by Donn Taylor
Dr. Sheldon nodded vigorously.
“This made a great impression on Sergeant Spencer, who says that ever since then he’s been careful to get his facts straight before jumping to a conclusion.”
Dr. Sheldon beamed. “Press, it’s rare for anything we do in the classroom to actually change someone’s life. That incident alone means your career is a success.”
“I’d like to try for a few more,” I said, “but basking in Sergeant Spencer’s praise doesn’t help me keep my job. So where do we go from here?”
“There is one factor that may link several of our suspects,” Dr. Sheldon said. “Three years ago, someone got up a faculty trip to Las Vegas during spring break. About a third of the faculty went, including Laila and our suspects—except for Pappas, of course.”
I’d forgotten about that. At the time I was too tied up with Faith’s death to pay much attention. “Did spouses go too?” I asked.
“The only spouse we’re concerned with is Threnody Harkins,” Sheldon said. “She did go. I remember because one of my student assistants stayed with the children.”
“I don’t see where it fits,” I said, “but I’ll keep it in mind when I talk to the three faculty.”
“Have you considered the time factor?” Dr. Sheldon asked. “Thanksgiving holidays begin at noon one week from this coming Wednesday. All the suspects will scatter. Our investigation will lose momentum, and we’ll have difficulty regaining it.”
“So the calendar gives us a deadline,” Mara said. “We’d better work fast.”
“I’ll keep working the computer,” Dr. Sheldon said.
Mara turned to me. “What will we do?”
A wave of hopelessness swept over me, but I did my best to ignore it. “Deadline or no, we resume routine school activities tomorrow and try to look as normal as we can. I have three people to interview—Harkins, Jessel, and Brenda Kirsch. With any luck, I should be able to do that within the next few days. Maybe we can work it so you look over their offices while I hold them somewhere else. If you’re still game, that is.”
Her gaze gave me the full harpoon treatment. “I’m game. I need my job as much as you need yours. And I don’t think I’d get along well in prison.”
“Now, children,” said Dr. Sheldon, “let us not squabble. If we’re to be teammates we must work without friction.”
Mara nodded again and I said, “Yes, sir.”
We left it at that. Mara said she had another stop to make, so we went separate ways. I passed again on visiting Mrs. Jessel because I didn’t feel up to coping with her dementia.
I drove home through the gathering darkness, more convinced than ever that mine was a fool’s errand, but one in which I had no choice except to persevere.
Appropriately, my mind still echoed Dvořák’s variations on “Three Blind Mice.”
CHAPTER 16
On Monday morning I climbed the walkway to the campus thirty minutes before my nine o’clock class. For once, I carried my ancient cell phone that usually lies in the glove compartment of my car. A few faculty would kid me about the phone, but Mara and I would need it later today.
The campus seemed trending back toward normal in some ways, but not in others. The toward-normal trend was that the swarm of grief counselors was thinning out. Last week I was tripping over one every three or four steps. Today I might make it to ten.
The not-normal factor was the air of anticipation, intangible but real, that permeates every campus as holidays approach—in this case, the Thanksgiving break that would begin at noon a week from Wednesday. This was also the week research papers were due in all my classes. I learned long ago that a post-Thanksgiving deadline invited mass procrastination and an epidemic of incomplete grades. Having them due this week let me use next week’s three class days as an unofficial grace period.
I found my office door open and Earl-George Heggan reinstalling my computer that the police had taken. Earl-George avoids eye contact and doesn’t have much to say, which may be why he flopped as an instructor in what used to be called the computer department but is known since the Great Renaming as the division of electronic communication and technology. Because he is President Cantwell’s nephew, Earl-George couldn’t be fired, so he now administers the campus computer network and fixes the faculty’s frequent computer glitches. He always wears farmer’s overalls, a denim work shirt, and his hair down over his forehead.
As I came in the door he looked up and muttered, “You’re back on the network.”
“Is this the same computer the police took?” I asked.
He nodded and grunted something. As if to add its endorsement, the computer clicked several times.
I crawled under the desk and checked the serial number to be sure. It was the same computer.
“Did they put a bug in it?” I asked. “Or a keystroke logger?”
“No bug, no keystroke,” Earl-George said. “Someone put memos under your door. Now on your desk.” He shuffled out without further comment.
The first memo, from President Cantwell, announced a memorial service for “Professor Laila Sloan” at eleven Tuesday morning. Another posthumous promotion, I guess. A faculty meeting would be held immediately after the service.
The second was Dean-Dean’s memo to all faculty:
Since September three passkeys have been stolen from the Dean’s Office, this will not be tolerated. If any person has an unauthorized key they must return them immediately. Any further thefts will result in disciplinary action.
Dean Billig, Ph.D.
Vice President for Academic Affairs
I looked forward to hearing comments on his grammar over lunch. The computer emitted another succession of clicks—updating itself to network standard, I guess. That started me worrying again about what Staggart and his cohorts might have done to it. A quick check showed that my files were still there. If they later proved to be corrupted, I could correct them from the hard copies I’d kept. The computer age has not weaned me from the habit of keeping paper files.
