She fast-forwarded through the second CD to the first speaker’s segment and uploaded it into her program. Clicking on the beginning of the segment she ran her cursor to the end, highlighted it, and transferred it into the slot directly below the first voice mail speaker’s message. Immediately, the spectrographic line appeared for this speaker. Of course, the two lines were no match. Even if the first voice mail speaker were the same person as the first interview speaker, the lines would not match because the speakers were not saying the same message. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? She thought. Maybe I could get Shoop to re-interview all the suspects and have them say all the messages from the voice mail speakers. Then I can look for a direct match in my spectrograph lines and identifying the women would be child’s play. Unfortunately, she realized that that would be unlikely.
What she would have to do is exactly what she did with the voice mail speakers—use her expertise and her judgment. She’d have to listen for similarities, for patterns in vowel production, or unusual consonant formation—anything that might make one of the voice mail speakers unique—and that might be recreated in the voice or voices of one or more of the interview speakers. She enlarged some of the vowels in the top line and looked for a similar sound in the second audio line. When she found a similar sound, she examined the visual output and listened again several times on the headphones. She did the same routine with comparable consonants that appeared in both segments. After about fifteen minutes, she looked up and heaved a deep sigh. It was clear that the first interview speaker was not the first voice mail speaker. My God, she thought, this is going to be exhausting. Even so, she clicked out of the first voice mail speaker’s segment, and loaded the second voice mail speaker’s message in its place. Then, she repeated the entire routine—looking, listening, repeating. She searched for clues—any clue that might indicate that the two women who were speaking were one and the same. She found nothing. Finally, she loaded the third voice mail speaker and conducted the same activities all over again. As with the first and second speaker, it appeared that the first interview speaker—whoever she was—was simply not one of the women who had left a message on the Coach’s voice mail. She had a definitive piece of news that she could report to Shoop. It was negative news—but news just the same.
She hoped that the routine she had established would become easier. An hour had gone by and she was just getting started. She stopped to take a sip of her tea and found that it had become lukewarm. She stood and stretched her legs, walking over to her window and looking out at the campus. Students were passing along the paths below, scattering leaves from the trees as they went. They seemed untouched by the tragedy that had befallen this campus. She guessed that most were untouched, unless they were involved with the football team in some way. Most just went about their business—went to class, studied, held down part-time jobs, and tried to find some time to have fun once in a while. She wished that she were among them and not embroiled in this murder investigation. Yet, she was excited. She liked knowing that her talents could actually be used for something so practical as to bring a criminal to justice. Of course, she enjoyed academic success and getting her manuscripts published, but she had to admit that her crime fighting successes over the last few years had brought her a sense of pride and accomplishment that she never experienced from publishing a journal article.
Refreshed, she returned to her desk and began work on the next of the eight interview speakers. She repeated the routine that she established with the first and got the same results. She then went on to the third interview speaker and also found no match between this woman and the voice mail speakers. This was very discouraging, although she wasn’t surprised as her original listening to the interview recording hadn’t revealed any obvious similarities. She pushed ahead, still being careful to give each speaker her full attention. She didn’t want to miss anything because she was discouraged. When she reached the final interview speaker, she realized, even before she ran the analysis that she wasn’t going to be able to identify any of the three women on the voice mail. Even so, she ran the last set of recordings and inspected the visual line and listened to the audio of both.
When the phone rang, she could almost guess who it was. Did the man have a bug planted in her office?
“Hello.”
“Dr. Barnes.” Shoop’s gruff voice, brusque as always, came over the line. “Do you have those interview speakers analyzed for me? Are any of those women the same as on the cell phone?”
“Believe it or not, Detective,” she intoned, “I just finished listening to them and running them through my software spectrograph program.”
“And?”
“I’m sorry to report that there are no matches that I can tell.”
“You mean none of those women we interviewed were on that voice mail?” He sounded annoyed with her, as if she had anything to do with it.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” she apologized. Why am I apologizing, she thought, mad at herself. “It doesn’t seem that they are, but I could be wrong—the segments on both recordings are very short and don’t give a complete picture of each speaker’s vocal characteristics.”
“But you’re fairly sure that there’s no match?” he asked pointedly.
“Fairly sure.”
“Hmm. I . . .”
Now she felt sorry for the man. He sounded flustered. She guessed that he must have been hoping that she would find a match with one of the speakers on the interview recording and that he would have a new suspect and a new line of inquiry. Now he was back to square one, which was nowhere, she realized.
“I’m really sorry, Detective,” she continued. “I wish I had something concrete for you, but these women on the voice mail message recordings are different . . . .”
“How different?” he asked abruptly.
“I mean, different from the women on the interview tape. They have different vocal features.”
“Tell me, Dr. Barnes,” he said slowly, obviously thinking aloud, “just how much can you tell me about the women on the voice mail recording? I’m thinking. I mean, you were able to determine that there were three of them, not seven. What else could you tell me about them?”
“That depends on what you want to know.” What was the man getting at?
“I want to know which one of them killed Coach Croft,” he said.
