Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  “No, no. I mean….”

  “I know what you mean,” the General said. “At ease, Jack. Any friend of Rachel’s is all right with me. And neither one of us are in uniform anymore. Here, let’s get those coats off.”

  Jack reminded himself that there was no need to be nervous. Rachel had said they would have plenty in common. Yeah, Jack thought. I’ve studied history, and her father had made some.

  Mrs. Cook took their coats from her husband and put them in a hall closet. The couples walked into the foyer, across glistening wood floors, and past a finely carved wraparound stairway. The ceilings were high, maybe ten to twelve feet. They turned left into a spacious living room. Centered on the far wall was a brick fireplace. Above the hearth, hung a large oil painting of the Wright Brothers’ first flight at Kitty Hawk. A fire danced around a stack of logs.

  “You three sit down,” Mrs. Cook said. “I’ll have dinner out in just a few minutes.”

  “C’mon in, Jack,” the General said. “Warm yourself by the fire. Perfect temperature right now.” He sat in an overstuffed recliner.

  Jack obeyed. The fire was comforting. Standing there also gave him a few moments to regain his composure. Rachel walked up behind him, put her arms around his waist, and squeezed gently. That felt even better. He didn’t know what Mrs. Cook was preparing, but a pleasant aroma filled the room.

  “How was your drive over?” the General asked. “Road’s pretty slippery?”

  “They weren’t too bad,” Rachel said.

  “So, Jack,” the General continued, “Anna tells me you’re here to see a doctor.”

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “Is it a shrink?”

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know what to say.

  “If not, I suggest you see one soon. Getting mixed up with that crazy dame behind you.”

  Rachel led him to the sofa.

  “Take a load off, Jack,” the General said, pointing to the coffee table. “Anna’s got her museum collection in the parlor across the hall. You’ll wanna watch yourself in there. In here, we get comfortable.”

  Jack obeyed again. He appreciated the General’s efforts at breaking the ice. He didn’t know what he’d say if that job had been left to him. Rachel stepped over Jack’s legs and sat close beside him.

  The General reached over and picked up a pipe from a large ash tray. “Mind?”

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “I love the smell of a good pipe.” In moments, the penetrating scent of the General’s pipe complemented the smells coming from the kitchen. Jack stared at the General, smiling, longing to say something impressive, or at least nothing foolish.

  “You really like military history, Jack? I mean it’s more than just a job to you.”

  “Very much,” Jack answered, trying to refrain from saying sir.

  “It shows in your writing. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve enjoyed reading your articles in MHQ more than almost any military writer I know. When you write, it’s like I’m there. That’s something special.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And Culpepper’s a good school. That’s why I sent Rachel there. A number of my general buddies took their ROTC there. The military is one of the few disciplines where a knowledge of history is critical to success.” He took another puff of his pipe, releasing a pleasant aroma of blue smoke into the room. “Last time we talked, Rachel and I had an interesting chat about your Pearl Harbor lectures. I’d like to sit in on them someday. I’ve read quite a bit about the conspiracy theories myself.”

  “There’s a lot there,” Jack said, not wanting the conversation to head in that direction. He looked at Rachel, who gave him a reticent nod. Perhaps he could subtly change the subject. “Have you heard I’m writing another book?”

  “Yes I have. And I heard someone’s paying you to write it.”

  “That’s true, way more than I would have thought it’s worth.”

  “I doubt that. What’s the premise?”

  “It’s based on another series of lectures. Well actually, I’m not allowed to teach them anymore until after the book comes out.”

  “You can’t talk about it at all?”

  “I can. Just not publicly.” The General was smiling; Jack could see he was curious. The trick now was not to go overboard.

  “Would you call this public?”

  Jack took a deep breath. “No, we can talk about it. I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t want to bore you.”

  “That would be next to impossible,” Rachel said. “Daddy can out-bore just about anybody.”

  “See?” the General said, smiling. “She’s getting me back for the crazy remark.”

