Sounds of Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  "He didn't tell her that I was the one who discovered the body, did he?" Pamela asked.

  "I don't think so," she said. "I really think they’re trying to keep this low key and keep your name and the name of the grad assistant...."

  "Kent."

  "Yes, Kent. Keep both of your names out of it. But, Dr. Barnes, I wouldn't count on that working. That reporter’s a barracuda. She was trying to finagle information from me."

  "And?"

  "And, of course, she didn't get any," announced Jane Marie, smiling coyly, faking polishing her nails on her chest.

  "Thanks."

  "No problem," said Jane Marie.

  Just then, the door to the Department Head's office opened and Mitchell Marks and Joan Bentley entered the small ante-chamber.

  "Pamela!" called out Marks, spying her. "Good, you're here. Can you come in for a moment?"

  "I was--," she stammered, desperately hoping to be on her way.

  "Don't worry, my dear," tossed out Joan, "He's under duress but he won't bite you. I promise." She stepped lively out of the office and on her way.

  "For a moment, then," said Pamela, looking back at Joan, disappearing around the corner, and at Jane Marie, who smiled sheepishly and sorrowfully at the same time.

  Mitchell held open the door to his office and escorted Pamela into the vast space, decorated in antique guns, hunting trophies and awards from Mitchell's many years of publishing articles and books in psychology. Her Department Head was tall, medium built, and could, in some circles, be considered attractive, with his wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and delicate features. A former faculty member had once compared him to the Ashley Wilkes character in “Gone With the Wind.” Unfortunately, thought Pamela, Wilkes was ineffectual—as Mitchell often was—at least in his inability to stand up to Charlotte. Pamela found Mitchell’s type too effete and far preferred a more macho man—like her Rocky.

  "My God," Mitchell sighed, leaning back in his comfortable desk chair. Pamela seated herself on one of the three or four chairs situated in front of his desk. "What a disaster! And here I haven't even had a second to talk to you. I wish you’d called me last night." Mitchell always spoke in a deep whispered monotone. No wonder he had trouble leading the department.

  "Mitchell," she started to apologize, "The detectives were interrogating me so long, I didn't have a free second. When I finally got home it was so late and...."

  "Stop! Stop!" he said, holding up his hand, "It's not a criticism. I can only imagine how terrible the whole thing was for you. I just wish I’d been here to help you. That's what I meant. No one should have to go through such an ordeal alone." Mitchell leaned way back in his leather desk chair and formed a tent of his fingers. He rocked his chair slowly back and forth as he looked at her with cloudy blue eyes that hid—what? Did he know more than he had revealed about the murder?

  "Thank you, Mitchell," she said. "Actually, it's over now. The sooner things get back to normal, the better."

  "It’s certainly not over," he said, harrumphing and crossing his legs, "The cops will be on this until they find who did it. The press will be plastered all over everyone in the department. Listen, I tried to keep your name out of it and so did the Dean. But I can't guarantee that some clever reporter won't tumble to the fact that you were the one who discovered the body. You’re news, Pamela, and reporters will want to talk to you. I've already spoken to Kent and told him in no uncertain terms not to discuss this with anyone except the police if he values his assistantship."

  "Mitchell, I don't think we can require that of him," she said, quizzically. "I mean, if he wishes to talk to the press, he’s a free agent."

  "You're probably right," he sighed, "but I tried. I just hope the police find the culprit sooner rather than later and we can go about our business."

  She relaxed noticeably. Mitchell certainly didn’t seem to be acting guilty. If he was the one who had murdered Charlotte, he didn’t act like it. Or he could just be a good actor. Mitchell had never seen particularly hypocritical to her; he was, in fact, usually very straightforward.

  "Do they have any suspects?" she asked, carefully. "I mean, Jane Marie said you’d spoken to the police this afternoon."

  "Right," he said, "That big, tall fellow. With the eyebrows. Shoop. Didn't get the feeling that they had any clues, but maybe that's just their way."

  Now that she was here, talking to her boss, she figured she might as well test the waters. "It doesn't seem it was a thief or anyone from the outside, I understand,” she ventured. “They seem to think it was someone--local."

