Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 06 - Death without Tenure

by Joanne Dobson

  Chapter 26

  “And, so,” I told Felicity on my cell phone as I walked back across campus from Earlene’s office, “here’s yet another possible motive for the homicide. Joe Lone Wolf was supplying Enfield College students with free drugs, and Ned Hilton was involved. I think the new top cop here on campus suspects Ned of being the killer.”

  “Really?” Felicity replied, and there was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then, “is there anyone at all left on that campus who didn’t have a motive for wanting Professor Lone Wolf dead?”

  I laughed. “You’re a funny lady, Schultz.”

  “Yeah, right. Funny as gangrene. I assume college authorities will be looking into Hilton, but I gotta say he seems like too much of a loser to do something as decisive as commit homicide. You and me have to keep looking into this. So where do you think we should go next?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going, but I’m going back into cyberspace. That’s how I found out Joe’s true identity, and that’s how I got onto the drug connection. Now I have yet another idea. Who knows what else I might be able to learn.”

  “Watch it, Karen,” Felicity said, in that flat, patronizing cop tone that so infuriates me when Charlie uses it. “Someone out there is damn good at covering up his—or her—tracks. No telling what they’ll do if you start turning over rocks.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I replied. “I know how to take care of myself.”

  “I’ve heard people say that before,” Felicity replied. “It’s usually the kiss of death.”

  ***

  Minutes later, with the cold late-afternoon sun streaming through bare branches and into my office windows, I found the Facebook alumni site for the Montana University Graduate English Program. Even though he hadn’t actually graduated, this was where Joe…er…Frankie Vitagliano…had done his graduate work. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, simply cruising for stray pieces of information about the man that might lead me to his killer.

  Someone had taken a lot of time with this website, and it was beautifully organized. I scrolled through the graduating classes year by year, scanning the accomplishments of newly minted English PhDs: faculty positions at universities from East Podunk U. to UPenn, tenure won, books published.

  Nothing from Frank Vitagliano.

  I concentrated on the site for the graduate class of a decade or so earlier, when he would have been enrolled at the university. There I found something that really touched me: a memorial website for a PhD student named Sandra Begay, who, tragically, had committed suicide during her final year of courses. Sandra must have been a popular gal, because, on the tenth anniversary of her death, her classmates had bestirred themselves to post tributes, poems, and brief remembrances. One link led to Sandra’s own poems and essays, which were lauded by the webmaster as brilliant. When I saw Professor Clark McCutcheon’s name listed as the teacher for Sandra’s seminar in literary theory, I clicked on the link for her class essay. Sandra Begay’s topic was literature, culture and racial theory. The title of the essay was, “Whaddya Mean, ‘We,’ White Man?”

  Oh. My. God.

  I began to read, and there on Facebook, in plain sight of any inquisitive Web surfer, and, surprisingly, not password protected, I found the essay that had made Clark McCutcheon famous. It had been written by a brilliant graduate student, now deceased. I sat back in my desk chair with a thump, astounded. The great man’s reputation rested on a plagiarized grad-student paper? Was Joe Lone Wolf not the only fraud, but also Clark McCutcheon?

  I pictured Clark, tall, blond, certain of his territorial rights, striding into Joe’s office a week earlier, surveying the rows of exquisite Native artifacts just as his forbears had surveyed Native land and villages. In my memory of that day, he seemed to swell until the air was sun-drenched and dry, and he filled the room with his presence. I’d been uneasy about the man then, and this new evidence of his lack of integrity made me sick at heart.

  In the academic world, laying a charge of plagiarism against a scholar is an extremely grave move and is never done lightly. Stealing another scholar’s words, work, and ideas not only violates the ethical ideals that bind the scholarly world together, it also constitutes theft of intellectual property, leading to career advancement, power, and material gain. I was disgusted by Clark’s abuse of professional trust. The ideals of disinterested inquiry, the acquisition of knowledge and the passionate interplay of ideas: did these mean nothing to him?

  However, before I would be in a position to make an accusation against McCutcheon, I would have to obtain evidence—hard evidence, as Earlene had exulted in earlier this morning with Cat’s photo—not simply memory’s soft evidence of an essay I had read years earlier.

