"What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"You have only this Kent's word for it that he discovered Charlotte when and where he said he did, right?" he questioned, thoughtfully.
"What are you suggesting?"
"I don't know," he said, changing the subject, "I guess I just don’t like the idea of him driving around with Angie. Oh, well, that’s not the main issue. The main thing is that as far as you’re concerned, it's over. The CD is with the police and you can forget all about it, and hopefully things can get back to normal."
"Rocky," she said, seriously, bending in closely to face him directly, "Things will not be back to normal until the killer is caught."
"Yes," he agreed, "But at least you don't have to catch him--or her."
There was a long pause as Pamela contemplated how to respond to her husband. They did not keep secrets from each other. The few times in the past when she’d tried to keep important information from Rocky, it had ended badly. She always felt better when she confided in him--no matter what the consequences. But, now, she knew that if she told her husband, he wouldn’t understand what she knew she had to do. Yet, she could not, in good conscience, keep information from him that could potentially impact her--and thus him--in such a major way.
"Rocky," she began.
"Hmm," he said, listening but concentrating on his dinner preparations.
"I think I should tell you something," she stated.
"What?" he asked, pulling his spoon out of the pot.
"I--I--made a copy of the disk before I took it to the police today," she blurted out in one quick breath.
He slammed the spoon on the counter and turned abruptly towards her, his face becoming red, "You did what?"
"I made a copy of it--so I could study it. I think I might be able to find out some valuable information about the murder--or the killer--if I can just have some time to listen to the recording and do an acoustic evaluation," she said all at once. She stood facing him, defiantly, breathing deeply.
"Are you crazy?" he yelled. "I thought we went through all this! This is dangerous, Pammie! You’re putting your life at risk. This maniac has killed one of your colleagues."
"I know, I know," she argued, "But even if the killer knows I have a recording of the murder--which is unlikely--how would my giving it to the police make me any safer? I mean, just the fact that I recorded it would be sufficient reason to make me a threat to the killer--if the killer knew that I had such a disk--and I’m not at all convinced that anyone knows about it--except you, and now Detective Shoop. I just don't see how my keeping a copy places me in any greater danger than my making the original recording in the first place." She felt she’d made an excellent presentation and saw no reason how Rocky could fault her superb reasoning.
"Pammie, anything you do, have, or say that’s connected in any way to this murder places you in danger. You’re already in danger by being the one--or the second one--to discover the body. You stand out. Anything you do that’s different will make the killer consider your behavior. You need to remain discreet--in the background. You can't do anything that looks even the slightest bit suspicious, don't you get that?" He was really getting worked up.
"I'm just fine," she said, firmly. "Why can't you see that? I'm not helpless. I don’t need Super Husband to rescue me."
"Babe," he said, grabbing her hands in his, "Whether you want to admit this or not, someone--probably one of your colleagues or one of your students--a person you no doubt see every day--killed someone--and they’re desperate and they’ll kill again if they feel they’re threatened. Right now, you’re probably the biggest threat they have. They could be watching you--your every move--whether you realize it or not. They may be scared to death that you’ll discover them. You simply can't just go about your business as usual."
"Stop it, Rocky!" she yelled, pulling away from his grasp. "You seem to think I’m a juvenile. I know what I’m doing and I’m being careful. You've got to believe me. I made the copy and I intend to examine it and--if possible--figure out who killed Charlotte. My God, it's the least I can do."
"It's not your job," he pleaded, "Why can't you understand that?"
"It is my job!" she cried, "It's what I do. I listen to sound--human sound--and I figure out what it means. Here's an opportunity for me to take what I do and use it to do something truly meaningful--to avenge Charlotte's murder--and maybe even prevent another murder."
"Even if it's your own?" he asked.
"It won't come to that," she said, suddenly clutching her caring, dear husband close to her body and squeezing him as tightly as she could.
The front door swung open and Angela breezed into the house.