  "Local." He smirked, his eyelids suddenly lifting, shoulders becoming concave. "You mean someone in the department."

  "Yes," she agreed, keeping her eyes firmly glued to his.

  "Ten faculty members, fifteen graduate students, one secretary, and a few custodians," he said, in a calculated manner. "A fairly small pool."

  "Yes," she answered. "But surely not everyone in the pool would have a motive."

  "Hmmph," snorted Mitchell, leaning back in his chair again and gnawing a pencil. "Motive to kill the most obnoxious, overbearing, self-centered person I’ve ever known.” He removed the pencil and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems to me like the entire pool would have a motive." He clenched his teeth, and suddenly broke the pencil in half. “Well, I hope you’re ready for a damn interesting faculty meeting tomorrow!”

  Chapter 10

  She couldn't get his words out of her mind. Mitchell's words. He’d said that every one in the department had a motive to murder Charlotte. That was extreme, she knew, but the ramifications of her department head thinking such a thing were staggering. If the police didn't find the killer soon, the investigation would expand, and all of them would be implicated. She couldn't help but be worried. Mitchell had been in the building before the murder and he’d argued with Charlotte. Phineas was also in the building. Laura had fought with Charlotte recently. How many other colleagues could feasibly be listed as possible suspects? Of course, she and Kent were probably considered suspects, she realized, because we were the ones who’d found Charlotte’s body.

  Pamela thought of the CD she’d made and that was still tucked safely in her purse, even now, on Wednesday evening, as she lounged in her favorite chair in her bedroom, reading student papers and listening to soothing music on cable television. Although she was incredibly anxious to listen to the CD, she knew she didn't dare open it now. Rocky and Angela were in other rooms. She’d have to use the family computer in the study and, even though they probably would ignore her, she couldn't be sure that one or both of them wouldn't ask what she was working on. She just didn't feel she could comfortably lie her way out of that situation.

  Candide, her poodle, rubbed against her leg and she reached down and petted his head. He was the only one in the house with whom she could share this secret.

  “Hey there, little fellow,” she whispered. “Are you as anxious to check out that CD as I am?” Candide sniffed and rolled over on his back, begging for a tummy rub. Pamela obliged, bored with what had turned into several hours of paper grading.

  Angela was ensconced at the front door handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. She’d actually volunteered for the job and Rocky was willing to let her have the position seeing as how she’d completed her homework. Every once in a while, Pamela heard the doorbell and Angela's squeals when she recognized the outfits of the tiny costumed children. Rocky had, as usual, prepared a warm, comforting dinner—cornbread and a savory beef and wine concoction he called “Sergeant’s Stew.” He was now seated at the dining room table grading essays for his freshman English classes. Every once in a while he’d saunter into the bedroom and announce how many papers he’d completed, a sort of contest they had when they were both grading.

  She tried to concentrate on the paper she was correcting. She glanced at the various red marks she’d made, hoping to refresh her mind as to the content of the manuscript, with no luck. Oh, she thought, it's no use. I sim
ply won’t be able to accomplish anything until I see what—if anything--is on that disk. At that moment, Rocky walked in, with his stack of papers and a gleeful look.

  "Done!" he chirped.

  "What? No!" she responded, "I was ahead of you just a bit ago."

  "You're not keeping up, Babe," he announced. "How many more?" He gestured to the stack of uncorrected papers piled on the hassock in front of her.

  "At least forty," she sighed. Rocky always won these grading battles because he didn’t agonize over every error the student made. He circled problem areas, made a general assessment, gave a grade, wrote a note of encouragement, and then went on to the next paper. The sooner he finished a stack of papers, the sooner he could be whipping up some new recipe.

  "How's Angie doing?,” she asked, “Has she run out of treats yet?"

  "Nope," he said, "We still have several bags."

  She placed the paper she was correcting down, along with her pencil and stretched her arms up in the air. "I can't believe she volunteered to hand out Halloween candy. That's so unlike her. So altruistic."

  "She’s a college freshman," he mused, "she should take on some adult responsibilities."

