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That Sleep of Death

Page 25

by Richard King


  I couldn’t hear what he was saying to her. He pointed to the place on the table where the computer had been and the technician nodded. He said something else to her and she walked over to the table and used her pen to pick up an end, the end normally plugged into the computer, of a computer cable. Gaston nodded and smiled and the technician smiled back and nodded and held up two fingers. As he walked out of the office I could see the technician start to check the cable for fingerprints.

  He returned to where the three of us were standing after speaking to one of the cops who was standing around waiting for instructions. “The police will seal the scene when they’re done. When you want to leave, Officer Lapointe,” he indicated with his head the cop he had just spoken to, “will take you where you want to go. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  At that moment the young woman who was taking the fingerprints from the cable came over to Gaston and handed him the cable in a plastic evidence bag. He slipped it into his pocket and asked, “Vous avez trouvé …?”

  “Rien,” she replied.

  “Très intéressant, non?” Gaston turned and strode towards the main entrance to the Elwitt Building.

  I caught up and as we walked out of the building together I asked, “What was all that about?”

  “I asked Officer Bouchard to take a set of prints off the computer cable so I could take it with me, in case I need it. The interesting thing is that there were no prints on the cable.”

  “Why is that interesting? You plug in a computer and forget it.”

  “Exactly. So the prints, or more likely partial prints — because the wire is narrow — of the person who plugged it in should be on the cable. This cable was wiped clean by the murderer because he knew that his prints were on it when unplugging the computer to steal it.”

  “I see,” I said, though I didn’t.

  We walked out of the building.

  It was a beautiful sunny fall afternoon and I inhaled the fresh autumnal air deeply. I didn’t realize how claustrophobic I had found the building until we left it.

  “It’s important that we find Dean More,” Gaston said as he strode off in the direction of his office. I had to jog keep up and I was a little out of breath when we arrived at More’s office. His secretary told us that More was out; in fact had been out for most of the day at meetings. She didn’t know when or even if he would be back that day but she would be glad to arrange an appointment for us for the next morning. He would be free at eleven-thirty next Wednesday, she informed us.

  “I think not,” Gaston told her. “I want to speak to him today. If he returns or phones in please tell him to get in touch with me. Have him try my cellphone first.” He handed the secretary his card and indicated which of the phone numbers was his cellphone number.

  “I think we’ll try to find him at home,” Gaston said to me as we left the administration building. “We’re headed for Westmount, ninety-two Irving Street. That’s the address on his wife’s driver’s licence.”

  We hailed a cab, and Gaston gave the driver the address. I asked him if I could borrow his cellphone. He handed it to over; I called Jennifer to let her know that the boy detective was back on the case. I wanted to tell her that there had been another murder and that we were on the way to inform the victim’s husband, but I didn’t.

  “What’s the game plan?” I asked.

  “Look sad and let me do the talking,” answered Gaston. “This is going to be very delicate. Also, use your eyes. If you notice anything I miss, give me a sign.”

  I practised looking sad for the rest of the cab ride.

  The More house, about two blocks up the hill in Westmount, was a renovated three-story town house. The small lawn in front was well trimmed and a flower garden shored up by rocks nestled against the house. Either someone in the household had a very green thumb or the lawn and garden were professionally attended to. Knowing how Dean More liked to delegate and then take credit I suspected the latter.

  We mounted the three steps to the shiny black front door. There was a doorbell at the right and a polished brass knocker in the centre of the door. I rang the bell and we waited. I was about to try the knocker when Fred More opened the door. He was dressed pretty much the way we saw him at his office except that he had discarded his jacket and tie. He had a newspaper in his hand. I wondered what he was doing home at this time of day. Playing hooky?

  “What? You two again,” he said by way of a greeting. He looked as if he wanted to close the door in our faces, but Gaston strong-armed his way into the foyer with me close behind.

  “I’m afraid it can’t wait till tomorrow. May we come in?” Seeing as we were already in it seemed a redundant question. Dean More stood back so that we could get all the way into the house. The floor of the foyer was hard and white and flecked with silver: marble or granite, I assumed. To the left was a comfortable-looking wing-backed chair covered in a flower print upholstery. To the right of the door was a marble table and a mirror. The foyer opened onto a hallway and on the right I could see the entrance to the living room. About halfway down the hall there was a staircase leading to the upstairs rooms.

  There was a trench coat on the wingback chair in the entryway and as I passed it in response to More’s invitation to, “Come this way. We’ll talk in the living room,” I brushed against it. I hit something hard with my shin as I brushed the coat and it didn’t feel like something that hard would be a part of a chair. I was last, following Gaston and More into the house. I stopped for a split second to lift up the trench coat with the pinky of my left hand and saw a laptop computer hidden under the coat. It was probably Dean More’s computer but it could have been his wife’s. I wanted to show it to Gaston but couldn’t. He had rounded the corner into the living room. I caught up with him and although I looked solemn I was trying to think of a way to show him the computer hidden under the coat.

