Medieval Murders

by Aaron Stander

“John, how many people have a key for this building?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Professor Pennington has some. He keeps losing them. He gives them to students, and he doesn’t get them all back. When the maintenance guys need access to the building, they usually come for one when their masters don’t work. Most times they return them, but not always.”

  “And the general master doesn’t work.”

  “Some do, some don’t. It’s the person as much as the key, you get what I’m saying. Too much in a hurry. They don’t feel the mechanics of the thing, just jam it in and expect it to open.” He slid the key into the lock, jiggled it, turned it counterclockwise, and pushed open the door. He withdrew the key and handed it to Elkins. “Send it back when you’re done.” They stood and watched John hurry away.

  “Well, now we know how secure things are,” said Pascoe . They entered and stood in the cool interior, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  Then Elkins found the light switch. “Ever been in here before?”

  “Once, years ago, during freshman orientation.”

  A worn oriental rug covered much of the interior floor. Dull blue slate tiles ran from under the rug to the rectangular blocks of stone that formed the walls. A steel stairway, three feet wide, ran along the sides of the building, with a small landing at each level as the staircase made 90˚ turns. They ascended the steps, taking pains not to use the railings, their footsteps echoing, breathing hard as they reached the top floor. The large baton keyboard for the carillon stood at the center of the small square room on a worn and dusty hardwood floor. Ray noted how much the keyboard resembled a piano. His eyes followed the steel cables that ran from the back of the keyboard to a mechanical maze of turnbuckles, tumblers, clappers, return springs, and dozens of bells overhead.

  “So she used the chair to climb up. The window is not very big,” said Pascoe, calling his attention to the east window, one of four windows, five feet above the floor that looked out over campus, the metal sash pushed to the right. A chair stood below.

  “Yes,” said Elkins, inspecting the window-frame. “There was no room for her to sit and ponder whether or not she wanted to go through with this. All she could do was pull herself through the window and tumble.”

  “I can’t imagine,” said Pascoe with a shiver. “The mate’s on the ground next to the body,” she said, pointing to a small black shoe.

  “See if you can find evidence of the shoes on the chair or if she used them to help push herself up the wall.” Elkins pointed to the dull gray granite. “Dust the door handle, railings, chair, sill, window latch, anything she might have touched. Look for fibers, especially near the chair and around the window. And the key, look for the key.”

  Elkins moved toward the stairs. “And call Dr. Gutiérez in pathology at Medical Center and brief her. When the M.E. has signed off, get the body over there. I’d like the autopsy a.s.a.p. I’ll adjust my calendar so I can attend.”

  As Elkins drove across campus, he thought about the changes in his professional life in the last six months. For more than a dozen years his focus had been teaching and writing about criminal justice, and in the last few years he had become an academic department chair. The sudden temporary assignment of running the day-to-day operations of a campus police department had been a dramatic change.

  Looking at the body really hit him. Perhaps it was Ellen’s death. Death had become so real. Or maybe, he speculated, he had been away from real police work so long that he had lost his ability to be a disinterested observer.

  3

  Elkins paced the outside perimeter of the emergency entrance of the University Medical Center, a large new facility centered on a mile-square campus, just beyond the urban sprawl. Two years before, rows of corn rose on the flat terrain. Now the area was covered by concrete and monolithic structures of reflective glass, stainless steel, and granite.

  Twenty minutes after the agreed upon time, red faced and breathing hard, Clifford Chesterton came marching up the drive.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “It was hard to get away. Things are in absolute chaos in the office. A few days ago no one had a kind word for Sheila. Now they’re hysterical over her death.”

  “I’m sorry I have to ask you to do this. We’ve checked with Human Resources. She doesn’t have any family locally. In fact, it doesn’t appear that she has any living relatives.”

  “She lost a mother or father after she got here,” said Chesterton. “I’m not sure which. Back East somewhere. I never heard her talk about anyone else.”

  “The body, especially the head and face, was damaged quite severely in the fall, and I....”

  “Elkins, you don’t have to prepare me. My father was the chief pathologist at Rush Presbyterian in Chicago for over thirty years. I’ve seen a lot of bodies.”

  Elkins guided Chesterton to the morgue. They were met by an attendant who led them into a locked room. The body, covered by a sheet, was on a gurney. Ray pulled it back to expose the head.

  “That’s Sheila.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Chesterton responded, crimson rushing to his cheeks. “I had to deal with this woman for seven years. This is the body of Sheila Bensen.”

  Elkins covered the body and led him out into the hall, “Do you have time for a cup of coffee? I’d appreciate it if you could tell me about her.”

  Chesterton nodded. Ray had known him for years. They were neighbors, both served on the faculty senate and the department chairs’ council. Ellen and Chesterton’s wife had been close friends.

  “We are talking about suicide, aren’t we,” Chesterton asked as he stirred his coffee.

  “It looks that way, but we have to rule out the possibility of homicide. Tell me about her.”

