The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

by Madison, Ada

  I glanced around the table. Lauren’s eyes were cast down, almost hidden by her long, wavy brown hair. Brent and Andrew both had screwed up their mouths, their fingers tapping the table (Brent) or squeezing a drink cup (Andrew); Patty and Willa were in a face-off.

  “No one is blaming Jenn for this,” I said. I hoped for an apology or at least confirmation from Willa, whose words had started this thread, but I heard nothing other than a few sniffles from Lauren.

  “So what can we do?” Andrew asked.

  I looked over to where Bruce and Virgil had been sitting, at the same long table as the Marshalls and Randy Stephens. The table was empty.

  If a call had come from the doctors, it would have been directed to Jenn’s parents, or possibly to Virgil, who’d been hoping to talk to Jenn. I’d been left behind. And here I was the one with the big “money” clue. I blew out an annoyed breath.

  I stood and addressed my impromptu class. “Why don’t we all go up to the waiting area and find out if Jenn’s awake. If we can’t see her we can at least say hello to her parents. I’m sure they’d love to know her friends are here and ready to support her.”

  The students shuffled around, packing up and tossing lunch wrappers. Like typical resident students, they’d scarfed down every crumb; like a typical spoiled professor, I ate only the cookie and a bite of turkey and discarded the rest. We all headed to the elevator together, Patty and Willa, both tall and thin, keeping at arm’s length.

  As for my two friends, Bruce and Virgil, who had neglected to advise me of a call or notification from above, I’d deal with them later.

  • • •

  Henley General’s ICU waiting room had been refurbished since my last visit several years ago, during my mother’s final days. I counted myself among the fortunate in that I’d had no reason to return, nor to cause others to return because of me.

  Now, except for a small family gathering in one corner, the occupants of the newish mauve chairs with arms of polished dark wood (or shiny plastic) were members of the Henley community.

  Randy Stephens was with a new group of student visitors, some of whom I recognized. Music majors who knew Jenn, I assumed. They talked in low voices or paced across the carpet, a lighter shade of mauve than the chairs and featuring a leafy pattern.

  I spotted Ted Morrell, whose introductory physics class Jenn was enrolled in during the regular school year. He sat slightly removed from the others, flipping through an issue of a news magazine, several months old, unless the hospital had changed its ways.

  “I’m glad you came,” I said to Ted.

  He nodded and waved his hand in a gesture that said it was nothing. I knew he was here to offer support to a student he had in class, one he knew I was close to. I wondered if Ted was also thinking of another long-ago campus incident. More likely, I was the only one fixated on a cold case that wasn’t even a case.

  On impulse, I approached Ted with a question.

  “Just curious,” I said. “What was Kirsten Packard’s roommate’s name?”

  Ted frowned and shook his head, clearly taken by surprise, which had been my plan. “I don’t remember.”

  I laughed and pretended not to notice his perturbed response. “What? Come on, Ted. You know every physics major since the beginning of time.”

  “It was twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember,” Ted said.

  He turned the page of the magazine, shook it in place, adjusted his horn rims, and lowered his eyes to his reading. I didn’t for a minute believe Ted’s protestation. Henley’s Physics Department had always been small, its faculty and majors very close. Why wouldn’t he tell me Kirsten’s roommate’s name? I left him to his reasons.

  Bruce, anticipating my pique about not being alerted to the call from the doctors, came up to me with a sheepish look. I’d considered saying something like “Why didn’t you take me with you?” But did I really want to sound like a grade school kid who wasn’t picked first for the infield?

  He put his arm around me and led me to the chair he’d abandoned. “You looked so comfortable talking to your class, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “It’s not as if I was napping. But thanks,” I said, taking his seat.

  “I knew you’d figure it out soon enough.” He checked his watch. “And you did. We just got here. The Marshalls and Virge are in with the doctors.”

