Sounds of Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

"I really shouldn't," Pamela hesitated, "I need to get home."

  "Now, if you’re worried about your diet," said Joan broadly, "that's just the place not to go. You know that military man of yours will feed you some of his Army chow the minute you walk in the door." Joan knew that Rocky never prepared “chow.” In fact, she knew that Rocky would be horrified at her use of that term. He was a gourmet cook—and no one better forget it. Pamela selected a little pink wafer.

  "Right," answered Pamela, “I swear he’s determined to make me a blimp.”

  "Are we still on for our girls' night out on Friday?" Joan asked, looking down to double check something she’d written on her computer. All Pamela could see was the top of her well-coiffed white hair.

  "As far as I know," said Pamela, "I'll double check with Arliss. Yum." She popped the remaining piece of cookie into her mouth.

  "I hope," said Joan, "that you were joking about taking time out to mourn for Charlotte. I believe the only mourning we should do is a good toast to her soul at Who-Who's. And, of course, a eulogy or two at her memorial on Sunday."

  "Joan," said Pamela, scowling. "You sound as if you’re happy she’s dead."

  "Heavens' no," laughed Joan, "Charlotte may have driven most of the department crazy, but she didn't bother me at all. I understood her."

  "You did?" asked Pamela, "How so?" She reached for another cookie.

  "Well," whispered Joan, inclining her head towards Pamela, "It may have appeared at times that Charlotte was running roughshod over Mitchell--and she certainly was trying to--but that doesn't necessarily mean that she was successful. Although, I’ll admit I did cheer some of her efforts in skewering our chief--or any of our male faculty members--if truth be told." Joan looked back at her monitor, leaving Pamela to decipher her cryptic words.

  "What are you talking about Joan?"

  "Pamela," continued Joan, "there were--are--things going on in this department of which you’re probably not aware."

  "Such as?"

  "Dear, dear," whispered Joan, "I'm really not at liberty to discuss them, but suffice it to say, there is small battle of the sexes in progress."

  "What do you mean 'battle of the sexes'?"

  "My understanding is that it centers on this tenure thing," said Joan. "Rumor has it that the Dean has restricted our department to two--not three candidates."

  "Yes," nodded Pamela. "I've heard as much. So, what is it? Mitchell and Charlotte were feuding about which two?"

  "Among other things," said Joan, mysteriously. “He wants me to take over as Tenure Committee Chair.” She rolled her eyes.

  "Congratulations! Lucky you," said Pamela.

  "Thank you," replied Joan, biting her lip, "I just hope I don’t end up the same as Charlotte did." Pamela frowned at her.

  "The Tenure Committee--do you think that's why she was murdered?" questioned Pamela.

  “She certainly was consumed by it. At least making sure Laura got tenure. If the Dean truly was forcing her to restrict our department to two candidates, that would put Charlotte in a very awkward position,” reasoned Joan.

  “I always assumed that Charlotte thought highly of Laura. Surely she would fight for her to get tenure.”

  “Maybe,” said Joan, “but, did you hear Charlotte and Laura going at it earlier this week?”

  "No," said Pamela, moving closer to her friend.

  "It was awful!” explained Joan. “I’ve heard Charlotte rage like that before, but usually to a student. Laura is so sweet.”

  “Why would she do that?” questioned Pamela.

  “Charlotte has invested so much time and effort into making Laura--as Charlotte saw it--what Laura is today. Now, Laura is spending all her time, or what Charlotte evidently saw as 'all her time,’” and here Joan looked around before she leaned close to Pamela and whispered, “trying to get pregnant rather than trying to get published."

  "And trying to get published is ever so much more important?" concluded Pamela, facetiously.

  "In Charlotte's eyes," stated Joan. "Why wouldn't it be? That's all Charlotte lived for? Her career. She had no husband, no family. Laura was like a daughter to her."

  "It doesn’t sound like she treated her like a daughter," said Pamela.

  "I agree," nodded Joan. "If Laura were my daughter I’d be giving her all the moral support she needed for this baby enterprise. My goodness, she shouldn’t need much encouragement. With that sexy hunk Vittorio for a husband, I’d think getting pregnant would be relatively easy."

