One Dead Dean

by Crider, Bill

  What had appeared so normal and innocent the night before now appeared sinister and threatening. The floodlights bathed the old building in an eerie glow, and shadows from the tall pecan trees that surrounded it played over the walls and the vacant, eye-like windows. The vines that grew on the building's sides were dead and leafless, and they looked like the veins in the back of an old man's hand. The shrubs that grew close around the building's sides looked as if they might conceal all sorts of pyromaniacs.

  Burns shook off his sense of foreboding. I'm beginning to feel like a character in "The Fall of the House of Usher," he thought as he started up the walk. The walk had once been lined with honeysuckle, and Burns remembered the rich, heavy scent. Elmore had ordered the honeysuckle chopped down the first summer after becoming dean; he felt that the water bill was too high. That Elmore. What a great guy.

  As Burns mounted the steps, there was a rustling in the bushes. He started to turn, but there was something cold and hard in his ear.

  "Freeze!" someone said.

  Burns's first thought was that the arsonist had returned, with a gun this time. Then he thought of Dirty Harry. Only then did he think that Napier might not have been quite as-slow on the uptake as Burns himself had been.

  "Now then," the voice said, "put your palms against the door."

  "It's all right," Burns said, attempting to turn, "I'm . . ." The gun barrel jabbed into his ear, not gently, and was given a little twist.

  "Palms against the door! Now!"

  Burns did as he was told.

  "Legs back . . . good. Now spread 'em."

  Feeling like a character on a TV show, Burns spread his legs. The gun barrel left his ear, and a hand patted him up and down, very carefully.

  "Look," Burns said, "I'm a professor here. If you'll just look in my right back pocket, there's identification."

  A hand lifted out his billfold. Burns began to turn once more, and the gun jabbed him in the backbone.

  A flashlight came on, and after a minute someone said, "All right, Dr. Burns, you can turn around now. Maybe you'd like to explain what you're doing down here."

  Burns turned and faced a young policeman in uniform, a flashlight tucked under his left arm and Burns's billfold in his left hand. His right hand held the pistol, though it was not pointed directly at Burns any longer.

  "I'm sorry," Burns said sincerely. "I just thought that maybe the arsonist might try again. So I came down to check." It sounded lame, even to Burns.

  "Sounds to me like you don't have much faith in your local police," the young cop said.

  "It's not that," Burns said, lying. "It's just that . . . uh . . ."

  "Here's your billfold," the policeman said, handing it over.

  Burns took it and stuffed it in his back pocket.

  The policeman put his gun in its holster and secured it with a leather thong that snapped to the holster. "I know how it is. You guys that don't get much action like to think you can help the cops solve the crimes. Like that old lady on that TV show. What's it called? The one where she's a writer?"

  Burns sighed. "Murder, She Wrote," he said.

  "That's the one. That old gal always knows what the cops don't know. Well, let me tell you, Dr. Burns; it doesn't work like that in real life. We're the pros. We know what we're doing. Boss Napier told me about you. He says you always turn up in this case. You could get in trouble like that, you know?"

  Burns knew. "I've already had enough trouble," he said.

  "Good," the cop said. "Why don't you go on home and leave this stuff to us, huh?"

  Burns went on home.

  The next morning Burns was sitting in his office reading over an article on Hawthorne in preparation for his ten o'clock class. He was teaching "My Kinsman, Major Molineux" that day. His feet were up on his desk, and he was leaning back, comfortable in his executive chair.

  He was thinking about the Freudian implications of Robin's staff when Bunni came in.

  Burns put down the book he was holding, but he was too comfortable to take his feet off the desk. Bunni had seen him that way too often to be bothered. "Where'd you learn to whistle like that?" he asked.

  Bunni was not her usual high-spirited self. "I didn't learn," she said. "It's just something I can do." She twisted her hands together. "Can I talk to you about something?"

  Burns swiveled around, moving his feet to the floor. "Of course."

  Bunni looked over her shoulder. "Privately, I mean." Burns got up, walked around the desk, and closed the door. Bunni was obviously worried about something. "Have a seat," he said, returning to his chair.

