Now, the couple was in their bedroom in their modest ranch-style home on the outskirts of Reardon. Pamela sat on their bed, Candide shuddering in her lap, as Rocky paced back and forth around the room. The little dog seemed to sense his master’s fury and he had rushed to Pamela for comfort.
“Were you going to tell me about this?” he asked, not looking at his wife, but continuing to pace back and forth.
“Rocky,” she implored, clutching the little white dog in her arms. “Shoop came to me. He just asked me to listen to some voices. That’s all! You’re making too much of it!”
“So why couldn’t you tell me?” he asked, stopping suddenly, turning, and facing her.
“I was going to—honestly,” she answered, rubbing Candide’s head. “I just hadn’t . . . found the right moment.”
“The right moment?”
“You know . . . how you get about things like this?”
“Like getting involved with murderers? Like you did before? Like having some deranged nut case tracking you down? Running you off the road? All because you were just ‘listening to some voices’? You needed the right moment to tell me that?” he yelled, storming closer to her.
“Please, sweetheart,” she begged. “Please. I know you’re upset, but truly this isn’t like the other times. I mean, I knew the murderer that first time . . .”
“And he almost killed you!”
“That’s not going to happen!”
“You are the most foolish woman I’ve ever known! You’d think that given what you’ve gone through, you’d never speak to that Shoop fellow again! Never let him inside your office! Let alone agree to help him on another of his investigations!”
“But, Rocky, it’s really my civic duty,” she argued. “Coach Croft was a member of Grace University—a faculty member!“
“Let the police handle this, Pamela! It’s not your job! You are not a criminologist!”
“I know that. It’s just that in this case . . .”
“In this case. In this case!” he shouted, turning his back on her and flinging his head and arms against the wall. “It’s always something. You are a Psychology professor—not a cop. Have you forgotten that?”
“Of course not,” she said louder, sitting up straighter. Candide made a huffing sound and looked up at her face.
“Then, act like it. Tell that man to find someone on his staff to investigate that recording—whatever it is. You are done! You are done with helping him!”
“This is different. They found the Coach’s cell phone next to his body. There were a number of messages on it from women—and they—the police can’t find any of these women. They don’t appear to be people who anyone recognizes.“
“And how do you fit in? Shoop expects you to tell him who these women are?”
“I can’t do that. I can’t identify anyone from a voice print, but I can compare a voice print to a sample.“
“And that’s what he gave you tonight? A sample for comparison?”
“Yes,” she replied, grateful that he had calmed slightly as she tried to explain. “All Shoop wants me to do is compare the voices on the voice mail that were on the Coach’s cell phone to this sample recording he gave me tonight. It has segments from the interviews that the police have done with all the females they have spoken to. I should be able to determine if any of the voice mail speakers match any of the voices the police have interviewed.”
“They can’t do this themselves?”
“They probably could,” she said sweetly, “but it would take them longer. I can do it much quicker with my software and experience.”
Rocky walked around, arms folded. She could see him rolling his tongue around the inside of his mouth—a sure sign that he was experiencing a dilemma. She remained quiet because she knew that he needed to come to his own conclusion. Eventually, her husband plopped down in their green arm chair in the corner and put his feet up on the hassock in front of it.
“All right,” he announced. “I don’t like it, but it sounds relatively innocuous.” He looked up at her and pointed his finger in her direction. “But I’m telling you, don’t go getting yourself involved in anything more. I mean, just run this comparison, give it to Shoop, and then—you’re done! Okay?”
“Absolutely!” she agreed. In truth, she loved Rocky for his anger about her assisting the local law enforcement because it showed her how much he cared about her and worried about her. Even so, she wanted there to be honesty between them and she hated to have to keep anything from him because she valued his input. Picking up her poodle, she rose from their bed and headed into the kitchen.
“Now what?” asked Rocky, following her.
“I suddenly feel the need for alcohol,“ she responded, pulling out wine glasses with one hand from the cupboard while cradling the dog in her other. Rocky nodded and opened a cupboard door where he ran his finger down a collection of several bottles. Selecting one, he got out a bottle opener from a drawer and quickly uncorked the bottle.
“A nice Shiraz, I see?” she questioned, smiling and leaning against the counter. Candide scooted up onto her shoulder.
“Make up wine,” noted her husband, handing the glass to his wife. They clinked their crystal together and each took a sip.
“Nice,” she murmured. “Shall we adjourn to someplace more comfortable?”
“So,” said Rocky, not moving from his position, “the Coach was found murdered in a motel room. They find his cell phone which has messages from three unknown women on it. The police can’t identify any of the women on the voice mail . . .”
“Three women,” she offered.
“Three women,” he corrected. “I assume you provided them with this information.”
“I believe I did,” she said, looking at him over the lip of the glass, rubbing the dog’s back like a newborn baby.
“And now, they expect you to compare the voices of these three unknown women to the voices of women that they’ve already interviewed.”
