Moffat's Secret

by J. C. Williams

  “You obviously impressed them,” the detective commented.

  “But not you?”

  The detective gave Chad a long look. Chad recognized an interrogation trick. To keep from talking more, Chad made his own observations about the detective. He was bigger than Chad. Not taller. Wider. More muscle. Medium length brown hair flopped over his forehead pointing to a hardened face, worry lines, rings below the eyes, and a noticeable scar on the right cheek that extended to the chin. Dark brown eyes revealed nothing. Or, perhaps, Chad thought, they are a window to MacDonald’s soul. If so, it was a dark, mistrusting, seen-it-all soul, blackened by the horrible things one human could do to another.

  “Not yet,” he finally said. “But I’m an open minded guy.”

  “I’m happy for you, Detective. If you’ll excuse me I have some work to do.” Chad started up the aisle to the exit doors.

  MacDonald didn’t move. He raised his voice just a little. “Professor, you don’t have another class for three hours. Why don’t you come with me?”

  Chad turned and flashed the boyish smile one more time. “I’d be happy to help you, Detective. So nice of you to ask.”

  Chapter 9

  Archer broke the uncomfortable silence. “Nice car. You keep it clean. What is this? A Crown Victoria?”

  Detective MacDonald, took his eyes from the road and turned toward his passenger. “This car is special for you. The lieutenant told me to get a clean one from the pool. Mine is five years old and has fast food trash filling the back seat.”

  Chad winced at this. He liked orderliness and cleanliness. It was at odds with his profession of archeology where the excavations were always digging in dirt. However, his mentor, Dr. Henry Clark, was even more orderly and more obsessive. Doc recognized his OCD and admitted the irony of being a digger.

  “What do you drive?” the detective asked.

  “Honda Fit. It’s five years old, too.” It wasn’t, but Chad thought they needed some common interests to generate conversation.

  “Tell me more about forensic history,” the detective said. “I usually think of forensics as evidence for a crime. I understand forensic accounting. Is your forensic history about archeology, digging up bodies?”

  “Not really, detective. Forensic archeology is where the techniques used in a good excavation are applied to digging up evidence or a body. It’s about grids, careful digging, logging information, and most important preserving evidence. Forensic history can use archeological information, but it’s just one source of information. Forensic comes from the Latin forensic, meaning …”

  “Before the forum,” MacDonald interrupted. “Like before the Roman public, in a forum.” He turned and grinned at Archer. “Irish Catholic. Had to take Latin. By the way, call me Mac.”

  That’s progress, Chad thought.

  “Correct, Mac. So, one needs to take into account the historical information, more specifically, the history, the trends, the related information of individuals, events, objects, weather, geography, and so many other factors. With all of that information, then logical conclusions can be reached.”

  “Conclusions about a crime,” stated the detective.

  “Not necessarily. Perhaps a crime. It could be about an event. Or, some fact that you wish to present and prove to the forum.”

  “Like the existence of the ark of the covenant, the assignment you gave your class.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you assign crimes to the class as well? Historical crimes?”

  “Do you mean like Jack the Ripper? Or D.B. Cooper, who hijacked a plane in 1971 and parachuted out with the money?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “I could. But, the problem usually is the difficulty in obtaining enough facts. We could, perhaps, get files about Jack the Ripper. Maybe not D.B. Cooper. The FBI has them. We did look at the death of Edgar Allen Poe. That was a mysterious one. No death certificate, conjecture about the cause of death, and he showed up wearing someone else’s clothes.”

  “How about OJ? Did you review him?”

  “You mean Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman? No. We did Jimmy Hoffa, last semester. I sometimes assign teams of students to visit the Boston police and ask to work on a cold case. We usually do ‘Who is Shakespeare’ or determine if one person wrote all of the works ascribed to him.”

  “Did he write them all?” Mac asked.

  “You’ll have to take the class,” Chad chuckled.

  Mac drove them through town to the south side of Boston.

  “What did you do for Interpol?” he asked Archer.

  “Not much. I was in France the first time that I helped. Some of the artifacts from our dig were stolen. They were contentious finds. They had come from Italy with the Romans. Italy claimed them. France claimed them. Interpol was called in because of the international nature of the issue. Italy would not trust the local gendarme. At first the police focused on the two groups that were most vocal from each country who had a claim. I was hanging about and proposed some questions regarding the history of each group, the history of these artifacts, and the general history of artifacts. Their investigations led them to other robberies involving artifacts from several countries. Eventually they uncovered a theft ring that supplied private collectors.”

  “That’s what you do? Ask questions?”

  “Sure. And observe. And most importantly try to identify what other information may be needed to fit a premise.”

  “So you come up with a theory and then get the facts to support it. That’s not good police work. You should get the facts and let the facts tell the story.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that I just get facts to make a theory work and ignore other facts. I use theories or possibilities to determine what other areas detectives need to investigate. All of the facts have to be used to accurately present to the forum, whoever that might be.”

  “H-m-m-f-f,” was Mac’s response.

  “Where are we going and what is the murder case?” Chad asked as they drove into South Boston.

