Sounds of Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  No, reasoned Pamela. She wasn't just in the way. If that were the case, we’d surely have found her body in the doorway, as if she were trying to prevent someone from entering or leaving, possibly. The fact that she was seated and had been strangled from behind, said to Pamela--and it said it to her quite suddenly--that Charlotte was murdered intentionally and the killer had sneaked up on her from behind. There was no confrontation. Charlotte didn't realize the killer was there until that power cord tightened around her neck.

  Oh, my God, Pamela thought. Somebody intended to kill Charlotte Clark. She felt sure of it. She didn't know why it didn't dawn on her when she first saw Charlotte's body there in the lab, but now that she thought about it, there was no other possibility. Maybe.

  She turned onto Colonial Court, her street, her headlights leading the way to her house which was about halfway down the lane. Each house she knew like a member of her family. Charlotte had no immediate family that Pamela knew of. The only people Charlotte really knew were her colleagues in the Department--the only people who could be considered on a list of possible suspects. And if the animosity Mitchell probably felt towards Charlotte after experiencing her wrath earlier this evening was shared by other faculty members, then the list of suspects could include virtually everyone in the Department.

  She pushed the garage door opener on her key chain and the door slowly rose. Rocky was standing in the kitchen doorway, lit from behind. With exquisite care, she pulled into the garage, opened the car door, and slid out. Then she rushed towards Rocky's waiting figure.

  Chapter 5

  Oh, how good his arms felt around her. She wanted to just stand there in his embrace forever, but after a few moments, she pulled back. Rocky was appropriately named. He was a large, burly man, with short brown hair and stubble on his craggy face. He took her books and her purse from her shoulder and set them on the kitchen table. Then he carefully removed her jacket, placing it over the back of the kitchen chair. With his arm tightly around her shoulder, he guided her towards the bedroom.

  "Oh, God, Rocky," she cried in a small voice, "It was awful. You just can't imagine."

  He sat her down on the edge of their bed and with ritualistic care bent down and removed her heels, placing them neatly to the side. Then, quietly, he brought her a robe and nightgown which were hanging from a hook on the bathroom door.

  "Where’s Angie?" she asked.

  "She wanted to talk to you, but I told her you had to stay late for something. She went to bed hours ago," he said.

  "She wanted to talk to me?" she asked.

  "Yeah," he said, "Something about a car. Don’t ask."

  "Did she finish her homework?"

  "Early," he said, "Then spent most of the night trying out different hairdos or whatever you women do."

  Their daughter was just beginning her college career. She had been a good student in high school—and never engaged in any of the typical adolescent problems such as drinking, drugs, or wild partying. Even so, Angela was a handful and her attitude was often belligerent and morose. She never seemed to fit in and her friends were few.

  "Where's Candide?" she wondered, looking around for her usual little greeter.

  "Under the bed, asleep, I think. Now," he said, "Quit stalling, soldier. Get those clothes off and into your jams." She obeyed robotically, her eyes staring straight ahead. When she was comfortably clothed, she leaned back on the bed where Rocky had piled some pillows against the headboard.

  "I need to talk to you," she said, whispering.

  "I know," he said, touching her shoulders gently but firmly, "Wait just a minute." He went quickly into the kitchen and returned almost immediately with a cup of steaming liquid.

  "Hot chocolate with latte foam just like you like," he pronounced softly. "I thought it would help calm and relax you."

  She took the steaming cup of warm liquid and sipped it slowly.

  "Thank you," she smiled up at him. "You’re the best."

  He rounded the bed and propped himself up next to her. Rocky had spent most of his life as a career military man—an Army sergeant—a cook to be exact. They had met in graduate school at a new student orientation. Their chemistry had been instant and they had married within a year of meeting. When Pamela had continued on for her doctorate, Rocky had been happy to remain at the instructor level with his Masters’ degree and be a house husband, caring for their young daughter. He made good use of both his teaching skills and his military training to mold his students. Pamela always felt secure with him because he approached all crises with calmness and firmness. She knew she would need his fortitude in the coming days.

