The brisk wind chilled her. She went below to the cabin and continued searching, not feeling particularly hopeful.
She searched in vain for the key. Then she turned to the radio. Her hopes rose. She’d never worked a marine radio before, but she was sure she could figure it out. No matter what she did, no lights lit up, no static, no sound, nothing. They’d disabled it. Of course.
She opened doors and drawers and found the first-aid kit again, but no flares, no signaling device, no whistle. She tried the horn. No sound.
Boats had to have life jackets, didn’t they? Surely her captors wouldn’t remove that necessary safety gear. Perhaps they were here belowdecks. She might chance swimming to shore, despite the chill, offshore wind, and strong current, if she could construct a sort of raft of life jackets.
None.
They had thought of that, too.
She stood in the center of the small cabin, bracing herself against the motion of the boat.
Tears welled up. She was frightened, she finally admitted to herself. Terrified.
What were her captors planning? With two weeks’ supply of food on board, was she imprisoned here for two weeks?
With all that food aboard, they must not intend to kill her. Why would they? It must be mistaken identity. She was no threat to anyone, owned nothing of value, had no enemies. What insane reason was behind her captivity?
She couldn’t stay here for two weeks. She simply couldn’t. She had to get those papers to the journal within the week to meet that deadline. After all the work she’d done. If they didn’t get published this year, the tenure committee would never, ever, approve her tenure application. Never.
Damn all tenure committees. Crabby old men. Retaining the status quo. Medieval. Academic freedom? Hardly. But she had to get their approval. She had to. Period.
She wiped away the incipient tears with the back of her hand and lit the two-burner alcohol stove. While the water was heating, she looked through the boat’s papers. The owner was a Bruce Steinbicker, a name that seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
The water started to boil, so she put the boat’s papers back in their zippered waterproof case and made a cup of tea (there was no coffee). She found a package of oat-bran rusks, slathered a couple with raspberry jam, then eased herself onto the settee behind the table, balancing her breakfast of tea and rusks against the pitching and swaying and rolling of her prison.
Think! Think!
Someone had planned this imprisonment carefully. Anchored offshore with no escape, no way to contact anyone, every object that could help her removed or disabled, and a two-weeks’ supply of food.
If only she could contact one of her three Island students. They were loyal. They cared for her. They would get her out of this crazy mess.
CHAPTER 18
Victoria sat patiently in the West Tisbury Police Station waiting for Casey to get off the phone. Sergeant Junior Norton was at his desk sharpening pencils with a mouse-shaped pencil sharpener. He stuck a pencil in the mouse’s mouth and twisted, and the mouse squeaked.
Victoria smiled. “You won’t have much left of your pencils, Junior.”
Junior held up the sharpener and wiggled its ears. “Amazing what they think of these days.”
Casey set the phone down. “That was Sergeant Smalley, Victoria. He says Mrs. Hamilton is worrying over nothing. He talked to Jodi’s husband, Jonah, who said she’s gone off Island for a weeklong conference.”
“Jodi mentioned it to me,” said Victoria. “She asked to be excused from classes.”
“She’s got her cell phone. Jonah says she checks in with him and the boys regularly.” Casey leaned back. “We needn’t worry about Professor Chadwick’s absence.”
Victoria scratched at a rough spot on the back of her hand. “There’s something odd about the situation, though. Why would Roberta neglect her cat? Or leave the papers on her table? Why didn’t she take her car?”
“Jodi probably drove.”
“Jodi and Jonah have only one car. A Jeep. She wouldn’t have left Jonah with the four boys and no car.”
Casey turned to her sergeant. “Cut it out, will you Junior? You’re driving me nuts with that squeaking thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Junior dropped the mouse into his desk drawer and scraped the pile of pencil shavings into the wastebasket.
“Professor Chadwick is undoubtedly at the conference,” said Casey. “Probably forgot the cat.”
Junior brushed pencil shavings off his hands. “I checked with the Steamship Authority, Chief. No Paloni or Chadwick booked passage over the past three days.”
