Of Mice and Murderers

by John Stockmyer

  "Oh?"

  "I've taken to walking on the campus at night, like I said. After night school lets out. When the place is quiet. Not really on campus, actually, but up and down the front campus stairs. I've been gaining a little weight. Always do in the winter. In summer, I play tennis and that helps, but in the winter there isn't much to do physically." Calder waved a pudgy hand as if to stop himself from going down the wrong track. "Anyway, a couple of weeks ago on a Wednesday night, I was climbing the front stairs. Up one side, across the top of the campus walk, then down the other stairs -- that's been my pattern. It was when I was top side, crossing over to the other stairs that I saw ... it."

  "Something in Bateman Hall?"

  "Right. A kind of ... light. High up. Shining -- no -- more like glowing -- through the windows of one of the corner turrets on the third floor. Faint. But ... there.

  "What's odd about that is that nothing is supposed to be happening on the third floor of Bateman. That's all storage, now. Plus the fact that Bateman is locked at night. No one should even be in the building after dark."

  "Except for the janitors."

  "You're thinking about overtime and the clean-up campaign? And you'd be right ... except that, after Tommie V got shot in Bateman, no one's been going in the building late at night. I'm not the only one who's edgy about Tommie V's alleged suicide. So, when I see a faint light in that tower window, I've got to wonder who is in there. The place was locked up tight. I tried all the doors.

  "Next morning, I called maintenance to find out that it was just like I thought. No one should have been in the building."

  "Lucas Terbrugghen? You said it was 'his' building."

  "I thought that, too. But, if you'll remember, Wednesday is Lucas' drinking night. That would put the odds heavily against his being on campus. Anyway, he wouldn't have any reason for being up in one of Bateman's corner turrets."

  "You don't think the light is ... a ghost, do you?" Z didn't want to offend the professor, but ....

  "Of course not," Calder said quickly. Too quickly? "I've outgrown that childish fantasy."

  "You think whoever made the light could have been the one who shot the janitor? Same night of the week that he was killed. Wednesday night. Something illegal going on in that building on Wednesday nights? Something the janitor stumbled into?"

  "It's a hope, anyway."

  "Did you check last Wednesday?"

  "No. I was going to, but then forgot about it. I did have a look the Thursday and Friday nights following the Wednesday I saw the light. And there was nothing."

  "Maybe what you saw was a reflection?"

  "Maybe." Calder picked up his spoon; twirled it at the narrow spot just above the bowl. "It's just that I feel so helpless. I have this notion that Tommie V was murdered and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do to help prove it."

  "Let me ask a question."

  "Shoot." The prof put down the spoon.

  "When you saw the light -- if you could -- would you have gone inside?"

  "I ... don't know."

  "Going in would not be smart."

  "I suppose."

  "You've hired me to do dumb dangerous things." Z smiled his ugly smile to show he wasn't criticizing but also that he was serious. "I'm being paid to find the bad guy. To take the risks."

  "I know it."

  "So. You discover the light again, you call me."

  "Agreed."

  And that was it. The reason for the lunch. A "ghost" light.

  The meal over, Z palmed his and Calder's empty sweetener packs into his pants pocket, to burn when he got home. Felt better about that.

  They left tips. Slid out. Stood. Put on their coats. And ambled through the crowd that was still coming in.

  In front, they paid their checks at the counter. Separate checks.

  Outside, the snow had thickened; was floating straight down; big puffy flakes -- almost as beautiful as the artificial stuff.

  Calder said goodbye and walked off toward his Datsun.

  Z found his Cavalier.

  While driving back to his office in the icy cold of his heater-less car, the road not yet snow-slick enough to command his full attention, Z thought about what he'd learned from Calder. Z's judgment? That it was too early in the game to call "Ghostbusters."

  Seriously, he had to admit that the "ghost" light added another piece to the Bateman puzzle; was another strange event connected with the college on a Wednesday night. Major events and minor ones.