  "Now," he said, looking straight at her. "Tell me what happened."

  "I found her," she said, gulping. "I mean, one of my students actually found her, but...”

  "Wait a minute, Babe," he interrupted. "You'd better start at the beginning. All I know is that someone died and you had to stay late."

  "Right," she nodded. "It was Charlotte. Charlotte Clark."

  "You mean the diva?" he asked.

  "Yes," she answered, "I mean, she was famous, Rocky. She’d just been on Oprah, for God's sake."

  "Did she have a heart attack?"

  "My God, no!" she sat up abruptly. "She was murdered!"

  "What?" he exclaimed.

  "That's what I meant. I found her," she repeated. "I found her body."

  "What makes you think she was murdered?" he asked, a patch of wrinkle lines appearing over his nose. "Did you see someone kill her?"

  "No," she responded, "But when Kent found her--he's my graduate assistant--he called me to the lab, and I went there and I saw her. She had a power cord from a set of headphones wrapped around her neck."

  "God," he exhaled. His face contorted into a frown. "You were there by yourself?"

  "No," she said. "Kent was there."

  "But, the two of you were alone in the building?" he asked, developing that slow burn that she recognized as a prelude to his very infrequent outbursts.

  "It was after nine and all the evening classes were over. Everyone was out of the building as far as I knew."

  "Except the person who killed Charlotte," he said.

  "We didn't see anyone at all," she responded. She could see how worried he was for her.

  "What did you do then?" he asked, calming some what.

  "We called the campus police and they came almost at once," she said. "That's why I was there so late. Then the local police--this Detective Shoop was asking me questions until just a little bit ago."

  "Couldn't he have waited until tomorrow?" he queried, now more annoyed than angry. She’d finished her chocolate. He took her cup and placed it on his nightstand.

  "Rocky," she said, feeling much too tired to get into an argument with him over her safety, "It's all right. I'm home. The police wanted to get my reactions while they were fresh in my mind. I understand. Everything turned out all right." She looked at him and put her hands on his face as if to say, "I'm safe." She loved this dear, sweet man who had her best interests at the very top of his list.

  Rocky gave in to her plea and stood up long enough to draw back the covers on their bed. She snuggled inside the warm bed. Rocky climbed in beside her and turned out the light.

  "I don't think I can sleep," she said, her shoulders quivering.

  "I didn't expect you would," he responded. "Just try to relax. This has been a terrible ordeal for you. You should stay home tomorrow."

  "No," she muttered, "I can't do that. It’ll be a zoo over there. Things will be in an uproar and the students will be upset. I have to be there. And besides, that Shoop will probably want to question me again."

  "Pammie, Babe," he said, nuzzling close to her ear and wrapping his arms around her in the way that always made her feel totally safe and secure, "You don't need to feel obligated to go in. My God, you found a dead body tonight. Anyone would understand if you wanted to take the day off tomorrow."

  "I’ll be fine," she said, turning
towards him. "Right now, my brain’s on overdrive. I can't stop thinking about it."

  "I can imagine," he responded. "It must have been horrible--finding a dead body." They whispered, nose to nose.

  "Yes, it was creepy," she said, "I mean, I’ve seen dead bodies at funerals, but never like this. And I had to touch her--you know--to check her pulse and listen for breath sounds. That was scary. The very thought of it gives me the willies."

  "You were never one to tolerate blood well," he said, flashing her a half smile. "Wasn't it third grade when your classmates got some sort of shot and you fainted?"

  "And I didn’t even get the shot," she answered, "I'm a wimp." She stuck out her lower lip.

  "You proved your bravery tonight," he said, squeezing her.

  "There was no bravery involved," she said. "It was just odd. I keep thinking about it, wondering what happened. I mean, did some stranger come into the lab while Charlotte was sitting there, and for no reason strangle her?"

  "Is that what the police think happened?" he asked.