“That’s what Shoop says,” she nodded. Setting Candide on the kitchen floor and her wine glass on the counter, she went to her purse which she had placed on a table by the kitchen door and removed the plastic-covered CD. “He told me that their forensics people would extract segments from all of the interviews they conducted with any women and provide me with samples. Supposedly, all the samples are numbered. All I have to do is listen and compare the samples on this CD to the ones on the voice mail recording and see if any match.”
“And if they do,” said Rocky, shrugging, “the police think that’s the killer?”
“I don’t know,” she scowled. “But right now, they simply don’t have a clue to the identity of any of these women on the Coach’s voice mail. Maybe one of them killed him—maybe not. But surely, the police need to interrogate all three.”
“It looks like he was having affairs with them,” observed Rocky.
“It does,” she agreed. “And I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that any man—well-known football coach or just an average schmuck—who tries to balance three mistresses—and a wife—is asking for trouble.”
“And gets what he asks for?” questioned her husband.
“You said it, not me,” responded Pamela, leaning back against the counter and sipping her wine.
“Whatever it is—whatever you find,” he said, “I really think that this information—this CD—and what you’re doing should remain quiet. I mean, please don’t discuss it with anyone. You just never know who’s listening and I really worry for your safety, Pam, when you get mixed up in these things.“
“All right, all right,” she agreed.
“And also,” he added, “let’s not mention this to Angie.” As he spoke, the front door opened and their daughter stormed in, flinging the door back. She was laughing and talking to a young man who followed her. Candide leaped to attention at the arrival of his young mistress.
“Not mention what to Angie?” queried their twenty-year-old daughter
. The couple held up their wine glasses and looked at each other with a mixture of sheepishness and fear. Angie and her boyfriend sauntered into the kitchen, still wearing their jackets. The young woman stooped and whipped the furry little dog into the air, twirling him around like a dervish.
“Candy! Candy! Who ‘da puppy? Who ‘da puppy?” she sang as she spun. After a few turns, she stopped and plopped the family pet on the ground. Candide wobbled a bit and then scampered out of the kitchen. “It’s okay, Mom,” continued Angela, turning to her parents, “Kent and I heard all about it!” The young man smiled sheepishly at Pamela and Rocky from his position in the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, Dr. Barnes! Mr. Barnes,” he greeted them. The parents returned the greeting.
“What did you hear all about, Angie?” asked Pamela, gripping the stem of her wine glass with an increased intensity.
“I heard about you and Dad going to the football game!” she declared. “God, what a shock! You two at a football game! I thought you both hated team sports!”
“You heard wrong,” responded Rocky, setting his glass on the counter and focusing his attention on his daughter and her young man. “Your mother and I felt an indescribable urge to experience the autumnal excitement of the opening of a college football game tonight—the colors, the atmosphere, the aromas, the sounds . . .”
“Yes,” agreed Pamela, beaming at her husband’s apt description, “especially the sounds!”
Chapter Eleven
She had not rushed to complete her task during the weekend. She had done as her husband had asked and had spent her Sunday relaxing with her family. Angie and Kent had again come over—evidently realizing that her parents weren’t going to read them the riot act for cohabiting. After all, Angie was of age. She had a part-time job and would graduate in the spring. Kent was employed full-time in the Human Resources Department of a local oil company—in fact, the same company that Jane Marie’s husband worked for. He had put his Master’s Degree to good use, thought Pamela and was one of her success stories. She was just happy that Angie was happy— although she knew Rocky had moments where he wanted to rip her boyfriend limb from limb. The foursome had dined together on Sunday—one of Rocky’s superb pork roasts, complete with homemade gravy, browned potatoes, and his special green beans. He’d also whipped up a creamy dessert, probably laden with major calories, she worried. As it was, a very pleasant Sunday—no time for investigating or analyzing voices. It would just have to wait until Monday.
Now it was Monday and she found herself arriving bright and early as usual in the Psychology Department’s main office. Jane Marie was already hard at work in her little alcove. Her hands balanced on her keyboard and the telephone receiver poised on her shoulder, it was evident to Pamela that their departmental secretary—or administrative assistant as she preferred to be called—was a superb multi-tasker. When she spied Pamela, Jane Marie said farewell to her caller, hung up the phone, and waved to Pamela to come to her desk.
“Dr. Barnes!” she cried. “What did you think of the football game?”
“Very exciting, Jane Marie,” answered Pamela. “You’re a regular fan, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely!” responded the brunette, leaning over her monitor. “Billy and I go together when he’s not out on the rig, but when he is—which is a lot, I’ve been going with Laura. She likes to get away from her baby once in a while and her husband is very nice about baby-sitting.”
“That’s great,” said Pamela. She too was happy for Laura Delmondo and her young husband. The couple had eventually been successful in their efforts at in vitro fertilization and now had a six-month old infant son as proof. “I was expecting more fireworks.”
“You mean, like President Foster saying something about the murder, or what?”
“I think he handled it just right,” offered Jane Marie. “I mean, what could he say?”
“Of course,” agreed Pamela, pulling up a chair and scooting closer to Jane Marie. The little office was deserted and Pamela realized that Jane Marie was an amazing source of information regarding campus events—of all sorts. “Have you heard anything more about the murder?’
