The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

by Madison, Ada

  Virgil briefed us on the video we’d already seen of activities on campus, and what we were about to see on the new footage from the Coffee Filter and the bank. I couldn’t help thinking of all the segments of “Previously on . . .” at the start of episodes of serialized TV dramas.

  The first DVD was queued up with footage from the Coffee Filter, from a camera pointing toward our campus. Unfortunately, the camera captured only a small section of the narrow pathway between the Clara Barton dorm and the Student Union building, the area I’d visited the day after Jenn’s attack. The image fell short of including the bush from which I’d plucked a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “You can see part of the pathway where Jenn Marshall was walking that day,” Virgil narrated. “Unlucky for us, neither this footage nor what we have from the bank shows the actual attack.”

  I sensed a collective sigh of relief. As much as we wanted to help, I didn’t think any of us looked forward to watching the assault on our student and friend.

  The video rolled on with its image of half of a well-trodden path, blackened old snow mounds on each side. We did learn that Jenn’s attack had happened on the half of the path that was closer to the interior of the campus than to the street. Not much that we didn’t already know from the commuters who came upon the struggle.

  About three minutes in, finally, we saw some action. A lone figure, probably male, came into view, walking off college property and toward the camera—in the same direction Jenn had most likely been headed—approaching Main Street. The audience leaned forward. Was this the man who attacked Jenn? It was hard to tell if he was one of the workers we’d seen on the earlier video. I wanted it to be Einstein, but truthfully, there was no way to be sure. He wore a common jacket, muffler, and cap, and there wasn’t much of a reference in the frame to gauge how tall he was. He was carrying some kind of bag, but it was impossible to identify what in particular he was toting, since the bag was slung over his shoulder with most of it on his back. It might have been Jenn’s backpack. It might also have been his lunch or a set of golf clubs.

  Virgil stopped the video. “You see this guy? Anyone recognize him? From anywhere?”

  A disappointing chorus of “No” and “Nuh-uh” arose.

  “Does he look like one of the workers?” Virgil asked, pressing for a lead. “Maybe you recognize the clothes he’s wearing, the way he walks? Some gesture? Anything?”

  The answer came in the form of shrugs and “I don’t knows” and “no ideas,” even from the boss of the site, Pete Barker.

  Virgil continued. “He’s walking away from where Jenn Marshall was attacked, during the right timeframe, but he’s not running. Remember, our three witnesses claimed they chased the attacker along Main Street. As you’ll see in a minute, the footage from the bank shows this same thing. The guy saunters along Main on the campus side, as if he had all the time in the world, until he just walks out of the frame. He’s not running from anyone. So, either he’s not the attacker, or . . .”

  Virgil waited for someone to finish his sentence. I knew the classroom trick to engage people (make sure they were awake) and decided to help him out.

  “Or the commuter students didn’t chase him as they claimed,” I suggested.

  Scattered “Hmms” filled the room.

  “That could very well be,” Virgil said. I suspected it wasn’t a new idea to him. “Initially, we heard that one guy stayed back with the victim and called nine-one-one, and the other two chased the attacker around to Main Street. But this video could mean—”

  “I don’t blame them,” Andrew interrupted, clearly animated. “They were probably scared to death.”

  “Why did they lie?” asked someone behind me.

  “They’d be too embarrassed to admit they were afraid to chase the guy,” Andrew, defender of commuters, said.

  “Who could blame them?” came from Bruce, whose job it was, first as a soldier, then as a medevac pilot, to rush toward, not away from, danger. “The guy might have been armed.”

  Andrew leaned forward, caught Bruce’s eye, and gave him a thumbs-up. I was proud of both men. Not that I didn’t wish with all my heart that the attacker had been knocked to the ground and taken away in a police car.

  We watched a segment of the footage from the bank, but it was more of the same. Whatever the man was carrying was now on the side away from the cameras. It was as if he knew where the cameras were, both on the Coffee Filter and the bank, and adjusted his silhouette accordingly. As if he’d cased the area before the attack, as a bank robber would do. As Einstein would do, I mused.