  Where could I find a copy of McCutcheon’s essay? There must be one in Joe Lone Wolf’s office. If it wasn’t there, among the newly orderly piles of papers, I’d head for the library. “Whaddaya Mean, ‘We,’ White Man?” had been published first in the journal American Literary History, and then in a volume of “seminal” essays on the new comparative American literature. It was certain to be somewhere in the periodicals room or in the stacks. When I got my hands on the published essay, I’d compare it word for word with the one on the Montana U. website. Then, if my suspicions were confirmed…what would I do? Call Sanjay or Avery? But it was still Saturday. Should I wait? After all, plagiarism, while the most blatant form of academic misconduct, is hardly on a par with drug use and murder, both of which the college administrators were dealing with already.

  Printing out the website essay as a comparison text, I snatched up my key ring with the passkey I’d copied and sidled out into the deserted corridor. Security lamps illuminated the hallway only dimly, but sunlight still shone through the arched transom over the west door.

  Perhaps because the building now seemed devoid of any conscious life, I tip-toed down the hall. Taking a deep breath and letting it out through my teeth in a long hiss, I stopped at Joe’s door with the key gripped between my thumb and forefinger, extended my hand, and slid the key into the keyhole. I turned the knob, opened the door as quietly as possible, and stepped inside.

  I smelled him before I saw him—that scent of high skies and wide open plains and…maybe…sagebrush? Then I heard him. “What the fucking hell!”: Clark McCutcheon’s big voice coming from behind the desk.

  I let out a screech, my heart thudding in my throat. Dust danced in the slats of light stabbing through the now fully open venetian blinds. I swallowed hard. “You almost scared me to death, McCutcheon.”

  It looked as if Clark had been riffling through the desk’s deep file drawer. Still seated, he gazed at me with slitted blue eyes. I could hear the effort it cost him to modulate his voice. “Karen, what are you doing here?”

  My heart was still pounding. “What are you doing here?”

  “I asked first. And close that door behind you.”

  “I don’t think so.” I was uncomfortable being here alone with him. I’d suspected Clark of lusting for Joe’s Native artifacts, and if he had been standing over by Joe’s display shelves, handling the dead man’s Indian treasures—the jewelry and pottery, the tomahawks and little dolls—I wouldn’t be thinking the unspeakable thought that was beginning to invade my mind. If I had found the shelves looted, and the war bonnet and baskets packed up and ready to be appropriated by an academic grave robber, I would have been appalled but not surprised. But the Native goods in their neat rows were intact. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Obviously it was not the precious Indian objects that Clark was after. Why was he here, then, in Joe’s office—behind Joe’s desk? I backed toward the door as unobtrusively as possible.

  Earlier I had seen the professionally sorted and classified stacks of books and papers, the evidence of an evening’s search through the printouts, Xeroxes, and books that had previously cluttered the room. Now Clark seemed to have been systematically sorting through the personal files in Joe’s desk drawers. It must be pa
pers he was looking for. But what papers? And why?

  The late Indian-summer sun shone straight through the blind slats, now and, right there, at that moment, all the pieces fell together: Clark McCutcheon had killed Joe Lone Wolf. Joe must have found the source of the famous “Whiteness” essay on the Montana U website and confronted Clark with it. Clark’s high standing in the profession was based on that essay. His opportunity to be awarded Enfield College’s prestigious Palaver Chair was based on it. Had Joe threatened him with exposure? I recalled that evening at Rudolph’s bar, when the two had been huddled together in the corner. Was that what had been going on? Had Clark responded to Joe’s threats by eliminating Joe?

  Standing there in the dead professor’s office, I knew it wasn’t the wisest thing in the world for me to be shut up alone with this man. I sidled closer to the door.

  “You don’t think so, huh?” McCutcheon barked. “I said ‘close the door.’ Do it! Now!”

  When I saw the gun in Clark’s hand I stopped stock still. The small, shiny nickel-plated automatic was pointed directly at me. Clark stepped out from behind the desk, his stance that of a man who knows how to use a gun, holding a gun he intends to use. “Well, I do think so. Shut that door and get away from it.”