  Jack gave the General an overview of his new book about how radically different World War II would have been if the military leaders had to deal with a hi-tech 24/7 news media. The General sat back in his recliner, puffing on his pipe. Was he bored? Was he angry? Had Jack gone too far? He decided to take a measurement and paused.

  For a few moments, the General did not respond. Then he said, “Anna hasn’t rung the dinner bell yet, Jack. She won’t let us talk shop at the table. Finish what you’re saying.”

  That was a good sign. “Well, let me give you an example of this cover-up attitude that existed in World War II. Ever heard of a little fiasco called Operation Tiger? It was a D-Day exercise that went terribly wrong.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  Jack went on to explain the details. When he’d finished, there was a noticeable tension in the room, not unlike the tension he felt after one of his lectures. It seemed appropriate then, even desirable. Not so much here. After a moment, the General sat up, stretched out his hand for a shake. “Jack, I appreciate your passion. And I think you’re onto something there. Something that needs to be brought out in the open more. I think your book will make for some lively discussions when it comes out.”

  Jack shook his hand, relieved.

  The General stood and walked to a built-in bookshelf, filled floor-to-ceiling with hardback books. “After dinner you’ll have to check out a few of these. They’re mostly military history. I’ve got two more racks in my den upstairs, but these are my favorites.”

  “I’d love to,” Jack said.

  “You can take a few home, if you’d like. You won’t find some of these babies in a book store anymore. Many are first editions.”

  Anna Cook walked in from the formal dining room announcing to all that dinner was served. Jack and Rachel got up and followed the General into the dining room.

  “He never lets anyone borrow his books,” Rachel whispered, pinching Jack’s arm playfully.

  # # #

  The meal was a true feast. Filet mignon with bordelaise sauce, asparagus, homemade mashed potatoes and homemade sourdough bread. For dessert, they devoured Mrs. Cook’s cheesecake over a fresh pot of coffee. Jack enjoyed the atmosphere the most. All his fears of fitting in with the Cook family were washed away by the warmth, charm, and hospitality of Rachel’s parents.

  His biggest surprise had to be Rachel’s father. Jack had expected as much from her mom, but getting to know the General turned out to be a pleasant surprise. He’d even suggested Jack and Rachel stay over another night. Maybe go to church with them on Sunday and head home after Sunday dinner.

  By the time he’d turned in for the evening, he felt rejuvenated, like the misery of his dream neurosis lie a million miles behind him.

  # # #

  Rachel was delighted with the outcome of the evening. She knew her dad was taken with Jack. That would make him, officially, the first man she’d brought home that he had ever approved of. Her mom registered her approval from the first moment they walked through the front door, raising her eyebrows behind Jack’s back as she took his coat. As they cleared the table, she had said as much several times, as her father entertained Jack in the living room.

  Later, after a few more pleasant hours of conversation, Jack began to yawn quite a bit. He finally excused himself. Rachel showed
him to his room, then returned to spend more time getting caught up with her mom.

  33

  Boyd couldn’t believe it…another Saturday morning ruined. Instead of eating an omelet his wife had made special for him that morning, Boyd was racing his unmarked car toward Culpepper University, blue lights blazing. The call said some student had just taken a flying leap off the tallest building on campus.

  What the heck?

  As he drove, he thought about a phone call yesterday afternoon with Dr. Hargrove, the Medical Examiner. The call was supposed to put the lid on the first case. As Boyd expected, Hargrove said the father’s drug concerns were no big deal. There were trace amounts of an insomnia drug in young Riesner’s body but not enough to affect his heart. Hank hadn’t found any prescription bottles in his personal effects, either. All three men agreed there was no mystery here. Riesner could have picked the pills up from anyone on campus, day or night.

  But now what, Boyd thought, another kid at the school dies in less than a week?

  Boyd turned into the main university parking lot, pulled his car into the first open faculty spot. He walked up a grassy embankment onto a double-wide sidewalk. A small crowd of students circled the body of a young man who lay twisted and contorted on the cement walkway. A pool of blood expanded beneath his head and neck.

  “Geez,” Boyd said as he got his first look.

