"Jane Marie," said Pamela, in her most reassuring voice, "I think it's highly unlikely that any of this is connected to Dr. Clark’s death. If this woman—this Evelyn Carrier were at all involved, I'm sure Dr. Marks would have contacted the police. But, just so you know, I did mention her—and the photo and the big fight--to Detective Shoop yesterday, just in case."
“What did he say?” asked Jane Marie.
“Not surprisingly--nothing,” she answered, “I guess that’s the detective’s motto: ask questions—don’t give answers. But, Jane Marie, don’t worry about Mitchell. He can take care of himself.” Pamela said this, but she herself wasn't totally convinced. She wished she could have seen this Evelyn Carrier or been a fly on the wall during her meeting with Mitchell Marks.
"I've got to go, Dr. Barnes," said Jane Marie, "He may come out any time and I don't want him to catch me gossiping on the phone. I'll see you at the memorial on Sunday, okay?"
“Sure," Pamela answered, but the departmental secretary had already hung up.
Pamela looked at her watch. It was past 4:30 p.m. and if she was going to get Arliss from the animal lab and drive the two of them to Who-Who's by five, she’d probably better get going. There was just one thing she wanted to check on her computer before she left. She clicked onto Google Scholar and typed in “John Pierce Culver,” Nothing. Mr. Culver may have written a dissertation of interest to Charlotte, she thought, but he obviously hadn’t produced anything of enough importance to have been picked up by Google’s academic search engine. This only meant that Culver never published anything in any reputable journal. So, what was Charlotte doing reading his dissertation the night she was murdered? It was probably not related to her death at all. She closed down her computer and headed out. Joan and Willard had already left, as had most faculty members. It was, after all, late on a Friday afternoon.
Pamela zipped down the corner staircase and onto the main floor. Complete silence. Fridays will do that, she thought. The old building seemed almost haunted, with each of her steps making a creaking noise on the wooden floor boards. Then she saw the lab at the end of the side hallway. Just a brief glance, she thought to herself. This time, as she walked to the lab, she paid close attention to the offices in this wing. She tried to imagine how the killer might have entered the lab, from which direction he--or she--must have come. Had the killer been hiding in an office? The men's restroom was on the other side of the graduate students' office. That's where Willard had said he’d been yesterday when she bumped into him when she exited the lab. The killer could have hidden there and waited until the hallway was clear.
Or maybe the killer had entered from the parking lot? It was a short walk from there to the lab. But if so, how had the killer even known that Charlotte would be there? If, of course, the killer was even looking for Charlotte. So many questions.
She walked quickly towards the lab and unlocked the door. Hardly anyone had even been inside the lab since the murder. Maybe it was because they were frightened. Of course, she--or rather Kent--had cancelled her data collection this week. Next week, there would be more activity. All the more reason to check on things now--when there was little traffic.
As she entered, she flipped on the overhead lights. This time she left the door open. She walked slowly around the lab, looking at all the rows of computers. Was it possible for someone to hide in the lab itself, she wondered? She looked everywhere.
Rocky was right. She was getting herself involved in things she had no business getting involved in. As she quickly left the lab, locking the door, she looked around behind her immediately, almost expecting Willard Swinton to pop up out of nowhere as he had the other day. No one was in sight. This made the third time she’d secretly visited the lab since the murder. Was she tempting fate? Taking too many chances?
As she passed the main office, she noticed the door was closed--and as she pulled it—discovered it was also locked. That meant that Jane Marie had left. It was possible that Mitchell was still here but, officially, the Department of Psychology was closed for business for the week. She wondered if Mitchell was still in his office brooding about the appearance of the mysterious Evelyn Carrier.
Heading further down the hallway into the opposite wing of the building--where she seldom went--she entered the animal psychology section of her department. She felt a cold shiver--as if someone were watching her. It was no doubt her imagination working over time--or possibly the strangeness of this wing compared to hers. This part of the building was noticeably dirtier and there were sounds of creatures in the distance.
