question.

  “It's alarming to think someone at Braxton is responsible for two murders. I don't want to admit we could have a killer lurking on campus,” my father said. “I'll ask Myriam to compare Striker's exam results with prior exams and papers to see if there's a reason to believe it wasn't his work.”

  “It is frightening, but hopefully Sheriff Montague solves it soon,” my mother replied. “Thankfully, Kellan is helping her.”

  “I wouldn't go that far, Mom.”

  “I'll also update the Board of Trustees tonight. I think it is time our attorneys were involved. Hopefully, Connor has an update to clear any wrongdoing on the part of the college,” my father said.

  “What do you mean, Dad?”

  “If there are inconsistencies with our grading processes or someone on our staff has been involved in anything illegal, it will not look good for us. The baseball scout will definitely not pick anyone from Braxton nor will we get the final approvals for the plans to… never mind. There's no need to get ahead of myself.”

  My father's concerns opened my eyes to something I missed. This might be larger than getting Striker off the team so Jordan could play. What if this was about ensuring Braxton looked good in the eyes of the scout? I asked my father, but he said I'd need to talk with Coach Oliver about that angle—Coach Oliver who was sketchy about his whereabouts during both murders.

  My father added, “Coach Oliver might be a little rough around the edges, but he's not responsible for the murders. Sometimes people can't always tell you the specifics of their alibi.”

  I wanted to ask what Coach Oliver had done in the past to cause the policy changes to be put in place about sexual harassment, but I wasn't really supposed to know about it. My mother interrupted when I began to clear the table. “Sit down, Kellan,” she said, then sternly looked at my father. “Don't you have something to discuss with our son, Wesley?”

  As she left the room with the plates, my father began to speak. “I suppose she means telling you where I was the night of Abby's murder.” He took a swig of water to give himself a moment to think.

  I wasn't expecting this conversation tonight. “I think it's important to know where you went.”

  “You could say that,” my father replied. “The Board of Trustees is concerned about me leaving Braxton
especially when they contemplated the development of an entirely new academic program.”

  “That sounds like a good opportunity. I'm sure they could find someone to help make that happen in your absence,” I replied hazarding a guess as to what new fields they might be considering.

  “Did you ask him yet?” my mother said while bringing out a peach cobbler. “Nana D dropped this off for you earlier today.”

  I had the best nana out there, hands down. “Dad's started to tell me something, but I don't know what you mean about asking me anything.”

  “Lord, Violet, would you give me a few minutes. It's not like this is an everyday occurrence,” my father said pushing his chair back a few inches. “Don't you need to make some coffee?”

  “What's going on?” I asked unwilling to wait any longer as I sliced a giant slice of pie.

  “We've been completing a study this past year working with generous donors in the background about the possibility of Braxton having post-undergraduate courses. The Board of Trustees has given the final go-ahead to obtain approval to convert Braxton College into Braxton University. We'll be starting with three key fields of study, but the plan is to expand our academic offerings to include several MBA options and an extensive Ph.D. program within the medical fields. The third will be a complete re-architecture of the communications department that would enable us to become the primary school of choice for students looking to build careers in the television industry.

  My mother caught the look of surprise on my face. “That's not all. Tell him now, Wesley.”

  “You can't keep quiet, can you, Violet?” My father turned to me with a huge surprise about to burst from his lips. “I tentatively agreed to take leadership of the entire re-branding campaign and buildout of the new university while my successor runs the existing college. In time, I'll turn over the expanded components to the new president, but it's too much for one person to handle all at once.”

  I knew he wouldn't retire. That was not my father's approach to life. He couldn't sit still if his life depended on it. “I guess congratulations are in order?”

  “Well, I had one condition,” my father said glancing at my mother and covering her hand with his. “It involves you, Kellan.”

  I didn't like the sound of where things were going. “I see.”

  “I'll only take on this role if you agree to return home and accept an assistant professor position under the new department chair and president as well as a role on the committee to assemble the new communications department within Braxton University. I'm talking about developing relationships with all the major television stations, the elite production teams in Hollywood, these digital or cable subscription services like Netflixy or whatever you call them.”

  I stuffed my mouth full of a huge chunk of pie and closed my eyes. This can't be happening…

  Chapter 19

  After the bombshell my parents had dropped on me at dinner, I excused myself to consider their news. Not only would it be a major life change, but my father needed an answer by the end of Friday, so he could work with the Board of Trustees to structure the announcement they'd make at Braxton the following Monday about the new president. I went to sleep early and tried to forget all the drama and concerns. Early Wednesday morning, I pushed aside those gnawing fears, skipped my normal run, and showed up in time for classes.

  I dropped my briefcase on the desk, retrieved the pop quiz I'd created to verify how well the students had paid attention to Monday's lecture, and placed a copy face down on twenty desks. For a moment, I thought a little part of Myriam Castle's personality had invaded me for dropping the surprise quiz on the class, but it was only fleeting. I couldn't be as mean as she was. When students assembled in the room, I asked them not to turn over the papers. Striker and Carla entered and sat together. I looked around the room and saw only two people missing. One student had informed me in advance that she wasn't feeling well, but the other absence belonged to Jordan.

