Sounds of Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “When are you planning to hold this memorial, Mitchell?” questioned Pamela.

  “As soon as possible,” he replied. “Jane Marie is trying to reserve the chapel for the next day or so. We will keep you all informed and I expect you to clear your schedules so you can attend, and encourage your students to attend too. We owe this much to Charlotte. We may not have liked her—but we all certainly liked what she did for us and for this university.”

  The group sat in silence. They couldn’t argue with the truth.

  “Are there any other concerns that relate to Charlotte?” He looked around.

  Arliss rose and said, “I’d like to discuss funding for the animal lab.”

  “Concerns that relate to Charlotte,” repeated Mitchell, staring directly at Arliss who sat back down quickly, glaring at Mitchell and breathing audibly.

  “If not, this meeting is adjourned.” He bowed his head briefly, almost as if he were offering a benediction, and then exited quickly.

  Chapter 12

  "Dr.Barnes! Dr. Barnes!" the student repeated. Pamela snapped out of her reverie and was drawn back into her classroom. She was leaning against her desk at the front of the small classroom on the second floor. It was Thursday morning, not long after the sunrise faculty meeting, and she was trying to lecture to her undergraduate research class, but not having much success.

  "Now," she said, "where was I?" She grabbed her coffee cup and took a quick sip. This was a teacher’s trick she used to give herself a moment to gather her thoughts--thoughts that were roaming far from the class discussion today.

  "Dr. Barnes," said the girl, with increased emphasis, "you were talking about human subjects." The young woman smiled self-righteously as she looked around the room.

  "Yes," said Pamela, "now, being as how we psychologists conduct our research primarily on human beings…. I know, I know, Dr. Goodman would include all those animals too. But, for the most part, psychologists deal with humans and when we gather data we collect it from humans. That presents us with certain problems that other scientists don't have to deal with, right?" She looked around the room expectantly. Several hands rose.

  "You have to be really careful with people," said one young man.

  "That’s true, Michael," responded Pamela, "how so?"

  "You can’t do anything to humans without their consent," added a girl, seated close to Michael.

  "You mean," posed Pamela, "that if I got someone's consent I could do anything I wanted?"

  "No,” continued Michael, the ball now in his corner, "psychologists can't just go out and start conducting experiments on people because they want to."

  "They can't?" exclaimed Pamela.

  "No," added the girl, "psychologists have to get permission before they do an experiment." She nodded, satisfied with her answer.

  "Permission from whom?" questioned Pamela, smiling, "The government? The head of their department? Their parents?"

  The class giggled and looked around. No hands were raised. Most students now focused on their desktops. Pamela recognized the "I don't have a clue what the answer is" stare.

  "Where do you think they should get permission," she suggested.

  "The police," said one of her smart-alecks by the window. The entire class laughed. Pamela, however, was immediately drawn back to her personal thoughts. The last thing she’d told her husband before they went to bed last night was that she’d take the CD of Charlotte's murder to the police first thing this morning before the 7 a.m. meeting, but she hadn't done so. It was still in her purse in her office. True, she’d planned to do it—she’d even driven towards Police Headquarters on her way to work, but then, she’d suddenly changed her mind--she didn't know why--and backtracked to campus.

  Now, here she was in her Thursday morning class feeling guilty that she hadn’t kept her word to Rocky and wondering what she should do about it. She knew she must take the disk to the police, but she was procrastinating and she didn't know why.

  "Dr. Barnes," whined the same girl who’d interrupted Pamela’s daydreaming earlier. "Dr. Barnes, what should we do?"

  "What?" asked Pamela, suddenly confused. It was almost as if the student was privy to her thoughts and was asking her what she was going to do about the CD.

  "Dr. Barnes," said the girl, "you don't seem like yourself today."

  "No, Dr. Barnes," agreed another student near the front. "Maybe you're having a delayed reaction to Dr. Clark's death."

  Delayed reaction, oh my, Pamela thought. Students never failed to toss in some tidbit of knowledge they’d picked up in one of their other classes.