  “Sheila,” he paused, his large face glistening with perspiration, “Sheila was a very complex, difficult person.” He slowly added a second bag of sugar and stirred the coffee again. “This would have been Sheila’s eighth year at the university. She did not attain tenure. As you know, normally her seventh year would have been her last, but since her appeals dragged on until the end of spring term, the provost granted her an additional year of employment. I think Keith was covering his ass, giving the appearance that the university had gone way beyond what it was obligated to do. He anticipated further litigation.”

  “Why wasn’t she tenured?”

  “Several reasons, actually. First and foremost, she didn’t publish. Well, that’s not quite accurate. She had one short article that summarized her dissertation work, but that was her first year. She’s done absolutely nothing of a scholarly nature since then. It’s the expectation of the department that junior faculty members publish a number of articles and at least one book before they come up for tenure.” Chesterton paused and looked into Elkins’s eyes. “The woman was incredibly productive, but she didn’t put her energy in the right place if she wanted tenure.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Elkins.

  “She worked on feminist issues and did a good deal of writing related to those causes, but it wasn’t scholarly writing. When she submitted her portfolio for review, she had volumes of published materials, but none of it—except that one article I mentioned—was in a juried journal. During her tenure fight—she did every level: department, college, university, and finally the board of governors—Sheila contended that her writing was at the vanguard of humanistic studies, that stuffy old journals weren’t ready for her work. And at every level, people tried to point out to her that these publications weren’t in her field, medieval literature. Indeed, they weren’t even in her discipline and didn’t conform to any of the basic tenets of scholarship.”

  “How did she respond?”

  “You couldn’t talk to Sheila. She believed what she wanted to believe.” Chesterton paused and looked thoughtful. “I also think part of the problem was her supporters.”

  “How so?”

  “Most were undergraduates. The
y don’t understand the issues. They supported her out of personal loyalty and believed that the whole tenure thing was the university’s attempt to get her for her feminist activities. It all got quite irrational. Elkins, you must remember some of this. The Daily had an article or an editorial on Bensen’s tenure problems almost every day during the winter term.” Chesterton stopped, looked across the table, and read Elkins’s lack of response. “Well, maybe not. You were occupied with other things then.” He paused and started again in an attempt to change the subject, “I imagine you’re glad to be finished with this assignment.”

  “Yes. Friday’s my last official day. I’ve said I’d be available as necessary for a week or two to help the new person settle in. I’ll be so damn glad to have this done and get back to my old life.”

  “What’s your fall schedule like?”

  “I’m teaching a seminar and chairing a couple of dissertations, the usual administrative duties.” Changing his tone, he said, “Getting back to Bensen, is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “I’ve explained the tenure issue and publication. That was only part of the problem. Her teaching wasn’t particularly good, either. I had a lot of complaints. You’re a department chair; you know the problem. When students seek you out to bitch about a professor, you can almost guess who it will be. I have sixty-five full-time people; ninety-five percent of the complaints are about four people. Sheila was one of the four.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “The usual. She didn’t show up for class, wasn’t prepared, didn’t return papers, was sarcastic and condescending, couldn’t or wouldn’t explain why she had assigned a certain grade. I don’t know how many times I talked to her about these problems.”

  “And her response?”

  “She blew me off, said she didn’t have time for the ‘carping little bastards,’ her words. She said teaching got in the way of her real work.”

  “Which was?”

  “Her various causes. She was sort of a cult leader, Sheila and her sophomore groupies. I’ve heard that Sheila wasn’t well liked by the main-line women’s groups. She always needed to be in control. There’s one more thing about the tenure issue.”

  What’s that?”

  “Sheila was a medievalist. We have five medievalists in the department. One is tenured, four are not. Actually, we don’t need five, two would be enough, but when Keith was chair, before he moved over to Provost, he was enamored with the idea of building a big graduate program, a center for English literary studies on the great American prairie, or something of the sort. He hired lots people with specialties we didn’t need. Of the four untenured members, Sheila had the poorest record of publication and service to the department, and, as I’ve told you, her teaching was dreadful. She’s not the kind of person we would ever tenure.”

  “The other medievalists, where are they in the tenure process?” Elkins asked.

  “Two come up this year and one the year after next.”

  “And you will only tenure one of them?”

  “Probably, depending on a retirement. Our undergraduate enrollment continues to fall, and our graduate numbers are depressing. At this point it’s hard to convince the university that we need any additional tenured faculty.”

  “Sheila, did she act depressed? Would you have suspected that she might kill herself?”

  “No. But you have to admit, this was very dramatic, wasn’t it? Waiting for the meeting to be over and then splattering herself on the pavement in front of her colleagues, the people she held accountable for not supporting her. And in her academic robes, that’s a nice bit of cheek. That was Sheila. She was a master at inflicting guilt—right up to the end.”

  “Did she have friends in the department?”

  “Not men friends, she was hostile toward men.”

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Elkins.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m making a statement. She was openly hostile to men. I think from her political perspective, we are responsible for most of the things that are wrong with the world. She was a very unpleasant, angry woman, a real piece of work.”