"Hey!" she called from the front entry way, "Where is everybody?"
Pamela and Rocky pulled apart and turned to greet their uncharacteristically cheerful-sounding daughter.
"In the kitchen," called Rocky. He started putting the food into serving bowls.
"Hey, Mom!" said Angela, entering the kitchen and grabbing a garlic roll from the pan.
"Where’s Kent?" asked Pamela, "Is he here?"
"He just dropped me off,” chattered Angie. She started back down the hallway towards her bedroom.
"Is that all?" asked Rocky, calling after her. "Your mother said you left her office hours ago. Where have you been all this time?"
"Kent showed me the lab—the computer lab--where he works," said Angie, "Then we stopped at Sonic for smoothies. Don’t worry, Dad. I’m still hungry. Call me when dinner's ready," and she disappeared into her bedroom.
Kent had showed Angela the computer lab, Pamela noted. She wondered when that had occurred—obviously not when she was there making her duplicate CD.
"The lab?" repeated Rocky, turning to Pamela, "You mean the lab where the murder took place?"
"He works there, Rocky," answered Pamela.
“My God, Pamela,” said Rocky through clenched teeth. “You knew she was interested in seeing that place. Why would this guy take a young freshman girl down there to a murder scene?”
"Down there? You make it sound like it’s in a dungeon. It’s just a computer lab. He’s proud of what he does and he loves all that equipment. He's a nice young man.”
"And this guy’s the one who supposedly discovered Charlotte's body?" questioned Rocky, interrogating her.
"It wasn't supposedly, Rocky,” she insisted, “I told you. He did discover her. I was there and I know Kent."
"And you trust him to drive our daughter around and drag her to places where people are killed?" asked Rocky, escorting Pamela to the table, pulling out her chair.
"How many times are we going to go over this? He's very trustworthy; I can vouch for him," she answered, sitting.
"Look, Babe, no twenty-one year old is trustworthy when it comes to teenage girls," said Rocky to her, knowingly. "All right. He may not be a killer, but that doesn't mean I want him anywhere near my daughter." He sat next to her, fuming. Pamela smiled and shook her head.
"You--you—father," she chastised him and laughed. Rocky shrugged and shook his head, seemingly in defeat.
"Angie, dinner!" Rocky called down the hallway towards Angela's room. "Not a word about you-know-what to you-know-whom," he whispered to Pamela.
"I can keep a secret," she whispered back and smiled. That was an understatement, she thought.
Chapter 16
She was nibbling--just nibbling, on another of Rocky's sandwich masterpieces. Every bite she took reminded her of her husband and the mounting number of lies she’d told him--or at least things she’d failed to tell him--in just the last twenty-four hours. It was now just after noon on Friday. The sandwich was a ham and cheese on some sort of Focacchio bread; it was delicious, but she felt guilty eating it. They’d had such a fight last night--and all for nothing. Rocky was mad because he loved her and was concerned for her welfare; she knew that.
But, she just couldn't make him understand her position. Pamela felt a sense of obligation
towards Charlotte--not just because she’d found Charlotte’s body, but also because she truly believed that the information on the disk might lead to the killer's identity and that she was uniquely qualified to figure it out.
Why did it have to be so hard? Why did doing something she felt was right have to cause this rift between her and her husband? Not just a rift, she thought. No, she’d deceived him—again. She should’ve never told him she’d made the copy of the disk. She should’ve just kept her mouth shut. He’d wanted her to dispose of it--then and there--last night. Luckily, she’d thought quickly and told him--lied to him--that the disk was in her office. She’d promised him that she’d destroy it today. Now here she sat, wondering if he sincerely believed that she meant to do it.
Of course, when she’d said all that to him last night, the disk had been in her purse all the time. It was still there now, although she was almost afraid to check. Maybe it had miraculously disappeared and all her worries would be over. Oh, my God, what was she thinking? If it were missing, that would be a catastrophe. Quickly, she reached over, grabbed her purse, and peeked inside. There, in its paper sleeve was the infamous disk--looking thoroughly benign. Taking a deep breath, she put her purse back. Calm down, she told herself, just think this through. She continued nibbling her sandwich.