  "But, I’ve been hearing that Laura was using in vitro to get pregnant,” noted Pamela. In fact, she’d heard it from Laura herself.

  "Yes, I’ve heard that," answered Joan. "Poor dear. Rumor has it that she and Vittorio have been trying this in vitro thing for several rounds now. So far, no success. Laura is a darling, and she does top-notch research. She didn’t deserve a dressing down from Charlotte."

  "I know," responded Pamela. "I just don't get it."

  "It must have been because of the upcoming tenure meeting," added Joan. "Something tells me that Charlotte, as Chair, knew something that we committee members don’t. Probably this business with the cut-back in the number of candidates the Dean is willing to accept. Charlotte may just have been trying to prepare Laura for a letdown. I mean, with all the baby making efforts, Laura’s publication output has slipped this year. At least, it's definitely less than Rex’s and Phin's. That may be why Charlotte was demanding that all three candidates include their dissertations in their portfolios."

  "That's ridiculous!" snorted Pamela. "No one on the Committee has time to read one, let alone three, dissertations."

  "No, of course not," agreed Joan, "It was all just for show. And to provide Charlotte a way to demonstrate her clout."

  “You won’t make the committee read the dissertations, will you?”

  “Never!” replied Joan.

  “You don’t think that Charlotte pushed Laura so far that Laura just pushed back?” asked Pamela, peeking out of the corner of her eye for Joan’s reaction.

  "I don't think Laura could hurt a fly," responded Joan. "Charlotte annoyed so many people, Pamela. I wouldn't put it past her to have antagonized someone--anyone--not even necessarily someone on campus--so badly that that person followed her into the lab and 'offed' her."

  "Joan!" cried Pamela, "offed?"

  "I'm just trying out the appropriate lingo," responded Joan, brushing a few cookie crumbs from the front of her lace blouse.

  "So you don’t think the killer could be someone in the department like Mitchell said?" asked Pamela carefully.

  "Of course not," responded Joan, "I can't imagine anyone in our department doing such a thing. It's probably an irate student who got an 'F' or a clerk in a store Charlotte browbeat--or even," she bent her head low and whispered, "even a scorned lover."

  "Joan," laughed Pamela, "you read too many mysteries. Charlotte was married to her job. Besides, she'd emasculate any man who attempted to have sex with her."

  "My dear you are delicious," smirked Joan.

  "Not as delicious as your cookies," said Pamela lifting her eyebrows and joining in the hearty laughter. The chuckling of the two women could be heard up and down the hallway.

  The tell-tale computer voice on Joan’s PC announced “You’ve got mail!” and Joan clicked on the envelope icon.

  “Wonderful!” she scowled, reading the new email message.

  “What?” asked Pamela.

  “The Charlotte Clark memorial service is scheduled for this Sunday afternoon at 2:00 p.m..at the campus chapel.” She drummed her fingers on her keyboard. “I’m almost tempted to send my regrets.” She placed her fingers in a keyboard-ready position.

  “Now, Joan,” warned Pamela, reaching out her hand and placing it on Joan’s keyboard fingers, “You know Mitchell expects us all there. It won’t be so bad. We can sit together.” Joan removed her hands from her computer, resignedly.

  “At least we have Who-Who’s to look forward to!” she ad
ded, cheerfully.

  When Pamela finally left Joan's office it was getting late. Pamela realized that Rocky would be wondering where she was. She headed down the side staircase and onto the main floor, noticing immediately that the side hallway leading to the lab appeared deserted. Rex's, Phin's, and the grad students' offices were all closed. The building seemed empty.

  Pamela quickly slipped down the hallway toward the lab. Just as Kent had said, the police tape had been removed. Unlocking the door, she moved inside, and closed the door behind her. As she looked around, she realized she was alone--as she expected she would be--given what Kent had told her about rescheduling her subjects for next week. She went to the master console and reached into the side drawer from which she withdrew a blank CD.