  Bob Zapolska ticked them off in his mind. In the "major" category, was the death of the janitor on a Wednesday night. (Too little was known about that to be sure it was murder.) And the suspicious death of Ms. Ogden, also on a Wednesday night.

  In the "minor" category, was the "ghost" light -- only to be seen on Wednesdays? -- and what seemed to be a certainty, that Wednesday evening was Lucas Terbrugghen's drinking night.

  Wednesday coincidences?

  Maybe.

  And maybe not.

  Of more importance to him was the other bit of information he'd learned from Calder: that shy, reserved Beth Ogden had a boyfriend. Simply the confirmation of something he already knew.

  Figuring that the woman had taken a lover had been easy. All you had to do was ask yourself: "How many loveless ladies put on perfume before going to bed?" ... The answer? ... None. Perfume, particularly the expensive kind, was worn to please a man.

  No doubt about it. The "event" that had gotten Beth downstairs in the middle of the night -- perfumed and dressed in a gauzy nightgown -- was the anticipated arrival of her lover. Ditto for why that timid woman had opened her front door.

  Had the expected "guest" been Lucas Terbrugghen?

  Or was it that Lucas was supposed to come, but fell into his Wednesday night pattern of boozing it up alone? Could it be that someone else came to the door that night, that Ms. Ogden, thinking it was Terbrugghen, opened the door to her murderer? (In either case, the lady would surely have used the peephole Z had installed. Meaning, whoever Beth Ogden let in that fateful night was no stranger.)

  An ugly picture was forming in Z's mind as he turned down Chouteau; a picture of an Ogden "friend," being ushered in, only to let out Beth's "indoor" cat, Beth rushing outside after the helpless animal. Of the "friend" then closing the self-locking the door; staying inside while Beth pounded on the door until her hands were bloody. Until Beth Ogden froze to death.

  Theories.

  Coincidences.

  None of them leading to a conclusion.

  Still, if the events of a crime were like pieces of a jigsaw, Z felt he'd reached the stage of having "framed" the picture.

  Viewed positively, all that remained for him to do was fill in enough interior pieces for the dark image of the murderer to take shape.

  Did he say, all?

  * * * * *

  Chapter 14

  Except for Susan's call Tuesday evening, a slick spot on the back walk had made it a wasted week. After that, ice packs and a couple of Anne McCaffrey's dragon books had helped keep Z off the streets during the first major snowfall of the winter.

  Susan's call made the difference, though, first, because she had called him; secondly, because Susan would be at his place Saturday night.

  It was Thursday before Z risked going out to get the papers, finding the Monday through Thursday dailies almost dry in their orange plastic, foul-weather bags.

  Inside his apartment, thumbing through the back issues before burning them, Z was grateful for the delay in having to read about the latest tanker disasters, revolutions, financial scandals, earthquakes, and politicians wrapping themselves in the flag as a way of hiding from the nation's ills.

  Reading one paper after the other also made it clear that stories about the stolen Monet were slipping to the paper's back sections. Nor was there any more brave talk about a quick solution to the case. Public officials who had earlier displayed confidence that the Monet would be returned, were now covering their asses by complain
ing about police incompetence.

  Z felt sorry for Detective Addison. Wondered what beat he'd soon be pounding.

  It was too early to call Ted again -- so there was no chance for Z to learn anything else about what really happened to Tommie Victor. (If there was anything else to learn.)

  He was also stuck on the Ogden case. Actually, he'd been hoping Professor Calder would come up with a new tidbit of gossip about the lady, like maybe (sex-starved as she was) she'd taken up with more than one lover. A rumor like that providing Z's murder theory with something it lacked -- a motive. LOVE TRIANGLE LEADS TO MURDER -- would be the headlines in all the papers. Even make page one of the "Star."

  But Calder didn't call.

  Sure, Z could do the obvious; begin following the boyfriend. But ... he hadn't, telling himself that snow prevented a man with a bum knee from doing much surveillance work.

  Wanting to learn where the semi-mysterious director lived, at least, he'd "let his fingers do the walking," first in the small Northland directory, then in the huge K.C. phone book.