  Elkins was about to pursue Chesterton’s last remark when he was interrupted by the beeping of his cell phone. He fished around in his coat pockets for the phone and then looked at the number. “That’s the chancellor’s office. I imagine Pearson wants to see me immediately.”

  “I bet he does,” Chesterton agreed. “He doesn’t like anything that brings reporters around, and this certainly will.

  One more thing…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stephanie and I are having our annual fall party for the department on Saturday night. I know Stephanie hopes you’ll be there. Can I tell her you’re coming?”

  “Thanks, I’ll have to see.” Elkins’s tone changed. “If you think of anything that I should know, please call me.”

  “You can count on it, Ray.”

  Walking to his car, Elkins reviewed the conversation in his mind. Then he remembered a faculty member his department had chosen not to tenure and the anguish that had followed, the lawsuit, depositions, and months of turmoil.

  Elkins had left his car at the far end of the parking lot, his attempt at working some exercise into a busy day. When he reached the vehicle, he walked beyond it to the end of the pavement and looked west, across the fields of corn. A mass of dark gray clouds appeared across the horizon. He stood for several minutes and watched the storm slowly advancing. He remembered as a teenager kneeling on the hot sand on the top of the Sleeping Bear Dunes up in Michigan and peering at the wall of thunder clouds rolling across the big lake. He held onto those happy memories as he drove back toward campus.

  4

  Ray Elkins’ first stop on Tuesday morning was the university’s administration building on central campus. Sharon Anderson, secretary to the Chancellor, looked up from her computer display as Elkins entered the outer office. She stood to greet him, a warm hug ending with her taking his right hand in both of hers.

  Sharon had been a friend of Ellen. In the months since Ellen’s death, he had felt ill at ease in Sharon’s presence. He had tried to analyze his reaction to her, but had not come up with an adequate explanation. Perhaps seeing her intensified his memories of the period before Ellen’s death when Sharon and a few other close friends were constantly in the house providing help and support. He also suspected, although he didn’t have one iota of evidence, that Ellen, near the end, was looking for a woman for him, and Sharon was her choice.

  “He’s expecting you.” She withdrew her hands and gestured toward the door to the inner office.

  “How is he?” asked Ray.

  “He just got back from playing golf with the president of the board. He called it a working meeting,” she answered with a wry smile.

  “Did he stop at the nineteenth hole?”

  “I imagine so, he’s got that aura.”

  “Aura,” said Ray. “Always the diplomat.” He rapped on the door and waited for a response from within before entering.

  John Pearson sat behind an imposing walnut desk positioned in front of a glass wall that looked over the central campus quadrangle. Ray could see the carillon directly across the quadrangle. Trees and other buildings obstructed his view of the lower half of the structure, but the top, with its east-facing window, was clearly visible.

  Tall, balding, a former college football player running to fat in late middle age, Pearson got up and came around the desk, extending his hand, an enormous championship ring covering the upper half of his fourth finger. He gave Ray a firm handshake before he sank into one of the two overstuffed leather chairs in front of the desk and motioned for Ray to take the other with a commanding gesture.

  “I need to talk to you about a number of things, but this Bensen woman moved you up several days on my calendar,” Pearson began. “I need a damage report.”

  “Damage?” Elkins repeated. He glanced over Pearson’s shoulder at a collection of phot
os. Sharon referred to it as the wall of holy relics. At the center was a large picture of the last football team to win a national championship. Pearson, the team’s captain, was in the middle of the photo holding a football. At the sides and below were pictures of Pearson with political and sports luminaries.

  “I just want to make sure we’re clean.”

  “Clean?” repeated Elkins, pulling his attention back to the conversation, trying to anticipate where Pearson was going.

  “You know that woman was a real pain in the ass. I want to make sure there’s nothing the media can use against us. It is suicide, isn’t it?”

  “It appears to be. I won’t have a definitive answer until the investigation is completed.”

  “Well, I want it done fast, then I want you in front of the cameras. That bitch was crazy as hell. Do you know how much money she’s cost the school? Her and that fucking feminist lawyer of hers. Get the investigation done, Elkins. Get it done and tell the world. She was loony, and she offed herself.”

  Pearson pushed his rump to the left and leaned on the right side of his chair, “There are a couple of other things I need to talk to you about. First, and I’ll do this again in some kind of public forum so you get the recognition you deserve, I want to thank you for accepting this interim position. We had a hell of a scandal on our hands, and we needed integrity, someone who had credibility with the faculty. Who better to do the job than the chair of the department of criminal justice and former chair of the faculty senate.

  “You’re a chancellor’s dream, Elkins, a chancellor’s dream. I cleaned house in the athletic department and got them back on track. In just a few months you’ve made the university police an effective, incorruptible agency again. The days of payoffs to jocks are over. And we won’t have any drugs or rape in the athletic dorm with the police looking the other way. You did a good job, Elkins, fast and professional. We’ll give you a plaque or something. I know you don’t care about that kind of shit, but we’ll do it anyway. You know what the big problem is around here?”