Medieval Murders

by Aaron Stander

  “There’s a chance of that. With adolescents, a suicide in a high school is often quickly followed by several more. In some instances the later casualties were close to the first victim, but often they didn’t even know the person. They just saw death as an escape from the awful pain many teenagers experience. But in this case, I don’t know.”

  “If Dalton had a strong emotional attachment to Hendrickson, the woman who was killed in the accident last week, might that...?”

  “Again, I don’t see that as a primary motivating cause for her decision. She was very conflicted, lots of dissonance. If there had been a close relationship with one of the women, that death might have been the triggering event. You know, the straw that broke the camel’s back.” Margrave closed the folder and dropped it on the top of his desk with his left hand. He sat and looked at Ray, finally asking, “Is there anything else?

  After a long pause, Elkins responded, “No, not now, but I’m sure there will be.”

  “You know where to find me,” responded Margrave, rising from his chair and grasping Ray’s hand. “One more thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ray.

  “Did you ever start keeping a journal? We talked about it.”

  “I bought a blank journal,” said Ray.

  “That’s the first step. Now you need to get some words on the pages.”

  27

  Elkins walked up the back steps in the Campus Police building from the parking lot. As he headed toward his office, he was stopped at the desk of Bonnie Ferguson, the department receptionist. “There’s someone in your office, Elkins. The woman’s name is Jane Arden, a member of the English Department. She was quite insistent that she had to talk to you. And here are your phone messages, everyone wants to talk to you today, including Pearson.”

  “My lucky day,” he responded as he headed down the corridor. The woman looked up, a smile crossing her face, as he entered his office.

  “Good morning, ” he offered his hand. She stood and grasped his hand firmly.

  “Jane Arden. Sorry to crash in on you this way, your secretary suggested I wait for you here. Stephanie Chesterton introduced us.”

  “Yes, of course,” he responded. He remembered her very clearly, but he was trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, his tone formal and professional “How can I help you?”

  “I played tennis with Stephanie early this morning. She suggested I talk to you. Actually, I feel sort of embarrassed about it.”

  Elkins studied her as she talked—petite, tan, fine features, deep blue eyes, and a warm, attractive smile.

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Under normal conditions, I’d probably laugh it off, but....” Tears filled her eyes and she reached for her purse. Elkins pushed a box of tissue across the desk.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you,” he pressed.

  “Do you know about the University’s program at the state penitentiary?”

  “I know we have one, but I’ve never been involved with it.”

  “I have been working in the program for four years. It’s helped fill out my load, and the students are often more interesting than our average undergraduates. I have taught a number of courses there: freshman composition, intro to fiction, and world lit. It’s not uncommon to have students for more than one course. I had one student, Arlin Merchant, in two different classes. His last class with me was this past fall. Months later I started getting letters. They were addressed to me at the English department, and I never responded to them. At first they were chatty and interesting. Then the letters changed.”

  “Let me guess, they became romantic?”

  “Romantic at first, but soon the romance vanished. They became purely sexual and quite obscene. I contacted Jim Zeigler, the administrator at the prison who coordinates the program. He said that Merchant has been paroled.”

  Elkins studied the envelope, no return address but the postmark, although smudged, was clearly visible. He removed the letter, two pages of lined paper torn from a stenographer’s pad, covered with an almost illegible scrawl in heavy black ink. He read the letter, pausing to read the last paragraph a second time. I am watching you. I’m all ways out there waiting. I’ll do all those things.

  Ray looked at her and said, “I can understand your concern. Are you sure this was written by....”

  “Arlin Merchant. Yes, same handwriting, same paper, just like he used for my class.”

  “I’ll put someone on this and find out what options are available to us. This might take a day or two. Obviously, you’re going to have to be very careful. Where do you live?”

  “In the faculty apartments, University Gardens on Varsity Court. That’s the end court in the back near the railroad tracks.”

  Ray visualized the location. “It’s fairly isolated out there. Anyone you can stay with for a few days while I try to find out what we’re dealing with here?”

  “Stephanie has invited me, but I don’t want to do that. I want to be in my own place; I don’t want some crazy dictating how I have to live. There is something you could help me with. Do you have anyone who can tell me if the locks on the doors and windows are adequate? I called University Housing. They said as long as the locks are working, they won’t do anything. But the locks seem to be awfully flimsy. I’d like some expert advice on how I can make the place more secure.”

  “Well, that’s a hard one. We’re not organized like a city police force with a crime prevention bureau or officer. Let me think,” Elkins tapped his finger on his desk, an outward manifestation of an inward grinding. “If you’re going to be home late this afternoon, I’ll try to stop by and see what I can suggest.”

  “That would be wonderful. I’ll make it a point to be home.”

  “But,” said Elkins, “let me say again. I think you should really consider staying with someone else.”

  She nodded her head, and he could tell by her expression she had no intention of doing so.

  Elkins held up the letter, “May I keep this? We’ll probably need this as evidence.”

  “I’m glad to be rid of it.” She stood. “So I’ll see you when?”

