"Even so, Dr. Barnes," Shoop replied, "the toggle switch just turns the sound on and off--it doesn't actually start a recording. Our crime techs have gone all over that computer."
"I know," she said, feeling somewhat exasperated, "I use that lab all the time. But what you don't know, Detective, is that the master console makes back-up recordings anytime a toggle switch is turned on. These back-up recordings are erased at regular intervals when it’s determined that they’re no longer needed. Usually a graduate assistant does that."
"I see," he nodded.
"So," she said, "I thought, just on the off chance that maybe there was a back-up recording made of the murder--or even a part of the murder--that it might be worth it to just check those back-up recordings for the period when the murder probably took place."
"And?" he queried, his big brows lifting skyward, the lozenge rolling in his mouth.
"A back-up did record briefly on Tuesday night at 8:27 p.m., in Carrel #4--about two minutes worth of sound." She reached into her purse and brought out the original CD in its paper sleeve.
He reached out for the CD, saying smugly, "You are the little scientist, aren't you?"
"That's my job, yes," she replied. She sat quietly then, as Shoop examined the disk. He bit his lip, obviously thinking about what to do next. Then, shrugging, he slid the disk out of the sleeve, pressed the CD drawer on his small, desktop computer and loaded the disk.
"I take it, you've listened to it," he looked at her.
"Yes," she said, "I didn't want to bother bringing it here if it didn't have anything on it."
"Okay," he said. "Let's see what all the fuss is about." He brought up his Sound Player and hit "enter." From the built-in speaker on his computer, the choking sounds of Charlotte Clark, plus the extraneous bumps, scratches, and clicks that Pamela had also heard when she first played the brief recording sprang to life. Soon the sounds ceased as abruptly as they started.
"That's it?" he asked, pulling his large cloth handkerchief out of his pocket and again rubbing his nose.
She cringed. If she stayed in this office much longer, she’d surely catch some wayward bacteria. "That's it."
"It does seem to be the sound of someone choking,” he noted. “I'll have forensics take a look at it. If they think it warrants further investigation, they’ll probably go back and extract the data from your master console themselves." He removed the CD from the drawer and slid it back into the sleeve.
"Detective," Pamela spoke rapidly, fearing that Shoop would not heed her ideas, "I think you can clearly hear Charlotte struggling on this recording. It’s possible that she might be trying to say something--maybe sending a message or a clue to the identity of her killer."
"Unlikely," said Shoop.
"And those other noises," added Pamela, "those aren’t human sounds. Some may be sounds of Charlotte or the killer bumping into things as they thrash around during their struggle. But we don't know. If we could identify those sounds--even just one of them--they might lead us to Charlotte's killer."
"Unlikely there too," said Shoop, “Our techs have gone over the inside of that carrel looking for trace evidence, Dr. Barnes. Also, there was no skin found under Dr. Clark’s fingernails, so any thrashing she did, didn’t produce any trace evidence from the killer.”
"Detective," she said, insistently, "that’s wonderful, but I was thinking about clues inherent in the sounds on this recording. I don't know what type of forensics analysis your unit will be able to conduct, but I’m trained in acoustics and I’m able to evaluate the sound waves on this recording for a variety of...."
He cut her off mid-sentence. "Dr. Barnes," he said, rising, "I do appreciate you bringing this CD to our attention. We’ll definitely investigate it. Rest assured." He stood up behind the desk. She was being dismissed.
"Detective Shoop," she interrupted, remaining seated, "there are a few more things I wanted to tell you. A few things that I--remembered---and you said I should let you know if there was anything at all that I remembered about the murder or the people connected to Charlotte."
"Yes," he said, sitting back down, and sighing heavily, "what do you remember, Dr. Barnes?"
"First," she began, "I forgot to tell you that the conversation between Dr. Marks and Dr. Clark that I overheard the night of the murder was really more of a fight."
"You heard them?" Shoop asked.
