Immediately, the screen filled with a spectrograph and wavy lines, indicating the presence of sound. Some of the waves were rounded rather than sharp, indicating to Pamela’s perceptive eye that she was looking at human vocal sound in addition to mechanical or non-human sound.
Placing a set of earplug speakers in her ears, she turned the volume control to a low level. She was totally engrossed in the screen in front of her as she moved her cursor to the start of the wavy line on the spectrograph and pressed play.
An unbelievably strange, guttural sound was emitted. It was hard to determine what it was or even describe it--like nothing she’d ever heard before. Certainly it was human, but it sounded like choking and there were also non-human sounds too--things being bumped, pushed, a double-clicking noise, a scraping, and various other sounds she couldn't identify. The entire visual display was comprised of these sounds.
Towards the end of the recorded section, the guttural, choking sound faded, as did the bumps and other noises. Finally, all the sounds ended abruptly. The wavy line on the spectrograph disappeared. Pamela clicked her cursor to indicate stop.
"What in God's name are you doing?" asked a voice.
She turned abruptly, petrified, her earplugs tumbling into her lap. Rocky was standing behind her. He’d entered quietly, while she was caught up in listening to the recording.
"Rocky!" she whispered, inhaling.
"What is that, Pamela?" he demanded. He used his drill sergeant voice—one she never liked.
"It's ... it's," she stammered, attempting to think of some way to explain what recording was so important that she’d kept it secret from her husband and had sneaked out of bed in the middle of the night to listen to.
"What is that?" he repeated, a look of horror, or maybe fury on his face.
"It's," she stammered, realizing that she wasn’t going to be able to lie to her husband. "It's a recording of Charlotte's murder."
"What?" he shrieked in a whispered voice, not wanting to wake Angela.
"The master console in the lab automatically records anything when the toggle switch in a carrel is pushed. Charlotte must have bumped the toggle while she was being strangled and the system recorded it," she explained, quite reasonably, she thought.
"Okay," he said, hesitantly, "but what are you doing with it? Why did the police give it to you?"
"They didn’t actually give it to me," she said, weakly, feeling more than a little guilty, "I recorded it. They don't know about it."
"What?" he yelped, again, trying to squelch his voice.
"I mean," she stuttered, "I mean, it just dawned on me this afternoon, that the system might have recorded the murder—if--if Charlotte accidentally bumped the toggle switch on during the murder, an unlikely possibility. The police had already finished collecting evidence in the lab, Rocky. I wasn't doing anything wrong."
"Wrong!" he yelled, not being very successful in maintaining low tones, "You have a recording of the murder. You! The police don't know anything about it and you blithely bring it home to listen to. What do you intend to do with it? Solve the case yourself?"
"No, of course not," she protested. "I didn't even know what would be on it. It might have been all dead air, for all I knew. Rocky, this is what I do. This is my specialty. I understand about acoustic waves and how to analyze them. I think I can figure out what these sounds are. Maybe, if I can figure them out, it might help the police catch the killer."
"Are you crazy?" he huffed, "This is not some academic research project, Pammie. This is a murder. Somebody killed this woman and here you have a recording of them doing it. If they found out that you had this, your life would be in danger. As it is, your life is in jeopardy. I mean, you found the body. You can't go digging around the crime scene looking for clues. That could get you killed--just like Charlotte."
"Now, sweetheart," she said, touching his arms, "I appreciate your concern, really I do...."
He removed her hands, and placed his hands on her shoulders and looked pointedly in her eyes. "No. This is more than concern, Pamela. I want you to take this disk to the police first thing in the morning, tell them what it is, where and how you got it, and then leave it in their hands. Do you understand?"
"But ...."
"This isn't a request," he said, grimly. "I'm insisting. I'm insisting not only for your sake but for your daughter's sake--and mine too. What would Angie do without you? What would I do?"
"Nothing is going to happen to me," she said belligerently, "I'm fine and I can take care of myself."
