The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  Parris finally turned his back, unwilling to look at the pitiful, pale wreck of a body, its small, delicate face framed by a swath of blood-soaked raven black hair. He realized that he did not think of the corpse as “her,” but as “it.”

  Simpson was on his knees, humming something that sounded vaguely like a Strauss waltz. Yes, “Tales from the Vienna Woods.” With professional detachment, he removed a ten-inch mercury thermometer from the rectum of the corpse. He squinted at the instrument. “Temperature is thirty-five point one degrees Celsius. Victim probably died just about the time the crime was reported. May be able to tell you more after I do a complete workup.” The old man grunted an arthritic’s grunt as he pushed himself to his feet.

  Parris closed his eyes and fought to suppress the nausea. “Was she raped?”

  Simpson was inserting the mercury thermometer into a leather case. “Don’t know. I understand old Sure-Shot Slocum got here pretty damn fast; maybe he interrupted the criminal. Be able to tell you more late tomorrow. Drop by around five-thirty or six.”

  Parris watched the medical examiner gather up the tools of his trade and pack them neatly into his black leather satchel. He wondered idly whether Simpson used these same instruments on his living patients, but thought it impolitic to ask. Simpson appeared to be bone-tired as he headed for the door. “Let my boys know when you coppers are through with your photographs and all that fine detecting you do. They’ll pick up the body.”

  After Simpson had left, Parris found a tattered lab jacket and draped it over the pale body. The instrument in her eye socket held the white smock up, tentlike, above the victim’s face. Parris bellowed for Leggett, whose face immediately appeared in the lab door.

  “That fellow who called in the disturbance, the teacher … is he around someplace?”

  “I stashed him in his office. Figured you’d want to do the interrogation. He’s just down the hall.”

  “Did he identify the body?”

  A faint shadow of professional concern passed across Leggett’s face. “Well, no. Poor guy’s pretty shaken up; didn’t want to view the corpse. I told him a young woman was dead in the lab, but he said he couldn’t bear to look at a dead body. Considering the shape the corpse was in, I didn’t want to push him. He sort of looked like … well, like he might keel over.”

  Parris felt strong empathy for anyone who didn’t wish to view a corpse. “So how do we know who she is … was?”

  “There was a driver’s license in her purse. Had her photo on it. Victim’s name is Priscilla Song. Professor Dexter said she was a graduate student.”

  Parris examined the room, keeping his eyes away from the small form under the lab coat. The cotton smock was soaking up blood like a sponge. He knelt down to study each piece of clothing that had once covered the victim’s body. He could see nothing that helped shed light on this crime, except that the killer had evidently been in a hurry. Her yellow dress was ripped into shreds. He stood upright and noticed that the computer screen was emitting an unnatural hue of blue light.

  Leggett nodded toward the display. “It was on when I got here.”

  “Maybe,” Parris said, “she was working on the computer when the bad guy showed up.”

  “Let’s have a look-see.” Leggett stepped over the covered body and seated himself in the creaky swivel chair at the desk. “We’re lucky. It’s one of those Macintosh jobs. Transparent operating system. Easy to use. My wife bought one for her real estate business, so I know a little about it.”

  Leggett, Parris knew, was modest to a fault. If he admitted he “knew a little,” it meant he could write a manual on the infernal thing.

  The lieutenant paused before his fingers were on the keyboard. “Want me to check on it now or save it for the experts?”

  “If you can have a look without altering anything, have a go at it.”

  “Looks like,” he said, “she was using a word processor. Only there’s no file open. I hope it was saved.”

  “Can you find the last file she was working on?”

  Leggett rubbed his hands as if he were preparing to play a piano concerto. “I’ll do some checking. I think we have a shot at it.”

  “Forget the ‘we’ stuff, kid,” Parris said amiably. “I don’t know one end of a computer from the other. You’ll have to manage on your own. I’ll go have a chat with our witness while you deal with the machine.”