  The living room was large, longer than it was wide. It must have covered half the house. There was a bay window looking out onto Irving Street in the front and comfortable looking furniture spread throughout the room. The walls were light grey and the carpet was Oriental. At the back of the room was a fireplace, and next to the fireplace a black leather reclining chair where More had obviously been reading his paper. There was a Manet print on the chimney and knickknacks on the mantel. More invited us to sit down on the blue-grey sofa and he took the wing chair, the twin of the one in the foyer, opposite us.

  “What is it?” he asked abruptly. “I have to go out in an hour or so.”

  “I’m afraid what I have to tell you concerns your wife,” Gaston said in a slow and serious tone.

  “Jane?” Fred asked with panic in his voice. “Has something happened to Jane?”

  “I’m afraid so. There’s been another murder at the university.”

  More looked at him anxiously.

  “I’m afraid that this time your wife was the victim.”

  The dean looked as if he had been hit in the solar plexus. He went white, broke out in a sweat, and fell back in his chair. The newspaper he had been holding fluttered to the floor. He looked at us with uncomprehending eyes for a moment, then covered his face with his hands and rocked forward so that he was bent over, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He was making some kind of sound but I couldn’t tell whether he was crying or trying to catch his breath.

  “We are very sorry for your loss. I’d like to ask you a question or two and then arrange for you to make a formal identification of the body.”

  More rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sat up straight. “I can’t believe it. No one would want to kill Jane. She had no enemies, none.”

  “I promise you we’ll track down the murderer,” Gaston assured him. “Right now I’d like to know how long you’ve been home?”

  “Me? About an hour, why?”

  “I just want to get the chronology of your wife’s movements straight. Did you leave home before or after her?”

  “Be
fore,” said More in a hoarse voice.

  “Were you at your office today? I came looking for you this morning and couldn’t find you.”

  “I had a meeting off campus, which I discovered had been cancelled. My next appointment isn’t until later this afternoon, so I came home for a break.”

  “I see,” said Gaston. “Would that meeting be business or pleasure?”

  “Another academic meeting.” More sighed. “Academia runs on meetings. Of course, I won’t go now. Not now that… if you’ll excuse me, I have to telephone Jane’s parents … both of our families, and tell them. When can I see her?” His voice was regaining its strength. Dean More the smooth, efficient administrator was back. The bereaved husband’s appearance had been remarkably short, I thought. A suspicion suddenly began to form in my mind.

  “I want to arrange for the funeral,” More was saying in a huffy tone. “I’d think you’d be better off out catching the murderer than hanging around here asking pointless questions about my schedule.”

  “Yes. I understand.” The sympathy in Gaston’s voice actually sounded genuine. Could it be that he had no idea of the possibility that had so belatedly occurred to me? “We need to keep the body for a day or so in the case of a homicide. You’ll have to make a formal identification. Here’s the address.” Gaston took out one of his cards and wrote an address on the back. “If you’d be so good as to meet me there at ten tomorrow morning.” He stood up and prepared to take leave of the Dean.

  I couldn’t believe that we were just going to walk out. I had to find a way to show Gaston the computer concealed under More’s raincoat. If it was Jane’s it could be important, but I couldn’t just blurt out that there was a computer hidden under a coat. We weren’t there to search the place. But in a moment we’d be ushered to the door. I had to let Gaston discover it himself, but how could I? I had to give him a signal of some kind.

  We went into the front hallway, me first, Gaston second and More bringing up the rear — perhaps to ensure that we actually left. As I walked by the trench coat I stepped on the corner of it that was lying on the floor and dragged my shoe along so that I pulled the coat to the floor, exposing the computer.

  “Hey,” Fred shouted at me. “Be careful. That’s an expensive Burberry.” He bent over and picked up his coat and almost petted it like a cat, reassuring it that everything was OK.

  “Yes,” Gaston said. “It’s important to take care.”

  Fred thought that Gaston was chastising me for carelessness and gave me a smug little smile. I understood that Gaston was congratulating me for exposing the computer and I smiled right back.

  “Whose computer is this?” Gaston asked.

  “Mine,” More responded, sounding just a touch belligerent.

  “I’d like to try an experiment if I may,” Gaston told him.

  “What kind of experiment?” Fred’s face was expressionless.

  Without answering Gaston picked up the computer and headed back to the living room where I noticed there was a telephone on a long dark wood coffee table next to the reclining chair. Gaston set the computer on the coffee table, moving a newspaper and a book in the process, and opened the top.

  “Where’s the cable to plug it in?” he asked innocently.

  Relief washed over More’s face. “The cable?” he responded just as innocently. “I must have forgotten it at my office. I’m afraid I often do that. Why don’t you meet me there tomorrow? Whatever your experiment is, we can try it then.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gaston told him. “I happen to have an extra with me.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the cable we had found in Miller-More’s office and busied himself plugging the cable into the computer and into a wall socket. He then took the phone wire from the phone and plugged it into the computer. Then he pressed the power button.

  I took a covert peek at More. The look of relief had been replaced by a combination of anger and fear.

