A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Hanging up, he looked at Annie and Max. “What can I—”

  The phone rang.

  Burke slammed his hand against the desktop in exasperation and his pad slid sideways. “Damn girl. Hell of a lousy morning for her to call in sick. Sure, everybody’s upset about Charlotte, but we’ve got to keep going.” He started to reach for the phone, then shook his head irritably, and flicked a switch on the console. “I can’t answer the damn phone all morning and get anything done.” He grabbed several hard candies from a former ashtray. “Sometimes I think I’ll just start smoking again. Candy rots your teeth.” He popped some in his mouth, offered the candies to them. They shook their heads. His speech a little impeded, he said, “All right, now, what can I do for you?”

  Max stood and held out his hand. “I’m Max Darling. I have an office on Broward’s Rock, called Confidential Commissions. People with problems sometimes ask me to help out. Miss Dora Brevard has hired me to find out who’s supplying Kelly with his information.”

  Burke stared at Max for a long moment, then reached out and vigorously pumped his hand. “Sure, you’re Annie’s husband. The two of you solved that murder during the house-and-garden tours.” Wry amusement glinted in his bright eyes. “Made a lifelong friend of our rather heavy-handed chief of police, Harry Wells. Yeah. I know who you are.” He waved Max back to his seat. “Miss Dora’s got a good idea. And if you find out who the snake in our bosom is, I want to be the first to know.”

  “If you find out, call a press conference and I’ll cover it for The Crier.”

  They turned toward the door.

  Brad Kelly stepped into Burke’s office. His face looked thin and drawn this morning, but he bore Burke’s look of disgust without flinching. He jerked his head back toward the front office. “Emily’s not out there, so I came on back—and I couldn’t help overhearing.” He turned to Max. “I’m Brad Kelly, editor of The Crier. Are you a private investigator? What’s your name?” He pulled a battered notepad from his pocket.

  “I’m Max Darling, but I am not a private investigator. I am a consultant. People consult me.”

  “What’s the difference?” Kelly’s tone was puzzled.

  “A little matter of licensing by the state of South Carolina,” Max replied smoothly. “Now, Mr. Kelly—”

  “It’s Brad. Brad Kelly.”

  Burke interrupted. “What the hell do you mean, call a press conference if Darling finds out who leaked that stuff to you?”

  A flush brightened Kelly’s pale face. “I’ve got calls coming in from all over the state. I had no idea it’d be such a big deal, or I’d have done my best to find out who was doing it.”

  “You don’t know who gave you that confidential information on the faculty?” Max demanded.

  “No idea. I never saw him.”

  “A man?” Annie asked quickly.

  Kelly frowned. “I … Hell, I just don’t know. I thought so, but that was because the whisper was low. But it could have been a woman.”

  Burke watched Kelly like he was monitoring a rattler. “Over the telephone?”

  Kelly hesitated, then shook his head decisively. “No comment. No comment.” He turned aggressively on Max. “Now, you’ve been hired by Miss Brevard, the trustee?”

  Max smiled. “I’ll be glad to talk to you, Brad, on a quid pro quo basis. How was the contact made with you?”

  Kelly’s gray eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “Sorry. I ask questions. I don’t answer them.” He turned back to Burke. “But I’m going to answer questions this afternoon. Press conference at three o’clock in The Crier offices.”

  Burke’s face turned an unhealthy orange-red. “Press conference! What the hell for?”

  “The Crier—that’s me—will announce that despite any and all efforts to suppress the truth, The Crier will continue with its investigative series on journalism department practices and policies.” The words were brave and forceful, but his tone was an odd mixture of aggression and defensiveness. “I won’t be intimidated. It’ll take more than blood to stop Brad Kelly.” His eyes shifted away from Burke’s choleric face. “I’ve already got acceptances from The Atlanta Constitution, CNN, and The New York Times.”

  “I guess blood won’t stop you, will it?” Burke said heavily.

  For just an instant, Kelly wavered. “Are you saying you threw that stuff?” he asked, clearly surprised.

  “Not that blood, Brad. I’m talking about Charlotte Porter’s blood. Are you still proud of that article about her? Are you excited about the result?”

  Kelly blinked. He swallowed convulsively. Burke’s thrust had hit home and hit hard. Slowly, and those watching could feel the effort and the pain, Kelly’s young face hardened. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Yeah, I wrote the story. But you know something, Mr. Burke, I didn’t steal that money. I didn’t cover up the theft. I just told the truth.”

  “But not the whole truth,” Burke said sharply. “Was Charlotte Porter a thief? Had she consistently over a period of years abused the trust placed in her? No, Kelly. She served this department and this college honorably for many years. In one incident, under tremendous pressure, she ‘borrowed’ money. She didn’t intend to steal it. She was already repaying it, in the tiny sums she could manage, before the shortage was found. So you didn’t know all the truth. Just part of it. And part of it was enough to kill Charlotte.”

  “I called her.” The young voice shook. “I called and she could have told me.”

  “But you stopped there,” Burke said heavily.

  “I called her.” His voice grew shrill. Then, catching his breath, he continued harshly. “I’m not going to keep the problems in this department under wraps just to protect you from criticism, Mr. Burke. I’m going to keep on writing stories. Tomorrow I’m going to tell the truth about Professor Crandall and his ‘extracurricular’ activities. Do you wish to comment?”