"Yes."
“Do you have any idea what the fight was about?" he asked, jotting this new information in his ever-present notebook.
"Not really," she replied. "Then, the other thing I forgot to mention. This is related. The next day, the day after the murder, our secretary Jane Marie Mira found an envelope in Dr. Marks’ mailbox that she believes was put there by Dr. Clark. In it was a photograph of a woman."
"Did she see Dr. Clark put it there?"
"No," she mused, "But, Jane Marie says the envelope was like Dr. Clark’s personal stationery. There was nothing in his mailbox when she left and it was there the next morning. And I know for sure that Charlotte was in the main office that night."
"We have only Ms. Mira’s word for this," he added.
"Why would Jane Marie make up these things about Charlotte?" Pamela argued, defensively, "Jane Marie was mystified as to who the photograph was. Then, she tracked the photo down from one of the school's yearbooks."
"The photograph that was supposedly placed by Dr. Clark in Dr. Marks's mailbox?"
"Yes," she exclaimed, "The photograph--supposedly--placed by Charlotte in Mitchell’s mailbox! Jane Marie found this woman's photograph in a yearbook. She was a student at Grace University about ten years ago, she said. Her name is Evelyn Carrier."
Shoop jotted this information in his notebook too.
"You know, Dr. Barnes," he surmised, "Ms. Mira, your secretary, never mentioned any of this to me when I questioned her the other day."
"I know," said Pamela, sitting up taller, "Jane Marie told me she hadn't thought about it until later. She’s actually a bit fearful to say anything about this to you--or anyone. Dr. Marks is her boss. She doesn’t want to antagonize him."
"But you can?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs out over his desk.
"No, but Dr. Marks isn't my immediate superior in the same way that he is Jane Marie's. I assume he didn’t mention the fight or the photograph to you."
"Hmmm," mused Shoop, ignoring her question. "Well, is that all, Dr. Barnes? Or do you have any other piece of hearsay or another secret recording you'd like to share?" He stuffed the large cloth back into his pocket. The sound of the humidifier churned away in the corner.
“You know, Detective," she said, “you went to great extremes to encourage me to report to you any little piece of information that I might think of. Now, here I am, bringing you what I consider, some remarkable evidence, and you treat it as inconsequential. At least, I’ve been able to find something that might help discover Charlotte’s killer. Unlike you. It certainly doesn’t appear to me that you and your “forensics” team have been able to uncover anything that might lead to a break-through in this case.” She stood and was about to leave, her fury increasing by the moment. Her lead foot was itching.
“Sit down, Dr. Barnes,” Shoop ordered.
She looked at him and the skeptical, facetious look had disappeared from his face. She slowly lowered herself to the sofa.
“Rest assured, Dr. Barnes,” he said with calm intensity, “we are working night and day to find Dr. Clark’s killer. I don’t belittle any of the information you have provided me. Far from it. I intend to pursue every item. You’re not aware of everything we’re presently doing to track down the person who killed Dr. Clark, but that doesn’t mean that we’re not hard at work.” He ran his hand through his hair and looked around, as if trying to decide if he should continue. Then he bent over his desk and spoke to her in a whispered voice. “Dr. Barnes, let me enlighten you as to our progress. First, we scoured the lab and Dr. Clark’s offic
e for fingerprints, and we’re comparing prints taken from Dr. Clark’s body with those of all potential suspects. We don’t expect to find much there as it appears the killer wore gloves and finger prints from virtually every faculty member are present in the lab. We’ve searched her office and her home for evidence. Second, we interrogated all individuals who might have seen any suspicious vehicles or persons in or near Blake Hall at the time of the murder. Third, we’ve interrogated all faculty, staff, and graduate students in your department—in some cases more than once. Fourth, I have, at your suggestion, contacted the subscription database service used by your department and have been able to track down—as of about 45 minutes ago” and he looked at his watch, “the exact site Charlotte Clark was looking at when she was murdered.”