“I wish,” said Jane Marie. “Everyone is talking about it, but no one really knows anything.“
“All speculation, you mean.”
“Right. I’ve talked with staff people in the Dean’s office and the Business Office, and, of course, Rosemary in the Athletic Department. Most everyone is mystified. I haven’t heard anyone say that they even suspected Coach was having an affair.”
“Not even his secretary—his assistant?”
“No,” replied Jane Marie. “Rosemary is just torn up about this. She seems really concerned about the team—and the boys on the team—and how they’re reacting. They’re like sons to her.”
“I can imagine. I spoke to one last week. It was heart breaking.”
“Horrible,” agreed Jane Marie, frowning.
“Is Mitchell in?” Pamela asked suddenly, glancing at the adjoining door to the Department Head’s office which was closed.
“No,” answered Jane Marie, “he hasn’t come in yet. He usually doesn’t get here before ten.”
“All this with the Coach and the apparent affair—that nobody seemed to know about—it sort of makes me think back to when all that happened with Mitchell,” she whispered, “and that former student. You know, when you were worried about Mitchell because of his behavior and thought maybe he was mixed up in Charlotte’s murder . . .”
“And it turned out he wasn’t . . . but he was having an affair . . . with that woman who used to be one of his students.” Jane Marie stared at Pamela. The two women locked eyes and seemed to be having the same idea.
“I mean, Jane Marie,” continued Pamela, “you’re devoted to Mitchell—anyone would say that, but you suspected his infidelity . . .”
“And I told you my suspicions,” she agreed, clutching the top of her monitor and bending over it to speak quietly. “But, Dr. Barnes, I had no idea what was going on with Dr. Marks back then. I just knew he was acting strangely. I was worried about him . . .”
“Just like the Coach’s secretary must have been . . . surely. If anyone suspected that he was having an affair—let alone multiple affairs—it would have been his secretary.”
“You would think,” noted Jane Marie. “She keeps his schedule, sees that he’s on time. I know she’s very efficient and organized—and protective. If he was sneaking off in the afternoons and Rosemary suspected what he was doing, I’m not certain that she’d mention it to anyone.”
“Even you?”
“I don’t know. We do talk a lot. I mean, we share similar jobs and we interact a lot on the phone about students and course scheduling for team members. She’s always been very friendly and open —but, of course, you know Dr. Marks insists that we bend over backwards to help the athletes with any scheduling or class problems they might have.”
“I know,” said Pamela. She had often felt annoyance at the pressure the Psychology faculty was under from their boss to cooperate with the demands of the Athletic Department—demands that she felt were excessive, if truth be told. But now, Mitchell’s support of campus athletes could prove beneficial in securing information.
“I did have lunch at her house once—along with a few other administrative assistants that I assume have also been helpful to the team. She is quite a cook—Rocky would be jealous!” The two women laughed.
“Probably,” laughed Pamela, “he’s always threatened by anyone with a new recipe!”
“And Rosemary’s an amazing gardener. She grows her own vegetables and maintains a small herb garden in her office. Of course, her office is much larger and nicer than mine,” said Jane Marie, with a snicker, cringing as she glanced around her tiny space.
“Surely,” continued Pamela on her original track, “someone over there must have been aware that the head football coach was stepping out for afternoon trysts—and evidently on a regular basis.”
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br /> “You’d think,” agreed Jane Marie. “But then, men can be sneaky!” As they laughed, a tall, lanky man entered the office with a textbook tucked under one arm.
“Not all men, surely?” he questioned, standing forlornly in the doorway, glancing from one woman to another.
“Dr. Goodman!” exclaimed Jane Marie, blushing.
“It’s farmer Bob!” announced Pamela, greeting the man with a warm hug. “I haven’t seen you in ages. What is it I hear now about horses? Arliss said you two are expanding your livestock holdings.”
“We’re hoping to,” said the painfully skinny professor, beaming widely. “A farm doesn’t seem a farm without a horse—or two.”
“What about cows?” asked Jane Marie from her seated post, returning to her typing.
“Whoa, Jane,” he whistled, tugging at his glasses, “one step at a time. We have to run this menagerie ourselves and both of us are pretty darn busy keeping the animal lab over here going.”
“Pretty darn! Now you even sound like a farmer. You’ll have to have a party out there one of these days,” suggested Pamela.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “We’d love to show off our new homestead. Maybe when all the furor over this—you know—horrible event . . . calms down . . .”
“What do think about all this, Bob?” Pamela asked. Jane Marie continued to type as the two professors chatted, but she kept herself glued to their conversation.
“Not what this school needs,” he said. “We’ve had enough of death and murder, especially of faculty members recently . . . as you well know, Pam.”
“Yes,” nodded Pamela.
“At least,” he noted to her, “you won’t have to be involved in this one. Doesn’t appear as if anyone made a recording of this murder, does it?”
“No,” she said smiling. Little did Bob realize how right—and yet how wrong he was.
Voice Mail Murder Page 7