  Parris found Arnold Dexter in his office, pacing back and forth like a caged panther, nervously wiping his freckled hands over a balding head. The policeman flashed his badge and identified himself. “You the guy who reported this sorry business?”

  The slender, pale man nodded. “Professor Arnold Dexter. Chairman of the Physics Department.” He seemed close to tears.

  “Tell me about it,” Parris said gently.

  “I was at my desk. Heard the awful screams. I wanted to help, but I’m not a physical person.” He appeared to be embarrassed by the appearance of cowardice. “Even so, if I had known it was Priscilla who was in danger…” He peered at the policeman through thick spectacles, silently, appealing for understanding.

  “You know … knew the victim, then?”

  Dexter collapsed dramatically into his desk chair and buried his face in his hands. “Of course. Priscilla was one of our most promising graduate students. I was her thesis adviser until Waldo took over the ceramic armor project last semester.”

  Parris had his notebook open. “Waldo?”

  “Professor Waldo Thomson. He took over as her thesis adviser several months ago when I accepted the chairman’s position. Being department chairman doesn’t leave me as much time to work with the students as I would like. There’s so much paperwork when you become an administrator.”

  Parris chuckled and tried to express his sympathy. “Tell me about it. I haven’t had time to write a parking ticket in months.” Dexter seemed puzzled by this remark. This little guy was dull as a butter knife, a nerd’s nerd. Parris dismissed any further thoughts of light conversation and assumed his official tone. “Okay. So what was she doing here so late? I thought the university shut down with the sunset.”

  “I’m not certain,” Dexter said, “but I imagine she was working on Waldo’s … Professor Thomson’s air force armor contract.”

  There was just the least hint in his voice that the department chairman was worried that Priscilla might have been involved in something less innocent than her adviser’s armor project. Parris pulled a wooden chair from a corner and straddled it, leaning forward on the back of the chair. “What were you doing here tonight? Is it customary for you to put in such late hours?”

  Dexter rubbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Depends on the work load. I’m planning next semester’s schedule. What courses will be offered, when they’ll be taught, who will teach, estimates of how many students will sign up. It’s difficult to get it done during regular hours; there are so many distractions. Classes to teach, lectures to prepare, students continually barging in. I came in this evening to get the job finished.”

  “I understand,” Parris said. “Do some night work myself from time to time; good way to catch up.” He smiled to reassure the shaken academic. “I understand you identified the suspect.”

  The chairman avoided eye contact with the policeman. “It was Julio Pacheco; he’s with University Maintenance. Pacheco was in the building only this morning, to look for a gas leak. I believe he was in that lab with Priscilla for a time. Loathsome fellow. There is some gossip that he … well, flirted with Priscilla on occasion. I suppose he came back tonight to…” Dexter paused as if unable to contemplate what had happened to his student.

  “Yeah,” the chief replied. “That’s usually the way it works. He may have been following her around for weeks, waiting until she was vulnerable. Anyone else in the building tonight?”

  The question seemed to surprise Dexter. “Well, not that I know of. I was in my office until I heard the disturbance, so I can’t say for certain.” After
a few more routine questions, Parris advised the pathetic figure to go home and try to sleep.

  Leggett, completely oblivious to the body under the lab coat, was busily checking files on the computer. As Parris entered the laboratory, he heard the young officer exclaim, “Hot damn!” Leggett turned to gawk wide-eyed at his boss. “Take a look at this. I think I found it.”

  Parris stepped gingerly over the shrouded body and peered over Leggett’s shoulder. The file name was “Work-Log.” According to the information the computer had automatically recorded, the document had last been saved at 9:23 that same evening. Leggett double-clicked the cursor on the file icon and waited for the stored document to appear on the computer screen.

  Parris blinked at the computer. “Remind me. When did the professor call for the police?”

  “Nine thirty-five,” Leggett said. “Twelve minutes after the file was stored.”

  The heading read, “Records—Fall Semester”; the file appeared to be a journal of Priscilla Song’s daily activities at the university. Leggett scrolled through the document page by page. There were accounts of meetings with students, comments about homework assignments, names of students who had been absent from the Electromagnetics laboratory, and more trivia.

