Dead Soldiers

by Crider, Bill

  “I don’t have my list of names with me. The ones Dr. Partridge gave me, I mean. Have you checked all of them out, too?“

  Napier just looked at him.

  “Okay, no harm in asking. What did you learn about them?“

  “Neal Bruce is the only one with military experience. He was in Viet Nam, and don’t give me any Rambo theories. He’s a banker and wears a tie to work every day.“

  “Guys with ties don’t kill people?“

  “Sure they do. I just meant he isn’t any crazed vet with homicidal tendencies.“

  “Neither was Rambo until somebody ticked him off.“

  “Spare me the psychology. You’re an English teacher, remember?“

  “I get the point. So where does that leave us?“

  Napier stood up and stretched. “There has to be a connection between Hart and Tomlin and the killer.“

  There was that between again. Burns let it pass.

  “And there has to be some connection between all of them and the soldiers,“ Napier continued. “We just don’t know what it is. Maybe you can figure it out, sort of like you figure out what all the symbolism means when you read a poem.“

  “Soldiers are symbols of war,“ Burns said. “The only war we’ve had lately is the one in Iraq, where the people are now enjoying the fruits of democracy.“

  “I happen to be one of the people who approved of that war, Burns, so don’t bring any of your wussie pinko politics into this, all right?“

  Burns yawned.

  “Am I boring you, Burns?“ Napier said. “Because I wouldn’t want to bore you.“

  “You’re not boring me. It’s late, and I’m sleepy. And I have an eight o’clock class tomorrow.“

  “Well, you’d better go, then. You need your sleep. You don’t want to bore the students and have them yawning in your face when you’re trying to explain something like why it’s so important to not split an infinitive.“

  Burns gave him a quick look, but Napier’s face showed nothing.

  “You’re going to have a talk with some of the people on that list tomorrow, aren’t you, Burns?“

  “I might, if I have time.“

  “Oh, I have a feeling you’ll find the time. Try not to aggravate them too much.“

  “Aggravate? Me?“

  “Yeah, you. And while you’re at it, try to come up with some answers to those questions we’ve been talking about.“

  “Sort of like a take-home exam, right?“

  “Call it what you want to. The sooner we find the answers, the less chance there is of someone else getting shot at or killed.“

  That possibility was what had been bothering Burns more than anything. He said, “You think he’ll take another shot at Mal?“

  “Who knows? He might, or he might go after someone else. It’s like I told you: we live in a crazy world.“

  “You got that right,“ Burns said.

  “Have,“ Napier said.

  Burns looked at him.

  “You have that right. Got is the wrong verb.“

  “I know that. It’s just an expression.“

  “Yeah. I just wanted you to know that I knew what was right. Just in case you were wondering.“

  “I wasn’t,“ Burns said.

  It was after midnight when Burns got home. He showered and got into bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about the list of suspects and wondering how any of them could be guilty of murder. No one on the list seemed capable of that act to Burns, though he admitted to himself that he didn’t know any of them very well. When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of toy soldiers and dead men with bullet holes in their heads and scrambled brains.

  The next morning Burns felt terrible. He hadn’t slept well at all, and the inside of his mouth tasted as if a condor had nested there. He was feeling a little better by the time he got to the college, but not by much, and the climb to the third floor of the main building didn’t help. One of these days he was going to have to get in shape.

  Usually he liked to get to school at least forty-five minutes before class, which gave him time to read the morning paper and gather his thoughts before facing his students. Today he barely had time to grab his textbook and papers and get to the classroom before everyone decided he wasn’t coming at all and walked out. He made it with a few minutes to spare, and he tried to ignore the disappointed looks he saw on a couple of faces.

  The course was American lit, and about half the class looked as if they were even sleepier than Burns, which wasn’t unusual in an eight o’clock class. Many of them always looked sleepy.

  Burns didn’t take pity on them, however. He passed out the pop test that he had planned to give and waited patiently while they completed it. He took it up, gave them the answers, and started his discussion of Francis Macomber’s short, happy life. A few students were actually interested in the story because of the ending. They’d had an argument before class about whether Macomber’s wife had killed him deliberately or whether it had been an accident. Burns, feeling a little like Boss Napier, told them to look for the details in the story, and then base their decision on what they found. He told them it would be fine even when they came to different conclusions, as long as there was evidence in the story to support them. This got the rest of the class, or at least the ones who’d actually read the story, interested. By the time the bell rang, Burns was feeling pretty good, almost like a real teacher.

  The feeling deserted him almost as soon as he reached his office. Bunni was at the computer, and she told him that he’d had a call from the dean.

  Déjà vu all over again, he thought, knowing that the dean herself hadn’t actually done the calling. That would have been a job for Melva Jeans.

  “Does she want me to return the call?“ he asked.

  “Yes,“ Bunni said. “She said it was important.“

  That was another thing about calls from deans, Burns thought. They were always important, and they always had to be returned. Okay, that was two things. But the point was the same in any case. He reached for the phone, but it rang before he could pick it up and make his call.