She couldn't believe this much time had gone by and she still hadn't been able to examine the copied disk. It had been too risky to load it last night at home after what had happened when she’d tried to sneak a glance at the original disk on her home computer. Once she’d gotten Rocky and Angela off to school this morning and straightened up the house (so to speak), it was too late to examine the disk, and she’d had to go to class.
Her morning classes had drifted by as if she were in a hypnotic trance and now here she sat in her office alone for the first time since making the disk. Did she dare listen to the disk here in her office? What if someone came in? She desperately wanted to run it through her acoustic software program to see if there was anything unusual about the sounds on it. Surely, she could close down the program quickly if anyone showed up at her door.
She finished her sandwich and put the wrappings in the brown paper sack which she tossed in her waste basket. Then, taking her cup of tea over to her desk, she angled her monitor so only she could see her screen. Pulling the disk from her purse, she opened the CD drawer and inserted the disk. Pop, click. The computer uploaded the file and Pamela brought up her acoustic analysis program. The spectrograph wave of the two minutes or so of what she believed to be the sound of Charlotte Clark's murder appeared on the screen.
Adjusting the volume knob to the lowest possible level, she placed her cursor at the beginning of the sound wave and pressed play. The ghastly sound of choking floated from her built-in speakers, accompanied by the various bumps, knocks, and clicks. The sounds continued as the cursor flew over the visual output, built to what she would describe as a sort of crescendo, then abruptly ended.
Pamela speculated that Charlotte (or the killer) had inadvertently bumped the “record” toggle switch during their struggle and then bumped it off again as the struggle continued. With this scenario in mind, and placing the cursor back at the beginning of the sound wave, she played it again.
This time, she listened more carefully, stopping the cursor from time to time to replay various segments. She tried to observe the wave visually as she heard each sound auditorially--connecting sound with wave. Some sounds she recognized as human and some as non-human noises—both by the actual audio produced and the shape of the waves, just as she’d explained to her students in her acoustics seminar the night of the murder. Could it be possible, she wondered, that the killer was making sounds on this tape too, in addition to Charlotte? She moved her cursor back to the beginning of the wave.
Joan Bentley appeared in her doorway.
"Hard at work?" she asked. "Oh, I didn't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to check to see if we’re still on for Who-Who's tonight? Did you double check with Arliss?"
"God, no!" moaned Pamela, instinctively clicking out of the acoustic program, "I forgot. I got home late, and Rocky and I had a fight."
"Do tell," said Joan, sympathetically.
"I will," said Pamela, "at Who-Who's. Let me call Arliss and ask." She called Arliss' extension. Arliss picked up almost immediately. She was obviously talking to some of her creatures.
"Arliss, can you break away from Fluffy and Tuffy," chortled Pamela, "for a few hours tonight to join Joan and me at Who-Who’s?"
"I was counting on it," replied Arliss, sounding harried, "Stop it, you rascal! Not you, Pam! What time?"
"I tell you what," suggested Pamela, "I'll come down there and get you around five." She looked at Joan, who nodded affirmatively.
"Great!" said Arliss, "You can meet the new rats."
"Meet the rats! Wonderful!" said Pamela, smiling somewhat facetiously for Joan's sake. "See you then."
"I forgot she doesn't have a car," noted Joan. "If you like, since you're bringing her, I'll take her home. Who-Who's is so close to where you live, it makes more sense for me to drive her home."
"That would be fine," said Pamela. "I guess that means Arliss never has to be the designated driver."
"I don’t mind," said Joan, tapping her forehead, "I can hold my alcohol." She smiled sweetly, waved, and turned to go off down the hall, but turned back.