  “I’ll try to make it before six. I’ll call before.”

  They shook hands and Elkins watched her go. Then he picked up the phone and dialed an extension. Char Pascoe was in his office within a few minutes.

  “Read this letter. It was sent to a member of the English faculty by a former student in the penitentiary degree program.”

  She unfolded the letter and read, and then looked up, “Has a way with words, but he’s no Browning.”

  “Where did that come from?” asked Ray.

  “Hey, you think you were the only one to take survey classes. I thought Browning was pretty hot.”

  “And Arlin is not,” said Ray. “So follow up on this. The contact person at the prison is Jim Zeigler. Find out who Arlin Merchant’s parole officer is, and the conditions of the parole. And find out what options we have in dealing with this. The woman is scared and rightfully so.”

  “This is the kind of assignment I like. I like to nail bastards like this.”

  “She complained about door locks. I said I would come by later this afternoon and take a look. Changing topic, what did you find in the Dalton apartment?”

  “We dusted the house for prints and went over the place very thoroughly for other possible evidence. A copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets was next to her computer. Her prints are on the keyboard, but we couldn’t find a copy of the text saved on the hard drive. I did print a couple of lines and had them compared with the note we found in the car. The lab confirmed the note was printed on the same paper.” She paused and looked at Ray for a long moment before continuing. “The house is sealed, just in case you want to have another look around. Dalton’s ex-husband and son are flying in this evening. I’ve got a suite for them at the Union. He’s making funeral arrangements. I’ve told him he won’t
have access to the house for several days.”

  “I’m always impressed by how thorough you are.”

  “Elkins,” she said with a smile, “you like me because I’m so much like you, a compulsive, type-A, workaholic—the kinds of traits that drive most people crazy. Additionally, I’m better organized than you, and neater, too.” She stood and started to leave the office, stopping briefly and turning toward him again. “If you were only ten years younger and rich, we’d have a great future.”

  28

  While Elkins was on the phone, Reda Rudd settled into a chair in his office. She dropped her backpack in the next chair, opened it and extracted a folder. She removed a sheet from the folder and placed it in front of Elkins.

  Elkins, obviously listening to the person at the other end of the phone, nodded to Reda. Then his eyes traveled down the article.

  Faculty Suicide Stuns University

  Professor Constance Dalton, 42, was found dead in her car in the closed garage of her townhouse Thursday morning. The motor was still running at the time the body was discovered. The cause of death has been officially listed as carbon monoxide poisoning. The body was discovered by a friend, Ms. Mary Caswell, a reference librarian in the graduate library.

  Ms. Dalton, a specialist in medieval and Renaissance literature, was beginning her fifth year at the university. She was divorced and the mother of an eleven year old son. It is believed that the child resides with his father.

  This is the third death of a member of the department of English in less than two weeks. Ms. Sheila Bensen died in a fall from the university carillon. That death, while still under investigation, is listed as a probable suicide. Five days later, Ms. Bobby Jo Hendrickson, died in a traffic accident.

  Reda Rudd dropped a second clipping in front of Elkins. In ball-point at the top it was marked, “Editorial, State Journal.”

  Faculty Deaths Teach Important Lesson.

  The members of the Legislature had better sit up and take notice of what is happening at State. The recent deaths of three faculty members is just another indication of the type of individuals being recruited to educate our sons and daughters.

  In less than two weeks there have been two suicides, and a bourbon soddened professor lost her life in a fiery late-night traffic accident. These are just the most recent examples of what’s been going on at State for years.

  It’s time that the members of the Legislature got the message that the people of this state are getting tired of having their hard earned dollars taxed away to support a bunch of drunks, psychotics, drug users, feminists, and sodomites.

  Even worse, we’re getting tired of having lifestyles and values modeled for our youth that we find reprehensible. It’s time the legislature sent a message to Chancellor Pearson that they’re not going to tolerate this kind of behavior anymore. It’s time to pull the purse strings tight and get some reform started.

  “Yes, I’ve just read it,” Elkins said into the receiver. He looked across at Reda and shook his head from side to side. His tone changed, and showing obvious anger he retorted, “And I want to remind you, sir, that I’ve kept you informed every step of the way. We’re not creating these events. We’re on the receiving end. We are investigating each one thoroughly. No one will be able to criticize the quality of the police work.” There was a pause as he listened to the other party. Then he responded, “If there are any new developments, I’ll get back to you immediately.” He tossed the receiver at the cradle.

  “Let me guess,” Reda said with a mocking smile. “Pearson?”

  “You’ve got it. You brought the editorial in just at the right moment. I was able to see what set him off. Pearson doesn’t do well with criticism, especially if it’s in the State Journal. He’s convinced that the members of the legislature get most of their information from that rag and, unfortunately, he’s probably right.”

  “How can he take those assholes seriously? Most members of the legislature are unemployable in any other kind of work.”

  “He has to. They determine our budget. And the State Journal, their editorial policy, as provincial as it is, is probably pretty close to what most of their readers believe. Probably quite close to what Pearson believes, too.”