  Parris muttered, almost to himself, “Lots of stuff to sort through.”

  “That’s right,” Leggett said, “but this word processor can find the last position of the cursor, just before the file was saved. That’ll be where she made her last entry.” He opened a section of the menu labeled “Utilities” and used the mouse to slide the arrow down five spaces until it was over “Go Back.” He released the button. There was a brief whirring from the hard disk; a new page appeared on the screen. At the top of the page were columnar listings of undergraduate students’ grades for an Electromagnetics laboratory class. At the bottom of the screen, just to the left of the cursor, there was an inexplicable entry:

  z f r c y r t

  Paris peered over Leggett’s shoulder and scowled. “What in blazes is that?”

  Leggett spoke without looking away from the cathode-ray tube. “Maybe,” he offered solemnly, “it was the last thing she had a chance to say.”

  On the desk beside the computer, a few books and catalogs were held upright between heavy onyx carvings. Parris scanned the titles, then removed a small volume. He passed it to Leggett, who raised an eyebrow at the title: A Layman’s Guide to Codes and Ciphers.

  SIX

  Parris arrived at RMP late in the morning; the Physics Department was in a state of collective shock. Faculty and students were gathered in small groups to discuss the horrific murder. A few wept openly. As he passed, they would either interrupt their conversation or speak in whispers. He stopped at the department secretary’s office; a young Hispanic woman was tapping at a keyboard. Parris removed his hat and opened a leather case to display his gold shield. “I’m Scott Parris, chief of police. You must be Ms. Waters.”

  The suggestion seemed to upset the young woman. “Oh my, no! Kristin … Miss Waters called in sick today. I’m from the secretarial pool.”

  “I need to have a chat with Priscilla Song’s adviser, Professor Thomson.”

  The secretary took him to Thomson’s office, pointed at the door, and then left without bothering to introduce him. A brass plate on the door was etched with the name of the occupant: WALDO THOMSON, PH.D.

  Waldo Thomson was at his desk, reading the Wall Street Journal. From long habit, Parris made mental notes of the man’s appearance: expensive suit, very expensive shoes. Broad shoulders, thinning sandy-colored hair circling a large bald spot, pale blue eyes set under bushy brows. Thomson was a few years younger than Arnold Dexter, and he was considerably more robust than the department chairman. There was a hint of middle-aged bulge under the silk shirt, but Thomson showed ample evidence of hard muscles; he had the leathery-skinned look of an outdoorsman. Even so, the man seemed to fit quite naturally into his bookish environment. Were these academics all of a type? That was absurd. Did all cops have flat feet? This hypothetical question reminded him of his own feet. A duck had better arches.

  Parris entered the office without knocking and flipped open the small leather case that held his shield. The physicist stood up, stubbed a cigarette into a crystal ashtray, and glowered at the badge. “So. A member of the Protect and Serve squad. So much for protection. Now that one of our students is already dead, the cops arrive to put on a show. I suppose you have a lot of questions? Like did she know the Mexican? Did he hang around here? Did he show any interest in her? Did—”

  Parris was tired and short of temper, and Thomson was clearly a smart ass. The policeman pointed at the empty chair the professor had just vacated. “Park it there. I’ll ask the questions. Your job is to give me straight, civil answers. You understand?” Parris was surprised at the hint of menace in his voice.

  Thomson sat down, but his jaw was set and his hands clenched. Parris wondered whether the man would clam up now. He could have cared less. They knew who had killed the student; this visit was little more than going through the motions. Maybe that was why Thomson’s accusation had cut so deep. You had to show up and question everyone who knew the victim—it was expected. If the police showed no interest in anyone except Pacheco, the Mexican’s defense attorney would make hay of it (assuming they caught Pacheco!), and the DA would have the chief of police for lunch.

  Parris forced a thin smile by way of apology. “I understand you are … were Priscilla Song’s adviser.”

  Thomson’s mouth was a thin line. “That is correct.”