  “You don’t want to do this,” I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. A lot of good that open door a mere two yards away would do me, this quiet afternoon with no one in the building and a gun aimed in my direction.

  “You’re right, I don’t.” His long white-blond hair was in tight braids today, pulled forward, one hanging over each shoulder. He shook his head, and the braids shifted back and forth across the shoulders of his fringed deerskin jacket. “Such a waste of fine womanhood.” His tsk, tsk of regret sounded sincere. “But, you know, don’t you? I saw it just now in your expression.” I couldn’t tell from his sky-blue eyes exactly what his intentions were toward me. Then he shook his head as an annoyed stallion shakes off flies. “Goddammit, woman, why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

  “You really don’t want to do this,” I repeated, gesturing toward the gun. My mind raced, looking for a way out. “That would be ill-considered. The police aren’t stupid. Think about how hard they’d pursue a second homicide investigation.” The half-open door behind me offered no escape; a bullet could fly faster than I could run.

  “And, besides…” I tilted my head seductively, widened my gaze. Maybe I could delude him into thinking I’d make some kind of sexual quid pro quo deal. I knew he was…interested in me; he’d told me often enough.

  But his eyes were arctic blue now, cold, killer’s eyes. “Nothing escapes me, Karen, I told you that before.” He shook his head slowly. “And I can see your mind working. I’ve killed one man. He was blackmailing me, the fool. And I can’t afford to dally around with you.” His white teeth flashed, but there was no humor in the grin. “No matter how much fun it might be.”

  The sunlight was slashing through the blinds now, straight from the west. Facing the windows, I could see the dancing dust motes thicken in the bright air. “Corpse dust,” I thought, though I didn’t know what that meant or where I’d heard the term. The light just about blinded me, but every object in the room was illuminated. Eagle feathers gleamed. Kachina dolls shone. Light flashed off a silver squash-blossom necklace. All these beautiful artifacts seemed alive, infused with spirit, and there I stood, paralyzed. Helpless.

  Faced with a gun, what could I do? I was without a weapon. My brain was frozen. I’d tried my seductive wiles in vain. Certain death was only moments away.

  To die like this, with Charlie and Amanda, the two people I loved most, half a world away.…To leave my poor mom alone and grieving.…To abandon my students when I still had so much to teach them.…No. No. I couldn’t allow it to happen. Desperate with despair, I felt my hold on rational thought lift and diffuse itself into the swirling air

  the pulse in my ears quickened

  its beat my spirit loosened

  its ties with this time and

  this place I was in the light

  a dancing mote in the light

  then suddenly a single ray of brightness concentrated itself within the dancing dust was it the pounding of my heart or did I hear the low steady beat of drums louder now and louder voices from the darkness of the past chanting

  And then the hovering arrow-shaft of radiance whizzed across the room, striking the battered stone-headed hatchet on the shelf by the door with its illumination.

  On the shelf, just out of reach.

  Hank’s story joggled my mind. Joe Lone Wolf had told his students that the homely little tomahawk by the door held more spirit than a Shakespeare sonnet.

  Clark spoke again. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t believe any seductive come-ons, Karen—not from you,” he scoffed. “You just drip with integrity.” He made “integrity” sound like an STD. “Now get over there and shut that door.” He motioned briskly with the gun, then quickly trained it back on me.

  In that room filled with Joe Lone Wolf’s spirit-infused relics of an ancient culture, I shrugged. “Okay,” I said. “If you insist.” Taking two steps in the direction of the door, I snatched up the small plain tomahawk from the shelf, spun on my toes, raised my arm high, flexed my wrist, and, as if I’d been doing it for centuries, whipped the ancient little throwing axe straight at Clark McCutcheon’s head.

  Chapter 27

  The following Friday

  “I think I must have been hallucinating,” I told the group of friends gathered around the table in Rudolph’s private back room. “It was as if I were surrounded by a tribe of phantom warriors. I must have been in a waking dream. What else could it have been?”