She reached the end of the main hallway, turned left, and continued down the side hallway to the animal lab at the end. The animal lab was in a mirror position to the computer lab--on the other side of the building. It seemed unusual to enter this lab and not see the computers she was so familiar with. As she opened the lab door, she could see Arliss in a white lab coat, with her dilapidated trousers and scuffed up shoes, bent down next to a large cage.
"That's a good fellow, Bailey," Arliss said, coaxing a large chimpanzee. "Hey, Pam!" she called to her friend. "Come meet my buddy."
Pamela strode quickly to the back of the lab. She was not all that taken with animals--her poodle, yes--other animals--not so much. But she feigned enthusiasm because she really liked Arliss, and Arliss was a genuine animal lover.
"Ready to go?" she asked "It's almost five and Joan will probably beat us."
"Yep," nodded Arliss, checking a clipboard that was hanging from the side of the cage. "Hey, there bud, be a pal and let me have a night out with my friends." The chimp whimpered and pulled pitifully on her lab coat.
"Ohhh," said Pamela, sadly. "He doesn't want you to leave." This was another reason she avoided animals. She was a sucker for a sad face and this chimp had a really sad face.
"He's fine," announced Arliss, standing and whipping off her lab coat as she grabbed her back pack from a lab table. "Let's go party!"
Pamela headed out the lab door, with Arliss loping behind. Arliss locked up behind herself and the two women strode down the main hallway of Blake Hall, laughing and talking.
"Just thought you’d like to know," said Pamela to Arliss, "Since I’m bringing you, Joan will be taking you home--as she's closer to you, and Who-Who's is closer to me."
"Limousine service!" chuckled Arliss.
"And don't you forget it,” said Pamela, shaking her finger at Arliss. "Joan and I expect some payback."
"I'm a great dog-sitter," announced Arliss, "and I know you have a super little poodle, don't you?" Pamela knew that Arliss lived alone in an apartment complex where no pets were allowed; it was probably torture for her, loving “critters” the way she did. They exited Blake Hall and into the small parking lot. Pamela unlocked her car and she and Arliss slid inside.
"Believe me," confided Pamela, "the poodle doesn't need sitting. It's the teenager that needs sitting. Do you want to try your hand at that?" She shook her head hopelessly.
"The perils of motherhood," bemoaned Arliss in a mock serious voice.
"The joys of being single," intoned Pamela. "Believe me, animals are much easier to raise than children."
They were laughing and chatting and having an otherwise relaxing Friday night out. Pamela pulled carefully out of the parking lot—after all, she did have a passenger. They didn't notice the person sitting in a nearby car, watching their every move.
Chapter 18
Joan was already holding court in their favorite booth at Who-Who's when Arliss scooted in beside her, and Pamela took up her position on the other side of the table. The cheerful Latin American rhythms pulsating through the sound system and the colorful maracas decorating the walls provided just the ambiance the three women needed to begin unwinding from probably one of the most harrowing weeks their department had ever experienced.
"Did you order?" Pamela asked Joan, removing her jacket and noticeably relaxing. Arliss stowed her backpack under the table and leaned her lanky body across it.
"
What!" declared Joan, "You don't trust me to order for you?"
Just then a waiter arrived with three frosty large inverted bell-shaped glasses, each with a lemon wedge neatly upended over the side. He started placing the drinks on the table.
"Margaritas for all!" sang Joan. "My treat!"
"You ladies are celebrating?" asked the efficient waiter.
"No, dear boy," Joan replied, her flirtatious eyes scanning the man’s torso quickly up and down. She took a cleansing sip of her Margarita and said, "we’re in mourning." She lifted the glass in the air and swung her hips from side to side.
"Joan," grimaced Pamela. The waiter looked confused, but handed each woman a napkin and then took his leave. "You are bad," added Pamela.
"If we’re in mourning," asked Arliss, joining in the game. "Then this is the wake, right?"
"Now, you've got the spirit,” said Joan, nudging Arliss lightly on the shoulder. Pamela shook her head. Her two friends were angels to try to cheer her up and make her forget the trauma she’d been through. She resolved to put the events of the last few days out of her mind and enjoy herself.