  The guy wasn’t going to offer anything. Snapping at him had been a dumb move, but it had felt good. “What kind of student was she … I mean, was she bright?”

  “She was…” Thomson paused. “Above average.”

  “She have any bad habits? Drugs, for instance?”

  Thomson’s tone was sarcastic. “She didn’t share that sort of information with me.”

  “Does … did your student normally work late hours, or was last night unusual?”

  His answer was brief; the words were clipped. “She worked when she saw fit. Priscilla had a key to the lab.”

  “What was she doing last night … what type of work, I mean?”

  Thomson’s eyes now darted left and right, avoiding contact with Parris’s gaze. He took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. “Maybe she was collating data on our air force contract. Lightweight ceramic armor. Maybe she was baking cookies. I damn well don’t know what she was doing.” He deliberately blew smoke toward the policeman’s face. “I understand you’re an administrator, a paper-pusher. Does the chief of police usually perform interrogations?”

  Parris bared his teeth in a grin; the effect was not pleasant, nor was it intended to be. “Not usually, Professor, but we’re short-handed this week. I have a clever lieutenant who’s interviewing the important folks; I take care of the small-fry.” Time to twist his tail. “Where were you,” Parris asked coldly, “say between nine and ten last evening?”

  The man paled at the veiled accusation. “Why the hell do you care? You got the Mexican cold, so why poke into my affairs?”

  Parris was poker-faced as he drew tiny interlocking triangles in his notebook. “Affairs, Professor Thomson? You were having an affair? With the victim?”

  That did the trick. “Now look here, you have no right … I was at home last night. Alone, if you must know. My wife left me a few months ago, so I spend my evenings alone.”

  Parris suddenly felt like a heel. Helen had left, too. Now he spent his evenings alone. He tried to smile; it wasn’t easy. “I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start all over. You be civil, I’ll be downright sweet.”

  “Just keep it short,” Thomson said sullenly. “I’ve got a busy schedule.”

  * * *

  Parris was leaving the building when he heard the whisper. “Here … I say … over here!” He turned to see a tall, pale man looking up and down the hall as he gestured for
the policeman to enter an empty classroom. The skinny man quickly closed the door behind him. He pushed a bony hand into Parris’s grasp. “I’m Harry Presley, Professor Harry Presley. Physics Department. Understand you’re here investigating Priscilla’s death.”

  Parris strained to keep from smiling at the odd figure. Presley was about six foot two and thin to the point of emaciation, like the victim of a famine or a World War II concentration camp. His magnified eyes appeared to bulge behind the thick-lensed spectacles, his ears protruded like pink flaps from a skull covered with stretched, transparent skin. Presley’s belt barely managed to hold his rumpled tweed trousers around a sticklike waist that was the same circumference as his chest. His Adam’s apple jiggled when he spoke. “Nasty business,” Presley said. “So brutal, such a terrible waste.”

  “Certainly was,” Parris said. “You acquainted with the victim?”

  “Well, not exactly acquainted. It’s a small department; everyone knows everyone else.”

  Parris produced his notebook. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “Well, everyone knew that Pacheco sniffed around her like she was a bitch in heat. If you ask me, I’d say it was a crime of passion.” Presley was licking his lips. “There’s been talk of drugs, and you know what some girls will trade for drugs.…”

  “You have any information about illegal drug activity on the campus?”

  Presley pursed his lips thoughtfully before he began. “Well, it’s only talk, you understand, but it’s common knowledge that someone is using the campus as a distribution center for drugs. Also some talk about someone making designer drugs for distribution to the West Coast. For all I know, Priscilla may have been involved with this Mexican fellow in some sort of sordid drug-sex relationship. If I were you, I’d look into that.”

  “If I were you…” The policeman forced himself to terminate the response; he had already made one enemy in the Physics Department. Presley was a slug in man’s clothing. You often found these types hanging around the edge of a homicide. They knew nothing of value but were eager to talk to the police in the hope of picking up juicy details about the crime. He folded the notebook and tried to hide the disgust in his voice.