Casey sighed in exasperation. “They probably used one of the other student’s cars. We’ve got murders to worry about, Victoria. A whole bunch of them. We can’t get distracted over a problem that doesn’t exist.”
The phone rang and Junior answered. He said “Yes, sir” several times and hung up.
“What was that about?” asked Casey.
“Smalley wants us to help with crowd control at the college tomorrow and Sunday. Seems Brownie has been hard at work, and the public is gathering around.”
“Another body? This takes precedence.” Casey stood.
Victoria, too, stood and headed for the door. “I don’t like the feel of her disappearance.” She turned at the door. “Has anyone checked to see if there is such a conference?”
“Come on, Victoria.” Casey sighed in exasperation. “Loosen up, will you?”
* * *
The Ivy Green College campus was pitted with excavations, seven in all. Led by Brownie, the forensics team had worked steadily. The entire block was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and both Tisbury police and West Tisbury police helped with crowd control.
Even though it was Saturday and a glorious day for fishing or walking on the beach or hiking the Island’s trails, half the population seemed to have gathered around the perimeter of the dug-up area. There was a continual buzz of questions, of comments, of concern, of fear.
A serial killer was at work.
Brownie, Walter’s dog, seemed to understand his importance. His scruffy coat had become glossy. His eyes shone. His ears had perked up. His tail stood out straight behind him like the wing feather of a great raptor. He held his head up and his pink tongue didn’t so much hang out as add to the effect of Dog on the Spot. He wore a new bright red collar that Walter had purchased from Good Dog Goods.
Walter held the matching leash and stood out of the way, mourning the mess of his beautiful lawn yet preening at the success of his masterful corpse-sniffing canine.
Thackery was nowhere to be seen.
Every one of the four corpses identified had been a faculty member at a college or university. Four had yet to be identified. The known victims were all tenured faculty members. The dates of burial went back at least seven years.
“How come nobody reported any of these guys missing?” Joel Killdeer, the head forensics specialist, asked of nobody in particular. He smoothed his glistening, freshly shaved scalp. “Four profs, maybe eight.” He chewed, mouth open. “Not one soul cared enough to ask where they were?” He snapped his gum and there was a faint fruity aroma.
The state troopers and Tisbury cops continued to dig up the site of Brownie’s latest discovery.
“Sabbaticals?” Tim, the state trooper, paused in his work to wipe his forehead with a red bandana.
“Sabbaticals come once every seven years. They don’t last seven years,” said Killdeer.
“Fieldwork, then. Leaves of absence? Assignments to another university?” Tim tucked his grubby bandana back into his pocket. “Professors get buried in their ivory towers all the time and don’t appear until they retire. Nobody notices, once they’ve got tenure.”
“C’mon, Tim. Back to work!” barked his co-digger. “We don’t have all day.”
“Close to full moon tonight,” said Killdeer. “You can dig all night by the light of the moon.”
Tim bent down over his
work again. After a couple of minutes he brought his arm up to block his nose. “Jee-zus Kee-rist! Lemme outta here. Another one.”
* * *
The Ivy Green College Oversight Committee reconvened on the Ivy Green campus the next day. Professor Bigelow led the march up the hill from the ferry to the muddy shambles that was once splendid green lawn. Hammermill Jones strode along next to him, puffing slightly at the pace set by the older but more athletic Bigelow.
Math professor Petrinia Paulinia Kralich, the newest member of the committee, followed along with Cosimo Perrini, romance languages; Noah Sutterfield, African studies; and Reverend Bob White, religious studies.
“I’m so sorry Dedie’s no longer with us,” said Professor Perrini. “I’m happy for her, of course, that she was offered that wonderful position, but, still…”
“But, still,” replied Professor Kralich, “she quadrupled her salary.” Professor Kralich’s white hair floated halfway to her waist and lifted slightly with each step she took. In her sixties, Kralich was tall and gaunt, her face a wrinkled dried apple. Granny glasses, of course. She had gathered up the hem of her long diaphanous lavender-and-green printed skirt, which apparently had impeded her. Exposed unshaven legs ended in combat boots. She held a briefcase. Although her boots seemed almost too heavy to lift, she was outpacing her two younger colleagues.