“I can’t tell you that,” she allowed, “but I could try to work up a profile of each of them, if you’d like . . .” My God, why not just offer the man my first born child? She’d already spent most of her day—and hours of the last few days on his project.
“Like a personality profile?” he asked.
“Something like that,” she agreed. “It’s not fool-proof. Certainly, an accomplished actor could manipulate vocal features. However, on the voice mail recording, I don’t think we’re hearing three accomplished actresses speaking, do you?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t. It might be worth a try. How long would it take you to work up these profiles?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I do have classes to teach. Analyses like this take lots of time—and more detailed personality type profiles would be very time-consuming.”
“The sooner, the better,” he said. “Someone stabbed this man in the back, Dr. Barnes—seven times. A brutal murder. Right now, our best suspects are the three women on this recording. Anything you can tell us about them may lead us to capturing his killer.”
“I know. I understand,” she said.
“Then, get to it,” he concluded, and hung up. Would she ever be through with this man, this murder, and this case? Yet, she felt obligated—he made her feel obligated and she didn’t like it.
Chapter Fourteen
The more she thought about Shoop’s call and his insistence on her speedy response to his demands, the madder she got. She wasn’t on his payroll. She was a volunteer—as she had been in the past, and the man was beginning to treat her as if she was his employee. Part of t
he problem, she realized was that he simply didn’t understand the complexities of vocal analysis. There was no magic button—or even magic formula for determining anything from merely listening to someone speak. Of course, you could make informed guesses, but that’s all they were. Eventually, she realized that she was stewing in her own fury and what she really needed to do was to confront Shoop with her complaints—tell him exactly what she did know—and maybe get him to confide in her what the police knew—if anything—so she could expand her analysis.
She closed up shop for the day, heading out into the bright fall sunshine, directing her little car towards the downtown area where she knew the Police Department was located. Taking the back way, she drove down Gaylord Street where the Athletic Department’s headquarters were located—a side street close to the stadium. She slowed her speed and stared at the two story brick building with white trim. It was old and dilapidated—like much of the campus, but what caught her eye was the profusion of flowering bushes framing the entrance and under the windows on the main level. Where most greenery was beginning to fade with the advent of fall, this building was alive with reds, pinks, yellows, and purples. Truly, she said to herself, it looks like it should be the Botany Department not the Athletic Department.
On a whim, she turned into the small parking lot in front of the building and pulled into a marked “Visitor” slot. She wasn’t planning on staying; she was just curious. This was the home of the fallen hero—the Coach who had met an inglorious end in a sleazy motel room. Nothing screamed to her, “football” or “sex scandal” or “murder.” She sat quietly in her car as she glanced around at the building. Students were coming and going. She opened her car door and stepped over to the bushes near the front door. Did this building have a private nursery service? All the plants had been recently trimmed. The sod was cleared and mulched. Not a weed could be seen. She bent down and peeked into the hedges. All of a sudden, she heard a knock. Looking up, a woman’s face appeared at the window above her head. Pamela smiled at the face behind the glass as the woman waved her arms, tapping at the window, trying to indicate something to Pamela. As she backed up and turned around, she found herself standing face-to-face with a young couple, both wearing athletic running suits. The man she recognized instantly as the young assistant coach, who had led the school’s football team to victory Saturday night.
“Ooops,” she laughed. “I was marveling at your beautiful flowers!” The couple continued to stare. She realized that it was probably unusual to find a grown woman on her hands and knees in front of their building, scrounging around in the bushes.
“Uh . . . yes . . .” the man began uncertainly.
“I . . . — “ she stammered, “I . . I’m Dr. Barnes, from Psychology. You’re Coach Dooley. I recognize you from the game!” She bounded forward. The woman next to him frowned, and the couple looked at each other in confusion.
Just then the woman from the window appeared from out of the front entrance. Coming quickly to join the group of three, she entered the conversation.
“Jeff,” she said, “this woman was nosing about in the bushes.”
“I . . . I was just admiring your flowers!” exclaimed Pamela. “You’re Rosemary. I’m Pamela Barnes. We met at the game Saturday. Remember? Jane Marie introduced us.”
“Dr. Barnes?” asked the woman.
“Dr. Barnes,” said Dooley, “what are you doing in our bushes?”
“Really, I just happened by and saw how beautiful your plants are—certainly much grander than at our building—Blake Hall.”
“That’s Rosemary’s doing,” interjected the woman in running garb. She took a slurp from a large paper cup. “She’s very proprietary about her bushes.” The woman smiled at Pamela and gave a little chuckle.
“Truly, I’m sorry to cause you any concern,“ said Pamela, in her most obsequious voice. The last thing she wanted was for any of these three potential murder suspects to suspect her—and her involvement in the murder investigation.
“That’s all right,” said Dooley with a shrug. “You’re not the first to notice Rosemary’s green thumb. The whole building is awash in foliage.”
“And the inside too,” added his compatriot, switching from one hip to another.