  Hank Jensen pointed. “He jumped from up there.” Hank was the first officer on the scene.

  Boyd looked straight up the six-storied wall of the Jefferson Administration Building. The morning sun pierced through the gray sky at that moment, blinding his eyes. His head swirled through a brief moment of vertigo. He looked down and refocused on the kid’s body. “Could somebody cover him up, Hank?” Boyd looked away. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “Dobbs is getting a sheet from the trunk,” Hank said.

  “Dobbs?” Boyd said, remembering he was the same kid who screwed up the Ralph Riesner scene.

  “I think he can manage fetching a sheet, Joe.”

  “Where are the others? We need them on this crowd.”

  “They’re on their way, should be here any minute.”

  “Let’s push this perimeter back a bit. I’m feeling a little cramped.”

  “Sure, Joe. I can do that. Okay folks, let’s back it up. This isn’t a show.”

  “Is he…dead?” asked a blond coed.

  “Yes ma’am, he’s dead. Let’s back it up. Why don’t you all go back to what you were doing before? We’ll handle this.”

  Of course, no one left. In fact, the crowd grew in size. Amidst the clamoring voices, gasps and sighs added to the mix as new onlookers joined and were updated by the rest. Officer Dobbs pushed his way through the crowd, yellow sheet in tow. He unfolded it and flapped it once in the wind, flinging an eight-inch adjustable wrench through the air. It made a loud clang as it bounced on the sidewalk.

  “Watch out!” Boyd yelled. Fortunately, no one got hit.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” Dobbs said. He ran over and quickly pocketed the wrench. “Must have been inside the sheet.”

  He draped the sheet reverently over the body. Boyd stood behind him. Dobbs turned to face Boyd, fumbling for something to say. “Two student deaths in a week,” he said. “That’s gotta be some kind of a record around here.”

  “Do we know his name?” Boyd asked Dobbs. “Anyone know the kid’s name?”

  “I’ll see,” Dobbs said, “Does anybody know this guy’s name?” he shouted to the crowd.

  Boyd rolled his eyes. “I coulda done that.”

  The murmuring intensified, but there was no singular response. Finally, a young man said, “I don’t know his name, but I know he goes here. I’ve seen him walking around a lot, going in and out of classes.”

  “He’s definitely a student,” Dobbs said, as if Boyd didn’t hear.

  “Did you think to check for a wallet?” Boyd bent down next to the body.

  Dobbs just looked at him dumbly.

  Boyd reached under the sheet below the mid-section of the boy’s body, patting his back pockets. He instantly recoiled his hand. The body was so twisted, his back pockets weren’t where they were supposed to be. His upper half was lying face down, while the lower half was turned, facing upwards. His hip had obviously disintegrated in the fall. Boyd swallowed hard and reached in again, gently lifting the body to reach underneath for the back pockets. He wrestled a wallet free and stood back up.

  “Jared Markum,” Boyd read aloud, as he stared into the youthful face on his driver’s license. His mind immediately flashed to a similar scene in Riesner’s apartment.

  “That’s Jared Markum?” a woman’s voice cried out from the crowd. “It can’t be! Not Jared!” The woman broke through the crowd line. She was well-dressed, in her late forties or early fifties, possibly of Italian or Greek descent.

  “You know this man?” Boyd asked.

  “I’m Mrs. Trocolli, one of his teachers. Why would he do such a thing?” She was holding back tears. “He was so bright. He had so much to live for. This doesn’t make any sense!”

  Police sirens suddenly pierced the air. Boyd looked up in time to see two patrol cars racing into the main parking lot. Several students darted out of their way.

  “What are they doing?” Boyd yelled. “The kid’s already dead. They wanna kill somebody else?”

  Hank Jensen nodded.

  “Has the M.E. been called yet?” Boyd asked.

  “On his way. It’ll be a while, though.”

  Boyd turned back to the woman. “Excuse me, Ms. Trocolli did you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This address here on his student ID card,” Boyd said. “Isn’t that one of the dorms around here?”

  She glanced at the card. “Yes. It’s that building right over there. Do you see, between those two big trees?”