  She moved carefully to the first row of computers--scrupulously avoiding #4--where Charlotte Clark had died. She stopped at #10, the furthest away from #4, in the first row. She pulled out the chair and sat down. Here she could see much of what Charlotte probably saw two nights ago. Not much. The acoustic battening walls of the carrel surrounded her. She reached inside her purse for the infamous computer disk. After powering up the computer, she opened a CD drawer, inserted her disk, and placed the blank disk in a second drawer. On the start up screen, she clicked on "copy disk" and pressed "enter." It was possible to burn disks on her office computer, but she knew the administration was able to (and probably did) keep a record of all faculty activity on their office computers. It was much safer to make duplicate copies (particularly this one) in the lab. The computer whirred and spun and the lights on the two drawers flickered. She was entranced watching the duplication process when she heard the door to the lab open.

  Chapter 14

  The noise was soft but unmistakable. Someone had unlocked and opened the door to the lab. Had she locked the door behind her when she entered? She was sure she had. The mysterious person obviously had a key. Without thinking, she stood up at the carrel where she was working.

  "Hello," she called out cheerily. "I'm working in here! It’s Dr. Barnes!" She waited for someone to enter but the door was quickly closed.

  Pamela looked down briefly at the progress on the CD duplication. When the light clicked off, she opened both drawers and removed the original CD and the duplicate, and slipped them in their sleeves and into her purse. Waiting to see if the person on the other side of the door would change his or her mind and enter the lab, she remained standing in the carrel, breathless. After a few minutes, which seemed like a few hours, she headed for the door.

  Cautiously turning the knob, she peeked out, and seeing no one in the hallway, she slipped out, and turned back to lock the door behind her. As she turned around, she found herself staring into the face of Willard Swinton who’d just come up behind her.

  "Pamela," he began.

  "Willard," she spoke, breathlessly, shocked to see him appear seemingly out of nowhere. "I didn't see you. Did you just open the lab door?"

  "The door? No. I was in the men's restroom," he explained. His dimples indenting his dark cheeks like a chocolate mousse. "Sorry to have scared you. You weren't working in the lab, were you? If it were me I’d stay far, far away from that place."

  "I…" she stammered, "I have data to collect...." She started to walk past him.

  "Pamela," he called out, touching her arm, "Could I have just a word with you?"

  "I ...." she sputtered, anxious to get going and very conscious of the contraband in her purse. "I guess, all right. I’m in a bit of a hurry, though."

  "Of course," he said sweetly. "I simply wanted to get your views on our tenure problems now that Charlotte is...."

  "Yes," said Pamela, "yes, of course. I really hadn't thought about that, Willard. I guess I’ll have to. We do have three candidates waiting on our decision."

  "We do," he noted, "and now that Charlotte is...um...out of the picture...well, I’m afraid our decision is going to be even more difficult."

  "How?" she asked.

  "You may have heard," he began, "that the Dean is talking of restricting our department to two tenure appointments instead of three."

  "I had heard that," she said.

  "And with Charlotte gone, there are now only four members on the Tenure Committee. If there’s a split vote--and there may be--how will we come to a decision?"

  "Willard," she answered, sighing, "Let's get past this horrible event. Charlotte is barely dead. I just can't think right now about how her death will affect my committee vote."

  "Pamela," he said softly, his cheeks flattening, the dimples gone, "You’re so right. This has been such a terrible ordeal for you ...finding her body. I never should have even mentioned this to you. I’m so sorry." He bent his head and looked genuinely grieved.

  "It's all right, Willard," she said, "truly it is. But, can't we talk about it later? I really need to get going. It's getting late and ....”

  "Yes, I'm so sorry," he replied. "I'll talk to you next week. We have plenty of time to discuss this. Maybe you and Joan and I can get together and...."

  "Yes," she nodded, now walking away and calling back to him, "we'll do that. Bye!" She strode down the hallway and out the corner entrance and into the parking lot. Even inside her car she was unable to calm down. Not that Willard Swinton bothered her. He was a dear, sweet, gentle soul. It was just that she was so nervous about making the duplicate CD. It was as if all eyes were on her, and then to bump into him right as she left the lab. It was as if he appeared out of nowhere. It was simply unnerving. Had he been the one who opened the lab door? And if so, why did he deny it when she asked him?