  Bunni sat down. "I . . . I talked to that policeman yesterday."

  "What policeman?" Burns asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

  "The one they call Boss," Bunni said.

  "He's really not so bad," Burns said. "Don't let him worry you."

  "It's not me," Bunni said, with a sob in her voice. Burns was afraid she might cry. He wasn't good with crying. "It's you!"

  "Me?" Burns hadn't been expecting that. "Why me?"

  "Oh, Dr. Burns," Bunni sobbed, "I had to tell the truth. I just couldn't do anything else."

  "Of course you couldn't," Burns said, wondering what was going on. "I wouldn't expect you to lie. The truth never hurt anyone." The threat of tears had reduced him to platitudes.

  "I'm so glad you understand," Bunni said. "I told George that you would, even it if meant that you had to go to jail."

  "Jail?" Burns asked. "What do you mean about jail?"

  Bunni brushed her cheeks with the back of her right hand. "Well, that policeman asked me things about you. He said something like, 'That Dr. Burns you work for has a way of turning up at strange times.' And then he asked me if I knew anything about you and Dean Elmore, so I just had to tell him."

  "Tell him what, Bunni?" Burns asked. He had no idea what she could have said that would get her so upset.

  "I had to tell him that just on the Friday before Dean Elmore got killed you called him the"—Bunni choked back a sob—"the 'Dear Departed.'"

  Burns sank back in his chair. He had completely forgotten that phrase, and he certainly would never have thought that Bunni had such a retentive memory. She had never demonstrated such a facility with memorizing departmental tasks. "Surely you realize it was just a joke," he said.

  Bunni sniffed and gave her cheeks another swipe.

  Burns opened his bottom desk drawer, took out a family-size box of yellow Puffs, and set it on the front of his desk where Bunni could reach it. She pulled one out, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose.

  "I thought it was probably a joke," she said. "But then he was k-k-killed." She grabbed another Puff and worked on her eyes again. They were quite red when she looked up. "I had to tell him about the list, too," she said.

  "The list?"

  "That one you were writing when I came in last Friday," Bunni said. "The one of things you hate. You wrote Dean Elmore's name on it, and then you stuck it in your desk drawer."

  "You can read things that are upside down?" Burns couldn't believe it. Most of his students had a certain amount of difficulty in reading things that were printed in the normal fashion. Bunni was revealing hidden depths.

  "I didn't really mean to," she said. "It's just that you were writing on the list, and I was standing here, and so I just glanced at it, and I couldn't help but see what you were writing." She blew her nose into the yellow Puff.

  "It's okay," Burns said, hoping that he was telling the truth. "I don't think Napier really suspects that I had anything to do with Dean Elmore's murder. He just has to check out every angle. Like they do on TV."

  Bunni looked hopeful. "You really think that?"

  "Of course I do," Burns lied. "Don't worry about it. Here, throw those Puffs in the trash and go wash your face before class. There's absolutely no reason for you to worry. Half the campus thinks that I'm an undercover operative for Napier. He wouldn't arrest one of his own men, would he?"

  "You're
just trying to make me feel better," Bunni said.

  "Don't you believe it," Burns said. "You did the right thing."

  "Maybe I feel a little guilty, too," Bunni said. "After all, we were picketing Dean Elmore. It seems like kind of a terrible thing to do when you think about it now."

  "Don't think that, either," Burns said. "That man was trying to do away with sports, and you had a perfect right to protest. And I was the one who thought of it, not you."

  Bunni stood up. "You're sure you're not mad, then."

  "Of course not," Burns said. "You start worrying about Nathaniel Hawthorne and forget this other stuff."

  "Okay," Bunni said. "You're sure you're not mad?"

  "Of course not. Now go get ready for class."

  Bunni went out of the office, and Burns sat at his desk trying to decide whether to call Napier or just forget the whole thing. In the end, he decided to forget it. Even Napier wasn't fool enough to make anything of the list or a casual remark, and one that was intended as a joke besides.

