Medieval Murders

by Aaron Stander

  “It’s just after 11:00 A.M.” Savage replied, pointing to a clock on the wall. “How’s your vision? Can you see the clock clearly or is it blurred?”

  “No blurring.”

  “Okay. Do you know what day it is?”

  “Saturday,” said Ray, after a short pause.

  “Good. We’re going to be monitoring you very closely.”

  “Anything else wrong with me?” he asked.

  “You took a very hard fall. I’m surprised you didn’t sustain any fractures. You were a mess when I first saw you, but you cleaned up okay. You have bumps and bruises. And once we get you up and around, you’re going to have some aches and pains.”

  “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  “Not for the next few days,” said Savage. “And after you’re discharged, you are going to have to take it easy for a week or ten days. Lots of rest, plenty of fluids, no alcohol, and moderate exercise. Do you use tobacco?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You’re going to be on vacation for a week.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” said Ray.

  “I hear that a lot,” Savage replied.

  “How about this headache?”

  “I’ll order some Tylenol. I don’t want you to take any other pain meds. I’ll have an office appointment scheduled for you at the time of your discharge. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” answered Ray, repeating back what he had just been told.

  “You need to rest and take it easy. I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.”

  Elkins watched him depart.

  “And I’ve got to run, too,” said Dr. Gutiérrez. “I’ve got several soccer games to officiate. Anything you need, magazines…?”

  “How about this week’s New Yorker and a tall cup of French roast.”

  “I’ll get you the magazine. Coffee, you heard the man.”

  36

  Branch County, seventy miles north of the university, was one of the most rural and economically depressed areas of the region. It lacked the rich soil that had brought prosperity to most of the state.

  Pascoe parked in the visitors’ lot at the front of the Branch County Sheriff Department, a single story, flat-roofed building covered in a pinkish brick. She could see the county jail immediately behind, an aging three-story stockade-like building of cement block and reinforced concrete with bar-covered windows.

  She stopped at the switchboard. A deputy, a woman about her age, led Pascoe to Sheriff Mike Ney’s office. The sheriff—short, heavy-set; bald except for a half-oval of gray hair; long sideburns; with a belly that hung over his belt—leaned forward over his desk to shake hands.

  After settling into a chair, Pascoe said, “Thank you for coming in on a Saturday. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem, Miss. In a small department we hardly notice what day of the week it is, there’s always something that needs attending to. Sort of like having a dairy herd, if you know what I mean.”

  Pascoe nodded and smiled, unsure of what he was referring to.

  “So, how’s Elkins?” Ney asked.

  “He had a serious concussion and has to stay in the hospital for a day or two for observation.”

  “Don’t know him well, but I’ve heard several talks he gave at the Sheriff’s Association meetings. Seems like a smart man, but practical, too. Not like some of those college people.”

  “Tell me about Merchant?” asked Pascoe, allowing his comment to pass.

  “Well, I sent a couple of men to pick him up this morning, but he wasn’t there. They questioned his grandfather, that’s who he lives with. The old man is kinda senile. Can’t remember when he last saw Arlin, but thought it was a day or two ago. I checked with his parole officer, guess he hasn’t showed up for work in a week.” He pulled his glasses off and looked across at Pascoe. “Course, that’s not surprising. Whole family’s alcoholics. Imagine he just wandered off to do some drinking. In a few days he’ll run outta money and booze and come wandering back. What makes you think he might be involved in this shooting? You mentioned something about a letter on the phone.”

  “I’ve got a copy here.” Pascoe sorted through her briefcase for a few moments and handed him a copy of the letter and the envelope, each in a plastic cover.

  Ney put his glasses on to read the letter. He looked up at Pascoe and turned back to the letter. After he finished, he turned it over and set it on his desk. Then he examined the envelope. “The letter was sent from our post office, that’s clear. But are you sure Arlin wrote this? I mean, it’s obscene and all that, but it’s a pretty good letter. I didn’t think anyone in his family was educated enough to write this good.”

