by Crider, Bill
"It could have been anybody," Burns said.
"I know that," Napier said. "I want some names."
"Get a copy of the college catalog," Burns said. "It has a list of all the faculty members."
Napier took a menacing step forward. "Nobody likes a smart ass, Barnes."
"That's Burns."
Napier leaned forward and put his palms on the table. "I could skin your sorry ass right here in this room and hang your hide out to dry," he said. "Maybe you did it."
Burns tried to speak, cleared his throat, then tried again. "You don't understand," he croaked. He could never recall having been threatened in his entire life.
"Damned right, I don't understand," Napier said. "I don't understand why a sorry-ass guy like you tries to make funny remarks. You aren't in a funny situation."
Burns had heard all sorts of rumors about how Napier had gotten his nickname. One was that he had developed a secret wrestling hold, akin to the notorious Von Erich "Iron Claw," which he used on recalcitrant prisoners—those he was sure had committed the crimes to which they refused to confess. The hold left no marks and caused permanent brain damage. It was also noised about that during deer season, Napier would retreat to a desolate lodge on a secluded hunting lease armed only with a bull whip and a .357 magnum. What he did there and to what or to whom he did it was supposedly too horrible to contemplate.
Oddly enough, in spite of the rumors and in spite of the fact that he had originally been intimidated, Burns found that he was not scared at all. "I'm not trying to be funny," he said. "It's just that . . . have you ever seen that movie, Murder on the Orient Express?"
Napier gave a light push with his forearms and stood upright again. "Movies? You're giving me movies now?"
"Let me explain, please," Burns said.
"I wish you would."
"Look," Burns said. "I'm trying. But you keep interrupting. Can't you just drop the intimidation routine for a minute?"
Napier looked shocked, but he said, "Okay. Tell it your way. But get on with it."
"You've probably seen the movie," Burns said. "It's been on television. It's the one where—"
"Wait a minute," Napier said. "Is that James Bond guy in it? Only without his rug on? What's his name? Donnelly?"
"Sean Connery," Burns said. "Yes. He's in it. In the end . . ."
"Okay," Napier said. "I see what you mean. You think everybody in the school catalog had a hand in this business?"
"Of course not," Burns said. "But I expect that everybody in there had a motive. Dean Elmore was not universally loved and respected."
"Nobody liked him, huh?"
"Nobody. Well, President Rogers didn't seem to mind him, but aside from him—"
"—nobody."
"Right."
"Including you."
"Including me," Burns said. "But I was the one who called you, remember?"
Napier smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was more of a predatory smile. "Doesn't mean a thing," he said. "But we can get back to you later. Right now let's test out your powers of observation. You were the first one on the scene, so you say. If that's so, where's the murder weapon?"
"I didn't take it, if that's what you mean," Burns said.
Napier walked over to the table, hiked up his left leg, and parked his buttocks on the table's edge. "If you didn't take it, then where is it?" he inquired mildly.
Burns didn't know, but it was something he'd thought about. He'd seen nothing on the desk that could have been used to cosh in Elmore's head. "Maybe there's something on the floor, or under the desk," he said. "Your team in there ought to find it."
"Maybe, maybe not. You visit DeLore's office often?"
"That's Elmore. Not often. Why?"
"Just wondered if you noticed anything missing off the desk," Napier said.
"Oh." Burns thought about it. The photo of Elmore's son, Wayne, a prissy senior derisively and openly referred to by the other students as "Little Dean," had been there, as it always was. So had the black plastic "IN" and "OUT" baskets with one or two manila campus-mail envelopes in them. And the "Success Desk Calendar" and the HGC pen and pencil set from the school bookstore. And the beige telephone. And the . . .
"Paper clips," Burns said.
"He wasn't killed by any paper clips," Napier said.
"No, no," Burns said. "He had a sort of cut-glass paperclip holder on his desk. I remember getting a paper-clip out of it one time when I was in there. I don't think I saw it today."