  She started her engine and bolted out of the lot. No one seemed to be looking at her as she left. Thank goodness. Oh, she was becoming paranoid. Now, she thought, off to the police station.

  The local police headquarters-court house was located in the downtown area, several blocks from campus and around the corner from the Reardon Coffee Factory. Pamela had actually been there many times, to pay derelict traffic fines—of which she had accumulated many. Rocky called her Lead Foot because of her penchant for driving over the speed limit. Maybe that’s why she was procrastinating in bringing the CD to Shoop. The place reminded her of one of her embarrassing flaws—she was a bad driver. She tended to drift off and think of anything other than the road or—worse—she’d allow her emotions to bleed into her pedal foot—particularly angry emotions—and before she realized it, she was speeding. It happened far more often than she cared to realize. The tickets in the mail were enough of a reminder, but having to come here to the local courthouse/police station—was just too much.

  There it was. An old concrete building stuck on the corner. It looked like some dilapidated public school built in the 50's--ochre in color, two stories, with grey porticos. Imposing but not very elegant. A small parking lot was in front. One section of the lot was labeled "Visitors." She found an empty spot in this section, parked, and with a gulp headed toward the police entrance on the parking lot side.

  Inside the building, the place was busy. Uniformed officers were moving around. Some workers were seated at desks out in the open, and some she could see in offices to either side of the large central area. She walked up to a counter that was manned by a uniformed officer.

  "May I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

  "I'd like to see Detective Shoop, if he's in," she responded.

  "One moment," the officer answered, leaving her there, and heading off towards the back of the central area to one of the side offices. He disappeared into a doorway and soon came out followed by Shoop. Pamela would recognize that tall, loping gait anywhere. The two men walked to the counter.

  "Dr. Barnes," greeted Shoop, wiping his nose with his large handkerchief and then stuffing it in his jacket pocket. “Seems you know your way around here, so I hear.”

  “What?” she gulped.

  “One of my friends in Traffic tells me they have a Pamela Barnes who has racked up quite a record of fines. Would that be you?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t see what my driving record has to do with a murder case.”

  He gave her a Cheshire Cat smile and held out his hand which she shook very unwillingly. "It doesn’t. Have you remembered anything else?"

  "Yes," she said, "and I have something for you."

  "Oh?" he said, sounding intrigued, "Well, then, why don't you come back to my office."

  He led the way and Pamela followed him, trying vainly to keep up with his long strides. When they reached his office, Shoop stood aside and held the door for her to enter. It was a glum looking room, smelling of mentholated spray and spearmint. There was a small humidifier in the corner spewing steam. Shoop removed some papers and magazines from a green plastic couch and gestured for her to sit. She did so cautiously as the furniture looked as if it had been donated from a rummage sale. Shoop returned to his desk and pulled a lozenge from a jar and popped it in his mouth.

  "Sorry," he said, "Got a bit of a cold. Now, Dr. Barnes, you say you have something for me?”

  "Detective," she began, "First, let me say, that after your men were finished going over our computer lab, I went down there to look around. I got to thinking."

  "Not always a wise thing, eh?" he chuckled.

  "Probably not," she responded, "as I'm not sure you’ll approve of what I’ve done. I know my husband doesn't."

  "Hmm," he said, "this is sounding more and more interesting."

  "Anyway," she continued, "I was in the lab today.” She surely wasn’t going to tell him that she’d broken in yesterday before the crime scene tape was removed. “and I thought about what might have happened when Charlotte was ...was ...when she died. I thought it was probably likely that there would’ve been a struggle. You see, each computer desk in the first row has a toggle switch for recording."

  "Yes," he added, "I realize that. But the toggle switch in the carrel where Dr. Clark was found was off."

  "I know," Pamela continued, "but I speculated that if during the struggle between Charlotte and her killer--surely there must have been a struggle--what if the killer pushed Charlotte down on the desk or if she pushed her hands down to get leverage--or any number of possibilities--and accidentally pushed the toggle switch."