"Hear! Hear!" she saluted them. "Bottoms up!" All three women gulped their drinks. "To Charlotte!" she offered, lifting her glass again. They all clicked their glasses together.
"To Charlotte!" said Arliss, joining in.
"To Charlotte!" added Joan, "wherever she may be!" Then she raised her eyebrows quickly up and down knowingly and they all laughed.
"We're terrible," said Pamela, laughing in spite of herself.
“We’ll be the pictures of decorum at the official memorial on Sunday,” contributed Joan.
Suddenly, Pamela set her glass down and looked at her friends. "I don't know if I can do this," she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Do what?" asked Joan, soothingly, "Have a drink with two good friends? Come, come, my dear." She set down her drink and placed her hand over Pamela's.
"Pam," added Arliss, "we're just trying to cheer you up. I'm sorry if we're making you uncomfortable."
"It's not you," she spoke to Arliss, "or you," she turned to Joan, "but since I found her-her--in the lab--I just haven't been able to think of anything else."
"I know," agreed Arliss, "God, I don't know what I’d have done. I sure didn't like the woman, but I never imagined anyone would kill her."
"Me neither," agreed Pam.
"It doesn’t surprise me," said Joan. "That woman was more than just annoying. Maybe you two weren't aware of all her machinations--but, believe me, I've been at Grace University a lot longer than either of you, and I know things you don't."
"Such as?" asked Arliss.
"Let's just say that over the years, Charlotte Clark has been instrumental in the demise of more than one academic career," admitted Joan.
"You don't mean in our department?" asked Pamela.
"My dear," continued Joan, "I’ve served on many committees with that woman--student thesis committees, service committees, nationally appointed committees, all sorts--and she had her way of getting what she wanted. If she couldn't get it above board, she was not beneath using underhanded methods."
"Why haven't I ever heard about this?" asked Pamela.
"Or me?" chimed in Arliss.
"The woman," explained Joan, "was a master at covering her tracks. To tell the truth, I wouldn't be surprised if some--if not all--of her grants were secured through devious means."
"Such as?" wondered Arliss, turning insistently towards Joan in the booth.
"Such as blackmail," said Joan, suggestively.
"Joan," laughed Pamela, "you must be kidding. Surely, those grant proposals were scrutinized from here to Sunday. How could Charlotte possibly blackmail someone for grant money?"
"I don't know the specifics," explained Joan, "that's why I never would have said anything. And, Lord knows, our department benefited so much from her grants that it would be like cutting off my nose to spite my face to question them." Joan’s eye brows rose to hairline height and her upper lip jutted out like a sudden overbite. She returned to her drink.
The women sipped their drinks and sighed, and thought.
"So?" said Joan, breaking the ice, "The most important question."
"What?" asked Arliss, leaning in to her.
"Do you think Mitchell will still go ahead with the Chili Cook-Off?" she wondered aloud. The other two women broke up laughing.
"Maybe we can talk him out of it," suggested Arliss, "in deference to Charlotte, of course." She lowered her head in mock sympathy.
"No," provided Pamela with a new twist, "we must go ahead with the Cook-Off---in honor of Charlotte. We should call it the Charlotte Clark Memorial Chili Cook-Off! Seeing as how Charlotte loved the cook-off so much!" The other two women were laughing uproariously. Arliss was pounding her fist on the leather seat in their booth.
"As Charlotte told us--in private--you recall--so many times!" Joan was elaborating, "She simply loved chili!"
"Yes," agreed Arliss, "If the three of us go in to Mitchell and present this idea, I'm sure he’d go along! I mean you know how much he admired Charlotte!"
"So much!"
"He adored her!" They were cackling now--the margaritas obviously doing their work.
The waiter returned and the women placed their dinner orders. The mood subsided somewhat.
"Really, Pam," said Arliss, "how are you doing? And please don't say 'fine.' It's me--and Joan. You can talk to us."