  "Dr. Barnes," said another, "maybe you should go home and get some rest. You look a little drained."

  For heaven's sake, Pamela smiled to herself; she'd better pull it together. "I'm just fine," she said. "Now, what I think you’re looking for is The Human Subjects' Committee. Every large research university has one and it’s devoted to reviewing any proposed research that involves humans. We have one here at Grace University. The Human Subjects’ Committee is somewhat like an enforced conscience for researchers. It ensures that all research is ethical. What do you think about that?"

  "I think it's really important," said one young woman, "because you sometimes hear about scientists who are more concerned with their studies than with the people involved."

  "Right," agreed another girl, "just because a person is a scientist doesn't mean that they’re automatically ethical."

  Pamela nodded. Just because a person is a scientist doesn't mean they’re automatically ethical, she thought, nor does it mean they automatically know what the ethical thing to do is in any particular situation. She bit her lip. She should just hop in her car and take the CD to Shoop right now and be over with it.

  "All right," she said to the group, "Let's see if you’ve read this chapter on research ethics. Get in your discussion groups and work on the problems on page 246 in your textbook. You can have the rest of the class period to do it and when you’ve answered all the questions, bring your written responses to me before you leave." The students began moving their desks around into small groups of four or five and were soon talking quietly among themselves.

  Pamela returned to the chair behind her desk and continued sipping her coffee. She peered out the classroom window onto the campus grounds. It was a beautiful fall day--the first day of November. From here, she could see Meer Hall, the biology building and Drucker Hall, the math building. Beyond Drucker, was Silverton Hall, the English building, where her husband worked. She could hear students walking on the sidewalks below, chatting and enjoying the crisp air. The gruesome events of two days ago appeared far from their thoughts.

  She thought of the CD she played last night on her home computer screen and how the wave form of the recorded sound appeared in the sound analysis program. It was the familiar soft curve of human vocal sound, but there were non-human noises there too. What were they? She really needed to listen to it again. Maybe she could figure out what the sounds were and somehow figure out who the killer was. Maybe Charlotte's choking sounds contained some information--she didn't know what--but something that might provide some information. She wanted to know, to help. But she’d promised Rocky that she’d take the CD to the police today--first thing. And she hadn't. She’d lied--well, not exactly lied. She intended to take it to the police, but she couldn't--she just couldn't.

  When the students started to collect their books and put them in their backpacks--always a sign that class was nearing its official end, she checked her watch. The groups started coming up and showing her their work. Virtually all groups had answered the questions correctly. She smiled. She may have been off in dreamland, but the lesson of the day had penetrated.

  Saying her farewells to her students, she grabbed her belongings, and headed down the hallway to her office. As she rounded the corner, she spotted Willard in Joan's office chatting amiably. A wave at her two friends and she continued on. After she entered her office and had made he
rself comfortable at her desk, her phone rang.

  "Dr. Barnes," sang Jane Marie, "Are you up to no good?" Pamela was briefly startled because, unbeknownst to Jane Marie, no good was obviously what Pamela was up to.

  "No," she replied, "I'm just sitting here. Thought I'd eat lunch."

  "If you'd like some juicy news," said Jane Marie, in her lowest gossipy voice, "I think I may have found out who the woman in the photograph is--you know, the one that Dr. Clark put in Dr. Marks's mailbox before she was murdered."

  "Who?" asked Pamela.

  "I did some snooping," she whispered. "I found her photograph in a yearbook from about ten years back."

  "You mean she's a student?" cried Pamela.

  "It appears so—or was," said Jane Marie, "Her name is Evelyn Carrier. Does that ring a bell?"

  "No," replied Pamela, "I've never heard of her. Why would Charlotte put some former student's photo in Mitchell's mailbox with no note or anything? It's weird."

  "Particularly when she's murdered the next day," said Jane Marie.

  "Jane Marie," said Pamela, "a question. Did you happen to mention to Detective Shoop about this photograph?"