"I thought you’d be interested to know--and I have this on excellent authority--Rex and Phineas are feuding over first author rights."
"Really?" Pamela looked up, intrigued. "I thought Phineas pretty much did whatever Rex told him."
"Maybe," said Joan, savoring the image, "the little squirrel has found his nuts." She strutted off down the hall.
Pamela thought about Who-Who’s. There's one interruption I don't mind, she said to herself. If ever I could use a night out with the girls, it's tonight. She took a deep breath and clicked the acoustic program back on, along with turning up the volume control switch. Where was I?, she wondered.
Again, she played the sound wave through from the moment it first appeared until the moment it suddenly disappeared from the screen. Yes, it did seem that someone must have inadvertently bumped the toggle—both in turning it on and in turning it off. The sound appeared to start and end abruptly--as if it began in the middle of a choking that was already taking place and ended in the middle of a choking that was not quite complete. Obviously, thought Pamela, if the choking were complete, Charlotte would be dead and in no condition to either make sound or turn off the toggle switch.
Charlotte must have bumped the toggle on and off during her struggling. It was possible, Pamela mused, that the killer might have bumped it, but she thought not. She thought that since Charlotte was seated, working at the computer, and the killer probably came up behind her, and that that was the position Charlotte was found in, that any bumping of the toggle switch on the computer desk would no doubt have been done by Charlotte. It was probably likely that the killer didn't even realize that the toggle switch was turned on and off during the course of the struggle. If the killer had thought that such a thing might have happened…. She didn’t want to even contemplate the ramifications.
Pamela knew that faculty members and students were aware that recordings made in the first row of computers were backed up, but--and it was an important but--did the killer, if the killer was a faculty member or a student, even think of the possibility that a recording might have been made? In the heat of strangling someone, does a killer think of the possibility that the victim might somehow accidentally record the actual murder?
And if so, so what? Here again, Pamela reminded herself that it was not definite that the killer was someone in the department--either student or faculty. It could be, as they had originally thought, some stranger, who entered the lab intending to steal something and Charlotte just got in the way. If that were the case, a stranger wouldn’t even be aware of what the lab computers could do.
B
ut Pamela knew one thing; she had a recording of what she was sure was the actual murder, and so far, after dozens of careful listenings, she didn't have a clue as to the identity of the killer.
Chapter 17
Pamela's reverie was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. It was Jane Marie, speaking in an anxious whisper.
"Dr. Barnes," she squeaked. "Are you alone?"
"Yes," replied Pamela, suddenly intent on her receiver. "What's up?"
"I didn't know if I should call you, but I'm worried about Dr. Marks. He's been in his office for almost an hour with the door shut."
"Jane Marie," said Pamela, thinking that Jane Marie's concern was probably misplaced, "that doesn't sound like anything to worry about."
"Yes," she said, "but not after what just happened." Pamela was puzzled. It was not like Jane Marie to cry wolf.
"What just happened?"
"That woman was here," she announced, in her whispered voice.
"What woman?"
"That Evelyn Carrier. You know, the one in the photograph. She showed up several hours ago and asked to see Dr. Marks. When he saw her, he looked startled. He invited her back into his office and I didn’t hear a peep out of them for a good hour. I almost called you then, but I was afraid to. Then she left and he went back in his office and closed the door. I'll have to hang up if he comes out."
Pamela was intrigued. The mystery woman had made an appearance.
"When did she leave? Did she say anything?" she quizzed Jane Marie, "What did he say to you? Anything?"
"No, and Dr. Barnes, when she left, I could swear she was crying. Her face was red; her eyes were tear-stained. You know, it looked like she’d been crying. Dr. Marks just sort of said a quick good-bye and then excused himself and shut his door and I haven't heard anything from him since. I tell you, I’m worried. What if this is connected to Dr. Clark's death? I mean, what if--what if--this woman killed Dr. Clark? Do you think she could have threatened Dr. Marks?"
Sounds of Murder Page 13