  All in all, a frustrating session. All we’d done was out some guys who tried to help as much as they could without risking their lives. There was a good chance that they saved Jenn’s life just by responding to what they saw. I, for one, was glad we didn’t end up with three more students in the hospital.

  • • •

  When the show ended and the group was breaking up, I was torn: introduce myself to Pete Barker and ask him the names of the men in Thursday’s video, or trust that Virgil would share the information.

  Barker left the room so quickly, I didn’t have a choice. I’d have to charm Virgil. The story of my life.

  I was able to grab Andrew first and ask if he’d be willing to help with my email spam problem.

  “Wow. Yeah, Dr. Knowles. I can come by anytime. Yeah.”

  “Maybe you can stay after the seminar tomorrow? I’ll have the laptop in my office.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Dr. Knowles,” he said, as if I’d be, yeah, doing him a favor. Teaching—the pay wasn’t very good, but you couldn’t beat the benefits.

  The room was clearing fast. When Judy and Bruce took off for their respective restrooms, I sidled up to Virgil.

  “Hey, how did it go with Barker?” I asked.

  “Good,” Virgil said.

  I didn’t have time to waste. “Isn’t it nice that my very good friend Judy could be here today?” I said. “She and I are tight”—I crossed my middle and index fingers—“like that, you know.”

  Virgil grinned, getting the subtext. “The late Mr. Ponytail didn’t work for Barker,” he said.

  “But—”

  “According to Barker, he applied for a job, but”—Virgil showed his palms, in an as-we-know gesture—“he has a record, which is against Barker’s hiring policy, especially for a job on a campus.”

  “Does he have the application?”

  “No such luck. I guess it came out in an interview and the guy owned up to it and left.”

  “So we have to wait for something on his prints.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “We got an ID from Barker and we’re on it.”

  “Are his prints in the system maybe?”

  An expected shrug from Virgil, as if to say, “See previous comments.”

  To me, there was no logic in requiring teachers at all levels to be fingerprinted, but not other citizens, like construction workers or their friends.

  “Did Barker mention ‘Einstein’ as a nickname by any chance?” I asked, continuing my quest for information.

  “He should be in for questioning by the end of the day.”

  I understood Virgil’s need to follow protocol, but it didn’t hurt to prod. “What if he’s skipped town?” I asked.

  Virgil shrugged. “I have an update on your cell phone,” he said. “It’s not looking good for digging out Wendy Carlson’s number, but they have a few more tricks left.”

  Hardly a significant update. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation,” I said, as if I were the cop.

  He smiled, and I realized the gesture was meant for one of the people coming up behind me.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Judy said to Virgil.

  “We always get something,” Virgil said.

  Was I hearing a double meaning from Virgil? Or was I too focused on the potential new relationship?

  “Are you goin
g to bring the commuters in again?” I asked.

  “Have to,” Virgil said.

  “It’s likely that they lied to the police,” Bruce reminded us.

  “Not a huge lie,” Judy said.

  “Still, you can’t be sure what else was going on with them,” Bruce said.

  “You don’t think one of them attacked Jenn?” I asked.

  I heard a gasp from Judy. “Or all of them?” she asked.

  “We just have to follow up and see what falls out,” Virgil said.

  “That’s police talk for ‘Who knows?’” Bruce said.

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

  A knock on the doorframe gave Virgil a pass on answering any further questions about the next steps in the process of finding who attacked Jenn and murdered Ponytail. And that was just in this century.

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

  A uniformed cop, with a young man in tow, wanted to use the room.

  “We’re done here,” Virgil told him.

  We carried our outer garments to the hallway, dumped them on a bench, and began dressing for the cold, one layer at a time.

  “Anyone want to grab some dinner?” Virgil asked.