  “The woman who received this letter is a member of the English department. He was a student in two of her classes at the penitentiary. She’s sure it’s his handwriting.”

  “Letter’s about sex, doesn’t say anything about violence.”

  Pascoe didn’t respond immediately. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “Can you tell me about Merchant, the kinds of crimes he’s been involved in?”

  “Pretty minor stuff, not in terms of the law, of course, but in real terms. Never heard him doing anything but stealing. When he was a kid, it was bikes and candy. By the time he was fifteen or sixteen, he was stealing cars, just joy riding at first. He got time in the juvie for that. Then he found out he could make some pretty good money by parting them out, better than the minimum wage jobs he was occasionally getting. He had a whole bunch of late model cars hidden back behind their garage in the woods. He was selling parts on order, sorta like a junk yard. If he didn’t have a part someone wanted, he’d steal a car to get what he needed. That’s what got him sent up. He had so many cars in that woods that someone couldn’t help but notice. Don’t think he ever used a gun or any other sorta weapon. Just steal cars at night. We think some of his friends were involved, too. We just never could nail them.”

  “Was he ever suspected of any sex offenses?”

  “Far as I know, never.” Ney paused. “In a little town like this everybody knows everyone else’s business. I’ve known Arlin from the time he was a kid. That poor bastard never had a chance. Family’s dirt poor, always has been. Never had the pot or the window, if you know what I mean. Arlin got most of what he needed from the time he was a kid by stealing. His people have always been trash. Merchant’s mother got knocked up with him when she was fourteen or fifteen. No idea who the father was, guess every boy in these parts got some of her. She had one more kid, a girl, before she got killed.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Car accident. Hit a tree. She was with some guy, both drunk. It was such a mess, never could quite tell which one of them was driving. Funny thing, on that whole stretch of road, bout two miles, there’s only one tree, a big oak, rest’s all fields. They hit the damn thing at seventy or eighty miles an hour. Must a been in a hurry for something.” He gave her a sly smile.

  “How about Merchant’s sister?”

  “She was a chip off the old block. She got in trouble while still a kid. A year or two later she met some guy and moved away. Don’t think she’s ever been back.” He picked up the letter and looked at it again. “Sending a letter like this ain’t right, but it ain’t illegal, either. And the letter don’t say nothing about shooting her.”

  Pascoe looked at him, her eyes burning into him. “The things he’s suggesting are felonies.”

  Ney pushed back from his desk. “Has he bothered this woman? Has she seen him? Has he been hanging around? Has he been stalking her?” His tone suggested annoyance.

  “No, I don’t believe so. Just the letter.”

  “Well, Miss, we’ll keep looking, and we’ll pick Merchant up for questioning when we find him. But I don’t think Arlin is the person you’re looking for.” He extended his hand without getting up, indicating to Pascoe that the meeting was over.

  37

  Elkins spent a restless day, bothered by a nagging h
eadache and fatigue. By late morning one of the nurses had him up and walking, at first a challenge, every muscle in his body crying out in pain. He felt better after showering and fell into an uneasy sleep that absorbed most of the afternoon. When he next opened his eyes, Charlene Pascoe was at his side. As he worked to pull himself to full consciousness, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “It’s just after five.”

  Elkins was suddenly fully awake. “Arden, is she all right?”

  “Not bad. Shaken by the events, and she needed some stitches to close a cut. She spent last night here. Now she’s staying with your neighbors, the Chestertons. Mrs. Chesterton picked her up midday. I explained the situation to Jack Kackmeister. He has promised to keep their house under close surveillance.”

  Elkins rubbed his eyes with his left hand. “I’m glad you’re here, I was thinking about the things I needed to tell you, things I should have written down.” Carefully, he recounted his conversation with Jane Arden. “Have you learned anything about Arlin Merchant?”

  “I went out to Branch County and talked with Mike Ney, the sheriff. Do you remember him, looks to be in his late sixties, short, and fairly stout?”