Napier got off the table and went out of the room. In a minute, he was back. "You're pretty good," he said. "It's not there, and it wasn't on the floor, either. How big was this thing?"
Burns made a shape with his hands. "About like this," he said, "about the size of a softball." He thought for a minute. "If it was cut glass, I imagine it was pretty heavy."
"And now it's gone," Napier said. "That's mighty interesting, wouldn't you say?"
"I suppose so," Burns said.
"Yeah, well, maybe he loaned it to a friend. We'll see." Napier came and sat on the edge of the table again, one foot touching the floor. "Since you're so smart, what do you make of that pig's snout?"
"I . . . I'm not sure what you mean."
"Sure you're sure. I mean just what I said. You think that snout's a comment? On Elmond, I mean. It's us cops that're usually called pigs, but from what you say about this guy, well, maybe somebody thought he was a pig."
"Elmore," Burns said.
"Whatever," Napier said. "You ever see that snout before?"
"I don't know," Burns said, which was true. He wasn't going to say anything that he wasn't absolutely sure of.
Napier wasn't stupid, despite his difficulty with names. "You ever see a snout that looked like that one?"
Burns thought about Dorinda Edgely. "I can't be sure," he said.
Napier leaned close to him, and Burns twisted in his chair. "Look, Binz, don't play your intellectual English teacher's word games with me. Tell me about that snout."
"Burns," Burns said. "And I really can't be sure. I didn't stay around in Elmore's office to examine things. I saw the snout sticking out from under his head, yes, but I didn't take the time to give it a thorough going-over."
"A snout's a snout," Napier said. "Cut the crap."
"All right," Burns said. He told Napier about the Kiss a Pig contest. "Dorinda Edgely was wearing a snout like that one, but that was yesterday. And it may not have been the same one."
"Leave the detecting to me," Napier said. "Tell me about this Edgely."
Burns didn't have much to tell. Dorinda Edgely had joined the Psychology Department five or six years before—he wasn't sure, but that could be checked easily enough. Since Elmore's deanship, she had in fact been one of his few supporters, except when it came to kissing the pig. "She just couldn't have killed him," Burns said. "I think she actually liked the man. At faculty functions, she was about the only one who'd even talk to him."
"Any hanky-panky going on there?" Napier asked.
Burns almost laughed. "Hardly," he said. "Elmore's wife has been dead for several years, but he'd never be stupid enough to fool around with a faculty member."
As soon as he said it, however, Burns began to wonder. Dorinda, stretching her years old polyester to the limit, with her obviously touched-up curls, might be just the sort to appeal to Elmore. He wondered . . .
"Well, we'll find out," Napier said. "I think that's all for you right now, Baines, but don't go out of town. I'm still not sure about you."
"That's Burns. And I won't be going anywhere. I've got classes to teach."
"Fine," Napier said. "Go teach a few of 'em."
Burns got out the chair and left.
Chapter 6
The wind plucked at Burns's jacket as he walked back to Main, and when he arrived he was not surprised to see a sign attached to the door with transparent tape:
PLEASE!
CLOSE
THE DOOR!!
HIG
H WIND!!!
MAID ROSE.
On days when the wind was from the north, it sometimes whipped right down the main hall and stripped all the announcements right off the bulletin boards. Burns made sure he tugged the door shut against the draft.
Mal Tomlin was waiting right inside. "Elmore's dead, right?"
Burns nodded.
"Hot damn. Who did it?" Tomlin reached inside his jacket. "Want a cigarette?"
"Yes," said Burns. "Or two. Let's go upstairs."
They headed up to the history lounge. Earl Fox was waiting for them. He had his Cowboys windbreaker on. "Come on in and close the door," he said. "I've got to hear this."
As soon as all three had cigarettes going, Burns told them what had happened.
"So you found the body?" Tomlin said.
"That's right."
"Ah, I suppose that you didn't . . . ah . . ."
Burns tapped ash into a Diet Pepsi can which had replaced the Diet Coke can. "Don't even say it," he said.
"It was just a thought," Tomlin said. "What did you tell the cops?"