“You have?” asked Pamela, now thoroughly engrossed in the man’s tale. ”What was it?”
“Maybe you can enlighten me on this,” he said, almost to himself. “When she was murdered, Dr. Clark was reading an article, a dissertation actually, by a Jonathan Pierce Culver, on your specialty subscription to Dissertation Abstracts’ full text service. She was on page 87, the cursor highlighting paragraph 5. The dissertation was entitled, “Sexual Dysfunction in Late Adolescence: Addictive Behavior among Young Criminals.”
“It sounds like something she might read for her own work on addiction,” responded Pamela. “We do subscribe to Dissertation Abstracts and that extra database you mention does allow us access to the full-text of all registered dissertations.”
“So,” he said, “you believe that her research the night she was murdered was just something she was working on for one of her own studies?”
“It sounds like it,” said Pamela, hesitantly, “yet, I was there Tuesday night, Detective, and I heard how furious she was when she left Dr. Marks’ office. I can’t see her just storming off to the lab and suddenly changing gears so fast and abruptly working on some of her regular addiction research.”
“I agree,” he said, tapping his pen. “There’s something else.” He paused, contemplating, it appeared, if he should share a particular piece of information with Pamela. Finally, he spoke, “We found a small notebook in a locked drawer in Dr. Clark’s office desk. In it, there are two columns—one labeled ‘source’ and one labeled ‘copy.’ The ‘source’ column lists names, dates, pages, and lengthy quotes. The ‘copy’ column lists only quotes and page numbers. There were several different names in the ‘source’ column, but this Culver was one of them.”
“Can I see it?”
Shoop reached into a manila folder on the left side of his desk and pulled out a small three-ring notebook. He handed it to her.
“Any idea what all that means?”
“No,” she replied as she perused the small notebook. “It does seem to be related to her research, “but I don’t see any reason that she would keep any of her research locked up.” She contemplated the various quotes and source citations.
“The fact that this Culver’s name appears both in this locked up notebook and on the website she was reading when she was killed,” he continued, “tells me there’s a good chance that what she was researching online had something to do with why she was killed.”
“If it was, why didn’t the murderer click out of the site before he or she left?”
“I’d thought of that too,” he noted, “but it’s possible the murderer just didn’t have any time and didn’t want to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary. I mean, the killer left the lights on, the door open; he or she left in a real hurry. Is it any surprise, the killer left the computer screen as it was too? Maybe the killer didn’t even notice the screen. And, obviously, the killer didn’t know about the notebook locked in her desk.”
“It’s a mystery,” she mused. “I’ll think about Culver’s dissertation, Detective, and the notebook. Maybe something will come to me.”
“If it does…”
“I know, contact you right away.” She stood up, grabbed her purse, and started for the door. She exited jauntily, leaving Shoop sitting there with a confused look on his face.
Chapter 15
When she pulled into the garage, Pamela had lost most of the bravado that she’d experienced in Shoop's office. Her drive home had not invigorated her; it had depleted her. Now all she felt was desolate. Despite the new evidence about the dissertation that Charlotte was reading when she was murdered and her secret notebook, she still had no greater understanding of the sounds on the CD. It seemed obvious to her that Shoop didn’t take the disk and the sounds on it all that seriously. He probably thought it was meaningless. She wondered if he’d even have their forensics’ team examine the disk like he said he would. Ha! she thought, "forensics’" team. As if their little police force would have major forensics capabilities. Pamela knew she was far better equipped to analyze the sounds on the disk; she had the experience and the training. If there was any clue to the killer hidden on that disk, she was certain she could discover it.
She opened the kitchen door. The unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread filled her nostrils. As usual, Rocky was at the stove whistling jauntily. Candide was hanging around at his feet hoping for some morsel to be accidentally dropped. Pamela deposited her belongings on the kitchen table as usual.