  “This is Carl Burns,“ he said. “How may I help you?“

  He answered that way only because there had been a called faculty meeting about telephone etiquette. It had somehow come to the president’s attention that the campus phones were not being answered in a courteous fashion, either by the student workers or the faculty. Why, some people were actually just saying hello instead of informing the caller of who was speaking.

  Burns had always figured that the caller should know who was speaking, having placed the call to that person’s office, but he didn’t express that thought to the president. Instead he sat through the meeting, surreptitiously grading pop quizzes.

  He’d paid just enough attention to jot down the new rules for answering the phone. He wanted to know what they were because the president had a habit of checking up. You never knew when he’d phone just to be sure people were giving the right response when they picked up the receiver.

  But it wasn’t the president. It was the dean’s secretary calling back.

  “Please hold for the dean,“ Melva said, and Burns said he would.

  Within a second or two, Dean Partridge was on the line.

  “This is Dr. Partridge. Didn’t your secretary tell you that I’d called?“

  “She did, but I just got out of class,“ Burns told her. “I was reaching for the phone when it rang.“

  “Very well. I want you to come over to my office. There’s someone here who wants to meet you.“

  Burns would have asked who it was, but he knew better. Deans never gave out information like that. They preferred to keep you in the dark, to make you wonder what was going on. It was part of their plan to drive the underlings crazy.

  “I’ll be right there,“ Burns said, thinking that he’d at least have an excuse to stop by and say hello to Elaine on his way back. Seeing her would make the whole trip worthwhile, no matter
who was in the dean’s office, or at least that’s what Burns told himself.

  He told Bunni where he was going and left, hoping he wasn’t going to meet a set of irate parents who wanted him or one of his faculty members fired for some act of atrocious behavior, such as failing one of their children or telling one of those same children that an instructor had a perfect right to require that they arrive in class on time.

  When Burns got to the dean’s office, he got a surprise. Melva Jeans told him to go right in. Burns tried to remember the last time a dean hadn’t kept him waiting. He couldn’t think of a single time, so he knew something odd was going on. He opened the door and stepped into the office.

  Partridge was sitting behind her desk. She stood up and said, “Ah, here’s Dr. Burns now.“

  A woman was sitting in one of the incommodious leather chairs. She turned and looked at Burns as he entered.

  He saw that it was Mary Mason, and she gave Burns a friendly smile. She was made up to perfection, no doubt entirely with products from the Merry Mary line. Burns had no idea what her age was. It could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. He’d need to see her without the make-up to get a better idea. She wore a tight-fitting dress that showed off her impressive bosom, and lots of jewelry. It seemed to Burns that she had a ring on every finger. Her blonde hair looked like lacquered cotton candy, as if it might shatter if someone hit it with a softball bat, which Burns had no intention of doing, of course, though it made for interesting speculation.

  “Have you two ever met?“ Partridge asked.

  “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,“ Mason said, standing up gracefully and smoothing her dress.

  Burns was impressed by the way it clung to her hips, and he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you.“

  He didn’t say what he’d heard. He didn’t think she’d what to hear that Dr. Partridge thought she was capable of anything.

  Mason extended her hand, and Burns took it. She had a firm, dry grip.

  “I hope everything you’ve heard has been good,“ she said.

  “Naturally,“ Burns said. A little white lie, but who was to know? “You’re a good friend of the college, and that always counts for a lot with everyone around here.“

  Mason laughed. “Good friend means I give a lot of money, so it should count for a lot, all right.“

  Burns had no idea what to say to that. Partridge did. She told him to sit down. He did. So did Partridge and Mason.

  Burns wanted to ask what was going on, but he knew better than that. Dr. Partridge seemed ill at ease, which was unusual for her, but he assumed it was because of her dislike for Mary Mason, who didn’t look uncomfortable at all. She looked as composed as if they had all met for lunch at some fancy tearoom. Not that there were many tearooms of any kind in Pecan City, fancy or not.

  For a few awkward seconds, no one said a word. Then Dean Partridge said, “Ms. Mason came to talk to me about something, and I wanted you to hear it.“

  “Hear what?“ Burns asked.

  “About the soldiers,“ Mary Mason said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What soldiers?“ Burns asked, pretending ignorance, which came naturally to him, and innocence, which didn’t.

  “You’re a kidder, aren’t you,“ Mason said, reaching out to touch his hand. “I like that in a man.“

  Burns had the impression that she liked pretty much anything in a man. He said, “I’m not kidding.“

  Mason looked at Dr. Partridge, who shrugged.

  “You tell him,“ Mason said.

  Partridge did. “Ms. Mason came in this morning because she heard some story about a toy soldier, my toy soldier, being found beside the body of Matthew Hart.“

  Burns thought that over. He’d asked Napier who knew about the soldiers. It had been a short list, and Mary Mason wasn’t on it.

  “Where did you hear that rumor?“ he asked.

  “Rumor? I knew you were a kidder. It’s no rumor. What I want to know is, did Gwen here kill old Matthew.“

  Dean Partridge’s lips thinned almost to invisibility. Whether the reaction was a result of the use of her first name or the implication that she might have had a hand in Hart’s death, Burns couldn’t tell.