  "And handing out Halloween candy is what you’d consider an adult responsibility," she laughed at him, poking him in the belly as he moved closer to her, "Maybe next we can have her help us pay off the mortgage."

  “Or your traffic tickets.” He sat on the edge of the hassock, careful not to disturb her stack of student masterpieces.

  “Rocky.”

  "Sorry. I didn't really get a chance to ask you how things went today," he said softly, putting his large hands on her knees. "Was it hard for you? I hope they were supportive over there. I know that department of yours can be a bunch of pit bulls sometimes."

  "Actually," she said, smiling at him, "people were very nice. The students, of course, were concerned too."

  "So concerned that they probably thought the best thing for you was to cancel class, right?"

  "How well you know them," she laughed.

  "I have the same ones, remember," he said.

  “I know.”

  "What about Marks, your Chair?" he queried, "He ought to give you an all-expense paid sabbatical. You deserve it."

  "Only," she said, caressing his cheek, "if you can get your Chair to give you one at the same time so we can go away together."

  "Ummm," he sighed, snuggling into her neck, "if only." Angela bounded into the room, her auburn hair hanging over her face. She was carrying a large basket full of wrapped candies.

  "Hey, Dad," she announced, "I'm on the last bag.” She stopped short when she saw her parents romancing in the arm chair. “Oh, no! Not again! Can't you two get a room?" She puckered up her face in disgust.

  "Angela," said Rocky, standing now, almost at attention, "where did you ever hear such a banal expression?"

  "Don't use those big English teacher words on me, Dad," responded his daughter, her oversized t-shirt hanging loosely around her knees, "every time I turn my back, you and Mom are acting like teenagers."

  "And of course," smiled Pamela, gathering her papers and returning to her grading, "we wouldn't want to act like one of them." She looked directly at her 18-year-old daughter with a very pointed expression.

  “Hey, Mom,” queried Angela, “did the police find the murderer yet?” She pronounced “murderer” in a shaky, horror movie voice. Rocky scowled. He obviously didn’t like either of his girls concerned with murderers. “Did you go back to the scene of the crime? What was it like?” asked Angela.

  “I did and it looked like it always looks, Angie,” she replied calmly, “Just a plain, ordinary lab filled with computers.”

  “Bor--ing,” sang out Angela. “No blood?”

  “No blood. Sorry, sweetie.”

  “Not a very interesting lab,” Angie sighed. She plopped down on her parents’ bed.

  "And what would make a lab interesting, Angie?" queried Rocky, "Wires and beakers spewing dry ice? A mad scientist in a lab coat cackling gleefully?"

  "That," answered Pamela, "would be some English teacher's dream of an interesting lab." She smiled.

  "Dad," said Angela sitting up, obviously trying to be helpful to this adult lacking in real-world knowledge. "You have computer labs in the English Department too."

  "Yes," continued Rocky, "but in the English Department we do not suck out our students’ brains or give them lobotomies." He did his best Bela Lugosi imitation.

  Angela grimaced at her father's lame attempt at horror humor.

  "Nor do we," responded Pamela, "in the very humane Psychology Department."

  "If by humane," he countered, "you mean that you reduce all emotions to multiple choice questions."

  "Rocky," she sighed. "Not tonight. What is this, Halloween or something?"

  "Sorry, Babe," said Rocky, hanging his head, and then added with a shrug, "just can't resist myself." He smiled at her, licking his lips, and she returned the smile.

  "You two make me sick," snarled Angela, noticing the romantic spark between the couple. "Why do my parents always have to make google eyes at each other?" She was now sitting up on the bed, flipping the remaining pieces of candy in the bowl.

  “I think that's goo-goo eyes," corrected Rocky.

  "Wrong," challenged Pamela, laughing. "Everything is Google these days." They laughed together and Angela, unaware she was the subject of their joke, looked annoyed. Candide took advantage of the parents' distraction to jump up on the bed to beg for Angela’s attention.

  "Actually," said Angela, scratching Candide’s head, and wary that she might not be taken seriously. "I’d like to see that lab some time. I mean, don't you think I should know about my mother’s job?"

  "Absolutely," responded Rocky, nodding. "I absolutely think you should know all about your mother’s job. But that doesn’t mean you have to hang out in that lab."

