She pulled her Civic into the large lot behind the old grey stone building and climbed the set of old concrete stairs to the back entrance, which allowed her to alight directly onto the main floor—a nest of divided office spaces—wood from floor to waist height and tempered glass from waist height to above eye level. The partitions provided only some privacy. In the back, and closest to this rear entrance, a small office housed the illustrious Detective Raymond Shoop. She entered from the back and walked directly through Shoop’s office door. As usual, his small office was cluttered—his desk a maze of folders, papers, boxes, and files. A small space heater sat in the corner but was not running today. One window overlooked the side street, but it was grimy and she doubted that Shoop could see out this window if he ever had the inclination to do so. A faint smell of Vick’s Vapo-Rub pervaded the room. Shoop was seated behind his desk, a folder spread in front of him. In his left hand, he held a set of papers. He was glancing back and forth from papers to folder.
“Detective,” she announced as she stood in his doorway, “we have to talk.”
Chapter Fifteen
She cringed and cautiously stepped over an electrical cord running from the space heater in the corner to an outlet on the other wall. She brushed off a layer of dust from the olive green Naugahyde sofa before perching on the edge of it. She had sat here several times before and each time, she felt she was surrounded by strange strains of unknown viruses. At least, Shoop’s large handkerchief remained in his shirt pocket today—she could see it peeking out over the edge.
“Detective,” she continued as Shoop looked up at her, now comfortably in charge from her higher position on the sofa. His facial expression revealed nothing. “I figured I’d bring these back.” She plopped her purse on her lap, opened it, and removed the two plastic CD cases.
“Those are copies, Doctor,” drawled Shoop, files still poised in his left hand. “You can keep them.”
“I know they’re copies, Detective,” Pamela spat out, setting her purse and the CD’s on the ground. “I just took them out to make a point. You need to realize that what you’ve provided me here—with these recordings . . .” She waved the CD’s in the air. “What you’ve provided me are just tidbits, uh, just minute instances of these individuals’ voices. This may be enough to allow me to compare and identify two samples—but this much audio of a person’s voice is simply not sufficient for me to draw up a complete personality profile. I’d need much more vocal input to do that . . .”
“We could—“ he mused, leaning forward, “have our technicians make you another CD with longer sample segments . . .”
“No!” she exclaimed. “You’re not getting the point. This is time-consuming. I’m not on the police payroll . . .”
“Now, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, his voice and eyes softening. “I thought you believed in public service?”
“Don’t start on me, Shoop,” she said, a finger snapping in his direction. “I’ve bent over backwards to help you—and this department—and you know it, and I’ve never asked for anything in return—and I don’t intend to! That’s not the issue!“
“Then what is?” he questioned with an intake of breath.
“It’s that I’m supposed to provide you with information at your command, but you provide me with nothing . . . I mean no information . . .”
“We provided you with these CD’s . . .”
“No! I mean I’m just supposed to be an underling working in the background. You’re not sharing anything pertinent with me that might help me make sense of what’s actually on these CD’s.”
“I don’t get what you’re saying, Dr. Barnes,” replied Shoop. He leaned forward in his chair and slammed his elbows on his desk.
“Look,” she told him as she stood and walked to the window. She bit her lip, looking out at the parking lot. “Look, right before I came here I was at the Athletic Department and I was talking to two of the women I am sure were interviewed on that second CD. I recognized their voices. One was the Coach’s secretary, Rosemary Ellis, and the other was the cheerleading coach, Hannah Schlegel. It was clear to me almost immediately which voices they were . . .”
“Dr. Barnes,” Shoop scowled. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“What . . . why?” She turned back to him, flustered.
“I’ve told you to stay out of the investigation. It’s unwise.” Then under his his breath he said, “Now, I’ll have your big, ex-military husband on my case.”
“Good Lord, Detective,” she continued, walking to the edge of his desk and speaking in an intense whisper. “I was merely conversing with colleagues. You don’t mean to tell me that I can’t talk to people from other departments at the University?”
“Not if you’re going to be discussing the murder.”
“We weren’t discussing . . .” she started, then stopped. “Well, we were discussing the murder, but I wasn’t grilling them, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It was just a normal conversation to which I was listening very carefully.”
“That may be how you see it,” he said quietly, now very close to her face, “but must I remind you that someone killed this man? We don’t know who it is. You’re better off letting us do the questioning and you just listen to our interviews after the fact.”
“No!”
“What?”
“I said no!” she exploded, hands on hips. “Listening to segments of recorded interviews is not going to work for what you want me to accomplish. I need to hear these people speak face-to-face.”
“Too dangerous,” he said, shaking his head. “And too suspicious! You can’t go around interviewing all of the suspects and people involved in this murder yourself.”