  "No," said Jane Marie, "I figured I'd leave that for Dr. Marks to do. He has the photo--or rather it's on his desk. I don't know if he did or didn't tell Shoop. Do you?"

  "No," said Pamela. "Shoop is closed mouthed just like Mitchell. He asks questions, but he surely doesn't offer much information."

  "That's for sure," responded Jane Marie.

  "Listen," suggested Pamela, "I'm not saying we intentionally try to get Mitchell in hot water, but if Shoop doesn't know about the photo--or about the fight between Mitchell and Charlotte--don't you think someone should tell him?"

  "You mean me?" asked Jane Marie, horrified. "I value my job."

  "Hmmm," said Pamela, thoughtfully, "Oh, don't worry; I understand if you don't want to get involved, but I think Shoop ought to know. Listen, Jane Marie, please don't say anything about this discussion to Mitchell."

  "Don't worry," the secretary replied, "I won't. Bye." Pamela hung up as she heard Jane Marie's receiver click off.

  Why hadn't she told Shoop about the fight or the photograph? Maybe she’d gotten so worked up about listening to the CD that she wasn't even thinking about any other potentially important information related to the murder. This, she resolved, was not behaving responsibly--or ethically. She decided she’d do what she’d promised her husband she would--not only that—she’d fill Shoop in on these other tidbits that may or may not be related to Charlotte Clark's murder. It was the least she could do. She was an ethical person, after all.

  Chapter 13

  She moved over to her couch where she could relax. The couch was very soft and comfortable--as Detective Shoop had discovered. The afternoon was waning, and as she looked out her window, she could see the beautiful reds and yellows of autumn in the south. She was still in her office, waiting for her office hours to end so she could take the controversial disk to the police.

  As she poured herself another cup of Rocky's home brewed tea from her thermos, Kent appeared at her door. Oh, God! She’d forgotten the young man again. How unconscionable of her, when it was Kent who’d discovered Charlotte's body. Good grief, she thought, he’d undergone as much interrogation as she had and was probably suffering as much emotional trauma. She should have checked up on him to see how he was coping. It was reneging on her responsibilities as his advisor and supervisor and here he was at her door, probably upset.

  "Kent," she said, rising and inviting him in. "Please, have a seat." She indicated the chair, but the young man remained standing.

  "That's okay, Dr. Barnes," he said, anxiously. "I just wanted to touch base with you." He looked down in hesitation. "I just stopped by to let you know that I contacted our research subjects for this week and rescheduled them all for next week." He wrapped the cord from a set of headphones that hung around his shoulders like a totem around his fingers. "You know, I thought they might be upset about Dr. Clark's death and...also, I wasn't absolutely sure when the police would be out of the lab."

  "That’s a good idea, Kent," said Pamela, "Thank you. The police should be finished in the lab soon, if they aren’t already.”

  “I was just down there, Dr. B,” he reported enthusiastically, “and they’re gone. The tape is down.”

  “Great. So, when do we start collecting again?"

  "Monday," he replied, "We'll have to double up, but it's not a problem ‘cause we have plenty of space in the lab and there aren't any other studies scheduled in there for the next two weeks. I checked."

  "Great," she said, smiling. "I’m relieved that you took it upon yourself and did that."

  Suddenly, Angela meandered into the doorway.

  “Hey,” greeted Kent, “I bet you’re looking for the sign-up sheet for Dr. Barnes’ experiment.”

  “Uh, no,” responded Angela, shyly, “I was looking for my…for Dr. Barnes.”

  “She’s here; you’re in luck,” he quipped.

  At that, Angela spotted her mother seated on her blue and pink sofa and her mother spotted her.

  “Sweetie! What are you doing here?” she asked. “Kent, this is my daughter, Angela. She’s a freshman here at Grace University. Angie, this is Kent Drummond, my top graduate assistant.”

  “Gee, Dr. B, I’m honored,” he beamed, “Hello, Angie. Dr. B talks about you all the time, so I feel like I know you already.”

  “Mom,” cringed Angela, “I wish you wouldn’t talk about me to your students.”

