A Body In My Office (The Charles Bentley Mysteries Book 1)

by Glen Ebisch

  “You’ve got most of it right, Charles. I did go to see Underwood, and he refused to even consider my arguments for giving up the Opal Chair. He said that was part of his contract for coming here, and he wasn’t about to surrender it. I tried to tell him how giving it to him was unfair, and he told me that the internal politics of a minor college were of no interest to him.”

  Wasserman paused and took a deep breath.

  “But I didn’t hit him. I wanted to, God knows. I could even picture myself doing it, and see the look of surprise on his face when my fist smashed into it. But I didn’t hit him, I just turned and walked away.”

  “You walked out of the office and down the stairs to the parking lot where you saw me.”

  He nodded. “And you immediately told me all about your problems with Underwood. I saw you as a fellow sufferer, that’s why I suggested we run together.”

  “Did you see anyone hanging around in the hallway near my office when you arrived or when you left?”

  “No. There was no one around.”

  “So someone killed Underwood in the time between when you left, and when I went back to my office. That’s only a window of around fifteen minutes.”

  “I suppose.” Greg checked his watch. “Look I have to get going if I’m going to squeeze in my run.”

  “You have to go to the police with this. I haven’t told them anything about your meeting with Yuri. It would be better coming directly from you.”

  Greg paused and nodded. “I guess you’re right. I’ll go to the station right after class.”

  After Wasserman left, Charles went in the kitchen and put on the coffee. He slowly made his way down the driveway to the mailbox and retrieved his New York Times. It was Saturday so he had no responsibilities at the soup kitchen, and the college wouldn’t be open except for the rare summer class. He really had nowhere to go and nothing to do. As he put together his breakfast, he considered spending the day reading the new novel he’d purchased online by an author the critics kept promising would soon produce the great American novel of the first half of the twenty-first century. Although he had a bias toward nineteenth century literature and thought there had been a gradual decline since then, unlike many of his fellow specialists, he hadn’t stopped reading at the year nineteen eleven, and he thought there had been several reputable novelist in the twentieth century.

  He was just starting to savour the thought of a day reading at home, when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Bentley?” an efficient female voice asked.

  “That’s right,” he replied with a sinking feeling. The voice was always the same. He knew well what the message would be.

  “Your father has been very restless for the last couple of days. He keeps asking for you.”

  So why don’t you sedate him, Charles thought harshly, and immediately pushed the remark away.

  “We were wondering if it would be possible for you to visit him sometime today?”

  “I can come down later this morning.”

  “Good,” the voice said, obviously relieved. “We’ll have him up in a chair, all ready to visit.”

  “Fine.”

  The nursing home his father was in was down in Pittsfield, about forty minutes away. It was an act of discipline, more a penance really, that got him to make monthly visits. It had nothing to do with affection, but with a sense of the responsibility he believed a son should have for his father. Since having several strokes in his late seventies, his father’s mind had been muddled, and it was difficult to know what he understood about his situation or the role of those around him. But he had occasional instances of clarity, which Charles found even harder to handle.

  Charles had promised his mother, virtually on her death-bed, that he would continue to look after his father. Fortunately, there was enough of the family money left in the estate to take care of expenses, and Charles hoped that his monthly visits were frequent enough to keep the staff on their toes. His younger brother, who lived in Palm Springs, had been retired for several years. Like his father, he had done well in finance, and also like his father, he cared little for other people. He always told Charles that he’d like to make the trip back east to see their Dad, but his bad back prevented his making such a prolonged flight. Charles would have found that excuse more convincing if several family members, who had visited his brother, hadn’t commented on how active he stayed, playing eighteen holes of golf three times a week.

  Finishing his breakfast, he slowly dressed. He found that putting on his pants required sitting on the bed and going through contortions to manipulate the garment over his stiff leg. Popping a couple of aspirin to ease the pain, he went out to his car and headed south, thankful that it wasn’t his driving leg that was injured. He breathed deeply along the way, trying to relax his mind, although he knew that within a few minutes of seeing his father any Zen-like calm would rapidly disappear. Once again he thought, as he always did on making this trip, how parents are so skilled at pushing exactly the right buttons to turn their children, no matter what their age, into querulous, sulky adolescents.

  He carefully parked his car between the white strips as if to prove that he was a visitor and not a patient. During his visits in recent years, he had become more and more aware that some of the patients, or residents, as the home preferred them to be called, were close to his age. This always made him resolve to stay fit and as healthy as possible because his definition of hell was to be residing in the same care facility as his father. As an act of kindness the staff would probably have them share a room, which would shorten both their lives.

  Charles walked in the front door and went up to the receptionist’s window, trying to ignore the faint smell of human frailty that permeated the perfumed air. A few minutes after announcing himself, an aide wearing a cheerful green uniform took him to his father’s room.