  I gave the students thirty minutes to complete the quiz. If they finished early, they were free to leave but had to turn in their overviews of an upcoming term paper due in two weeks, or they could stick around to write it during the remaining lecture time. Although most students chose to drop off their overviews and leave, Carla turned in her quiz and went back to her desk. I assumed she was writing her overview but couldn't see that far away. Maybe I needed new glasses. Age had nothing to do with it.

  A few minutes later, Striker left his seat and handed me his quiz. “Could you take a look at it now? I'm curious how I did.” A few drops of sweat pooled at his temples.

  I told him to take a seat while I read through his responses. It was a combination of multiple-choice questions and a few open-ended sections giving the students a chance to dazzle me with whatever they remembered from Monday's lecture. Although he missed a few easy ones, he earned another 'B+' with this quiz. When I looked up, he and Carla were the only two remaining in the room.

  I delivered the good news feeling happy there wouldn't be any worry over the grades on today's exam. “You should be proud. Look at what you can achieve if you focus.”

  Carla winked at me. “Maybe it's just you're a better teacher than the rest.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Miss Grey, but I was being serious. It's a shame what happened to Professor Monroe. Were you not a fan of hers either?”

  “I'd rather not say. She was… difficult,” Carla noted before turning to Striker. “You ready?”

  Striker stood. “Yeah, pretty awful she died, though. You found her, right, Professor Ayrwick?”

  “It isn't one of my more favorable memories.” I thought I might have unearthed my route to ascertain their alibis. While Striker loaded his backpack, I seized my opportunity. “You know, they always say you remember exactly where you were when something bad happened. How about you both?”

  Carla awkwardly smiled at Striker. “We were together. Hanging out at my dorm. Right, babe?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I had a lot of homework, and Carla was helping me study for a few classes.”

  “On a Saturday?” I asked. Somehow, I didn't believe they were home studying. “That's a different way of spending the weekend than I did when I was a student here.”

  Carla coughed, then shrugged her shoulders. “Ugh, yeah, I guess you got us. We were in his dorm, just the two of us, but there might have been a few drinks and less studying involved, ya know?”

  “Sounds closer to my memory,” I said.

  “I guess we should've been honest from the beginning. I don't turn twenty-one for a few more weeks, so I didn't want to get in trouble,” Carla added. “But you'll keep our secret, right, professor?”

  “We should run. I've got that appointment with Dean Mulligan.” Striker grabbed Carla's hand and led her out of Diamond Hall. They were bunched together whispering something as I watched through the window. When they reached the end of the walkway, Carla yanked her hand away and took off in the opposite direction of Striker.

  With them gone, I decided to check on Jordan. I looked up his contact information and called his dorm room. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Yo, who's this?”

  “Jordan? It's Professor Ayrwick,” I replied suddenly feeling very old. Was I turning into that mean professor who called his students out for missing one day of class? “I was following up with everyone to see if they had any questions on the upcoming term paper. Just checking if you determined what topic to focus on?”

  “Sorry, I missed class. I was with Coach Oliver talking about the Major League Baseball scout. Looks like I'll be pitching this Saturday.” Jordan was excited to share his news.

  “Oh, well, that's fantastic. Things come up, no worries. Missing one or two classes each semester is acceptable. You can make up the quiz anytime between now and Friday.” Then I stalled unable to come up with an easy way to ask him about his alibi for the nights of the murders.

  We agreed to a time for the re-do and hung up.
What had changed Coach Oliver's mind to lead with Jordan instead of Striker? I'd have to ask him when I saw him again. I pondered whether he would show up at Abby's funeral service that afternoon.

  I peeked at my notes for my second lecture of the day, then had a bite to eat. Just as I finished, Connor called. “Kellan, I wanted to update you on what I learned from the security logs,” he said.

  “Hit me with it. Is Coach Oliver guilty?”

  “There are only a few cameras installed in Grey Sports Complex, but we had a good view of the fitness center entrance on the third floor,” he added while the sound of pages being flipped in the background filled the empty air. “Keep in mind there aren't any cameras near the conference room, so we can only tell who was spotted somewhere on the floor or in the building.”

  I pictured the layout as best I could from memory recognizing this wouldn't be an exact confirmation of who had access. “There were many people in the fitness center when we arrived.”

  “Yes, but Officer Flatman and I watched the video recording from four thirty to seven which covers the full period for someone to leave, find Lorraine, push her out the window where she fell to her death, and re-enter or escape without being caught. Only two people entered or exited the fitness center whom I couldn't account for elsewhere. It doesn't mean someone else couldn't have already been in the outside hall or approached the conference room, but at least we can eliminate anyone who was still inside the fitness center when it happened.”

  “Got it. Who left?”