  He hadn’t been to this part of Boston for a while. It was constantly changing, and was markedly different than just a few years earlier. Renovation fever and money had reached South Boston. It had been mostly Irish with pockets of other strong ethnic neighborhoods – Polish and Lithuanian in particular. Property values had soared. It was commonly called Southie. In addition to a waterfront, neighborhood bars, and some businesses, it now boasted newer and well-frequented nightclubs. The old and run down homes were mixed with the pricey remodels. Parking was an issue. The city recently put up a three-level parking garage, taking down some of the worst homes.

  “Almost there,” Mac informed him. “As far as the case goes, well, that’s why you’re here. To tell me what you see. What you think.”

  Chad read clearly the undisguised challenge in his words and tone.

  The homes gave way on West Broadway to an area of old time bars, new restaurants, and remodeled bars now called pubs. At this time of the day, the streets were nearly empty. The parking problem would start at five o’clock.

  Chad saw the yellow tape of the crime scene. The detective stopped just past it and parked his Crown Vic in front of the Bowlerama. Chad knew the place. As a teenager at Braxton College, he and his buddies would make Southie a night out destination. His friends were over twenty-one, and once in a while he’d get a beer if he hung about in the background. At eighteen, his boyish face looked fourteen.

  The yellow tape was only a few steps from the entrance to the Bowlerama. A uniformed officer stood idly, but diligently, next to the tape.

  The detective exited the car without a word and strode to the taped area. Chad followed.

  The detective exchanged words with the officer. In turn, the officer glanced toward Chad.

  Was that a sneer, Chad asked himself. He ignored the look and instead focused on the ground. There was a chalk outline of a body. A reddish stain on the sidewalk was in the middle of the outline.

&n
bsp; “So, professor, what’s your take?”

  “What do you mean, what’s my take?”

  The detective answered, “I don’t know the identity of the victim. I don’t know the perp, or perps, or a motive. What do you got?”

  “You brought me here to see a chalk outline?”

  “It’s more than you get with Jack the Ripper.”

  “I’d get a lot more info, Mac. You’re being stingy.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Chad thought the detective was clearly enjoying this. He moved away from the two policemen, walking twenty feet down the street. He held his hands out stopping traffic as he stepped off the curb. He looked both ways and returned to the taped area.

  Chad asked, “Was the victim wearing a tie. And, a sport coat? No, wait. Just a sport coat, no tie?”

  The detective consulted his notes.

  “Sport coat, no tie.”

  “Okay, then,” Chad said. “Your victim is a lawyer from Waltham. He was shot about ten last night in the stomach or chest and bled out. He had been in the Bowlerama. He met a woman there. She was blackmailing someone. Not him. He was delivering the money. He was hesitating to pay, or pay all of it. Her accomplice got mad and accidentally shot the lawyer. His keys are missing. You’ll find a picture of your perps on the parking garage camera footage down the block.”

  Mac was shaking his head. He and the uniform both started laughing. “Really, professor? How come you don’t have his name?”

  “You’ll find it in his car. It’s parked on D Street, five blocks back, just off Broadway. Can you get me a ride back to the college now?”

  Chapter 10

  Archer pushed up his pace. He wanted to finish quickly. The temperature was in the sixties now but would drop to fifty in another hour. He still had thirty minutes left on his ten-mile run and an hour of daylight.

  The Village of Walnut Hill is a quaint, yet modern, affluent location of twenty thousand people that nearly doubled in size with the addition of Braxton College’s fourteen thousand students. Chad’s route this afternoon was a random choice of directions. The south golf course, the cemetery, and the law school were behind him now. He turned onto the trail on the east side of the Walnut Hill Reservoir. The sun’s reflection on the water to his right seemed to provide closure to the afternoon’s visit to Southie with Detective MacDonald.

  As his legs pumped, he gazed across the reservoir. The expression ‘across the pond’ came to mind. Chad smiled to himself. Was this run about forgetting Southie or was it an attempt to stop thinking about the email he read two hours earlier.

  There was no reason he couldn’t go to England next week to join Henry. He already declared no-classes, and he could be available by email for any last minute term paper assistance. The only plans he had were to visit his folks in Taunton. He had no romantic attachment at the moment to consider.

  It wasn’t what Henry said in the email that intrigued and worried Chad. It was what Henry didn’t say. He went over the message once more:

  Chad,

  Can you get away for a few days next week? I can use your help. I’m getting closer but it is more complicated than I thought. I know it’s a late request. I’m hoping you can get time away. If I need to call the Dean, let me know. I’d like to keep this quiet. My employer will pay for the ticket. Let me know if you can come and I will book you to leave Monday night to arrive in England Tuesday morn. Can send you back next Sunday. In time for finals week!

  Thanks,

  Henry

  Doc’s emails had been less frequent since he took a sabbatical from teaching last fall. Four years ago, after the cave-in, Henry took a seat at the University of Georgia in Athens to be closer to his daughter. He had taught archeology at Braxton College for twenty-five years. Braxton and UG agreed to let him hold a position at both schools.