“A great loss to the university,” said Professor Sutterfield, switching his own briefcase to his left hand. “Certainly to the oversight committee.” He brushed his dark forehead with the back of his hand. “Warm for this season.”
“Am I walking too fast for you?” asked Professor Kralich, slowing her pace slightly.
“Not at all,” said the Reverend White. “Speaking of Dedie Wieler, the university’s loss is the business sector’s gain.” He cleared his throat and added in a reverent tone, “A bright, spiritual woman.”
Professor Kralich turned, not slowing her pace. “Spiritual?” She guffawed. “Dedie? She’s a dyed in the wool atheist.”
The Reverend White flushed.
Cosimo Perrini said, “Bigelow and Hammermill are getting awfully far ahead of us.”
“Do we know where we’re going?” asked Professor Kralich.
“Left onto Greenleaf, where you see the crowd,” said Sutterfield. “That’s the Ivy Green campus.”
Yellow plastic tape fluttered in the light breeze. The hum they’d heard as they approached became distinct voices. The words “serial killer” echoed through the crowd gathered in the shade of the tall oaks.
Professors Bigelow and Hammermill had crossed the street and were waiting for the other four members.
Bigelow looked at his watch. “We need to step lively. Lot to discuss with Dr. Wilson, and I want to catch the three-forty-five boat back to the mainland.” Bigelow’s khaki trousers were still sharply creased, his shirt still seemed freshly ironed, his blue blazer pressed.
Hammermill was sweating. He undid the second button of his hibiscus-printed Hawaiian shirt exposing straggly gray chest hairs.
Someone in the crowd pointed to the six IGCOC members, and the noisy hum of voices died.
“What on earth are you staring at?” said Professor Kralich in a loud voice. “Ghouls.”
Hammermill wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief, and put his handkerchief away. “They think we’re next. Eight bodies. Eight professors…”
“We don’t know that they’re all professors,” said Cosimo Perrini gently. “Only four, so far.”
“I’m quitting this committee as of now,” sputtered Hammermill. “This place gives me the willies.”
Bigelow smoothed his mustache and frowned. “Don’t be such an ass, Hammermill.”
CHAPTER 19
Victoria and Casey met with Sergeant Smalley and Dr. Joel Killdeer at the state police barracks on Monday morning. The barracks was a quaint Victorian building painted a soft Colonial blue. A picket fence was out front.
They met again around the conference room table with yellow pads and pencils at each place. Trooper Tim Eldredge carried in a tray of coffee and doughnuts, and plugged the coffeepot into a wall outlet to stay hot.
Smalley introduced Dr. Killdeer, who nodded at Victoria. “Seems to me we met a few bodies back, Mrs. Trumbull.”
They shook hands. He was taller and more slender than Victoria had recalled, completely bald, his skin dark and polished. He was wearing a yellow collared knit shirt that showed off broad shoulders and muscular arms.
Victoria said, “I believe Brownie had just unearthed the third victim. And now there are, what, four more?”
“Five more,” said Killdeer. “Total of eight so far, and that dog is still sniffing around.” He sat to Victoria’s right, Smalley to her left, and Casey next to Killdeer.
Casey unfastened her utility belt and hung it on the back of her chair with a heavy thunk. “Eight deaths, and no one reported them missing?”
Smalley poured coffee into mugs. “They were reported missing from their own locales, but nobody tied their absence to the Island. “Coffee, Doc?”
“I’ll pass,” said Killdeer.
Smalley handed a mug to Victoria and a mug to Casey, who reached for the sugar.
“Brownie is quite remarkable,” said Victoria.
“A natural. One in a million. Who’d have thought that flea-bitten cur would be a champ?” Killdeer brought out a package of chewing gum and held it up. “Anyone?”
Head shakes around the table. “No, thanks.”