  "I may just drop by some time to see what it looks like," She looked up at them to see their reaction. There was none.

  "Or you could," said Pamela, "just take a Psychology class and then you could actually participate in one of our experiments in the lab."

  "I could?" asked Angie, with delight, then suddenly hit with a new thought, “I wouldn’t have to take your class, would I, Mom?”

  “No,” answered Pamela, laughing, “any psychology class would do.”

  "Come on," Rocky said, motioning to Angela, "scoot! Let your mother finish her grading. We're both disturbing her." He escorted the young woman out of the couple's bedroom.

  Pamela smiled and was grateful for the brief recess from her otherwise dreary chore--and from the relentless stress of contemplating the contents of the secret in her pocketbook.

  She thought about what her husband had said. Her colleagues in the department had been very considerate--very understanding. Many of them seemed to believe that she shouldn’t have come in to work today.

  After Mitchell's pronouncement about the entire department having sufficient animosity towards Charlotte to murder her, not much more had happened in her meeting with her Chair today. She wished she’d gotten an idea or at least a hint regarding the reason for the big fight between him and Charlotte yesterday, or the photograph that Charlotte had put in his mailbox. If these were issues that were causing Mitchell Marks any guilt, he didn’t indicate as such to Pamela in his office this afternoon. No, Mitchell seemed as concerned about Charlotte's murder as the rest of them. But he didn’t seem particularly guilt-ridden--at least, not to her. But, she wasn't a detective. How was she to know?

  What she really wanted to do, needed to do, was examine the CD. But the computer was in their study which was right by the front door. If she suddenly stopped grading papers and went into the study to use the computer--for whatever reason—Rocky, and probably even Angie, would want to know what she was doing. It would just have to wait.

  She frustratingly picked up the same paper she’d been grading for over an hour and tried again t
o pick out the student writer's main theme. Finally, after several more hours of bad grammar, poor vocabulary, and incredibly simplistic ideas, she finished the last paper with a flourish and placed it with the others in a manila folder. Then, she took the folder and her purse, with its forbidden treasure, and placed them both on the dining room table.

  Returning to the bedroom, she quickly got ready for bed. She brushed her fine, chin-length hair, removing the tangles and making it shine. She brushed her teeth and rubbed her favorite smelling cream all over her face and arms. As she peeked out into the living room, she could see that Rocky was in the kitchen starting the dishwasher and turning off the lights.

  "Is Angie...?"

  "She went to bed a good hour ago," he whispered. "I guess all that Halloweening was exhausting." He came toward her in the bedroom, his arms extended for an embrace. After a goodnight kiss, she crawled into bed, yawning as she reached out to turn off her nightstand lamp. Rocky quickly got ready for bed and slipped in beside her. She remained very quiet and breathed regularly. Soon--amazingly soon, she always thought--Rocky was sound asleep, snoring gently. Candide, as if in sync with his master, timed his delicate doggie snores with Rocky's.

  Pamela was rigid. She glanced at her nightstand clock with the digital face, discreetly trying not to move her body and disturb her husband. It was 11:20 p.m. She lay there listening to the snoring sounds beside and below her.

  Again, she looked at the clock face. Now it read 11:45 p.m. Very carefully she pushed back the covers and gently slid her feet out, stepping into her slippers. Grabbing her robe from the back of the door, she quietly exited the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her. She grabbed her purse from the dining table and walked softly down the hallway into the study.

  Rocky had shut down the computer; she wished he hadn't done that, because the computer made the normal start-up noises when she pressed the power button. It couldn’t be helped. She removed a pile of papers and clothing from the computer chair. She needed to clean up this room—some day. The kitchen was always immaculate because that was Rocky’s domain and he kept it spotless. The rest of the house was hers and it showed. Her sloppy housekeeping bothered her, but not enough to actually work more industriously at it. She sat at the computer and reached into her purse for the CD. Removing the disk from its folder, she inserted the shiny circular disk into the CD drawer. Impatiently, she waited while the computer uploaded the data. She brought up her favorite acoustic analysis program and nervously loaded the data.