She looked every bit the part of the consummate professional in her dark blue pants suit and a pair of low matching heels. Even in business attire, auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wearing hardly any makeup, she couldn’t hide her good looks. We shook hands and she introduced herself in a confident, but not arrogant manner. Her grip on my hand suggested to me that she would spend her days listening to the frustrations of others, and then take her own out on a heavy bag at a local gym. When our hands broke contact, I noted that even in her current attire a swimmer’s physique was pleasantly noticeable.
She complemented all of this with a look of total alertness, and it was easy to assume that she was the type to work sixty hours a week and still never miss a workout. I was suddenly self-conscious that I hadn’t shaved that day. She looked expectantly from me to Mr. Grumpy and back to me. After a few blinks, I realized what I was forgetting and I introduced her to my—and now her—client. Becoming somewhat professional and coherent again, I gave her my card, which she grabbed with a naked left hand, and I told her I would be calling to keep up on Mr. Grumpy’s progress. I let an uncomfortable silence descend on us until she smiled, said goodbye, and took her new charge into her office.
Never one to shuck my responsibilities, I dutifully phoned her office the next day to see how the session went. I even shaved for the occasion. I introduced myself again and asked about the previous day’s meeting.
Without divulging any confidential information, she told me that Mr. Grumpy was “still in compliance with the court-ordered counseling” and that everything was fine. Another awkward silence ensued, and I stroked my smooth chin, said my goodbyes and hung up.
I called her again a few days later to see how the latest session had gone. After all, I had to keep close tabs on Mr. Grumpy. This five-foot-six, 140-pound miscreant had been in a five-second bar fight in downtown Huntington. He had nearly broken another guy’s skin before passing out drunk in mid-punch. He had a terrifying prior criminal record for public urination outside of a monster truck show. The man was obviously a menace. The hard-core drug dealers, burglars, and other felons assigned to me would just have to learn to share my attention. Mr. Grumpy needed me.
Again, Dr. Richards informed me that Mr. Grumpy was “still in compliance with the court-ordered counseling” and that everything was fine.
Good to know.
This time I let the stillness build until she actually asked me if I was still there. Flustered, I told her that my cell must have lost the signal momentarily, and I asked her to repeat what she’d said. She did, and I gave my thanks before hanging up. I made a mental note to buy a cell phone.
When I called again the next week to ask about Grumpy’s progress, I made it as far as, “Hi, it’s Cyprus Ke—” before she impatiently snapped, “Why don’t you just ask me out already?”
I suddenly wasn’t sure I could be with a woman who was this direct. I’m an old-fashioned guy. Besides, there was Mr. Grumpy to consider. This would create a conflict of interest and I would have to pass him off to one of my colleagues. What would he do without me? And who did this lady think she was? I decided right then and there that I was going to quickly back away from this situation. Maybe after we had dinner one time.
We had a private ceremony three months later. I asked the judge to take some wedding photos of us with my new cell phone.
Back when we started dating, it hadn’t taken us long to figure out we were going to be together. We just had to work out a few details. Last names, for instance. I wanted her to take my last name, but she wanted to keep hers. So we made a deal. She would keep her last name and in exchange I would have to be fine with that.
Psychologists are very skilled in the art of compromise.
I have to admit, I was never sure I was the marrying type, but married life definitely agreed with me. For a few months I didn’t even mind the part of my job that involved being lied to a thousand times a day, or getting a call from the jail telling me one of my projects had held up a Stop-and-Rob gas station while wearing a work uniform with his name patch on it, or spending my afternoons collecting warm plastic cups of urine so loaded with THC that it refused to even slosh around. Kaitlyn made everything better, and things started coming into focus for me.
My new bride even tried to get me to understand myself better. But, of course, I blew off her so-called constructive criticism because why would I listen to an expert in human behavior who also happens to be my best friend and wife? No, sir. I was way too smart for that.
But overall, things did improve. I started experiencing a feeling that was completely new to me: ambition. For the first time in a long time, I began to think that there was more I could do with my life. Not that what I was doing wasn’t important, but I needed something more. Something different. Something to shake things up.
Detective Shand’s words echoed in my head. I was still a little lightheaded and out of breath from the run, and I struggled to wrap my mind around what he was saying.
I finally responded to the news in the same stupid, dumbfounded way that people had reacted to my words when I was in his shoes.
“Killed? Lindsay Behram?”
Through puffs of cold breath, Hartz went straight to the point and said, “We’re tracking her movements from yesterday. When was the last time you saw Lindsay?”
Tracking her movements? This was no car accident. This was not “a drunken student falls down a set of stairs and hits her head”-type deal. When Shand said killed he meant murdered. These guys were investigating a homicide.
I immediately replied, “I saw her around three o’clock yesterday afternoon.”
Not a flicker of heightened curiosity on either of their faces. Of course. They knew I saw her. Why else would they be looking for a professor she had for only one class.
Shand returned to me with a quick tennis forehand, “What did you two discuss?”