"Pamela...."
Continuing to argue was useless, she realized. Besides, she was very tired.
"Oh, all right," she replied, relenting. "I'll take it to the police, if you insist."
"First thing in the morning."
"First thing," she agreed. Then, as they both seemed to be argued out, and as it was evident that he wasn’t going to let her examine the disk, she removed it, replaced it in its sheath and returned it to her purse.
They went to bed again, quiet and tense. But Pamela didn’t sleep well. She was grappling with how she would handle this. She wasn’t about to give up on analyzing the disk now that she had it. And, on top of everything else, she had to get up extra early to attend a faculty meeting that promised to be anything but a touching tribute to the late Charlotte Clark.
Chapter 11
No, she wasn't late. Thank heavens. Her nerves were on edge and she’d hardly slept. Pamela entered the hallowed confines of the seminar room, where she’d held her acoustics class the night of the murder only a few days ago
It was already ten minutes after 7:00 a.m. on Thursday morning. So much for punctuality. Yet, she was the first to arrive. She scouted the room and staked out her favorite spot--the side closest to the door. Just right, she thought, for a quick getaway, but with the best view of the campus's lovely elms. Setting down her purse on the floor beside her chair, she put her books, papers, and grade book on the table. Her light jacket, she placed over the back of the chair.
She pulled out the chair and was starting to sit when Arliss entered at breakneck speed, her ponytail bobbing up and down.
"Pam," she huffed, obviously out of breath, "My God, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning! How can anyone function at such an hour? This will not be a pretty meeting." Arliss careened into the spot beside Pamela and let a stack of papers and books she’d been clutching slide precariously onto the table.
"Are they ever?" asked Pamela. “Do you know something I don’t?”
"Now that Charlotte’s not here to protest," said Arliss, dropping a folder and trying unsuccessfully to tuck a stray lock into her wayward hair, "I’ve decided to bring up the state of the animal lab to the entire faculty. I mean, everyone in this department has a vested interest in the welfare of our animals."
She slammed her remaining folders and papers on the spot next to Pamela and lurched into the chair, turning to Pamela, continuing her frenzy without missing a beat. "There's only so much one person can do. We have cages piled on top of each other. We simply don't have the funds to get the equipment to care for our animals properly, and yet there has been endless funding for that computer lab of Charlotte's! Now that she’s not here to run roughshod over us, I don't see why some of that money can't be directed to our area."
Pamela nodded. "Has something new happened to get you so riled up?" she asked Arliss.
"We had six more rats die yesterday, and Dr. Goodman's youngest chimp is ill too. We aren’t veterinarians and we simply don't have the funds to provide our animals with the proper conditions they need." She slouched in the chair, noticeably drained.
"Bring it up, by all means, but I suspect that Charlotte’s demise will be the focus of this meeting."
At that moment, Joan entered the room.
"Ah!" she announced primly. "As usual, I see the women have arrived on time and the men are late."
"Joan," responded Pamela, "I might point out, that you’re 15 minutes late."
"Yes, but the men never need to know that, do they, my dear?" Joan answered, her eyes twinkling.
"You’re certainly cheerful for so early on such a grim occasion," Pamela smiled warmly.
"Dear girls," said Joan, taking a seat on the other side of Pamela, and carefully placing a large briefcase on the table before her. “It’s a lovely fall day. Why not enjoy?” Then she neatly and almost formally sat in the chair, pulling herself as close to the table as possible. Pamela expected her to call the meeting to order.
"Ladies!" a booming voice called out as Willard entered, wearing a black suit with a black shirt and tie. He walked slowly and carefully, leaning on his wooden cane with the beautifully carved handle.
"Willard," greeted Joan, "Aren’t you stylish."
"Dr. Swinton," said Arliss, "How are you?"