"I know," she said, finally feeling relaxed enough to speak. "I'm glad I have both of you here. There are some things I'd like to talk to you about. However, most everything I want to say must--I mean must--remain between us three. When I tell you, you’ll see why."
"Of course, my dear," said Joan, warmly, "You feel free to tell us whatever you want--or don't want, whatever you need to do. All we want to do is help you cope."
"Right," agreed Arliss, "just help you cope, Pam." The two women looked at her keenly. Pamela took a deep breath.
"I think you know," she began, "what happened when we--I mean—when my grad assistant Kent and I found Charlotte. You don't know some other things--things I haven't discussed but need to discuss. Maybe I shouldn't discuss." She bit her lower lip.
"My lips are sealed," said Arliss, performing the locked key gesture with her fingers in front of her lips.
"Mine too," mimicked Joan.
"First," started Pamela, "yesterday, after the police had finished examining the lab and we were free to go back in, I went down there and looked around."
"Did you find a clue?" asked Arliss, excited.
"Sort of," said Pamela, "but not the way you mean. I was looking at the booths in the front row where Charlotte was strangled--you know, Joan, how the control panel is configured there."
"Vaguely," answered Joan, "I really don't pay much attention to it, since I don't ever use it in my research."
"I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it before," continued Pamela, "but the toggle switch on the first row computers—is on the right, placed about where your elbow might rest if you were seated there with your arms stretched out. As you know, the master console panel makes back-up recordings of anything recorded by any computer in the first row."
"Again," said Joan, "I never use that function, so I really don't pay much attention to it."
"That’s what happens," said Pamela, "So, if the toggle switch is bumped accidentally, a back-up recording would be made, even if the person sitting at the computer did not intend to record."
"My God," said Arliss, her mouth open, "I think I know where this is going."
"Then tell me," added Joan, "because I'm in the dark."
"What if?" questioned Pamela, "What if Charlotte had accidentally bumped the toggle while she was being strangled?"
"Wouldn't the police have seen it and downloaded it?" asked Joan.
"Not if she then accidentally turned off the toggle switch while she was thrashing around," contributed Pamela.
"Would
n't the killer see what was happening?" asked Arliss.
"If you were strangling someone, would you be concerned about whether or not their elbow accidentally bumped a toggle switch?" queried Pamela.
"I suppose not," said Arliss, thoughtfully.
"Anyway," continued Pamela, "on the off-chance that Charlotte had accidentally bumped the toggle switch on and then maybe off, I went to the back-up storage in the master control console and brought up all data recorded for the first row of computers on Tuesday and guess what?"
"My God," said Arliss, her mouth even wider now. "You found it!"
"Yes," confirmed Pamela, "For a brief period of about two minutes on Tuesday night, a back-up recording was made in Carrel #4--the carrel where Charlotte was found dead."
"Did you listen to it?" asked Joan, with great anticipation.
"I did," she answered.
"And?"
"There is a recording of what sounds like a person choking and various other bumps, slams, clicks, knocks--non-human sounds," she declared.
"Pam," said Arliss, "What I don't understand, is, what good does it do to have a recording of Charlotte being strangled? Does she say who the killer is? Does she give any hint at all?"
"No," said Pamela, deflated, "you wouldn't expect it to be that simple, would you?"
"So, let me get this straight," said Joan, carefully, "you have a recording of Charlotte being murdered, but it doesn't really help us find the killer."
"Us?" exclaimed Arliss, aghast. "What us? This isn't something we--or Pam--should be involved in."
"And," Pamela quickly added, "I took the recording to the police the next day."
"That's good," said Arliss. "Maybe they can find something in it that will help find the killer."
"I doubt it," mused Pamela, looking pensive.
"Why?" asked Arliss.
"Really," said Pamela, "not to sound conceited, but I do have extensive experience in analyzing sound waves--human and non-human. If anyone can make sense of the sound on that recording, it should be me."
"Pamela," said Joan, intending to be the voice of reason, "this is not a matter of who has the most expertise. This is a matter of safety."
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