  His departure from teaching and living full-time at Braxton created a new chapter in Chad’s life. They had grown close from the time that Chad entered Braxton College at sixteen and through the summer excavations.

  Doc was circumspect about this job he took for an unnamed employer doing an unnamed research job that took him around the world from Egypt, to Israel, to Mexico, and now, evidently, to England.

  There was no doubt in Chad’s mind that he would go to England. He needed the change of focus. His mind was restless. It was like this every spring. He loved to teach. The progress and the education of the students were gratifying. The discussions and arguments were enlightening, as well as challenging. After three years of teaching, Chad knew he needed to write a book. Publish or perish was the axiom used in academia. He also knew he needed to lead his own digs in the summers instead of tagging along with Henry. Time to grow up and face the cold world on your own, Mr. Archer, he told himself. That was the dilemma. He wasn’t sure he wanted to continue his path in archeology. He felt there was a change needed. There was a distant siren calling to him but as yet he could not hear it clearly.

  That thought quickly disappeared as he turned into his block, a neat row of connected red-brick brownstones. Chad recognized the Crown Victoria parked in front of his address. In the fading light he saw the figure behind the wheel. Detective MacDonald.

  Chad tapped on the passenger window, getting the detective’s attention. Holding his hands out and facing up, Chad conveyed his best what’s up expression. The policeman climbed out.

  “Out of your jurisdiction twice in one day?” Chad questioned.

  “Yeah. I don’t get out of Boston enough. Lieutenant said if I keep this up he’s going to claim a few of my vacation days. He says hobnobbing out here isn’t real police work.”

  “Do you want to come in? I need to shower and change. Or, you can wait out here.”

  “I’ll come in.”

  Chad led the way through the front door.

  The door opened to the living room. The television, one sofa, a single easy chair, and a small desk hardly filled the spacious room. Two brightly colored throw rugs contrasted and brightened the dark hardwood floor. Several floor lamps filled the room with artificial light. No need for an overhead light in this room. Photos on the walls were a world-wide travelogue of excavations. Pyramids, mountains, caves, and jungles. Every type of climate was represented.

  “You’ve been around,” MacDonald commented, viewing the photos.

  Mac moved through a wide doorway to a dining area. A thick solid oak table and four chairs took up the entire space. A Frank Lloyd Wright design chandelier hovered over the large table. Walking through the next doorway, MacDonald entered a modern world of stainless steel appliances, pots and pans hanging over a center island, and granite countertops.

  “Nice place, professor. You know that you were mostly right this afternoon.”

  Chad screwed up his face and asked, smiling broadly as he said, “Really?”

  “You’re surprised?” Mac asked. “Were you just guessing?”

  “No. I’m surprised I was not a hundred percent right. How much was right?”

  “Let’s put it this way. You had enough right that my LT wonders if you were a part of it.”

  “So I’m a suspect?”

  “Probably.”

  “So you didn’t come all this way just to apologize and tell me I was right?”

  “Yeah, well that too. You got an alibi for last night?”

  Chad pondered this questioning. Was he really a suspect? Should he answer the questions? He did have an alibi.

  “I do have an alibi.”

  “Good enough for me,” the detective responded as he moved around the living room looking at books and pictures.

  Chad watched him for a minute, wondering why MacDonald accepted his alibi so easily.

  “You already checked me out didn’t you?” he asked the detective.

  “Oh you mean the Liberal Arts faculty dinner and meeting that lasted until eleven? Coroner puts time of death at ten thirty. Yeah, you’re solid.”

  Chad grinned at detective’s ga
me. “I need to shower. Do you want a beer? It’s in the fridge. You’re going to look at everything in here anyway. Help yourself.”

  Ten minutes later, Chad was showered, dried, and dressed.

  Chad popped a beer and joined the detective at the dining table.

  “So what did I get right?” Chad asked.

  “Pretty much all of it,” he responded. “How did you do it?”

  “Followed the evidence.”

  “You didn’t have any.”

  “You mean you didn’t give me any of yours. Well, actually you gave me several clues. I had the evidence that I needed, the history of what I saw.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It started with the car. On the edge of Southie, as you were driving, I saw a car parked where there was no need to park a car at that time of day. Right away I expected that if you called me, you didn’t know the victim, you had not found his car or a car. So I was on the lookout for it. It had a bumper sticker, Go Hawks. I grew up in this area. The only Hawks that I know is Waltham high school. It followed that he was from out of town and didn’t know how close he could park or not park. After passing through neighborhoods where there was no parking, he would take the first spot he saw, even if it were five blocks away. He didn’t know about the parking garage another block past the Bowlerama.”

  “Okay. That was good. How do you know he was at the Bowlerama?”

  “There are not any restaurants or bars on the other side of the Bowlerama, away from his car, on Broadway,” Chad said.

  “There are plenty on Broadway between his car and the Bowlerama,” Mac challenged.

  “There were, but if he was at one of them his body would have been between them and his car. Not further down the block. The Bowlerama was the past those other places.”

  “His body was pointing to the Bowlerama not toward his car.”

  “Exactly. He was shot facing his car’s direction, but he grabbed his stomach and turned back to where he just exited to get help.”