I knew from my years in law enforcement that the two worst things an innocent person could do in this situation were to either lie, or omit a portion of the whole truth. There was no way I was going to conceal anything, even if it could create an appearance of impropriety down the road. Cops become cynical by nature. It just happens. If I were to get caught in a lie, I would be putting the crosshairs on my own forehead. Besides, nothing ever happened between the two of us, and Steven was there to witness my glorious moment of righteous indignation.
I shyly batted my answer back, “I think she had a thing for me. Kind of a crush, I suppose. But I made it very clear that nothing was ever going to happen between us.”
Uh, oh. I had already gotten the sense that these guys were good at hiding their emotions behind stoic expressions. Real good. And what I just saw flash on each of their faces was brief. Just a quick peek. A quick pulse of heat lightning that didn’t make the slightest sound, but opened up the surrounding scenery to further examination for a brief moment in time. I had figured they might not have been prepared for my response, but this was something more. It was the last thing I expected and certainly not what I wanted. Each of their faces betrayed a look that summarized what I had felt all too often when I had questioned a suspect at a crime scene and had heard a single fact that unexpectedly fit. They had simply been toying around with the dial on the front of the safe and the tumbler had accidently, and remarkably, clicked into place. One number in the combination . . . down.
For the first time, the two detectives spoke almost simultaneously. Hartz, suddenly looking less concerned with the cold breeze, won the brief verbal tug-of-war and reasoned, “So you did know her a little more than your other students?”
“I suppose I know . . . I knew her a little better because she tended to stop me after class and ask me questions. She was flirtatious, but that was it. I swear, nothing ever happened between us. I did not return her implied pronouncements of affection at any point. I was very clear about it yesterday!”
Implied pronouncements of affection? Way to not sound pompous, Dr.
Dumbass. And when a person being questioned says, I swear, that’s what is called a qualifier. Usually, it means that the person is lying through his teeth. This was sure going well.
Now, it was Shand coming at me with a backhand this time, “Yesterday in your office.” A statement. Not a question.
I hadn’t said she came by my office.
“Yes. My graduate assistant, Steven Thacker, was there with me in my office until three-thirty. He witnessed the entire exchange where I made it completely clear to her that there could be no relationship between us,” I exclaimed as my irritation started to rise again. Continuing in a labored breath, “I explained that university policy forbids it and that it was simply not going to happen.”
“How old is Mr. Thacker?” asked Hartz, without letting a second pass.
What a strange question to ask. If I were interrogating some pompous professor at a second-rate university who openly admitted a recently-made-dead student was hitting on him, I certainly wouldn’t focus on some grad student’s age.
I managed to breathe out, “I guess he’s around twenty-five or so. He’s scheduled to graduate this May.”
It occurred to me that I better start asking some questions of my own before it began to look as if I were not asking because I already knew most of the answers.
“Wait a second. You’re asking a lot of questions that make it sound like this wasn’t an accident. What happened to Lind . . . Ms. Behram?”
Nice job idiot. First name basis with the deceased.
The fact that I have always tried to be on a first name basis with all of my students, and that it is actually possible at a small school like this where everybody seems to know each other, is probably not something the detectives wanted to hear at this point. Maybe I could also dazzle them with my knowledge of adult learning theory and the benefits of informal interaction in the classroom while I’m at it. Genius.
Hartz’s turn to swing the racquet. They were falling back in line with their routine.
“She was found strangled in the Hill District. You know the area?”
“I know of it, but I don’t go up there. No reason to, of course.”
Of course. Because of course I didn’t have a reason to go to a high-crime, drug-infested area, detectives. I was an upstanding pillar of the community in one of the country’s most-respected institutions of higher education. Well . . . at least I was a well-liked fellow at a barely accredited college. The point was, didn’t they know that I had written journal articles that probably had been read by two or three pairs of people?
What the hell was Lindsay doing there anyway? I didn’t take her for a druggy, but I could see her as a party girl. I guess if she was naïve enough to go up there to buy some Ecstasy or weed, then that might explain some of this. However, in all of my time on the street I never, ever saw a drug-buy-gone-bad end in strangulation. It just doesn’t happen. Gunshot? Sure. Stabbing? No problem. Beaten to death, run over by a car, set on fire, drowned in the gutter . . . why not? But not strangled. I knew it didn’t make sense and so did the men standing in front of me. Strangulation is often a crime of passion committed by someone the victim knows. Someone the victim knows intimately. It’s usually a personal crime. Or, in some cases, a crime of blind rage.
“You teach Criminology courses, right? So I’m sure you know what the next question is,” Shand said in his best rapport-building tone.
“I was in my office grading papers until seven, and then I stopped by the Silesian Deli over on East Ohio Street for a few minutes and ate a sandwich. I left there and walked back to the assembly hall to catch an eight o’clock lecture. I was there until around ten.”
“And then?” Hartz prompted.
“Then I went home. I was there all night. And no, I was not alone. My wife was home.”
Hartz raised an eyebrow and did not wait for his counterpart to ask the obvious follow-up.