  “Depressing thought,” she responded.

  “It’s a reality.”

  “I know it is, but one I choose not to believe. It’s too painful.” Rudd pointed to the first article. “I talked to Pascoe about the Dalton death. My article is based on that. Is there anything new?”

  “No, you know what I know.”

  “Isn’t this too much of a coincidence?” she asked.

  “Yes. Too much, but I don’t have any other explanation. Unlikely, chance, rare, statistically improbable, you can generate all kinds of adjectives, but we still don’t have the smallest bit of evidence of foul play in any of these deaths. Have you heard any interesting rumors?”

  “Yes. The NCAA is out to get our football program. The major brewers are in collusion to force up the price of kegs this fall—things like that. The death of a few English department members of the doesn’t generate much interest in the undergraduate world.”

  The phone rang again. Elkins said, “Let me take this call.” As he started to talk, Reda gathered up her backpack. She waved on her way out.

  29

  Ray asked Pascoe to accompany him on the short trip to Dalton’s townhouse in University Gardens. During the ten minute trip Pascoe gave him a summary of Arlin Merchant’s criminal history. “He entered the juvenile justice system at thirteen. He was in and out of Branch County’s juvenile center, more in than out, until he was sixteen. Then he prepped at Pine Lake Center for Juvenile Offenders. When he left at eighteen, he had managed to earn a GED. By the time he was twenty he was a guest of the state again, only this time with the big boys.”

  “What for?”

  “He had gone into the auto parts business. He would steal cars and strip them. From the air a state police pilot looking for marijuana plots noticed a wood lot on a farm filled with cars. They sent someone to investigate and found twenty-some late model cars, partially stripped. The woods were located on Merchant’s grandfather’s farm. I talked with the sheriff in Branch County. He said the grandfather had lost it, probably didn’t notice what the kid was doing.”

  “Any other convictions?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s back in Branch County, and get this, the parole board helped get him a job washing trucks and doing light maintenance for the county road commission. His parole officer wasn’t available. He’s supposed to call me tomorrow. I’m also meeting with an assistant prosecutor tomorrow to see what our options are.”

  “You did all that in a couple of hours,” Ray formed his question as a statement, but Pascoe understood that he was complementing her.

  She was embarrassed and changed the subject by pointing to the weedy and wilted flower beds in front of the townhouse complex and asking, “Is that why they call this University Gardens?”

  “God, you’re becoming a cynic,” retorted Ray. “I understand that the horticulture department once occupied this area. They had a classroom building, greenhouses, and gardens. When the university quadrupled in size in the sixties and early seventies, the College of Agriculture—including the horticulture department—got a beautiful new facility on West Campus. At that time there was a severe housing shortage, both for students and faculty. The university built all those high-rise dorms, and this one complex of condos for faculty members.”

  The police line was still in evidence and a patrol car was parked in the drive, the front of the car facing the street. As they approached, a young woman in the department’s light blue summer uniform with the white lettered ‘Cadet’ patch at her shoulder emerged from the car.

  “Boring assignment?” asked Ray, as the young woman unlocked the door for them.

  “This morning I got to meet all the neighborhood boys on their way t
o school. Since then it has been very quiet.”

  After they were in Dalton’s townhouse, Pascoe asked, “What’s our purpose here?”

  “Two things, and then I just want to have a look around.”

  “What specifically?”

  “I want to see if she has any other liquor, and I want to look for medications.” Ray went into the kitchen. “You dusted the cabinet doors?”

  “We dusted everything.”

  “Any alcohol?”

  “There were a few bottles in one of the cupboards. I think they were in here.” She opened a cupboard next to the sink. “Yes, this is the one.”

  Ray pulled on some rubber gloves, dropped to one knee, and looked in. “Let’s see, four bottles. Two Jack Daniel’s, one close to empty and one unopened. And two bottles of gin, one half gone and the other unopened. I’ve always wondered how Queen Victoria would have felt about having her picture on a bottle of gin.”

  “Who?”

  “That lovely lady,” he said, holding the bottle so she could see the label. “Check these for prints, all four bottles.” Elkins pulled the refrigerator door open. He noted the bottles of diet tonic water, one half empty, three more unopened, and the two unsliced limes. He let the refrigerator close.

  “Oh, by the way, what did you find in the trap?” Ray asked.

  “Nothing, just soapy water,” Pascoe replied and followed him up to the second story. He checked around the nightstand, a two-shelf arrangement with a clock radio on the lower shelf and a reading light on the top.

  “I thought I was organized,” Pascoe observed as they looked around. “Everything here is just perfect.”

  “But perhaps not perfect enough,” said Ray. His irony wasn’t lost on her.

  He went into the bathroom. It was papered in a pastel flower design, and curtained with a material that picked up the colors in the paper, or vice versa. The bath and hand towels were carefully hung, they looked to Ray like they had never been used. Something about the room repelled him. It looked as though every attempt had been made to disguise the room’s primary function.