"Willard, did you wear that outfit trick-or-treating last night?" asked Pamela
"No, I’m just getting ready for Charlotte’s memorial," responded Willard. "My, my. A roomful of lovely ladies all to myself. Now, that's what I get for arriving early," His round face and dimpled cheeks beamed as he bowed elegantly to each of the three women, “Dr. Barnes, Dr. Bentley, Miss MacGregor.”
"You're 20 minutes late, Dr. Swinton," teased Arliss, noticeably warming under his friendly gaze.
"So I am, Miss MacGregor. However, I’m not used to arising at such an early hour. It’s not a fit hour for man or beast, don’t you agree?" He chuckled, puffing slightly, as he maneuvered his way into a chair at the near end of the table.
"Doesn't Miss MacGregor agree with what, Willard?" asked Bob Goodman, entering briskly. He pulled out the chair next to Arliss.
"Oh, that we academics are poor timekeepers, that's all, Dr. Goodman," responded Willard. He hung his cane carefully over the back of his chair.
"Willard, given that I’m uncharacteristically late, I’ll have to agree with you--at least today," smiled Bob, as he opened a folder in front of him and handed a paper from it to Arliss. “Latest stats on Bailey” he whispered.
"I'm so sorry. So sorry," gasped Laura Delmondo, wearing a wispy, pastel-colored dress, entering immediately behind Goodman. "My alarm clock...traffic... sorry." She quickly floated to the opposite side of the table and slid with a dancer's grace into a chair.
"Good morning, Laura," greeted Pamela.
"Good morning," Laura responded. She fluffed her long blonde hair out over the back of her chair.
"Hmmph," scowled Arliss, slamming her own folders shut as she started reading the paper handed to her by Bob.
A loud, cheerful voice rang out from the hallway, singing Proud Mary, and Rex Tyson entered, sashaying his way around the table, all eyes turned to him--obviously just what he wanted, thought Pamela. He gave a mock blessing to all faculty members on either side of the table.
"Really, Rex," said Joan, "I believe you plan all your entrances for their most dramatic effect."
"Of course, dear lady!" chortled Tyson. He rounded the table, and as he reached Joan, he bent, grabbed her hand and gave it an air kiss.
Following on his heels, Phineas whined, "Rex, what about the second personality study?"
"Not now, Phineas,” answered Rex, with a dismissing wave at the shorter man, “Just take a seat." Phineas frowned and took his seat, somewhat belligerently. Then, Rex pulled out a chair next to him and, rolling his leg over the top in the style of a bronco-rider straddling a horse, took his seat.
"Hello, Dr. Ottenback," said Pamela, greeting the small man.
"Yes, Phineas, how are things in the deviant personality area?" asked Bob Goodman.
Phineas nodded and gave a squinty smile.
"All right, faculty, we’re late! We can never seem to get these meetings started on time!" announced Mitchell Marks as he entered rapidly, followed by Jane Marie, carrying a pile of papers. He walked determinedly to the chair at the head of the table and sat. Jane Marie plopped down the papers beside him and then quickly exited.
"All right," continued Marks, glancing around the table, "Who are we missing?"
“All present and accounted for, Boss!” reported Rex.
“Except, of course, Charlotte,” added Willard. The group groaned softly.
“Now, people, you know the reason for this meeting. A horrible event has occurred. Dr. Clark was killed Tuesday night in our own computer lab. You’ve probably all been interviewed by now by the police. It’s quite likely that you’ll all have to answer additional questions as the police continue their investigation.”
“Don’t they know what happened yet?” asked Bob.
“What they appear to believe—and this is only supposition on my part because they aren’t sharing their suspicions with me—is that Charlotte was working alone in the computer lab and someone unknown came in behind her and strangled her to death.”
“Do they have any clues as to whom?” queried Joan.
“Not at the moment. They’re considering everyone. The lab door was open, so apparently anyone—a worker, a student, a transient even—could have come in and killed her. But according to our own graduate student Kent Drummond who discovered the body, he locked the lab Tuesday afternoon when he left for the day. Now, we know that Charlotte liked to work late in the lab, but she typically always locked herself in. Of course, it’s possible that she left the door open and the killer just walked in. But that seems unlikely.”