  “Yes.”

  “I called his office this morning. He wasn’t in, but I talked with the shift commander. I told him about the shooting and asked if they would pick up Merchant for questioning. I drove out there without confirming that they had taken him into custody. I needed something to do. I can’t stand sitting around and waiting. As it turns out they couldn’t find him. According to his parole officer, Merchant hasn’t shown up for his job for a week.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Ney gave me the history of the Merchant clan. I don’t think that you would call it a completely unbiased history. I showed him a copy of the letter. He was impressed by its literary quality. Long and short of it is he doesn’t think Merchant is our man. Says Merchant’s a thief, but this shooting is out of character with the Arlin Merchant he knows.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve looked at his arrest record. His problems with the law involve alcohol, stealing cars, and selling off parts. There’s no mention of his ever having a weapon of any kind in his possession. And there’s no record of sex offenses or drug possession. He was in the juvenile system by the time he was fourteen. He’s gone to trial twice for motor vehicle theft, the first time he got off because he wasn’t Mirandized. Ney didn’t mention that fact. The second time Merchant wasn’t as lucky. He got three to five, did the minimum. I’ve got his records. He was a model prisoner and earned 21 hours of college credit.”

  Pascoe looked over at Ray. His attention seemed to be flagging. “Elkins, can you answer some questions, or are you getting too tired?”

  “I’ll try to stay awake. I’m really exhausted, and I have a headache.”

  “I got a statement from Jane Arden this morning. I need to go over the same ground with you.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Arden said that you arrived about 9:00 P.M.”

  “I’m not sure it was that late, but it was at least 8:30. I think I had told her I would be over about 6:00, but I was running late. I called and suggested that perhaps I should come by another time, but she wanted me to look at the locks, and she offered me dinner. I checked the locks and told her what needed to be done. She was making dinner. The storm hit about the time we were sitting down. The lights went out, but she had some candles going. I remember the breaking glass, pushing her to the floor, and calling for help. I went out the patio door. I thought I saw someone sprinting along the hedge at the back of the complex. I took off after them. Then there was a locomotive and then everything gets very jumbled.”

  “Can you remember anything about the person you were chasing?”

  “I can remember the brilliant light of the locomotive and a figure. It was almost like a shadow.”

  “Tall, short, fat, thin, male, female?”

  “Don’t know about the sex, but I would say tall and thin. That’s only an impression. Maybe you should interview Oscar Miller.”

  “Who’s that?” pressed Pascoe.

  “He’s the tenured medievalist in the English Department. He’s supposed to be a very unpleasant person.”

  “What connection does he have to this case?”

  “No connection at all, far as I know. Just something I was planning to do.”

  “Oscar Miller. Okay, I’ll have a talk with him. What am I supposed to ask him?”

  He shook his head. “You’ll think of something. And see what you can find out about Jane Arden.” Then he closed his eyes.

  38

  Early Monday morning Pascoe called Oscar Miller to arrange a meeting. There was no answer at his office number and no home listing in the faculty and staff directory. Then she called Alice Widdowson, Clifford Chesterton’s secretary, who provided her with a home number for Miller.

  Later that morning at 11:00, Pascoe stood outside Miller’s third floor office door in Old West Foundation Hall. The door was closed. She could hear movement in the office and knocked. The door opened a crack and a wizened visage peered out at her.

  “Miss Pascoe?”

  “Yes.”

  The door was opened farther, and she was ushered in and offered a chair. She was surprised by how short Miller was; she guessed that he was barely five feet tall. His head, compared to the rest of his frame, was disproportionally large. His long, gray hair was combed back. His face—nose, long, thin, pointed, with large nostrils that opened forward; forehead, sloping back to his hairline at an angle almost as steep as his nose; and chin, small, and dropping back from the line of his upper jaw—reminded her of the drawing of a weasel in one of her childhood books. His eyes, light blue, darted nervously back and forth.