I worried awhile, then adjusted my trifocals and worried some more. I’m not paranoid, but thinking of the tricks Staggart might have played bothered me. I needed better help than I could get from Earl-George.
Because the office might be bugged, I went outside and used my cell phone to call Richmond Seagrave, an old Army friend now working in St. Louis as a computer expert. He balked at first, but when I mentioned Clyde Staggart he said he’d drive over here before sunset. That should solve the bugging problem, I hoped.
My seminar on Theories of the American Revolution went better than expected. We studied the consensus historians who wrote during the early Cold War period. Strange that the hostile pressures uniting Americans against the Soviet threat should lead historians to emphasize the factors that united American colonists against the British.
But that’s part of the majesty of history. I waxed enthusiastic, and my internal musicians celebrated the occasion with a brass fanfare by one of the mid-twentieth-century composers. I forget which one.
My emotional high didn’t last long because I headed into the science center for that dreaded interview with Bob Harkins. When I entered his office, he looked up from his desk with an expression that said I wasn’t welcome. He did not invite me to sit down, and he stayed seated behind his desk.
I decided the best approach was to throw my skunk on his conference table. “We’ve been friends for a long time, Bob,” I said, “but you didn’t level with me about Laila Sloan.”
He leaned back and showed a sarcastic smile. “Suppose you tell me how I didn’t level.”
I adjusted my trifocals. “There’s a picture in your high school annual. . . .”
His eyes hardened and his jaw clamped shut. That anger showed a Bob Harkins I’d never seen before. Holding me with his eyes, he got up and came slowly around the desk, his fists clenched tight. For a moment I thought he might attack me, but he moved beyond and closed the office door. Then he motioned me to a chair
beside his desk and sat on the edge of one across from it, his fists clenching and unclenching.
“You and I were friends for a long time,” he said, emphasizing the past tense. “What are you after, Press?”
“The truth, Bob.” I thought he still might attack, so I imitated his posture on the edge of the chair. As I said, I haven’t always been a professor.
“Why?” Bob’s eyes were still hostile, but now they showed the beginnings of tears.
I returned his gaze. “Because someone murdered Laila Sloan. Captain Staggart intends to prove I did, and I don’t intend to let him. So I’ve made it my business to find out all I can about Laila and anyone who might have killed her. That includes you.”
His sarcasm returned. “So you’ve turned detective and think you’re going to catch the murderer.”
I showed a quirky smile. “I’m not doing bad so far. I’ve already caught you in a lie.”
His gaze wavered. “What will you do with the information?”
“Nothing unless it’s needed to convict the murderer. I’m not interested in personal dirt unless it solves the crime.” I showed him the sincere expression that I hope will sell used cars if I get fired.
“And if I don’t tell you?” His voice had lost its hard edge.
“Then I tell Staggart about the picture.”
“All right.” Bob slumped in his chair. “In high school I had a fling with Laila Sloan.”
He ran his hands through his hair. I said nothing.
“She was a senior,” Bob continued. “I was a sophomore. I felt flattered that she found me attractive. I know now that all she wanted was a boy she could control. She had a way of entangling people.”
I’d heard that said about her before, but I couldn’t remember where.
Bob leaned back and wrung his hands. “It happened in spring semester. We ran pretty much wild the rest of the year. Then she graduated and moved away. With the reputation I’d earned, no girl could afford to be seen with me. I couldn’t get a date during my last two years of high school. That’s why I went to college back East, where no one would know me.”
“Was that affair the extent of it?”
Bob’s eyes flickered. “That was all of it.”
“Were you and Laila’s group into anything else? Like selling drugs?”
He looked down. “No drugs, nothing else. . . . For heaven’s sake, Press, the relationship itself was all a sixteen-year-old sophomore could handle.” His eyes met mine with a haunted look. “In the East I met Threnody, and she taught me what real love is like. I couldn’t bear to see her hurt.”
“She needn’t be if you didn’t murder Laila.”
“I swear I didn’t. I didn’t come out of the lab all afternoon. And I didn’t see or hear anything, either. That’s what I told the police, and it’s the absolute truth.”
“A faculty group went to Las Vegas during spring break several years ago. You and Laila were among them.”
He bristled. “We hardly spoke. Threnody went with the group, you know.”
“Did Laila interact with anyone in particular during the trip? Do you remember anything unusual?”
He gave a sardonic laugh. “Laila was always unusual. I can’t think of anything. . . . But no, she and Brenda Kirsch—the two single women—paired off and went their own way. I don’t know what they did.”
A new thought occurred to me. “How about others in the group? Any big losers or winners?”
Bob thought a minute. “None that I know of. Threnody won some, I lost some. We broke about even, overall. People made a lot of casino talk on the flight back, but no one seemed to have won or lost heavily. You don’t think . . .”
“I don’t have enough facts to think with,” I said. “You’ve told me everything about you and Laila?”
“Yes.” His eyes flickered again.
“Do you know anything untoward about Gifford Jessel or Brenda Kirsch? Or the janitor, Luther Pappas?”
He shook his head. “Not a thing. Listen, Press, I’d rather die than see Threnody get hurt.”