  No luck.

  Thinking about it, Z decided that having an unlisted number wasn't so unusual for teachers, a silent number keeping students from making harassing calls.

  On a whim, he looked up Calder. Found him in both the K.C. and the Northland books -- a piece of evidence that confirmed what he'd observed. Favorable student reaction to the man made it unlikely that Calder's students would make prank calls.

  Wednesday passed with nothing but snow and more snow, Bob Zapolska starting to read Footfall by Niven and Pournelle. Two-trunked baby elephants from outer space? Why not?

  No call Wednesday evening from Calder. Either the ghost light had been Calder's overactive imagination -- with people dying around him, perfectly understandable -- or, like Z, Calder was staying close to home in bad weather.

  Thursday and Friday were spent finishing Footfall, Z now feeling well enough to make brief sorties to the office to thrown away the junk mail piling up under the mail slot in his door and to discover "nothing doing" on his answering machine.

  At long last, it was 6:00 on a snowy Saturday night.

  Susan would be appearing soon. Braving the weather to go out to eat, they'd come back to make love on his solid bed -- the end to every perfect evening.

  In spite of having all week to do it, he had to rush to get the place picked up before Susan's arrival. After they got back, he'd lay a fire; nothing like an old-fashioned fireplace to stimulate romance.

  The doorbell rang.

  Z's knee was even feeling good as he hurried to the door, rotated the deadbolt, pulled the door in and.....

  * * * * *

  Z came awake slowly to the driving beat of pain inside his skull. Where was he? ... Lying on his side. ... On a floor. On his floor, he thought ......

  "Get up, old man," said a harsh voice from the ionosphere.

  Z felt a stabbing pain in his ribs.

  Looking through fog-blurred eyes, he saw a man standing over him. Tall.

  Z closed his eyes to clear the film away, then opened them.

  Starting at the floor, concentrating, he looked up and up, from the man's snake skin boots to expensive pants (sharp crease) to the suit coat (double-breasted) to the man's elongated head that rose to touch a too-tall ceiling.

  Dark face. Dark hair.

  The man wore an overcoat. Unbuttoned. Had ... ten fuzzy fingers on each hand, fingers too full of diamond rings.

  "I said, get up, Daddy." The pain in Z's side was worse this time, the man's boots having sharp, rib-kicking toes.

  Fighting dizziness, Z rolled over on his stomach.

  Using his arms to push, struggled to his knees.

  There, dragging his good leg under him, pushing with his hands, he fought his way to his feet, barely making it, swaying, swept with dizziness. More than a little sick, he almost fell, His head ringing like a bell clapper was loose inside. ......

  Knocked out.

  Though he could barely think, it didn't take much to figure out he'd been knocked out; that the stranger had done the knocking.

  Why?

  It was then that he lost his balance, Z staggering back a step, at the last moment guiding his fall so he hit the groaning divan.

  Jarred awake, he saw he was sitting on the side of the couch away from the phone. Funny, but this could be the first time he'd ever sat on that side of the divan. Funny ....

  Impossibly far away at his feet was the shaky coffee table.

  He tried again to focus on the man on the other side of the low table, a man ... whose eyes were black holes in a swarthy face.

  Young.

  Powerful.

  No gun in sight.

  If Z's head would only clear ....

  "I'm not goin' to screw with you," the dark man said, every word a threat. "I know you got it. And you're gonna' get it for me. You got it here?"

  "What?" It hurt to talk. Z must have hit his jaw on something when he went down. The coffee table? It looked like it might be out of place.

  "The picture. You got it." The man had an ugly voice. Foreign accent. Never get a job with Ma Bell with that accent. Or with that attitude.

  Z almost smiled.

  Picture? Z's mind wouldn't make connections. Even though he felt more in control ......

  Bob Zapolska's first clear thought was about how stupid he'd been to open the door without looking through the peephole. Detectives made enemies. He hadn't made any new ones lately -- that he knew of -- but there were old ones.