  "They don't say exactly. I mean, Detective Shoop didn't really say what he thought," she noted. "He just asked what I’d seen and what I knew."

  "And?" he suggested.

  "I keep thinking about it and it doesn't make any sense."

  "What doesn't?" he asked.

  "Why would some stranger go into a lab, kill someone sitting there at a computer terminal, and then leave without taking anything?"

  "They didn't take anything?" he asked. "I thought that lab of yours was full of expensive equipment."

  "It is," she said. "That's why it's so strange. If it was a killing tied to a theft, then why didn't the thief take something? I know that lab like the back of my hand, Rocky, and I’d swear that nothing--at least nothing of value--was missing."

  Pamela couldn't see her husband’s face but she could feel his breath on her cheek. She could feel his body tense as his brain tried to process this information.

  "Then why?" he asked.

  "I think the person wanted to kill Charlotte," she said. There was a long pause as Rocky pondered her words.

  "Why?" he asked finally.

  "I don't know," she answered.

  "But you could be in danger," he said, "The entire faculty could be."

  "I don't think so," she said, "I mean, it's unlikely. Some crazed person trying to wipe out the entire Psychology Department?"

  "Stranger things have happened, he added.

  "Rocky," she scolded, "Remember you teach English literature. You have a far more vivid imagination than I do. I evaluate everything scientifically."

  "Oh, yes," he nuzzled her nose, "I know how scientific you are, Miss 'I-don't need to read the recipe, I'll just put in a little bit of this and a little bit of that.'"

  Rocky was an excellent cook and a stickler for following recipes to the letter. She laughed. Then, suddenly, she stopped.

  "Oh, God," she said, "here I am laughing and one of my colleagues has been murdered."

  "Life goes on, Babe," he said.

  "Yes," she answered, "But, I was there. I’m in the thick of this whether I want to be or not. Someone murdered Charlotte and more than likely it was intentional. It’s also more than likely that it’s someone I know."

  "Such as who--?" he paused, curious and worried at once.

  "I don’t have the slightest idea," she mused. "If I go by who disliked Charlotte it could be anyone. I mean, she antagonized just about everyone in the Department. Just before my class tonight I overheard her in a huge fight with our department head, Mitchell Marks, right in his office. I had just gone into my classroom when Charlotte stormed out of his office in a huff. And on top of that, Charlotte is--was the Chair of the Tenure Committee and three of our faculty members are up for tenure. At the last faculty meeting, I recall, she demanded that all the tenure candidates include their doctoral dissertations in their tenure portfolios. Can you imagine that?”

  “She didn’t really expect all the committee members to read three dissertations, did she? That’d be like reading three novels—three long, boring novels.”

  “I don’t know. They’re sitting in her office as far as I know. I sure haven’t had time to read any of them. I guess I figured I’d go down and thumb through them just to see what they were about. But it wouldn’t matter what we committee members did or didn’t do. Charlotte pretty much controlled who would and who wouldn’t get tenure."

  "Yeah," he nodded, yawning. "That would make for enemies. But surely not for murder. I’m glad I’m just an instructor and don’t have to worry about tenure."

  "It’s a ridiculously outdated system, isn’t it? Oh, who knows why she was murdered? We may never know." She scooted down in the bed. "I've got to get some sleep. What time is it anyway? No, no. Don't tell me."

  "Your wish," he answered, yawning again. She rolled over and fluffed her pillow. The silence in the room was haunting. Then she heard the soft, delicate little snuffles of their poodle Candide, snoring lightly under the bed, his favorite sleeping place.

  There were so many questions, so many details that were just starting to come into focus about the death of Charlotte Clark. Pamela had found the body and thus, she felt a sense of obligation to find some answers to those questions. But they’d have to wait. They’d have to wait until tomorrow and, for all she knew, that was only a few hours away.