  After a few minutes of small talk, Pascoe explained what kind of information she was seeking. “Professor Miller, as you know, one of your colleagues, Jane Arden, had an attempt made on her life Friday night. We’re trying to develop a list of possible suspects in this case. Perhaps you could help us.”

  “Why ask me?” scoffed Miller. His breath reeked of tobacco.

  Pascoe thought it was a good question. She was interviewing Miller because Elkins had asked her to, but she wasn’t sure why. How should I play this? Pascoe thought, She glanced around Miller’s office. The two side walls were covered with bookcases. Two bumper stickers were pinned to the top corners of a bulletin board.

  “I like your bumper sticker,” she said.

  “Which one?”

  She pointed to the one on the left, Support Your Local Police. “We need more of that. We really appreciate citizen support.” Pascoe hoped that she didn’t sound too insincere. She didn’t comment on the bumper sticker on the right, This is a Republic, NOT a Democracy. “That’s why I’m talking with you. We don’t have any good leads on why anyone would want to kill Professor Arden. We’re asking members of the faculty, especially members of your department, for help. Since you and Arden share the same specialty, I hoped perhaps you might have some thoughts on the matter.”

  “Frankly, Miss Pascoe, strange as it sounds, I barely know Miss Arden. I don’t know anything about her personal life, and I don’t know why anyone would want to kill her.”

  “How about her professional life?”

  “Don’t know much about that either. She did her work in Ann Arbor, which isn’t the best place for studies in our field. That said, she’s a real expert in Old English. But, I was never asked to take part in her interview, or in any of the others, either.”

  “Which others?”

  “The other medievalists in the department: Bensen, Hendrickson, Dalton. We never needed those people. They were all second rate.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “Bensen, for instance. Her dissertation was very pedestrian. She wrote on minor women writers of the late medieval period.” He continued in a mocking tone, “She didn’t ha
ve much to work with, and those writers would have been best left forgotten. It was the women’s thing, that’s what got her through. Her dissertation should have been rejected, but she cowed her committee. Damn feminists have everyone scared. Bensen tried to do the same thing here with her tenure. Good thing the department stuck to its guns.

  “The thing you need to understand, Miss Pascoe, is there isn’t much enrollment in this area. I can barely get a load. Even before the others were hired, I often had to teach undergraduate survey courses in English literature.”

  “How about Hendrickson, what kind of scholar was she?”

  “She might have been a scholar, but her area of scholarship wasn’t literature. She was an authority on bourbon whiskey, not much else. And that was all experiential learning rather than book learning, if you catch my drift. She got hired because her father and our former chair were friends during their undergraduate days at Charlottesville. The woman was always half smashed, and she wasn’t much of a medievalist. Her dissertation had a title like The Resonances of Latin Rhetoric in English Medieval Literature. Her real interest was classical rhetoric, not medieval literature.”

  “How about Dalton?”

  “Dalton was a fairly adequate scholar. Her real interest was the stories conveyed by medieval stained glass, the windows of the great cathedrals. She really should have been in art history, not in English.”

  “I’m impressed by how much you know about their dissertations.”

  “I did the necessary legwork.” He held her in his gaze and continued sternly, “If you don’t have any say on who’s going be hired, you’ve got to make it your business to find out about them.” Miller got up and went to the bookcase that covered the wall opposite his desk. He removed four paperbacks from the far side of the bottom shelf. The books had identical light blue covers, and a title printed on a label and attached to the front. He handed the volumes to Pascoe. “These are their dissertations. I ordered copies from University Microfilms. I also have copies of all their published articles.” He motioned toward a metal file cabinet. “When they were hired I used the old boy network, people I knew at the schools they came from, to find out as much as I could about each of them. I was even able to get some of their former office mates on the phone.” He pointed the index finger of his hand at Pascoe and repeatedly gestured to emphasize his point. “If I were going to have to deal with these women, I had to know about them. I especially wanted to know if they were leftist.”