  We were out for a celebratory dinner. Felicity had arranged the party. Mom was here, shepherded by my former student, Sophia Warzek, whom I’d hired to live with us and care for Mom while Sophia worked on her MFA thesis. Greg and Irina were present, and Earlene, unexpectedly with Fareed Khan in tow. Hmm. Even Jill had come up from New York with Eloise, her little red-headed imp of a daughter. Miles and his formidable wife, Dolores, arrived late, rather sweetly uncertain about their welcome. The wine was on the department, he said, and proceeded to order the best in the house.

  Amanda was present only in spirit; she had called, as promised, from Kathmandu, and, weary of world travel, was on her way home. She was the only one I’d told about our Native ancestry, but I hadn’t yet told her about my ordeal with McCutcheon.

  ***

  The past week, since I’d clobbered Clark McCutcheon, had indeed been an ordeal. I was on sick leave, recovering from shock. The shock of almost killing a man. The shock of almost having been killed myself. The brand-new PhD who’d been hired to cover Joe’s classes had been assigned my classes as well. I objected; I was perfectly capable of teaching. Just because I couldn’t eat, and couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop shivering, and couldn’t stop crying whenever I heard music, there was no need to think I was in anything approaching a state of crisis. Was there?

  People treated me as if I were made of porcelain. Sophia took good care of Mom. Together they baked a different variety of scone for me every day. Greg brought mystery novels. Monica held all my calls. Earlene cooked wonderful meals; she was into Mexican cuisine at the moment. I was, to say the least, well cared for.

  ***

  After all the bone and all the blood and all the sirens; after the official questioning, the shaky answers, the appearance of a savvy college attorney; after the treatment for shock, the medication, the psychological evaluation, I finally had been released from both police and medical custody. Before taking me home, Earlene accompanied me to my office to retrieve my purse and briefcase. There, holding place of honor on the desk, was my black-and-white-speckled tenure box, its documents intact. The attached memo from the director of custodial services read:

  Professor Pelletier, we apologize for misplacing your file box. Ricardo, the new custodian for Dickinson Hall, misunderstood the order to pick u
p a box for storage from another professor’s office. We hope this mistake hasn’t caused you any inconvenience.

  Inconvenience? No. I would say not. Not inconvenience. Major life trauma would be more like it.

  ***

  In any case, here we were, my friends and I, celebrating the submission of my tenure case to the English department, celebrating the solution of Joe Lone Wolf’s murder, celebrating—what?—the spiritual epiphany that had strengthened my warrior arm. I’d slammed McCutcheon good with that tomahawk, the butt of it, thank God, not the blade. It had whacked him in the left temple and knocked him cold. A copiously spreading pool of blood at first convinced me that I’d killed him. When Lieutenant Boylan showed up at the scene, he’d said, with his usual personal and political insensitivity, “Geez, what the hell you tryin’ to do—scalp the man?”

  But McCutcheon would live to go to trial, Felicity assured me, even though the case against him wasn’t quite rock-solid. Spaced out on pain killers, he’d confessed from his hospital bed that he’d supplied peyote for the anti-Columbus Day after-party, but had added a side treat for Joe of a dried poisonous mushroom—Destroying Angel—one cap of which was lethal. As he had told me, Joe was blackmailing him, threatening to publicly expose his plagiarism and thus scuttle his career. And since Joe was prepared to make the transition to a new persona, Clark didn’t have anything to hold over his head. Joe could simply vanish at will.

  “But,” I asked Felicity, “Will a confession obtained under the influence of palliative drugs hold up in court?

  With my testimony and that of the students who would testify that McCutcheon was at the party, Felicity said, the D.A. would make damn sure it did.

  ***

  As the appetizers were delivered, the student server placing a small turquoise plate of ceviche in front of me, my friends listened to my tale of mystical warriors with various degrees of amusement and concern. The amusement ticked me off. Spearing a perfect, coral-hued shrimp, I continued, “I’m a rational twenty-first-century scholar. I don’t believe in the supernatural. It must have been a hallucination. But…” I finished up, my voice wavering. “It was such a powerful experience. Somehow it changed me.”