  Boyd looked up. “So, if he’s staying in a dorm, guess that means he’s really from out of town. Any idea where? We’re gonna need to contact his folks.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know him that well. But I can find out for you. I’ll go look it up right now.”

  “That would be very helpful, Ma’am.”

  “This is so terrible,” she said as she turned and walked away.

  “Hank?”

  Hank gave a few parting instructions to the patrol officers and came over to Boyd. “Yeah, Joe?”

  “Anyone been up on the roof yet? How do we know he didn’t jump out of a window?”

  “I don’t think it was a window—judging by where he landed.” Both men looked up at the even rows of windows in the various floors of the building, each forming geometric diagrams in their heads.

  “You’re right. It’s the roof,” Boyd said. “Anyone been up there yet? Do we have a suicide note?”

  “I’ll go up right now,” Hank said.

  “I’ll go up with you. Do you think these guys can handle things down here?”

  “I think so.”

  “Hey, Dobbs?” Boyd yelled.

  “Yessir, Sergeant?”

  “Hank and I are going up on the roof. Come get me if the M.E. shows up.”

  “I will, Sergeant.”

  As Boyd and Hank walked through the front doors, a handful of students were hanging out in the lobby, whispering and pointing as the two men walked by. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit edgy, Hank. It’s just everything’s been so quiet around here since I arrived, and now this—two dead kids in a week. And that guy Dobbs is really getting on my nerves.”

  “It’s all right, Joe. But, hey…it could be worse.”

  “How’s that?” Boyd asked.

  “At least there’s no foul play involved. We got, what, a heart attack with the first kid and now a probable suicide? We could be saddled with two murder investigations.”

  When they got to the roof, they didn’t find a note. No trace that anything had occurred here in the last several years except air conditioning maintenance. Boyd picked the approximate
spot where he thought Markum must have jumped and carefully made his way to the edge. He peeked over the short wall. There was the yellow sheet on the sidewalk below, looking like a bull’s-eye surrounded by a wide circle of onlookers. He straightened back up and scanned the view of the campus. It was definitely the tallest structure of the school.

  Boyd decided it would be a great place to jump if jumping was your thing.

  # # #

  An hour later, Boyd and Hank were searching through Jared Markum’s dorm and talking with students who roomed nearby. No suicide note had been found, but Boyd noticed a half-dozen books about the Holocaust stacked on Markum’s desk. Several of his friends commented on an unusual depression that had come over Markum in the last two weeks. One friend, a short dark-haired kid who roomed next door, was particularly helpful.

  “Sometimes Jared would rattle on and on about the Holocaust,” the friend said, “real irrational stuff, as though he somehow blamed himself for what happened to the Jews. He’s not even German or Jewish, I asked him. He talked about horrible things the SS guards had done to the Jews, but not like it was sixty-something years ago, like he was one of them. Talking in the present tense. I went into his room a couple of mornings ago—we’ve got this class together, so we walk together—and he was just sitting on his bed, staring up into the corner. I said, ‘Hey Jared, you ready?’ I had to say it three times. Then he mumbles on and on about those poor Jews, and what had he done, like he’d just killed one of them himself. It was weird. I tried talking some sense into him, but I couldn’t get through. I just left him sitting there.”

  This was definitely odd. Several other students crowded around, nodding their approvals to what the kid said. One added that he was pretty sure Markum’s girlfriend back home had dumped him recently. Boyd wrote all this down, though it seemed incidental to the case. The kid jumped. A big dose of depression, girlfriend gives you the heave-ho. He’d seen a lot of suicides back in Pittsburgh over a lot less.

  Just then a hand holding a crumpled half-sheet of paper was shoved in his face. Boyd looked up to see a heavy-set girl with a pleasant smile. “Here,” she said. “I think Jared wrote this. Sometimes he wrote poetry. Some of it was pretty good. I found this in the hall yesterday outside his room. I’m sure it’s his handwriting, but he didn’t sign it. I don’t know why I kept it. Maybe it will help.”