“No,” she agreed, “but I could accompany you as you interview—or re-interview them. I assume you will be interviewing most—or all of them again, won’t you?“
“Probably,” said Shoop. “And I’m supposed to drag you along on all of these sessions? How would I explain that to the suspects?”
“You could say that—you could say—“
“See,” he gestured in her face. “It doesn’t make any sense, and nobody would fall for it!”
She walked back to the sofa and gingerly sat back down, this time leaning forlornly into the dilapidated cushions. Rocking her upper body back and forth, she thought.
“Let me ask you this,” she queried, sitting bolt upright. “Why are you going to interview any of the suspects again?”
“What do you mean?”
“For what ostensible reason would you return to any—or all—of these various suspects and question them again?”
“The police can always re-question suspects; we don’t have to provide them with reasons.”
“I know, but in your own mind, what would the purpose be?”
“Possibly to see if any of them had remembered anything they hadn’t told us since the first time they were interviewed, or possibly to see if any of them changed their story since the first time they were interviewed . . .”
“What about the voice mail recording?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What do the various suspects know about the three women on the voice mail recording?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I told you. That information is being kept quiet. We haven’t revealed the existence of the cell phone—or the messages on it—to the press, so obviously none of the suspects are aware of it.”
“Have any of the suspects mentioned Coach having a private cell phone or even having affairs?”
“Now, Dr. Barnes,” Shoop huffed, folding his arms, “aren’t you overstepping your bounds?“
“Here’s why I ask,” she said quickly. “If none of the suspects is aware of the voice mail recording—or the messages on it, then it seems to me that it would be possible to set up a simple test.”
“What sort of test?” he asked wearily.
“Surely the suspects must have guessed that Coach was probably having
an affair. You did ask them if they knew why he was at that motel, didn’t you?”
“We did,” he said, nodding, “and most expressed shock. I don’t know if this was a true reaction or if any of them actually were aware of the Coach’s infidelity. If anyone was aware—no one we interviewed said so—not even the wife and daughters.”
“They were all trying to protect his image.”
“That or they simply weren’t aware of his sexual activities.”
“It just doesn’t seem possible that he could be meeting three—maybe more—mistresses on a regular basis in the afternoons and that none of his colleagues—no one in his family—his wife—his two daughters—no one tumbled to the fact.”
“Stranger things have happened,” sighed Shoop. “He was a very clever football coach; he won almost all of his games. Evidently, he transferred those strategic skills to hiding his infidelity from everyone around him.”
“And these three mistresses?” she questioned. “None of them have come forward? None of them have contacted you to provide information about the killer of the man they were sleeping with?”
“Nope,” he replied. “Why would they? They probably realize that they are our primary suspects. After all, he was killed in the motel room. The obvious assumption is that he was killed by one of these women—maybe because she found out about the other two—or maybe because she wanted Coach to divorce his invalid wife and marry her. Who knows?”
“I see, “ she answered, “but assuming the three mistresses didn’t kill him together as some sort of group revenge plot, surely the ones not involved in the murder would come forward and try to help find the killer?”
“Dr. Barnes,” he said slyly, looking at her above the tops of his horn-rimmed glasses, “if you were having an affair with a famous football coach who was then murdered, would you leap forward and announce your adultery to the police?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It would be embarrassing, of course, but it’s a man’s life we’re talking about.”
“But, that’s not the issue,” Shoop said. He stood up, in an attempt to get Pamela’s mind back on track. “You said something about a test?”
“Right,” she agreed. “I’m thinking. You’re going to interview all of your suspects again anyway. Why not, this? When you do, you play the voice mail messages and see if any of the suspects recognize any of the voices?”
“Hmm.” Shoop chewed the eraser on his pencil. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Right now, no one—you being the exception—knows about the voice mail recording. We assume the killer doesn’t know that we know. If we start playing the recording for people, we let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”
“But don’t you—at some point—need to take the next step, particularly if you aren’t making any progress towards finding the killer? Surely, the next step seems to be—to me at least—to see what happens when the suspects you do have realize that you have this recording, when they realize that Coach was obviously seeing these women regularly for these . . . trysts . . . if they didn’t know it already.”
“The minute they hear the voice mail recording,” he suggested, “you know they’ll realize the implication. They’ll know we know about the three women—that we have those three suspects. And they’ll realize—probably—that we don’t know which of the three women—if any of them—is the primary suspect.”
“So?” she asked. Shoop gnawed on his pencil eraser. Little flakes of pink rubber drifted to his desktop.
“And your part in all of this?” he asked.
“I would like to be there to see—and hear—their reactions when you play the recording. I believe I’d get a much better sense of their voices—and probably a much better sense of their voices under pressure--which would really provide me with more data to give you some better profiles.”
“It would have to be done carefully,” he said. “We’ll have to be careful what we tell them about your presence there—and the sample voices.”