  The warning bell had already rung, so Burns gathered up his books and walked to his classroom. On the door of the storage room was a new sign:

  PLEASE!

  KEEP THIS!!

  DOOR!!!

  LOCKED!!!

  MAID ROSE

  After talking for fifty minutes about a young man who lost his way in a big city, Burns returned to his office to find a note announcing that all afternoon classes had been cancelled so that all faculty and students could attend the funeral of the late Dean Elmore.

  Clem strolled into the office behind Burns. "Does this mean that we are required to go?" she asked.

  "It does look a little bit that way," Burns said, putting his books down on the desk. "To tell the truth, I wasn't really planning to."

  "I don't expect that anyone was," Clem said. "I'm sure that I have no regrets about his passing."

  Burns looked at Clem, noting as he often did how athletically trim she was. He imagined her with the cut-glass paperclip holder in her hand, gripped like a baseball. He thought about her difficulties with Elmore on the Curriculum Committee . . . Then he shook his head. It just wasn't possible.

  "I have no regrets, either," Burns said. "But I suppose I'll go, since it seems to be expected."

  Clem sniffed. "Seems like a good reason not to go to me. But I may go for the son's sake. I wonder how he's taking this?"

  Burns walked over to a window and looked out at the grounds. "Fairly well, I think. He was at the pig-kissing contest, you'll recall. He's a strange kid."

  "Just how do you mean that?"

  "I don't know," Burns said. "There's something about him . . . I think fey is the word I'm looking for."

  "I know what you're thinking," Clem said, "but you're dead wrong. Oh, he may walk a little funny, but I sponsor a girl's club. From what I hear, he's as live a wire as we have here on the campus. You can't judge a book—"

  "—by looking at its cover. I know. I used to listen to Bo Diddley when I was a kid. Well, it was just an idle thought."

  "I imagine more people than you have had it," Clem said. "And I'm sure it grated on Elmore quite a bit."

  "It must have, knowing him," Burns said.

  "Yes," Clem said. "Well, I'll see you at the funeral, I suppose." She turned and left the office.

  Burns thought about going to the history lounge for a cigarette, but instead he sat down at his desk and got a clean sheet of paper from one of the drawers. It was time to start a new list.

  He uncapped his Pilot Precise Ball Liner and wrote across the top of the page, People Who Had A Good Reason To Kill Elmore. Underneath, he wrote the names:

  Mal Tomlin: Elmore tried to dump him from the chairmanship and put Clark Woods in.

  Clem: Elmore tried to get her fired.

  Abner Swan: Elmore delighted in humiliating him at faculty meetings and at the Friday luncheons.

  Coach Thomas: Elmore rode him unmercifully about the football team and was planning to do away with the sports program at HGC.

  Dorinda Edgely: Elmore might beat her in the pig-kissing contest.

  With the last name, Burns capped his pen and tossed it back into the drawer. The reasons he'd jotted down were so far-fetched that what Bunni had told Napier would make him a better suspect than nearly any of the people whose names were on the page. And Burns was sure that he hadn't killed Elmore. Changing his earlier decision, he decided to call Napier.

  Burns's hand was almost on the beige telephone when it rang, causing him to jerk back reflexively as if he'd grabbed a hot iron bar. Then he picked it up. "Carl Burns," he said into the mouthpiece.

  "Verne?"

  "That's my cousin Jules. This is Carl Burns. Is that you, Chief Napier?"

  "Right. Napier here. I want to talk to you, Verne."

  "I'm right here in the office," Burns said. "Come on by."

  "That's all right," Napier said. "We can do this on the phone. I'm just calling as a little courtesy. I talked to that little secretary of yours. Honey?"

  "Bunni," Burns told him.

  "Whatever. Anyhow, she told me about that list of yours and that remark you passed about the 'Dear Departed.'"

  "I know," Burns said. "She told me."

  "Figured she would. But I don't want you to worry about it. I know you didn't do it despite the fact that you got caught sneaking around the building last night."

  "I wasn't sneaking," Burns said. "I was merely . . ."