“Um. . .” continued Dooley, “I’m Jeff Dooley. This is Hannah Schlegel, our cheerleading coach—and you said you’d met Rosemary.” He shook Pamela’s hand and she exchanged quick greetings with all three.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, enthusiastically. “Congratulations on your win Saturday too, Coach Dooley.”
“Thanks,” replied the young coach. “The guys were motivated to win—for Coach, you know.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “I can imagine. This whole experience must just be really hard for all of you.”
“About the worst thing ever,” he said grimly, “and I’d really just like to chuck it, sometimes, but I know that’s not what Coach would want me to do.”
“Or what the team would want,” added Rosemary primly, standing guard next to the twosome.
“So you were at the game, Dr. Barnes?” asked Hannah Schlegel, taking another slurp, and flipping her long, blonde pony-tail over her shoulder.
“Yes, I was quite moved by the President’s remarks.”
“He’s . . . quite . . . a guy,” added Dooley, with a furtive glance at Hannah. Pamela looked around at the faces of these three individuals. Did any of them have a motive to murder the popular Coach? Rosemary Ellis, his long-time secretary, could have known about his afternoon adventures. If she did, would she keep quiet? And whether she did or not, what would prompt this obviously loyal employee to murder her boss of many years? And Jeff Dooley? He was an immediate beneficiary of the Coach’s death, but he couldn’t be assured that he’d remain as Head Coach. The Administration might very easily conduct an outside search and he could be relegated back to Assistant Coach in a heartbeat. Or did the young assistant have some other reason to hate his leader? And this young cheerleading coach? Hannah Schlegel? Why would she want to murder the Coach? Was she one of his mistresses? She seemed far too cozy with Dooley and Pamela guessed that theirs was an office romance brewing if not fully developed. Was she one of the three voice mail women? Pamela didn’t think so. She was, however, probably one of the voices on the interview recording—as Rosemary would be. As the two women stood there talking on the sidewalk outside the Athletic Department, Pamela listened to their voices, trying to place their voices with the appropriate voices from the interview recording.
“Jesse . . .” Rosemary was saying.
“What?” asked Pamela, realizing that she had lost track of the conversation as she listened to the voices.
“I was just saying, Dr. Barnes,” continued the secretary, “that I wanted to thank you for talking to Jesse.”
“Jesse Portillo?” asked Dooley.
“Yes,” answered Rosemary. “He was very taken with you, Dr. Barnes. He told me how thoughtful and kind you were to him in letting him register late for your class. He said you spent a lot of time chatting with him and making him feel better. He was really upset about Coach Croft.” She placed a hand on Pamela’s arm and smiled warmly.
“Jesse is a good kid,” acknowledged Jeff Dooley.
“Yeah,” added Hannah, “he’s a super kid.” She swung her hair around again, like a whip. “Comes from an impoverished background. Now he’s ready to graduate.” She smiled proudly as if the young man were her own son.
“Right,“ agreed Dooley. “First kid in the family to go to college.”
“That was Coach Croft,” Rosemary said quickly. “He always went out of his way to help these kids who came from under-privileged backgrounds. Do you remember Paco?” She directed this question to Dooley.
“Yeah,” he responded and was soon into a monologue about a poor boy from a background of drugs and poverty who the Coach had recruited for the team and had turned around. The kid had gone on to become a business leader and ultimately had returned to h
is down and out neighborhood and started programs to help the youth there. Pamela was getting the full treatment of the wonders of Coach Croft. It didn’t appear as if any of these three individuals standing here with her had anything bad to say about the man—even though he had been cheating on his wife—with at least three women.
“He was remarkable,” she agreed, nodding. “I’m so sorry about all this. And I’m sorry if I frightened you by trying to get a closer look at your beautiful flowers.” She directed this last remark to Rosemary, who beamed.
“That’s quite all right, Dr. Barnes,” Rosemary said. “Feel free to come over any time and admire my bushes. I’m really very proud of how I keep our department looking.”
“That’s for sure,” agreed Hannah. “The main office is like a jungle!” Rosemary gave the young coach a quick smirk and Dooley scowled in her direction. Obviously, thought Pamela, Hannah Schlegel is not terribly discreet.
“Maybe you can give Jane Marie a pointer or two,” Pamela suggested to Rosemary. “She has a few plants, but nothing this grand!” She motioned around and Rosemary smiled graciously. “It was nice to meet you all,” she said, shaking each one’s hand in turn. “I’d better get going.” She turned and got in her car. As she started the engine, she looked up and noticed that all three people were still standing there, staring at her as she drove away.
Continuing down Gaylord, she turned onto Jackson and then took the short-cut that she knew would take her down the back route to the Reardon Police Department. She had come to know this imposing, old building over the last few years when she had become entangled in the investigations of two local murders—the first one being that of her own department’s Charlotte Clark, and the second a local disc jockey. In both cases, the police—or rather Detective Shoop—had enlisted her help because they’d had a recording of the actual murder and she had the expertise to provide information with her knowledge of acoustics. In both cases, her input had been crucial. She had come to know this building and Shoop’s office—or more truly—his home away from home.
Voice Mail Murder Page 9