“I told Walter he could retire on what he’d get for that dog,” continued Killdeer, stripping the foil wrapper from a stick of gum.
“You mean, sell Brownie?” asked Victoria. “I don’t think so.”
Killdeer folded the gum into his mouth and Victoria marveled at his splendid white teeth.
Smalley cleared his throat. “We called you in, Mrs. Trumbull, because you are not only part of law enforcement on the Island”—at this, Victoria smiled—“but as a faculty member of Ivy Green, you are in a unique position to help the investigation.” He pulled his scratch pad toward himself. “Dr. Killdeer can explain where things stand as of now.” He picked up his pencil and nodded at Killdeer, who was chewing steadily.
“I’m ready to help in any way I can,” said Victoria, attempting to sound modest. “Have you determined how the victims were killed?” She looked from Smalley to Killdeer, and clasped her hands on top of her own yellow pad.
Killdeer looked across the table at Smalley, who lifted his hand. “It’s okay, Doc. Go ahead.”
Killdeer leaned back in his chair. “Most were strangled, possibly a cord or wire with handles at each end. Two may have been asphyxiated. Buried alive.”
Victoria scribbled a note on her pad.
Killdeer crossed brawny arms over his chest. “Eight corpses. The first was the one you found in that old garage…”
Loyal to Thackery Wilson, Victoria said, “That’s Catbriar Hall, our auditorium and classroom.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Killdeer grinned. What teeth! “Brownie’s first find was underneath that poisonous vine.”
“Poison ivy,” said Victoria.
“Whatever.” He snapped his gum and eyed her. “Brownie’s second find—the third body—was where, I understand, your class usually met.”
Victoria nodded.
“Once we turned Brownie loose, he located five more. Diggers having a hard time keeping up with that dog.” He grinned again.
Victoria twisted her pencil around in her gnarled fingers. “You’ve identified four of the eight so far.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Killdeer looked up as Tim Eldredge came into the conference room and gave him a printed sheet. “’Scuse me a moment.” He studied the paper, chewing steadily, then passed it to Smalley. “Fax from Sudbury.”
“Autopsy report?” asked Casey.
Killdeer nodded. “Fifth and sixth bodies ID’d. Males. College professors. Range in age from around forty-five to under sixty-five.”
> “Where were they from?” Casey brushed her doughnut crumbs into a tidy pile beside her scratch pad.
“Two from Cape Cod University. Two from Ohio. One from Florida. One from Ontario, Canada.” He studied Victoria. “Thoughts, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Were they all tenured professors?”
“Let’s see that fax again, John,” said Killdeer, holding out his hand for the paper. He looked it over again and shook his head. “Doesn’t say.”
“I don’t suppose it would,” said Victoria, thinking. “How far back do the killings date?”
“Seven years, best guess.” The gum snapped.
Victoria dropped her pencil onto the table. Her thoughts were of Roberta Chadwick and her desperation for tenure. “I can imagine someone who’d been denied tenure at some point. Rage built up and finally, seven or so years ago, that anger pushed him—or her—over the edge.”
“Hundreds of Ph.D.’s denied tenure,” said Killdeer.
Casey dipped the remains of her doughnut into her coffee. “It won’t be the first time someone tried to kill off her tenure committee.”
“Do we assume our killer is male?” Victoria asked.
“Most likely,” Killdeer answered. “There are female serial killers, but most are males. A female’s more likely to use poison.”
“It was a female who shot up her tenure committee,” said Casey, defending the role of woman as killer.
“Why would the killer choose the Ivy Green campus to bury his victims?” asked Victoria. “Were all the victims killed on campus?”
“No way of knowing.” Killdeer leaned back again, arms folded, and watched Victoria. “Keep talking.”
She looked down at her coffee, at the swirls of steam rising from the surface. “The victims were most likely visiting the Island and were probably killed here. It would be cumbersome to transport bodies on the ferry.” She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes against the steam.
Casey said, “The Steamship Authority requires a passenger ticket for a corpse.”
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