"Not much," Burns said. "I didn't know much. Boss Napier wanted to know who I thought might have done it."
"God," Fox said. "It'd be a lot easier to tell him who might not have done it." He tried to blow a smoke ring and failed. "In fact, he might be getting quite a few confessions. Whoever did it will be a hero."
"Are there any clues?" Tomlin asked.
Burns didn't know what to say. Napier hadn't told him not to discuss things, but he still didn't feel right about revealing information. On the other hand, anything he said would probably be easily found out by reading the next day's edition of the Pecan City News-Advertiser. So he told them about the snout.
"Was it the one Dorinda was wearing the other day?" Fox asked.
"I don't have any idea," Burns said. "Of course it looked like the same one, but that doesn't mean anything. I'm leaving all that to the cops."
"Who do you think Rogers will appoint to be acting dean?" Fox asked.
No one had thought about that. "I just hope it's not me," Tomlin said. "I've got enough grief. Say—you don't think someone knocked him off to get the job, do you?"
"Stranger things have happened," Burns said. He dropped his cigarette butt into the Pepsi can, where it made a satisfactory hiss in the remains of the Nutra Sweetened cola. "What I wonder is how this will affect the plans Elmore had for the athletic program and for turning this place into a degree mill."
"Damn," Tomlin said. "You don't think Coach Thomas . . ."
"I don't think anything," Burns said. "Except that it's time for me to go up and keep a few office hours and then go home."
"Business as usual, huh?" Fox said.
"As much as possible," Burns said, getting up. "As much as possible."
Tomlin got up too. "I guess you're right, kid. Watch out for that pigeon shit, though." He slapped Burns on the shoulder, and both of them left. Fox lit another cigarette.
Burns never locked his office during the day. He never even closed the door. Students at HGC seemed for the most part to respect his property and the privacy of his office; he'd never had anything stolen. On occasion, however, he'd returned to his office to find someone sitting in a chair and waiting for him. Today it was Don Elliott.
The little speech and drama chairman was an interesting contradiction. He was barely over five feet tall and looked as if he'd just come off a long hunger strike, yet he had an impressively booming baritone voice, which could be heard without amplification from the stage to the farthest seats in the highest balcony of any auditorium. And in spite of his size, he was one of the most impressive trenchermen Burns had ever seen. At the Friday luncheons, he often seemed to stagger beneath the weight of his loaded plate; and the way he could stack meat, vegetables, various salads, and bread to incredible heights and still make it to the table without spilling a thing was a wonder of balance and coordination.
"Hello, Burns," Elliott said in what passed for a whisper with him. "I hope you don't mind my intrusion. I would like to talk with you, if I may."
"Of course," Burns said, crossing between Elliott and his desk. "What's up?" Gaining his chair, Burns sat down.
"May I close the door?"
Burns wasn't sure where this was leading, but he said, "All right."
Elliott got up, closed the door quietly, and returned to the chair. "Two things," he said. Then he waited.
"Fine," Burns finally said.
"In confidence, I hope," Elliott said.
"Naturally," Burns said, still having no idea what was going on.
"Good," Elliott said, leaning forward slightly and almost causing Burns to lose sight of him behind the desk. "You know, of course, that I was on the committee that recommended Dr. Elmore for the position of dean?"
Aha! Burns thought. "I think I remember that committee," he said. He remembered more, too, now that he had been reminded. He remembered that Elliott, shortly after Elmore's appointment, had been made the supervisor of Vardeman Hall (Hartley Gorman VII), the larger of the two men's dormitories, which meant that in addition to his salary as chairman of speech and drama, Elliott would also receive free room and board for himself and his wife. At the same time, Elliott's wife had been named assistant supervisor of the dorm, at an undisclosed salary. No one knew how much Elliott had managed to sock away thanks to his situation, but his penuriousness was legendary. He and his wife were known to take home doggie bags from nearly every meal.
"Yes," Burns said. "I remember that committee quite well."