  Although he had seen his father many times since the strokes, he never ceased to be shocked by the wizened, emaciated old man who confronted him. Even though he was in his early eighties, he gave the appearance of being so old as to be timeless, with his large brown eyes protruding above his sunken cheeks. He had always been so aggressively robust that it was difficult to recognize him in this faint sketch of the man.

  “Horace! Horace!” his father exclaimed as he raised his head and saw him.

  “I guess he doesn’t recognize you,” the aide said.

  Charles smiled slightly. “Everyone is Horace to him.”

  His father recognized him well enough. All his life he had refused to accept Charles’ decision to use his middle name. Even when everyone in the family, including his mother, called him Charles, his father insisted on addressing him as Horace. He only varied this by occasionally calling him Junior, especially when he had done something his father considered worthy of reprimand. It was his way of reminding him that his mistakes reflected badly on his father.

  “It’s Charles,” he corrected after the aide left the room.

  “Horace!” the feathery voice insisted.

  “How are you doing, Dad?” he asked. He couldn’t remember calling his father “Dad” more than a handful of times when he was well. Now that his father had no choice, Charles considered it an intimacy that served to reflect the chasm between them.

  His father twisted his mouth inward as if he’d detected a bad smell. That was his usual reaction to questions about his condition or state of mind. Charles noted that his father’s false teeth hadn’t been put in, and day-old stubble darkened his face. He would mention both at the nurses’ station on the way out, but doubted much would change. He’d have to visit every day to bring about a real modification of institutional behaviour.

  “Where is Ed?” his father asked.

  “In Palm Springs,” Charles replied.

  His father sat for a moment pondering the answer until Charles wondered whether it meant anything to him.

  “He should be here,” his father said petulantly.

  I can’t disagree with that,
Charles thought.

  “We can’t always have everything we want,” Charles said.

  His father gave him a look of disgust, which was probably exactly what that bromide deserved. Charles thought back to when his father had refused to help him financially to go to graduate school. Not because the money wasn’t easily available, but because he considered it to be reading to no purpose. Scholarship to him was a pointless activity, barely better than a hobby. His father had happily paid for Ed to attend business school. With the help of his VA benefit and working part-time, Charles had made his way through, and he had never stopped being thankful that his father had forced him to become independent. He knew that only this separation had kept him from becoming a pale clone of his father like his brother Ed. Sometimes unintended consequences could be good ones.

  His father reached out a wrinkled, claw-like hand and seized his arm. Charles fought the impulse to pull away.

  “Remember,” his father said, pausing as if for effect, “friends and family will always betray you.”

  “Don’t you think it depends on how you’ve treated them?”

  His father shook his head as if Charles’ words were just so many buzzing insects.

  “They will always betray you.”

  Having made what he considered to be his definitive statement on the matter, his father seemed to recede back into the chair like a balloon deflating. Charles knew he would say nothing more for the rest of the visit. Indeed, he might be mostly silent for the next few days. The desire to express himself seemed to come in waves which, once released, would leave him too exhausted to think or speak.

  Charles sat with him for a half hour longer, then he quietly got up and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By the time Monday morning rolled around, Charles was feeling somewhat better. He had spent most of Sunday reading the newspaper and his new novel, and although his injured leg had turned a variety of vibrant colours on the side that had hit the road, it was feeling much better. It still stiffened up when he sat for long periods of time, but quickly loosened into approximate normalcy when he began to walk. This was good, he thought, because it meant no trip to the hospital, and it also kept him from having to explain his fear of rats to all the women at the soup kitchen. Charles wasn’t afraid to show weakness, but he liked his public weaknesses to be less embarrassing than terror at the sight of small furry animals.

  He decided to leave early for the soup kitchen and stop off at the police station. He had given Greg Wasserman two full days to make his confession to the police about seeing Underwood shortly before his death, so it was time for him to find out if Lieutenant Thorndike had been informed. He drove into the centre of town and parked by the old brick building that housed the police department and the courthouse. Inside he told the officer that he wanted to speak with Lieutenant Thorndike. The officer took his name and disappeared down a hallway. He was back in a minute and held open the door that separated the offices from the public areas.

  The Lieutenant stood up when he entered her office and smiled.

  “How nice of you to visit me here, Charles, usually I’m the one taking advantage of your hospitality. I’d offer you coffee, but I’d be embarrassed by the comparison to yours. I can get you a glass of pretty good water.”

  “No, thanks,” Charles said, taking the offered chair. “I just wanted to find out if Greg Wasserman came by to tell you about seeing Underwood.”

  The Lieutenant waved a sheet of paper. “He came in on Saturday afternoon when I was off duty. One of my sergeants took his statement. I’ve just finished reading it.”

  “Good. I told him he had to see you.”

  Thorndike looked puzzled. “How do you figure into this? Wasserman didn’t mention you.”

  “The English Department secretary told me about it.”

  “Why didn’t she mention it to us sooner?”