“And your wife will confirm you were there all night, I suppose.”
“Absolutely. She was in bed, but still awake when I got there.”
Shand scribbled and spoke. “What kind of lecture, Dr. Keller?”
“Cyprus,” I corrected again as another ice cube dropped from the back of my head to my neckline. “It was about how some studies have indicated positive associations between cognitive reasoning ability, auditory stimuli, and sexual virility in apes. So I brought a book of Sudoku puzzles and Barry White CDs up to the bedroom when I got home. My wife told me later that the studies must be flawed.”
I seriously need to pick better times for sarcasm and self-deprecating humor.
I expected a sliver of displeasure, but to my relief a slight grin actually crossed Shand’s face.
Seizing the opportunity I asked, “Can you guys tell me what the T.O.D. was? Maybe I can put your minds at ease.”
I was referring to the time of death. Building rapport through the use of a common language is Interviewing 101. Dr. Pompous needed to leave this stage and former Officer Keller, Baltimore PD needed to make an appearance. This was my way of saying, See detectives! I know what T.O.D. stands for! I’m not some perverted, coed-chasing, cold-blooded murderer who leaves some poor girl’s body decomposing in gang territory. No sir. I’m one of you! Now let’s go down a beer and have a bunch of laughs about responding to suicide attempts gone terribly wrong, or dealing with skanky 300-pound barflies who offer us sexual favors if we don’t arrest them for walking through the bar’s parking lot wearing nothing but a toothless grin. Next round is on me!
Besides, the chances were good that my whereabouts could be accounted for at whatever time the murder actually occurred, but I wanted to make sure. I was at my office with Steven, then I used my credit card at the deli, then I sat in a lecture hall with seventy-five other people. I was feeling pretty good about my story, which just happened to be true.
Shand’s demeanor had lightened considerably as he disclosed, “The coroner places T.O.D. at approximately nine-thirty P.M. Who at the lecture could confirm that you were there?”
That’s why he had lightened up. The T.O.D. put me in the clear—assuming my alibi checked out. And what kind of idiot gives a bogus alibi that is easy to check?
“I sat in the back by myself,” I explained, “but there was a lady who had to scan my university ID into a portable card reader in order for me to get into the event for free. There was a line for university employees on one side of the lobby, and another line on the opposite side for everybody else because they had to have a ticket. You’ll find my ID was scanned around eight P.M.”
“Just out of curiosity, why did you sit by yourself? Didn’t you know anybody? It’s kind of a small school,” Hartz inquired as he again pulled his coat tight.
“Not very well,” I said, choosing to answer his second question. “The lecture wasn’t completely in my field, so most of the faculty members there were from other departments.” Then I added, “And I’m still pretty new here.”
Hartz continued with another question. “Where were you before coming to Three Rivers?”
Perfect. Time to fully introduce myself as one of the brotherhood.
“I was a probation officer in West Virginia. Baltimore PD before that,” I said with false dismissiveness and a slight wave of my hand.
Shand nodded with some level of appreciation and said, “Well, you know we’ll have to check your alibi. We have to follow up on everything. You know how this works since you were one of us. The D.A.’s office and the press . . . well . . . it’s a pretty college girl found dead in drug land. You understand.”
I nodded sympathetically as he went on.
“You said that the lecture wasn’t completely in your field. If you ask me, it sounds way out in left field for someone in your occupation.”
“It dealt with brain functioning, sexual behavior, and touched on aggressiveness. I’ve done some research on sexual predators. I thought there might be something useful for me there.”
“Was there?”
�
��Apparently an alibi.”
With a silent laugh he forged ahead with the next basic questions. “Do you know of anybody who would want to hurt Ms. Behram? Was she having any problems with anybody that you were aware of?”
“No, but I truly didn’t know much about her. Seemed like a sweet girl, and she may have been just a little misguided in her intentions when it came to me,” I asserted more calmly than before. I was still cold but I was starting to relax.
I took advantage of another short pause in the interview while Shand scribbled my response into his notepad. Hartz looked up at an obstinate tree struggling to produce buds. “By the way, how did you know she came to my office?” I asked as if I had just thought of the question.
Returning his focus to ground level, Hartz answered, “The victim’s roommate told us she had wanted to go clothes shopping with her, but Ms. Behram said that she needed to see if you were in your office, that she had to talk to you about something. Her roommate also mentioned that she thought Ms. Behram was seeing an older man, but she was secretive about it. The victim apparently made references to her “older boy-toy” when talking to her friends.”
He let that sink in.
“You understand how this could look, so I need you to be completely honest with us. Are you sure there wasn’t something more between you and the victim? Something more than a student-professor relationship?”
I could envision suspects looking up at this composed colossus and spilling their guts for no other reason than wanting to pacify the god of reckonings who was looming over them.
“Not in any way,” I vowed, while wiping my sleeve across my damp forehead. “If she was referring to me, and I don’t think she could have been, then she was very much mistaken. But Ms. Behram didn’t strike me as the kind of person to make a leap like that. I don’t think she was talking about me.”
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