  “I’m famished,” Bruce said. Then, after a serious poke from me, which was hidden from no one, added, “I mean, I will be famished, but it’s too early to eat right now.”

  I made a show of looking at my watch. “Yeah, me, too. Maybe another time. Judy, if you’d like to go, maybe Virgil can give you a ride home.”

  The four of us lost control of the charade at about the same time and our laughter caused heads to turn up and down the hallway.

  We went our separate ways, two by two.

  Bruce and I headed out the door of the police station. As soon as Virgil and Judy were out of earshot, Bruce turned to me.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Famished.”

  • • •

  Small clutches of people stood chatting outside the door to the station, in a small sheltered area off to the side. Who gathered to talk outdoors in the middle of January? Aha, smokers. I hardly remembered the days when I had to be concerned about the air I breathed in restaurants and on long airplane rides. No one in my inner circle smoked, though Fran admitted that her slightly gravelly voice came from her shady, smoking grad school days.

  Though I was glad to have cleaner air everywhere, today I felt sorry for the people relegated to what looked like a bus stop or a carport, with a rickety metal canopy to shelter them from the freezing wind.

  As Bruce and I walked by on our way to my car, I smiled at an older officer among the group. The short, well-dressed civilian he was talking to caught my eye also and waved, as if we knew each other.

  We did.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Pete Barker was a smoker, and apparently had friends among the HPD. It made sense that a guy in construction would have dealings with the police. Much the same as a college math professor would.

  I gave Bruce a pleading look. He picked up on what I wanted, and I could tell he was wrestling with a response. He blew out a visible breath. “I’ll warm up the car,” my sweetie said.

  I walked toward Barker and, to my surprise, he met me halfway. “Detective Mitchell said you might accost me,” he said, with a wide grin. He kindly stomped out his cigarette in a patch of dirty ice and added, “I’m not at liberty to reveal information in an ongoing investigation.” His follow-up guffaw told me he was deliberately mimicking Virgil.

  I had a chance.

  “I’m unarmed,” I said, raising my arms and giving him my best smile—disarming, I hoped, even as my eyes watered from the frigid air. “Can you just tell me the name of the worker in the video?”

  Barker’s expression turned serious. Not a good sign. Up close I could see that he was older than I’d first thought, probably mid-fifties. “I really can’t,” he said, “but I know Mitchell will keep you informed as needed.”

  Good coaching job, Virgil. I hated to leave with nothing, my fingers and toes freezing in vain.

  Barker closed up the lapels of his stylish wool coat and adjusted his hat, a modern version of the fedora I’d seen on my grandfather in photos. It was hard to reconcile his fashionable look with the ugly yellow monster equipment he worked with every day. The image shook something loose in my brain.

  “How about a couple of tower questions, then?”

  He gave me a quizzical look, his round face scrunching up a bit. “The carillon tower?”

  I nodded. “When do you expect to finish the job?”

  His loud laugh rang out again, causing smokers in the area to glance over at us. As long as no uniformed smoker rushed over to kill the conversation, I was happy.

  “A simple question like that, huh? Don’t you know you’re never supposed to ask a contractor or a foreman when he’s going to finish the job?” He leaned into me and I caught a whiff of smokers’ breath. “What are you, from the budget office?” He laughed again.

  There was one good thing about blushing—a fleeting wave of warmth crossed my icy face. “No. I didn’t mean to—”

  He waved his hand, cigarette smoke trailing. “No worries. We are really close to done and will probably be out of everyone’s hair by the end of next week.”

  “Then the tower will be open to everyone?”

  “Pretty much. You’ll still need a key after hours.”

  “That would be key cards, right?”

  “Yeah, we changed the old lock and key system right at the beginning of the project. They’re planning tours and concerts like they had back then, too. Lotta traffic. But you’d know that.”

  I decided not to admit how little I knew. “Who has key cards now?”

  “Just the teachers. The kids who go up to practice have to sign them in and out. Not too many. Stephens, the head of music, would know exactly.”