  The student contingent from the cafeteria took seats on the chairs that lined the wall. The row of framed photos above them were meant to give comfort, I supposed, with their innocuous renderings of trees and meadows and, for a change of pace, a close-up of a dandelion blossom. I wasn’t sure what kind of image it would take to ease my mind. Maybe a Rubik’s Cube. Or a wall-size crossword puzzle. If my friend Ariana were here, and not wisely in sunny Florida, she’d have handed me materials for a beading project. I had to settle for one of her deep-breathing exercises.

  After a few minutes, during which only a low hum of voices and a rustling of dog-eared magazine pages broke the silence, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall came through double doors off the waiting area, Virgil following close behind. The Marshalls wore a forlorn look that suggested no change in Jenn’s status, rather than something better—or worse.

  “There’s no significant change to report right now,” Virgil announced, as softly as he could while still encompassing the whole Henley crowd. “They’re recommending that we all go home. She’s in good hands and they know how to reach us.”

  He couldn’t have done better if he’d read from a script.

  Resigned, we made plans for the next few hours.

  Patty had had the presence of mind to make arrangements for the Marshalls to stay overnight, or as long as needed, in an area of the Clara Barton dorm reserved for special guests or visitors in extenuating circumstances.

  “I’m sorry it’s the dorm near where Jenn was mugged,” she whispered to me. “But at least they won’t have to make the long drive home to Fitchburg in the dark. And I gave them Jenn’s smartphone so they can keep in touch more easily. They only had one old-fashioned flip phone between them.”

  I commended her for her thoughtfulness, then had an idea of my own to put to the assembly. As much as I longed to bury my head in a puzzle right now, like one of the logic puzzles bookmarked on the phone in my purse, there was something more important that needed my attention.

  I made the rounds of the small groups and invited them all to my house. A much more comfortable place to wait for the update on Jenn’s condition, with better food.

  “That’s cool, Dr. Knowles. Willa has a car and we can take some kids,” Andrew said, with a strong hint that he and Willa were a “we,” though earlier it had seemed that Andrew and Lauren were a couple. And earlier than that, I’d considered it might be Andrew and Jenn who were a twosome. It was hard to tell these days.

  “Yes, very cool, Dr. Knowles,” Virgil said, with a knowing grin. “And how handy that we’ll all be together when the call comes.” His strong hint was that I had an ulterior motive wrapped in my generosity. There might have been a grain of truth in that.

  • • •

  I loved the parties in the Ben Franklin Hall lounge, but I usually kept gatherings in my home to a small number of close friends. Pizza nights with Virgil and Bruce, consisting of lots of cheese and tomato, drinks, a movie, and war stories. Beading sessions with Ariana, who labeled my jewelry-making attempts “obsessively symmetric,” and a few other women who were customers in her downtown Henley shop, A Hill of Beads. Working dinners with Fran, where we generated plans for the department, sometimes joined by Judy, who helped us solve the world’s problems in between laughs over Fran’s grandchildren or Judy’s failed dates.

  I missed my girl buddies. They allowed me to be rational, yet encouraged the occasional crazy idea. Such as calling Fran in Africa, once our time zones were compatible, to ask what she remembered about Kirsten Packard and her fall from the Admin tower. I knew I should let Fran know about Jenn, but I didn’t want her to wo
rry when she was a continent away. I hoped if I waited just a short time, Jenn would be fine, the thug would be in jail, and Fran could hear a complete, happy-ending story, or I could skip it entirely until she returned.

  This afternoon was a different kind of gathering in my little cottage. Not quite a wake but certainly not a party. The commuters had gone home straight from the hospital; the residents had arrived at my house in two cars. Dorm students seldom passed up a chance for a meal off campus. The same might be said for Ted, whose wife was visiting relatives in Ohio. He’d asked if my invitation included teachers.

  “Only full professors,” I’d said, happy that he felt free to ask.

  “I guess that means me, too,” Randy had said, decidedly not a surprise, given his new closeness with the Marshall family.