  “Dr. Partridge didn’t kill anybody,“ Burns said. “And where did you get your information about the soldier?“

  “Information. I like that better than rumor. Let’s just say that keeping a secret in Pecan City is about as easy as putting on pantyhose in a steam bath and let it go at that.“

  Burns didn’t want to let it go at that, but he could see that what he wanted didn’t make much difference. Mary Mason was used to getting her way, and she was going to get it this time, too.

  “I know Gwen didn’t kill Matthew,“ Mason went on, smiling at Dr. Partridge, who tried to smile back without much success. “I just like to see how people react when I say shocking things.“ She turned to Burns. “You’re very cool and calm, you know?“

  She touched Burns’s hand again. Burns didn’t think of himself as being cool and calm. He was feeling a little warm, to tell the truth.

  “But you did want to say something about the soldiers?“

  “Yes. You can tell him, Gwen.“

  Partridge looked as if she’d swallowed something nasty, but she didn’t argue. She said, “Ms. Mason—“

  “Please, Gwen. Call me Mary.“

  “Of course.“ Partridge swallowed. Hard. “Mary seems to have seen someone looking at my soldiers with real interest when she was at the party for the honor students.“

  “Then she should call the police,“ Burns said, feeling virtuous. “When you have information that pertains to a crime, you don’t call an English teacher.“

  “I don’t want to get involved in murder,“ Mason said. “Or even the petty theft of some toy soldiers. And I don’t want Gwen and the college involved any more than necessary in either of those things. That’s why I came to her. She’s the one who called you.“

  “Dr. Burns is working with the police on the case,“ Partridge said.

  Mason gave her a sidelong glance. “I understand that you work very closely with the police, too.“

  Partridge was sitting at her desk, her hands resting in front of her, fingers entwined. Her hands clenched together into one big fist, and Burns thought that she’d like to use it on Mary Mason’s hair. Or maybe her face.

  “I’ve been questioned about the theft of the soldiers,“ Partridge said, squeezing the words out with an effort.

  “I hope Boss Napier didn’t use any of famous interrogation techniques.“

  Burns waited with interest for Partridge’s answer.

  “He was very . . . gentle,“ she said, and Burns smiled. Score one for the dean.

  “Yes,“ Mason said. “He can be that way sometimes.“

  Okay, Burns thought, call it a tie. He said, “We seem to be forgetting about the soldiers.“

  Both women looked at him as if surprised to see him. It was as if he’d just wandered into the office off the street.

  “Well?“ he said, not letting their looks bother him.

  Partridge took a deep breath and let it out slowly.“Ms. Mason, uh, Mary says that she and Steven Stilwell arrived at my house at about the same time for the party. Neither of them remembered the instructions about going directly to the back yard. The young woman who was directing traffic—“

  “Bunni,“ Burns said.

  “Yes, Bunni. Bunni told them they could go right on through the house and outside, but Mr. Stilwell was so interested in the soldiers that he didn’t want to go immediately. Isn’t that right, uh, Mary.“

  “Yes. Stevie said he’d be out in a minute. He just wanted to look at something first.“

  Stevie? Burns thought. Stevie?

  “The young woman showed me on outside,“ Mason said. “But Stevie stayed behind to look at the soldiers.“

  “You’re sure it was the soldiers he was looking at?“ Burns said.

 
“I’m sure. He said something about them to me as we were going in the door, but I don’t remember what.“

  “So he was in there with them alone for a while?“

  “That’s right, all alone. There was a very formidable young man with . . . did you say her name was Bunny?“

  “Yes. With Bunni with an i.“

  “How . . . cute. Anyway, the young man helped Bunni show me out. He was quite handsome, as well as large.“

  “His name is George,“ Burns said. “He’s a football player.“

  “I could tell he would be good at . . . sports,“ Mason said, smoothing her dress over her thighs. Burns thought she might have licked her lips if she’d been alone.

  “Are you good at sports, Dr. Burns?“ Mason asked, looking at him with eyes that were a deep blue.

  Burns blinked and thought about the softball game that was fast approaching. “Call me Carl. I play softball for the faculty team. We have a game on Saturday.“

  “Well, well. Maybe I’ll come and watch. Will there be refreshments?“

  “Never mind about the softball game,“ Partridge said. “We’re here to talk about the soldiers.“

  “I seem to recall that Carl has been quite a help to the police in the past,“ Mason said, “though Boss Napier often gets all the credit. I hope that you can do something this time, Carl, before the college’s good name gets dragged in the dirt.“

  “This doesn’t involve the college,“ Partridge said. “Nobody here killed Hart.“

  “I’m sure Carl will find that out for sure,“ Mason said. “Isn’t that right, Carl?“

  “I don’t know about that,“ Burns said modestly, feeling like a fool. If he’d had a forelock, he would have tugged it.

  “He’d better,“ Partridge said. “And I’m sure Mr. Stilwell wasn’t involved, either.“

  “How can you be so certain?“ Mason said.

  “Simply because he seems like a very trustworthy person.“

  “You’re not a very good judge of character, then, are you? I wouldn’t put anything past Stevie.“