  The computer screen filled with the Windows icons and happily did not ask for a password. “This is what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to log in to your e-mail,” Gaston told More.

  “You have absolutely no right to read my mail. None whatsoever,” Fred said in a dull voice.

  “I don’t want to read your mail. I just want you to log in to your e-mail box. Once you’ve done that we can turn the computer off and we’ll leave.”

  “You know you’ve got your bloody nerve,” More protested, but his attempt at indignation was unconvincing. The will to be irate seemed to have left him. “My wife has been murdered, and you harass me about my computer? Don’t you think I deserve some sympathy, some time to mourn, to call Jane’s family and mine?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Gaston in a soothing voice. “And if you just co-operate with this one thing, I promise you we’ll leave.”

  Fred More looked at Gaston and looked at me and realized that he was cornered. He had a hell of a choice to make. He decided to gamble on logging in to his mailbox in the hopes that that would get rid of us.

  He bent over the computer and clicked on the Internet connect icon. The machine made some noises and I heard the dial tone, dialing, whoosh and shriek of a modem reaching out to another modem. When they connected, a new screen came up: “Welcome to Pandora. Please log in.”

  Fred typed “moref” at the login prompt and waited. The command, “Please enter your password” appeared on the screen. He typed something very fast so I could not make out what he wrote. Neither could the computer. After a moment it put this message on the screen: “Login and password do not match. Please try again.” He tried again and got the same response.

  “I’m so nervous and upset that I’ve forgotten my password,” he said peevishly.

  “Let me try,” said Gaston. At the login prompt he typed “millerj,” and at the password prompt he typed, “Janel.” The machine did not like his choice: “Sorry, password is incorrect. Try again.”

  “That’s interesting,” Gaston commented.

  “What? That you can’t log into my computer with any password you care to try? I hope it’s more secure than that,” More stated.

  “That’s my point exactly,” Gaston explained. “It is secure. You got a different message than I did. When you entered a login and a password the you were told that they didn’t match. When I tried I was told that the password was wrong.”

  “What of it?” More blustered.

  I was beginning to see where Gaston was heading. “I used a different login than you did,” he murmured, staring intently at More. The trap was about to snap shut on its prey.

  “Wha’? What?”

  “You typed ‘moref and I tried ‘millerj.’ The software recognized the ‘millerj’ login as belonging to this computer. It did not recognize your login.”

  “Well, that explains it then. I must have picked Jane’s computer up by mistake,” Fred said confidently, seeing light at the end of the tunnel.

  “Yes, I think you are right. But when did you pick up Jane’s computer? That’s the important question, isn’t it?”

  The blood drained out of Fred’s face leaving him looking an unpleasant shade of greenish white. He stumbled backward and fell into his chair as if he had taken a blow to the solar plexus. The light he saw at the end of the tunnel was a train coming at him and Gaston Lemieux was the engineer.

  Now all the sympathy was gone from Gaston’s demeanour. In a no-bullshit cop’s voice, he pronounced, “Dean More, I believe you are guilty of the murder of Harold Hilliard, your wife’s lover, and of your unfortunate wife, Jane Miller-More. But that will be decided by a jury.”

  chapter twenty-two

  Fred More’s face was white, and his hands were shaking violently. But somehow he found the will to keep his voice steady.

  “It’s my wife’s computer. It’s not a crime to pick it up by mistake.”

  “Monsieur More, est-ce que vous me prenez pour un imbécile? You didn’t pick your wife’s computer up by mistake. Yo
u slipped into her office yesterday and took it. It took some daring but not much. If she had discovered you in her office you would have claimed that you were looking for her and found her office door open. But she didn’t return to her office in the, what? twenty or thirty seconds it took you to sneak into her office, steal her computer and leave, did she? Yesterday I wasn’t sure why her computer was taken. Today I think I know the answer. But first things first.”

  Gaston paused for breath. Pulling up a chair, he sat facing Fred. He also paused so that what he said could penetrate Fred’s consciousness. I realized that he wanted More to understand the hopelessness of his situation. I too found a chair and pulled it over to where Gaston was sitting. I placed myself just behind him at his right elbow.

  Gaston continued, “You just told us that this morning you returned to your office and then went to a meeting, which was cancelled. We’ll check that. But whatever you did, you did not mistakenly pick up your wife’s computer. Not yesterday, not today. As I said, at the very least you removed evidence from the scene of a crime. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” More’s eyes were darting around now. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. It was obvious that he was panicking. “I went to Jane’s office to see if she had time for a coffee. Like I told you, my meeting was cancelled. I found her dead. I lost my head. I don’t know why, but I did. I know I should have called you but all I could think of was her message on Hilliard’s computer and I wanted to spare her memory any embarrassment so I took her computer and brought it home. I’m sorry. But I think that under the circumstances it’s hardly the crime of the century. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to call our families.”

  The dean obviously thought that tampering with evidence was a better crime to admit to than murder. Gaston was not to be put off that easily.

 

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