“She shouldn’t get hurt if you’re telling the whole truth.”
“I swear it,” he said.
“Thanks, Bob,” I said. I stood up and headed for the door.
“Be careful, Press.” Bob’s voice came low and thoughtful. “It’s dangerous to go poking around with a murderer loose.”
“Thanks again,” I said.
As I turned the knob, his voice saddened. “It was nice knowing you, Press.”
I left him slumped in his chair and staring at the floor through red-rimmed eyes. It was the first time I’d seen him look older than his age.
Saying I felt like a heel is like saying Hitler’s treatment of Jews was impolite. But I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that losing friends was better than getting convicted of a murder I didn’t commit.
My personal musicians mocked me by cavorting through something that sounded like Liszt—note patterns interesting in themselves but without much meaning beyond.
With an effort, I forced my regret for lost friendships from my mind and headed upstairs to confront Gifford Jessel.
CHAPTER 17
This was my first visit to Gifford Jessel’s office. It was located on the third floor just left of the stairwell. Above his door he’d hung a hand-lettered sign that said “Attic Philosophy,” his favorite pun and a sly dig at the administration’s lack of enthusiasm for his discipline. Giff sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head and gazing at the ceiling. The crown of his bald pate reflected the overhead lights, and the fringe of dark hair around its edges needed combing. Before I could knock, he beckoned me in and pointed to a hardwood chair standing against the right-hand wall.
It was the only other chair in the office. I sat in it and took time to look around. A chest-high worktable occupied the opposite wall. I’d heard Giff preferred to stand up while he graded papers. Shelves crammed with books filled the wall behind Giff’s desk.
“Welcome to the eyrie, Press.” Giff sat up straight. “You’ve heard the faculty will vote on the education department’s proposed mission statement tomorrow?”
“I hadn’t heard,” I said, “but I’m voting against it.”
He nodded. “I knew you would. I don’t know how we’ll come out, but there ought to be some interesting speeches. What brings you to the eagle’s nest?”
Trust Giff to get down to business. He knew my views on education too well to waste time agreeing with them.
“I came about Laila Sloan,” I said, and watched for a reaction.
There was none.
“What about Laila?” he asked presently.
“I’m writing a memorial for her for the college yearbook.” That was the most credible lie I could think of.
“University yearbook,” he corrected with a sarcastic grin. “Why? Are you having a fit of conscience about her?”
“You might say that.” I tried to look conscience-stricken. “In a roundabout way I was responsible for her coming here.”
“Baloney. All you did was defend the nursing curriculum against dumbing down. None of us knew the administration would make an end run around us. And we certainly didn’t know Laila would be the ringer they brought in. Your conscience is hyperactive.”
“Still, I’ll feel better if I write the memorial.” I adjusted my trifocals and blinked a couple of times. “So I’m talking to everyone who might have come in contact with her.”
“Hair of the dog that bit you?” Giff showed a sympathetic smile. “I’m no help on that. I hardly knew the woman.”
“You worked in the same building,” I prompted.
“Different floors.” The smile left his face. “We spoke when we passed in the hallway, maybe a few times on campus. That was the extent of it.”
The office seemed filled with tension that hadn’t been there before, but I tried another prompt. “I thought you might have known her at Insburg Community College.”
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“I didn’t. That place has more students than we do.”
The tension grew, and it was obvious I was getting nowhere. I stood up to leave. “Well, there ought to be somebody around here who actually knew her. I’ll keep looking.”
Giff also stood, his gaze fixed on mine. “How’s your Plato, Press? You’ve read The Republic?”
I’d never noticed before that he had gray eyes. He didn’t mind using them to show what he thought of me.
I tried not to bristle. One of the worst aspects of academic life is when a specialist in some other field expects you to know as much about it as he does. The instinctive reaction is to say you’d read the work in question a long time ago. But that implies you’ve forgotten it, which professors aren’t supposed to do. Besides, what little I did remember from Plato himself had been contaminated by reams of Renaissance Neoplatonism.
So I didn’t bite, but asked, “What did you have in mind?”
“Socrates’ definition of justice.” Giff went into his lecture mode, his gaze still fixed on mine. “He defined justice in a community as ‘citizens . . . doing each his own business.’ In another place he put it more bluntly: justice is ‘doing one’s own business, and not being a busybody.’”
I held his gaze. “I gather you’d like me to practice justice according to Socrates.”
“Not just for its own sake.” He showed an indulgent smile, but his gray gaze did not waver. “Press, this murder is serious business. The police searched my office, and I imagine they searched yours and several others. I only got my computer back this morning.”
“I know,” I said. “You and I are both under suspicion.”
“Asking about Laila can increase that suspicion. It may be dangerous, too. There’s a killer loose around here somewhere. You don’t want to stumble onto him.”
“I’ll leave murder investigation to the police,” I said, hoping I could lie convincingly. “Right now I’m going to investigate some lunch.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be along after awhile.”
The interview left a bitter taste in my mouth as I headed for the campus grill. In contrast with Bob Harkins, Giff was a mature man, poised and confident. I couldn’t tell if he was on the level or not.