  His second lucid moment was the realization that the man had called him old.

  Big Bob Zapolska didn't like that. He also didn't like the way his head was hammering to the rhythm of his pounding heart. The whole of him felt like he was in a drum, still echoing to the "big bang" of the first day of creation.

  "I heard about you," the man sneered. "Supposed to be so tough. Big football player. You're not so tough now, are you? Just an old gray-haired man that's gonna give me what I want."

  There it was again. The man calling him old.

  Gray hair.

  That was the reason. Just because Z had gray-flecked hair didn't mean he was old. Bob Zapolska had an idea about that ... Something ....

  "What do you want?" Z asked thickly, even his tongue feeling strange. Had he bitten it when he fell?

  Floating a hand all the way to his mouth, he felt his lips with numb fingers. Took his hand away. Turned his hand over to look at it. ... No blood.

  "I want the picture that you stole. You got it. And you're gonna give it to me." The man was leaning over the small table now, his ugly face closer.

  No visible scars.

  If the man killed him, Z would have to remember to tell that to the cops. No visible scars.

  "Head hurt?" The man had a crooked grin. "You ain't felt nothin' yet. You get stubborn on me and you'll wish you'd never got born."

  Z's mind was suddenly clearer.

  Picture?

  It clicked!

  The dark man meant the Monet. Somehow, word had gotten out that Z had stolen the painting.

  He would have laughed -- if he could.

  Because he'd been asking about the painting, somebody had gotten his wires crossed; heard that he'd stolen it. If that wasn't such a dangerous rumor to have spread around, it would have been funny.

  Where had the man heard that? From Ted? From the K.C. cop? And who was this man, anyway?

  What was stupid was opening the door before looking out. If Z had been alerted to a stranger outside, he could have defended himself. He was still quick; far from the "old man" this thug thought he was.

  Big Bob Zapolska was getting angry -- was too weak to check his temper.

  Anger! Building. Building. Against the man for calling him old. Gray in your hair didn't mean you were old!

  The reason Z had opened the door without looking was that he was expecting Susan ....

  For the first time, Z was recovered enough to be afraid! Not for
himself. But for Susan. Susan was coming. Would be here any minute!

  He tensed his muscles. Felt them starting to respond.

  Good.

  The rush of adrenalin at the thought of Susan walking into danger had brought him back to life. All he needed to take this bastard was ....

  The doorbell rang. Susan! Susan coming into danger causing a wild flash of rage to energize Z's mind and body!

  With the roar of a blood-crazed leopard, he kicked the end table with his good leg, the table's legs sheering off, the table top slamming forward into the thug's shin.

  Howling, the swarthy man was reaching down to grab his leg as Z leaped over the flattened table, the criminal unable to avoid the punch Z drove into his belly. After that

  * * * * *

  As if touched by a miracle, Z could hear again. See the vague outlines of the room, the walls pulsing. Hear ... a noise.

  Susan.

  Susan screaming.

  "Z!" She was yelling. "Z! Stop!"

  Swimming back from the pool of red rage into which he'd fallen, Bob Zapolska realized Susan wanted something from him.

  Susan wanted him to stop.

  So he ... stopped.

  Looked around.

  Was bewildered.

  Z's breath exploding in harsh pants, he was calm enough to see Susan standing beside him, her face white. She'd been crying.

  Recognizing her, he put his arm around her shoulder, drew her to him, patted her on the head.

  She looked disheveled.

  Gently, he brushed sweaty strands of hair from her eyes. As tall as she was, at that moment, she looked ... delicate.

  Around them, the apartment had been wrecked.

  There had been a fight.

  A man was on the floor beside the fireplace.

  Tied-up.

  More than tied-up. Unconscious.

  Someone had swung the fireplace to the side, Z's detective case on the floor beside the man -- open -- the satchel's contents littering the room.

  It now seemed clear that Z had lost his temper; something he rarely did, the last time, when Susan's husband had waved that little gun at her.