  I shared food and drink at the campus coffee shop with students often enough to know the current fashion in snacks and beverages. Thanks to masterful vehicle logistics by Bruce, we used both cars to pick up enough supplies to cover all tastes. I thought I owed everyone something more nutritious than pizza at dinnertime, so I chose a large roasted chicken and what my mother would have called “the fixings.”

  I hoped the Marshalls would feel comfortable in my home and with Jenn’s friends. I wanted them to feel as welcome as possible, though nothing could make up for the terrible state their daughter was in.

  It took very little time for my small space to become warm (my heating system was working) and inviting (Bruce had spread out a buffet on my kitchen island). Soon my coatrack, a relic from my grandparents’ home, was bulging with parkas, scarves, and extra sweaters. Backpacks and boots were strewn on the floor in the entryway. As much as I valued my privacy, I liked the look and the sounds of friends making themselves at home, eating and drinking as if they belonged.

  The students had located some of my favorite kitchen items. A pie plate with the numbers of the value of pi around the edge. A smaller version that was a tiny condiment bowl in which the numbers of pi, starting with “three” at the bottom center, spiraled out to the rim. A snack plate with a crossword puzzle design, with the solution stamped on the back.

  When I heard Lauren laughing in front of the open freezer door, I knew she’d found my ice cube tray, which held cubes in the shape of the letter pi. “I knew you were cool, Dr. Knowles,” she said.

  “Icy cool,” Patty added.

  I felt my home had passed some kind of coolness test. All was well.

  Virgil mingled more than he would have if I’d had a purely social party with our peers. A widower and single father, Virgil didn’t get out much, in his own words, and didn’t feel the need to. His son was in college, the threshold for when Virgil said he’d think of dating again, but so far there was no sign of that. When Bruce or I would broach the subject, he’d shut us up with, “All the good ones are taken,” or “It’s not like Franklin Hall, you know. We don’t have a party every week down at the station.”

  This afternoon I knew Virgil the Cop was in investigative mode, listening to the students’ conversations, trying to pick up information about Jenn Marshall as informally as possible, in a way that wouldn’t spook the kids. A thought came and went quickly—that Virgil might think one of these students was Jenn’s attacker. I wished the thought had never entered my mind.

  Once I was sure everyone was taken care of, I mingled also, seeking out the Marshalls. I realized I’d been avoiding them all afternoon, since I couldn’t bear to see them so sad and I had no idea what to say or do that might cheer them up or give them hope.

  I hadn’t expected to see Jenn’s parents again until March, for Pinning Day. Henley’s custom was to celebrate sophomores who made their selection of a major field with a pinning ceremony that included parents. Sophomores officially declared their majors on that day, and faculty presented students in their department with a traditional Henley College pin. I hoped the Marshall family would all be in good health by the time the Math Department was ordering the refreshments for that day.

  I couldn’t locate Mrs. Marshall, but I found Mr. Marshall as I wandered to the family room, which was attached to my kitchen. Possibly having heard enough from Randy Stephens about Jenn’s musical prowess, he had cornered two of the students.

  “What’s security like on campus?” I heard him ask.

  “The dorms are always locked; you can’t get into any of them without a key card,” Lauren answered, expertly balancing a plate and a drink. I was reminded how easy it was to entertain students; they didn’t require perfect Martha Stewart linens and place settings. They seldom needed a fork.

  Willa held up her key card. “Yeah, everyone needs one of these. Technically.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Marshall asked.

  “You’re not supposed to be able to get in without a card, but we all know how lax it is. Someone holds the door for you, or even a stranger, maybe. Or you go in and you know you’re going right back out, so you put in something to keep the door open so you won’t have to bother with your key again.”

  “There’s always a person at the desk in the lobby,” Lauren said, defensive.

  “A police officer?” Mr. Marshall asked.

  Willa raised her eyebrows. “LOL,” she said. If Jenn’s father didn’t understand text lingo, he didn’t let on.