  “Hey, Angie, “continued Kent, “Don’t worry. She only says nice things. You sound like a great girl from what I can tell.”

  Angela beamed and blushed. Pamela felt like an unwelcome intruder at this moment.

  “Listen, honey,” Pamela began, “Did you want a ride home? I can’t leave right this minute. Do you want to stick around and wait for me?”

  “I ...uh…” stammered Angela.

  "I know, Dr. B," said Kent, cutting in, obviously in a hurry to get going. "I’m free now that we’ve cancelled our subjects for the day. I was heading out. I’ll be happy to give you a ride home, Angie. If you don’t mind riding in my old clunker." He grinned sheepishly, the purple highlights in his prickly-looking hair gleaming.

  “I guess. Is it okay, Mom?” asked Angela

  “It’s fine with me, Kent, if you’re sure you’re not too busy.”

  “Not a problem! Let’s go, Angie!” With that, and swinging the headphones back over his shoulder, he turned abruptly and skated off on his sneaker-clad feet, Angela following in his tracks.

  Pamela watched her daughter go off with the young man. Seeing the headphones draped around his shoulders, Pamela suddenly pictured Charlotte, dead in the lab with a set of similar headphones wrapped around her neck. She thought, could Kent possibly be the killer? Oh, she was being ridiculous! She realized that she often saw Kent in the building carrying headphone units—just like the set that had strangled Charlotte. But, he worked in the lab. He fixed defective equipment; he was probably repairing that set of headphones that he was wearing around his neck. But, Charlotte was strangled with a headphone set and certainly Kent had access to those; he was also in the building the night of the murder. Was it possible? Could Kent have killed Charlotte? And here she’d sent her daughter off with him. Oh, for heaven’s sake. This was truly ridiculous! Kent was in her class all Tuesday night. If he had murdered Charlotte, he would have had to leave her class, run to the lab, murder Charlotte, and then run back to get her—all in the space of just a few minutes. He simply wasn’t gone long enough to do all of that. And, besides, why? Why would he kill Charlotte? He had no motive. She was letting her mind run crazy.

  Pamela breathed deeply. Back to reality, she told herself. Kent was a wonderful assistant; she was lucky. As she considered her recent conversation with the young man, she realized suddenly that the lab was now totally empty. No other faculty members were collecting data there as Kent had
informed her, the police were done with their work, and subjects for Pamela’s study wouldn’t be in there until next week. The lab was locked for now--with all its secrets of Charlotte's demise. Probably all for the best, she thought. Allow some time to pass and maybe people won't be uncomfortable about having to go in there. Of course, Mitchell had warned the faculty about working alone in the lab—but he said at night, and it was the middle of the afternoon.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized that it was past her office hours. She was free to leave. She gathered her belongings together and headed out. Willard's door was closed but Joan, she noticed, was sitting at her desk, typing, and sipping a cup of tea, the stringed label from her tea bag hanging over the edge of her porcelain cup. Pamela stopped at her door.

  "Oh, my," said Joan, looking up, smiling, the light reflecting on her rimless reading glasses, "I was so engrossed, I didn't see you standing there." Pamela came into her office and perched on the edge of Joan's upholstered arm chair. She and Joan must look as if they were vying for "most comfy office" honors. Joan’s husband had died over five years ago and Joan’s two sons had been on their own for years—in distant states, much to Joan’s everlasting dismay. There were photographs of several grandchildren festooning Joan’s desk.

  "So," Pamela said to her friend, "back at work?"

  "Not that I ever stopped," chuckled Joan, her buoyant good humor rippling out. She sipped her tea.

  "We’re allowed some time to mourn for Charlotte," noted Pamela, not totally facetiously, giving Joan a biting glance.

  "Have a cookie," Joan said, offering Pamela a delicate frosted biscuit from a tray of goodies.

  "Joan," chided Pamela, "you know I’m trying to diet." She tapped her tummy.

  "You’re always trying to diet," responded Joan, "and it's totally unnecessary. Come now, one little cookie. See how small they are."