"Hey, Babe!" Rocky called out, not missing a beat in his ferocious stirring; something on the stove obviously required his total attention. Pamela was relieved because she didn't want to endure another interrogation—first one from the police, then another from her husband.
"Hey," she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Guess what?” he asked, pulling her into his comfy chest. He smelled delightfully like garlic and sausage.
“You’ve been baking bread.”
“Oh, and I thought it would be a surprise,” he said, frowning. “I tried a new recipe. Here, take a bite.” He shoved the morsel into her mouth.
“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “There’s nothing like fresh baked bread.”
“Technically, a roll,” he corrected.
“Roll, schmoll,” she said, gobbling down the piece. “Give me more.”
“Now, now, don’t be greedy. Let’s save some for supper. A lovely little sausage soup with an endive salad.”
Pamela broke away from his embrace and started towards the bedroom.
"Where's Angie?" he asked.
"Isn’t she home yet?" she countered, turning back towards him from the doorway.
"No, she told me when I saw her earlier today that she’d get a ride with you," he said, still stirring.
"She came to my office in the afternoon and I couldn’t leave so my graduate assistant Kent offered to take her home," she said. Her trek to the bedroom slowed as she pondered why her daughter still wasn’t home hours after she’d left campus. After changing into her comfortable at-home clothes, Pamela returned to the kitchen.
"Kent?" Rocky asked, licking the wooden spoon and holding it out for her to sample, "He’s the one who found the…body?"
"Yes, he’s very responsible, Rocky," answered Pamela, licking the cheesy soup from the corners of her mouth, and sighing in rapture at her husband's culinary expertise. "They left my office hours ago. I wonder where they could be.”
“Maybe he changed his mind and she’s stuck over on campus,” suggested Rocky, “I mean, why would a graduate student want to be hauling some freshman around?”
“Because she’s his boss’s daughter.”
“ Maybe we should get her a car."
"Good Lord," she said, rolling her eyes, "Don't say that in her presence--not even a hint. We'd never hear the end of it."
“I don’t like her riding around with some old graduate student.”
“He’s maybe all of twenty-one.”
“No graduate student is that young,” he harrumphed.
“They are in Psychology. Only English graduate students are old enough to be grandfathers.”
He ignored her jibe and, picking up a spoon, continued s
tirring his soup. Then, opening the oven door, he reached in with two pot holders and removed another pan of garlic rolls. The aroma was heavenly.
"A nice northern Italian feast, I see," she said, smiling.
"Comfort food," he nodded. "Thought you might like that, after all you've been through the last few days. Did you--you know--take that disk to the police?"
"Yes," she said proudly, puffing out her chest a bit.
“Got to visit your pals at the courthouse,” he added teasing
"Yeah, my old buddies at Moving Violations. I hope you're happy."
"Hey, Babe," he shook his head and continued, "It's not a question of making me happy or anyone else. It's just the right thing to do."
"Yeah, yeah," she whined, "I'm Miss Ethical. It's pretty hard to tell students to do the right thing if I don't. I know it."
"Also," he added, "now I feel safer, knowing that it's totally out of your hands and in the hands of the police. Let them deal with this maniac. The further you stay away from it, the better. I worry about you, Babe."
"I know," she said, softly, squeezing him warmly around the waist from behind. "my own private army of one. I really appreciate your concern, but...."
"But?" He pulled away, turning toward her and removing his stirring spoon from the vat of cheese and wine-infused sauce. "What do you mean but?"
"Just that I’ll never really be away from it as long as the killer is out there," she said, defensively. "Everyone in the department is in jeopardy until this person is caught."
"But you more so," he concluded, spoon back in pot.
"How so?" she questioned, leaning against the counter.
"Babe, you found the body. The killer doesn't know what you know--or don't know. Maybe the killer had just left when you arrived."
"Kent arrived first. Technically, he would be in greater danger than me."
"Maybe," said Rocky, thoughtfully, "if that's what actually happened."
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