“Don’t tell them anything,” she suggested. “Just play the recording and ask them if they recognize any of the voices.”
He stood there, nodding quietly.
“It could be done,” he agreed.
“Then, let’s do it,” she responded, smiling broadly. She reached her hand out over his desk and they shook on it.
Chapter Sixteen
She and Shoop had agreed that he would take her with him when he interviewed the suspects again. He said he would call her when he was ready. She didn’t know when that would be, but knowing Shoop and how impatient he was, it would be soon. In the mean-time, she was enjoying her evening at home, snuggling on the couch next to her big, comfy husband.
The local evening news was playing. Pamela was anxious to hear any official updates about the campus murder. She focused her attention to her television screen.
“Local police officials report,” intoned a young female reporter, standing outside of the bleak, grey police department building that Pamela knew so well, “no further developments in identifying the person or persons responsible for the murder of Grace University’s Head Football Coach, Wade Croft last week. After almost a week of interviews and forensics examination, investigators appear to be at a standstill. The Coroner’s Office, however, today released its report on the official cause of death in the campus slaying, saying that the popular coach’s demise occurred between four and eight in the evening and resulted from seven stab wounds to his upper torso. Police have not indicated whether or not they have found the murder weapon, but officials indicate that the weapon is said to be a sharp, double-pronged object, like a pair of scissors.”
The camera abruptly changed to the studio anchor, primed with his set question for the field reporter.
“Tell us, Vicki,” asked the man behind the desk, “do the police have any clues as to the motive for this horrible murder?”
“They haven’t concluded anything yet, Brian,” answered the reporter, “but they have ruled out robbery. Their spokesperson tells us that the Coach’s wallet was found at the scene, in the motel room, on a nightstand. All of his credit cards and a substantial amount of cash were still there.”
“Very interesting,” noted the anchor. “We’ll keep you updated with any new developments in this murder case.” The camera then returned permanently to the studio and Rocky clicked off the television and turned to his wife.
“I see they’re not mentioning the cell phone or the voice mail messages,” he said.
“Why would they?” she asked, leaning against him. She loved being able to discuss her work—and she considered this murder investigation part of her work—with her husband. She much preferred collaborating with him than hiding her activities from him. “They think that one of the women on the tape is probably the killer . . .”
“They do?” he questioned.
“Rocky!” she laughed, “the man was killed in a motel room. The women on his cell phone voice mail were arranging sex dates with the man. They probably didn’t know that he was fooling around with the other women. One of them could have found out she was being two-timed and stabbed him in a fit of jealousy.”
“You think that’s what happened?”
“It’s what I’d do if you were boffing somebody.”
“Nice to know,” he gulped. “I’ll hide the steak knives.”
“Luckily for you,” she smiled at him, “you know where we keep them and I don’t.”
“One of the many benefits of being the family cook.”
“Oh, come on,” she whispered, snuggling against his side. “I’ve always been more than generous with other domestic help.” She ran her tongue up the side of his neck.
“Whoa!” he yelped. “Living room! Daughter! Boyfriend! Entering at any possible moment!”
“Don’t worry, Juan!” she said, nibbling on his ear lobe, “I can control myself.”
“Yes, but I can’t.” They both la
ughed. “Truly,” he said seriously, “it doesn’t seem as if they’re making any progress in finding whoever did this, does it?”
“No,” she replied, coyly. “That may change, however.“
“Why? Did you find something by listening to those recordings?” His craggy countenance peered at her. She knew every wonderful peak and valley of his expressive face.
“I found that there were three women on the voice mail,” she explained, “and there were only three . . .”
“Far too many mistresses, if you ask me, for one guy.”
“One is too many for a guy if he’s married,” she corrected, finger in his chest.
“Absolutely,” he said, recoiling.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I found that the three women on the voice mail don’t appear to be anyone whom the police have interviewed.”
“Really?”
“Not one hundred per cent positive, but pretty certain.”
“What could that mean?”
“Just that Coach Croft did a really good job of keeping his personal and his professional life separate.”
“Didn’t he though? Not only that,” added Rocky, “but if no one knows who these three women are and the police haven’t interviewed them . . . “
“And none of them have come forward,” she added.
“That’s right,” said her husband, “You’d think that at least one of these women would come forward to the police. Surely they’ve heard that the Coach has been murdered. You’d think they’d want to do what they could to help find his killer—assuming, of course, that they didn’t kill him.”
“I know. I don’t understand it. Even if one of these women did kill the Coach, it doesn’t explain why the other two wouldn’t come forward . . .”
“But the police haven’t announced that they even have this cell phone with the voice mail messages. How would these women know that the police are searching for them?”
“They wouldn’t necessarily know about the cell phone and the police having the voice mail. I just mean, you’d think that these women would certainly care enough about the Coach to want to assist in the investigation. They cared about him enough to have sex with him.”
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