  I wondered how easy it would be to get a list from Randy Stephens or his very cooperative secretary. I wondered why I’d need it. I was flailing again.

  “Do your workers have key cards?”

  “No way. Just me. They have to get it from me on an as-needed basis. Too much delicate stuff up there, you know. You don’t necessarily want the bricklayers spreading their lunch out on the keys. Do they call them keys? They’re a heck of a lot bigger than the old ivories on a piano.”

  I apologized for detaining him and keeping him from his compatriots in the smoking section, and thanked him for talking to me.

  “Anytime,” he said.

  I hoped it wasn’t an empty gesture on his part. I might have to take him up on the offer.

  • • •

  Snow flurries, unpredicted as far as I knew, melted on my face as I walked to my idling car.

  “Get anything from him?” Bruce asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, which was the absolute truth.

  The somewhat pretentiously named Inn at Henley was our best bet for a quiet dinner on a Sunday evening. Its nautical theme was soothing, except for the live fish tank in the entryway. After passing the innocent crabs and lobsters, unaware of their fate, I invariably ended up ordering a shrimp salad. Wherever shrimp were fighting for their lives, it wasn’t in front of me.

  “Where do you think Virgil and Judy are having dinner?” I asked Bruce.

  “Virge mentioned driving to Boston if the weather held out.”

  Sheltered and warm at a table by the fire, snacking on an appetizer plate of fried calamari and stuffed Greek olives, I could barely recall the snowstorm that had stranded me in the Commonwealth’s capital.

  “The food court in the mall at the Pru is good,” I said, evoking a sympathetic look from Bruce.

  He reached across the table for my hand. “I was worried about you, Sophie. I am worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. It’s been a good day.” I spread my hands across my place setting. “I haven’t knocked anything over.” I returned Bruce’s smile. “We . . . Virgil, that is . . . has a little more info on the two workers; I signed off
on both the nuisance police forms; Andrew is going to fix my email spam problem tomorrow; nothing new has been taken from me for twenty-four hours; and”—I took Bruce’s hand—“we’re together for a wonderful dinner.”

  Bruce squeezed my hand, but I could tell he wasn’t sold. “I still think it’s a good idea if I skip my shift tonight. Until they catch this guy—”

  I shook my head. We’d been over this in the car on the way to the restaurant. I was weary of the topic and of being constantly under surveillance. “They’ve probably picked up Einstein by now,” I said. “And, if not, my house is the last place he’d choose to hang around.”

  “There could be more than one guy. Your unnamed worker—”

  “He has a name now. It’s just that Virgil won’t tell us. I wish I’d been able to get it from Barker.”

  “He was probably told to keep quiet about it for now.”

  “Protocol,” we both said, but only I grimaced.

  “I should have been able to drag it out of him,” I said. “I wish I’d at least asked him if he’d heard the nickname ‘Einstein.’”

  “Okay.” Bruce would neither confirm nor deny my ability to drag things out of people. He was ready to pick up the thread of my theory. “Your named-but-unknown-to-us worker could be someone entirely different from the guy they called Einstein twenty-five years ago. You have no clue that Kirsten and Wendy’s friend is back in town.”

  “Ponytail was. And they hung out together,” I said.

  “Twenty-five years ago.”

  Bruce was right, technically. I had no proof, but I couldn’t let go of the theory that Einstein was back, working on the carillon project, and that he’d probably thrown Kirsten off the Admin tower long ago, attacked Jenn last week, murdered Ponytail, and invaded my home. For all I knew he’d also stolen my credit card identity and hacked my email, though I didn’t peg him for a tech-savvy guy. I hoped someday I could abandon all these connections, true or not, and get back to where the name Einstein would conjure up only Albert, undoubtedly the most influential physicist of the twentieth century, and not a thug whose crimes, in my mind, reached back to the early carillon days on the Henley campus.