  "Doesn't matter," Napier said. "I never really thought you had anything to do with it. Most English teachers, they're a little too wimpy for a thing like murder. I remember this guy we had in high school. One day we shoved his desk out in the hall and down a flight of stairs. He never even tried to find out who did it. He knew what we'd do if he bothered us . . . But that's not what I called about. I just wanted to say that we've got our man."

  Burns was straining not to make some remark about wimps. "Who's the man? What man?"

  "Our killer," Napier said. "We've got him."

  "So who is it?"

  "Coach Thomas," Napier said.

  "I don't believe it," Burns said. "Has he admitted anything?"

  "Not yet," Napier said. "But he will."

  Burns thought about Napier's reputation. He hoped that Coach Thomas wasn't going to find out whether it was based on fact or not. "And you called just to tell me this?"

  "Well, there is one other little thing."

  "And what might that be?"

  "He keeps asking to talk to you," Napier said. "I thought maybe you could come down to the jail—have a little chat with him. Maybe you can save us some trouble."

  "I'll talk to him," Burns said. "But I'm not going to get your confession for you."

  "Don't be so touchy," Napier said. "You don't have to come at all."

  Burns looked at his watch. It was a little after noon, and the funeral wasn't until two o'clock. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he said.

  Chapter 13

  Maybe I am a wimp, Burns thought, as he started his Plymouth and drove to the police station. On the other hand, he hadn't felt especially wimpy when he was creeping around in the dark attic of Main the other night. Napier was probably trying to get on his nerves.

  The Pecan City jail was not far from the HGC campus, only about a mile and a half. It was a large stone building that had once been white. Now the surface was more of a dingy gray, even black in spots. It needed a good sandblasting job, but the city fathers didn't really see the need for a beautiful jail.

  There was a parking lot beside the building, and Burns's tires crunched on the white gravel as he pulled in. He parked his car between a Toyota pickup and a Subaru station wagon. The '67 Plymouth looked like a behemoth beside them. Burns liked that. He hoped the car would never wear out. It had over 130,000 miles on the odometer now, but it showed no signs of old age.

  Burns entered the jail building through the front door, which opened into a small room paneled in dark wood. The ceiling seemed extre
mely low, and Burns had a feeling of being caged in, even though this was an office. The officer at the scarred desk near the door directed Burns to a door that opened into a long hall lined with other doors. He walked down the hall until he came to a door that had a sign on it saying CHIEF R. M. "BOSS" NAPIER. There was a smaller sign underneath, this one hand printed on an index card. It said Enter Without Knocking.

  Burns entered.

  Napier was sitting behind a desk not nearly as nice as the one Burns had recently left in his own office at HGC, this one being of some blond wood now defaced by numerous scratches, tubular cigarette burns, and marks that had apparently been made by the soles of black shoes. There was a window at Napier's back. It was not barred. Burns had noticed from the outside that the barred windows were on the second and third floors.

  The top of Napier's desk was not neat. It was covered with papers, paper clips, note pads, and several account and ledger books. There was even a paperback copy of Kiss Me, Deadly sticking out from a pile of federal "wanted" posters. Along the wall to Burns's left there were four iron-gray filing cabinets, with none of the drawers labeled. The walls reminded Burns of the walls in Rogers's office: they were hung with photos of Napier shaking hands with various people, but whereas Burns had known some of the people in Rogers's pictures, he knew none of these. Most of them were wearing a uniform of one kind or another.

  The only item of furniture in the room besides Napier's desk, chair, and filing cabinets was a battered straight-backed wooden chair of the same blond wood as the desk. Burns sat in it when Napier invited him to have a seat.

  "So you've decided to have a little talk with your buddy, the coach," Napier said.

  "Yes," Burns said, "but not to hear his confession or anything like that."

  "No need for you to," Napier said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk top. "As soon as we find the murder weapon, he'll crack open like a bad egg."

  "You haven't got the weapon?"

  "Not yet, but it's just a matter of time. We've got a warrant to search his house."

  "His house?" Burns said. "Why would he take it home? You think he kept it as a souvenir?"