  Chapter 6

  When Pamela arrived at work the next morning, it was just before nine o’clock. As she came through the Blake Hall parking lot entrance, she could see that the police had draped yellow "crime scene" tape over the lab door, barring any entrance. As far as she could tell, all faculty office doors were closed. As she walked towards the main office, she passed Charlotte's office. That too, had yellow tape covering it. She wondered why, as no crime had occurred there. She assumed that the police had or would be examining Charlotte's computer and personal items in her office and wanted to keep people out of there.

  As she walked down the hallway, she didn’t see any of her colleagues. Either none of them had arrived yet or they’d already heard about Charlotte's death and were lying low. When she entered the main office, she spied Jane Marie Mira, the departmental secretary, typing at her keyboard, but obviously keeping an eye on Mitchell Marks’ office door which was closed. Jane Marie had been with the department for as long as Pamela had been there. She was a highly competent and fiercely loyal watch dog of their Chair, and actually, the entire faculty. Pamela quietly made herself known to Jane Marie and gestured to her.

  "He's with the police," Jane Marie whispered, "Oh, Dr. Barnes, you poor thing! Finding Dr. Clark like that. You must have been horrified!" She came out from behind her desk festooned with Halloween decorations and a Jack-o-lantern full of candies and hugged Pamela. The softness of her cashmere sweater felt good against Pamela's face.

  "It was unpleasant," Pamela said to her friend and co-worker, "It makes me cringe just thinking about it. When did Mitchell find out?"

  "He said the police called him at home last night," Jane Marie replied, "They called the Dean too. All upper administration knows. It’ll be all over the news today. Didn't you hear them talking about it on the local radio?"

  "No," responded Pamela, "I try to keep things quiet when I'm driving. I, uh, have trouble concentrating on the road, sometimes. Do you know who's in there with Mitchell?"

  "Some tall guy. Snoop? Or Scoop?" Jane Marie said.

  "Shoop," corrected Pamela.

  "That's it," Jane Marie said. "He's a weird bird."

  "Tell me," agreed Pamela, "He was questioning me in my office--afterwards--last night until at least eleven."

  "Oh, God," said Jane Marie, "Why didn't you call in sick this morning?"

  "That's what Rocky said to do," Pamela responded, "But I figured I'd better meet my classes. They’re going to be upset--even more so when it gets out that I found the body."

  "Listen, Dr. Barnes," continued Jane Marie, "If you change your mind, just let me k
now. I’ll see that your classes are cancelled. You might feel a lot better if you just went home. I mean, the police are probably going to want to talk to you again, aren't they?"

  "Yes," Pamela answered, sighing. "Shoop made that clear. That's actually another reason I felt I needed to be here. If he asks for me, tell him I'm in class until noon and then I'll be in my office."

  "Okay," said Jane Marie, shaking her head of pretty brown curls, "but I really think you should get out of here." She shook her finger at Pamela.

  "I appreciate your concern," said Pamela, "but I'm going to tough it out."

  Jane Marie bit her lower lip and looked down. Pamela sensed a problem.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Dr. Barnes, don't tell anyone, but there was an envelope in Dr. Marks’ mailbox this morning when I arrived that wasn’t there when I left last night.”

  “Maybe a faculty member left it for him. I was in the office last night after you locked up and I’m sure other faculty were too.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “Phineas was just leaving as I was going in and…well…Charlotte was in Mitchell’s office. They appeared to be having quite a fight.”

  The young secretary blanched. “A fight? With Dr. Clark?” She scowled and leaned back in her chair. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I took the envelope out of his mailbox this morning and I opened it. I suspected that Dr. Clark was the one who put it in his mailbox. It looked like her private stationery."

  "What was in it?" Pamela asked, moving closer to Jane Marie’s desk.

  "I probably shouldn't have opened it, but I am his secretary and I often open his mail. It didn't say 'personal' on it and I might have opened it on a very busy day and even called it to his attention. Now, I almost wish I had called it to his attention so I could see his reaction when I showed it to him,” she spewed out her narrative so fast that Pamela could barely follow her.