  Lauren shook her head. “No, it would be a student. But they get training.” I couldn’t swear that Lauren was lying, but I’d never heard of Dorm Lobby Desk Training, unless it was to point out the nine-one-one code for emergencies.

  “That’s not much protection,” Mr. Marshall said. His tone was gentler than his words, though both were heavy. He seemed to be trying to figure out why his innocent young daughter was three miles away in a coma instead of poring over her textbooks in a warm, well-lit dormitory room.

  “And what about outside the dorms? On the campus?” Mrs. Marshall seemed to appear from nowhere to ask the question. She held a glass of water with both hands.

  The group fell silent. And no wonder. Who could defend safety on our pathways with Jenn Marshall still hovering between life and death?

  Willa gave it a try. “Some of us have phone apps,” Willa said. “Like, I have Circle of 5. I just hit a button and a message goes out to five contacts that says ‘Come and get me’ and shows where I am.” Andrew shot her a questioning look. “They’re all big guys,” she added. I guessed Andrew, a rather small guy, wasn’t in Willa’s Circle of 5.

  “We also have an escort service if we need it,” Lauren said.

  “But they take forever to show up,” Patty said. “Meanwhile, you could be waiting alone out there for, like, a half hour, to get from the library to your dorm. So you just figure, never mind, and go for it yourself.”

  Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Marshall showed signs of satisfaction with the offerings. I didn’t blame them.

  Brent stepped up. “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he said.

  Not quite true, but Brent, as a freshman in only the second coed class in the formerly all-women’s college, wouldn’t know any better. I chose not to correct him and hoped Mr. Marshall wouldn’t go through the archives and find out that there had been one or two other nasty incidents over the years. And if he went back far enough, he’d find that one of the tragedies involved Jenn’s favored carillon. Or at least the tower that housed it.

  I left the group, not eager to get caught up in a campus security discussion with the parents of an attack victim. I headed for the opposite corner of the kitchen–family room area, where Virgil sat at my breakfast table, facing the patio door while talking on his cell phone. I sauntered by, as if I weren’t on a mission, knowing I’d find enough busywork in the vicinity to allow me to eavesdrop on his side of the conversation. I cleared the countertop, trashed used paper plates, and slowly loaded the dishwasher with glasses and mugs.

  My mission was a wipeout, however, since all I heard was lots of “okays,” four or five “uh-huhs,” and a final “That’s it?”

  He hung
up and smiled at me. Not giving a centimeter.

  “How’s the investigation going?” I asked, wiping a platter with extra attention.

  “Fine.”

  “Any hot leads?” I laughed, attending to my drying chores as if the china were much more important than his answer and I was asking only out of politeness.

  Virgil laughed in response, reached over to a bowl of cherries, and helped himself to a handful.

  I gave in and took a seat across from him. I pushed the bowl toward him, ever the gracious hostess. “Please, Virgil? I have something to bargain with. A clue.”

  “You mean”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“‘money’?”

  I hated being late to the party.

  With a party in full swing in my home, there were too many interruptions that kept me from charming Virgil into giving me news of the investigation. I would have been happy simply to learn what his buddies on the force were doing while he was surreptitiously interviewing students and waiting to speak to the victim.

  Had the police put out an APB for the attacker? Was there a contingent of Henley’s finest on the road, searching for the guy? Where? Did they think he was still in town? Were the techs combing the crime scene for hair and fibers? Looking at security footage? I shivered at my next thought. They might be waiting for the results of tests that would determine whether the brute left his DNA on Jenn.

  I realized I had no description of the attacker, except that he was a lone male. I wondered how much detail the commuters had been able to provide in their witness statements. Was he wearing a baseball cap? A Red Sox jacket? (As if that would narrow it down.) Surely not a Henley sweatshirt, as the rumor had suggested.

  I was about to ask Virgil if perhaps the man had gotten into a car on Main, the wide street that ran between the Clara Barton dorm and the Coffee Filter, when Ted came into the kitchen. He showed me the lifeless black screen on his smartphone.