Elliott sat back up. "The committee's membership was, of course, known to everyone. What you may not know is that I was the chairman. I was the one who really pushed for Elmore. I was the one who counted the ballots."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Burns asked.
"Well," Elliott said, "I understand that you're cooperating with the police in their inquiries."
"I'm not cooperating with anyone," Burns said. "I was just answering some questions."
"Yes, of course, but you did find Dean Elmore's body, didn't you?"
The rumor mill was working as efficiently as ever, Burns thought. Before long, he'd be promoted to special assistant to Boss Napier and maybe be made a member of the FBI. "I found Dean Elmore's body, simply by accident, and that's all there is to it," he said. "I have nothing at all to do with any investigation being conducted by the police."
"Nevertheless," Elliott said, "I'd like for you to know this. In case anyone asks. Everything done by the selection committee on which I served was on the up-and-up. Strictly by the book. I know that there will be talk about that now—not that there hasn't been in the past." He smiled a twisted little smile. "I know what people say about Dean Elmore."
"If anyone asks, then I'll tell them," Burns said, still wondering what all this could be about.
"Fine," Elliott said. "Now the other thing. Do you . . . ah, I mean do the police have any suspects as yet?"
"I have no idea," Burns said. "Really, Don, I don't. My involvement in this is just an accident, as I said. No one from the police is confiding in me. I imagine a lot of other people will be questioned before this is all over."
"I see," Elliott said, in a way that seemed to indicate that he really did see, and that what he saw was the fact that Burns was playing it cagey with him. "I see," he said again. Then he got out of his chair and extended his hand to Burns, who rose and shook it. "Thank you for your time. I'd appreciate it if you said nothing of our little chat."
"I won't," Burns said.
Elliott opened the door and left. Burns sat back down and tried to figure out what had happened, but he was unsuccessful. He got up and strolled around to Clem's office.
Clem looked up from a stack of freshman themes. Constant grading was a fact of life for composition teachers. "So," Burns said, "have you heard the news?"
"It takes news a long time to get to the third floor," she said, "but I've heard. How was the Gestapo?"
&nbs
p; "Not bad. Not as bad as you might think, anyway."
"And have they corralled the killer?"
"Not yet," Burns said.
"Maybe it was the pregnant woman," Clem said.
Burns laughed. He knew the story to which she was referring. It had happened earlier in the fall. Burns was a member of the Appeals Committee, chaired by Elmore, which heard appeals from those ticketed by the campus police or disciplined by the dean of students. It was rare for anyone to win an appeal. Even the pregnant woman had been unsuccessful.
"She would have been angry enough to do it at one time," Burns said. "Surely she isn't still upset."
"I don't know," Clem said. "I would be."
The pregnant woman had been looking for a parking spot near the Library (Hartley Gorman III) one night during a pouring rainstorm. She was returning some books for a professor in another building, or she wouldn't have been there in the first place. It was nearly closing time, and there were a number of places available right beside the library. The woman parked in the nearest one, returned the books, and came back to her car, only to find a ticket stuck under the wiper blade. She had parked in a faculty place.
Her appeal to the committee was based on the fact that there had been many places available, that she had taken the nearest one, that she had been inside for less than three minutes, that no one else had been inconvenienced, and that she was, after all, eight months pregnant and hadn't wanted to spend a lot of time looking for a more distant student parking place.
Elmore had sent her out of the room. "Obviously," he said, "she's guilty. She did, no doubt about it, park in a faculty place, a clearly marked one at that. Many faculty members have complained to me about student cars in faculty spots. I see no basis for the appeal."
Everyone on the committee agreed, except for Burns, who was overruled.
There had been one other appeal since then, this one from a curvy eighteen-year-old coed with honey blonde hair, brown doe eyes, and a low-cut blouse that gave a glimpse of major-league mammaries. She was guilty of putting her parking sticker on the front window rather than the rear window, a crime that the campus police complained bitterly about since they had to get out of their cars to check the sticker. Her excuse was that she didn't know where to put the sticker.