  “She was on vacation when the murder happened, and Sheila, the student assistant, only happened to mention it to her several days after. You can’t really blame Sheila, she’s something of a special case.”

  The Lieutenant shook her head. “No matter how many times we say it, people just don’t understand that in a murder investigation everything is important.” She glanced down at Greg’s statement on her desk. “Do you think he killed Underwood?”

  “He’s a hard guy to read. He keeps his emotions close to his chest, but I kind of doubt it. Remember, I saw him in the parking lot right after he left Underwood. I know it’s hard to tell, but he didn’t look like he had just murdered someone.”

  She gave him a skeptical glance.

  Charles smiled slightly. “Like I said, it’s hard to tell. But he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, and we had quite a long, coherent conversation. I think he would at least have seemed somewhat distracted after bashing someone’s head in.”

  “What about this guy Yuri, the department chairman? He was in the building at the same time. Would he have had any motive to kill Underwood?”

  “He was a bit annoyed by Underwood’s low opinion of modern English novels, but otherwise I don’t think so. He might not have been happy about Dean Carruthers forcing Underwood on the department, but he wouldn’t be upset enough to commit murder.”

  “Have you heard anything from your friend at Yale, the guy who’s checking into Underwood’s history there?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “I interviewed Gould and Rhyser after I talked to you on Friday. Gould acted a bit nervous like you said, but if every person who acted nervous was guilty of something, we’d have more criminals than crimes. I’m inclined to believe them. They knew about Underwood’s behaviour, but weren’t victims themselves.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll get in touch with my contact at Yale in a couple more days if I don’t hear anything sooner.”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “It’s my day at the soup kitchen.”

  Thorndike picked up the knife she used as a letter opener and balanced it in her hand.

  “Keep your eyes open, Charles, there’s someone out there looking to harm you. They may be doing it in a roundabout way, using a rat. But it could escalate. I suppose you wouldn’t consider cancelling the gig at the soup kitchen?”

  Charles thought of his promise to Karen that he would keep showing up.

  “I think I’ll be as safe there as I would be at home. Anybody could knock on my front door and shoot me when I answered. At least at the soup kitchen I’m around other people.”

  Thorndike nodded. “I figured you’d say that. You know, for a guy who looks like the poster boy for the fussy academic, you seem remarkably willing to take risks.”

  “I don’t like being pushed around.”

  “Okay, but stay aware of your surroundings, and give me a call day or night if you see anything suspicious. Let me give you another copy of my card. My cell number is on it, and I’ll answer it whenever it rings. It never goes to voicemail.”

  She reached across the desk with her card. Their fingers touched. Charles wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it, but it seemed as though hers lingered a bit longer than necessary.

  Once at the soup kitchen, Charles helped John set up the tables. Although still not garrulous, the man had moved on from his laconic demeanour of last week, and they exchanged a few standard pleasantries. Charles thought John had come to the conclusion that Charles was there to stay, so he may as well reach some accommodation with him. As he finished with the last table and began walking across the basement to where the serving tables were arranged, he saw Karen standing there staring at his legs.

  “You have a limp,” she said. “I don’t think you had that before.”

  “I overdid it with the yard work this weekend,” Charles lied. He didn’t like to lie, but there was no way he was going to confess the truth.

  “Yes, you have to be careful about that at our age,” she said carefully, as if not quite believing him.

  They didn’
t say anymore until they were working next to each other on the serving line. During a lull, she turned to him and asked, “How are things going with the investigation into those murders up at the College?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t heard much about it. I guess I won’t now that I’m retired.”

  “I suppose not. I think it’s a real shame that the students won’t get to benefit from that fine professor from England.”

  Something snapped! Perhaps it was his basic honesty asserting itself or maybe he was simply tired of hearing Underwood extolled. The words simply flowed out of him unfiltered.

  “I don’t think it’s much of a loss. The man had a history of acting inappropriately with female students.”

  Karen’s spoon paused briefly midway on its journey to the pan of peas, and a few seconds later, when the line had moved on, she turned back to Charles.

  “My daughter the dentist had a problem with a professor like that in dental school,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. There’s no justification for that kind of behaviour.”

  “She was so upset she wanted to leave school in the middle of the semester. I convinced her to stay and bring charges against the professor. She won her case, and he ended up getting into a lot of trouble.”

  “Good for her.”

  Karen nodded. “She transferred to another school at the end of the year anyway. She wanted to get away from the publicity. But everything was fine for her after that.”

  Charles was doling mashed potatoes onto the next plate in line when the significance of what Karen had just said came home to him. The woman who had been Underwood’s sex slave might never have gone on to get her PhD or any other degree from Yale. After the ruckus about Underwood, she might we have wanted to transfer to a school where she was less well known. So she could be on the faculty at Opal, because the suspects were no longer restricted to Rhyser and Gould. All female professors under forty had entered the pool.

  He was so excited that it took a moment before he realized that Karen was talking to him.