“So, Mitchell, what do the police think is likely?” asked Pamela.
“They seem to think that Charlotte was locked in the lab and that the murderer unlocked the door quietly while Charlotte was working, entered, killed her, and then exited, leaving the door open after he or she left.”
“But,” said Laura, looking quizzical, “that would mean that the killer had a key to the lab.” She looked around quizzically at all the people at the table who all looked as startled as she did.
“Right,” confirmed Mitchell, nodding his head, “and you see where that puts us. Only faculty and a select few graduate students and Jane Marie have keys to the lab. I know I’ve been harping on lab security recently. My concern up until this point was the expensive equipment housed there; it never occurred to me that any of us were in danger when we were working there.”
“I’m sure anyone could gain entrance to the lab—key or no key—if they were determined,” added Rex.
“Yes,” agreed Bob, “but, why? The police said nothing was stolen, so why would anyone need to get into the lab.”
“That’s exactly the point,” added Mitchell, “The police seem to believe that the person wanted to kill Charlotte and succeeded.”
The entire group was silent for several moments as they all looked at each other.
“All right, I’ll say what all of you are thinking,” spoke up Mitchell, breaking the silence. “Who would want to kill Charlotte? Few of us liked her. I’ve probably said it myself-- I could kill that woman. She drove me crazy, I’ll admit it. She probably drove a lot of you crazy. But someone actually did kill her.”
“And it looks like it was one of us,” said Willard, looking around at his colleagues.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” snarled Arliss, “although I congratulate whoever did do it.”
“Arliss!” gasped Pamela.
“Admit it, Pam,” responded Arliss, “No one liked her.”
“But you don’t kill people just because they’re unpleasant,” added Joan.
“Stop! Stop!” yelled Mitchell, as the group erupted into argument. “Who killed Charlotte is not for us to determine. We have more pressing concerns.”
“What could be more pressing than finding Charlotte’s killer?” asked Willard.
“Yes,” agreed Laura, “None of us are safe until the killer is found.”
“I disagree,” stated Mitchell, to the consternation of the group. “I don’t know who killed Charlotte, but it was obviously for an unknown and very specific reason. As far as I know, I haven’t antagonized any of you to the point that any of you wish me dead—at lea
st I don’t think I have. Therefore, I’m really not afraid. That doesn’t mean I won’t be cautious. And I suggest you all be especially cautious too. For one thing, I suggest none of us use the lab late at night—particularly alone. Actually, I suggest none of us work alone in the building after hours at all. If we take these simple precautions and use common sense we should all be fine. At least, until the police make an arrest. Can we all agree to take these precautions?”
The group looked around at each other and all mumbled their agreement.
“What about Charlotte?” asked Joan. “Has anyone thought at all about her or is the purpose of this meeting merely to protect ourselves?”
“Actually,” continued Marks, “That’s the second reason I called this meeting. I have contacted Charlotte’s next of kin…”
“She had relatives?” asked Bob.
“They probably all disowned her,” added Arliss.
“She had a younger sister,” continued Mitchell, ignoring Arliss. “They were evidently estranged—although she was Charlotte’s sole heir and receives the bulk of her estate after several magnanimous gifts to Grace University. Anyway, the sister has been contacted by the administration and she is taking care of funeral arrangements which will be private at the sister’s home in Ohio. Therefore, we will not need to attend. However, that does not mean that we should do nothing. Charlotte was the major financial bastion of this department and probably of this university. We must honor her in some way. I have decided that we will hold a memorial service for her in the campus chapel. We will invite the sister, although I doubt she’ll come. We, of course, will all attend.” Mitchell said this last comment with a stern voice and a piercing look at each individual faculty member.
Sounds of Murder Page 9