  Burke stared at Kelly, his face creased in thought. “Professor Crandall has been an outstanding member of this faculty.” He chose his words carefully. “I do not believe that public discussion of a faculty member’s private life is justified under any circumstances.”

  Kelly scrawled in his notebook. “Thank you.” He turned to go, then paused in the doorway. “Of course, you are welcome to come to the news conference at three. I don’t believe in hiding the news.”

  Burke’s hands bunched into fists. He came halfway out of his chair, his face an angry red, then, slowly, he sank back, but his tone was menacing when he answered. “You can count on it, Kelly, I’ll be there. And when I finish talking to those reporters, young man, you can hunt for a job as an ice cream vendor—if you’re lucky.”

  Kelly gave him an uneasy look, then shrugged. “We’ll see about that. Those reporters know a story when they see it.”

  But Burke wasn’t finished. “Yeah, I’m coming and I’ll talk about you and how you handled your big story and the way big-time journalists write. One thing you forgot, Kelly, there are always two sides to every story. Sometimes there are a hundred sides—and good reporters check every source and give every side, whether they like it or not, whether it makes them puke or inspires them. You didn’t come to me and ask any questions. Why did Charlotte Porter steal that money? Why did I—and the personnel committee—accept her promise to make restitution? Why didn’t I call the cops? You didn’t ask any questions at all. You took part of the story—the fact that she took the money and the fact that I chose not to prosecute—and ran a forty-eight-point head and crucified that woman. And that’s all you did. Why? Because you wanted a BIG story, but not the whole story. The whole story might not be worth a forty-eight-point head. So, sure, I’ll be there at three.”

  Kelly’s whole body tensed. “So you’re going to try and shoot me down.” He thought about it, then shook his head in dismissal. “The bottom line, Burke, is that I’ll still be editor when you finish and I’m going to have a lot more stories that are going to turn this place on its ear. And there isn’t anythi
ng you can do about it.”

  As the door slammed shut behind Kelly, Burke exploded. “Goddamn that mother-fucker. I’ll get him if it’s the last thing I ever do. Him and the cold-blooded bastard who’s using him to get at me.”

  Max was considering the closed door thoughtfully. “Is that how you read it? Do you think the objective of the leak is to smear you?”

  Burke shot him an irritated glance. “Hell, man, that should be obvious. You weren’t at the emergency faculty meeting, but Annie was. Did she tell you about it?”

  Max nodded.

  “Then you know all about that crap Malcolm shoveled out, that I unloaded to Kelly to get at the faculty because they wouldn’t play ball with me. I don’t play those kinds of games with people’s lives.” There was an echo of Sam Spade, Annie thought, a man electing honor in a dishonorable world. “So there are plenty of things I won’t say. But I’ll throw out some home truths this afternoon. For one thing, that will spike Kelly’s guns.” He reached for another candy. “Besides, now that my cover’s blown, the best thing to do is lay everything on the line—everything that I decently can. Then the public—and in my case, the president and the trustees—can look it over and decide whether I was playing it right.” He popped the candy in his mouth.

  “What do you mean?” Annie asked.

  Burke picked up a pen and tapped the pad lying in the center of his desk. “That kid’s right on target in one respect. I am trying to make some changes—some profound changes—in this department. You see, this department has been dominated by academics, people with Ph.D.’s who’ve served a few internships here and there, but their practical experience as journalists is right down on the kindergarten level. So what happens? Their training is as academics. Obviously, they see research and ivory-tower reasoning as paramount. They talk about theories of communications, the society, the individual. They love computers and statistics. Jesus, how they love statistics. They can tell you how many times the typical housewife in Dubuque watches the afternoon soaps and her brand awareness. They’re hell on surveys and when they write papers to present to learned groups of other academics, it’s six-syllable words all the way. They want to teach kids how to be media managers, not how to write or find out facts or compose ads. Lots of colonels, but no foot soldiers. My job is to change the focus, put the emphasis back on the basics, how to cover a story, how to create ads, how to put forth a client’s position most effectively. How to be a professional.”

  “And you aren’t the best-liked kid on the block,” Annie summed up.

  Burke managed a grin. “Honey, you can say that in spades.” It was a fleeting smile. “But nobody hired me to win a popularity contest.”

  “Who’s maddest at you?” Max asked.

  “Hard to say,” Burke replied wryly. “Maybe Malcolm Moss. He was acting chair when I came. Wanted to be chosen, of course. Hacked him, no doubt about it. He has a lust for power, that SOB. Big guy. They run to it sometimes. Likes to make people squirm. Puts graduate students through hell. And he and Garrison are fighting me tooth and toenail over the curriculum.”

  Annie leaned forward. “Garrison was furious at that faculty meeting. What was that all about?”

  “That?” Burke said softly. “Sweetheart, that was all about the heart and soul of the school—and I’m going to win. You see,” and he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and squinted dreamily at the acoustic tile ceiling, “there’s a little thing called tenure that complicates my life. I can’t fire Garrison or Moss because they won’t do it my way. The day they were granted tenure, they won the battle to stay in this department. But I can win the war, and here’s how I’m going to do it. Next week I’m going to provide the academic vice president with a proposal for a revised curriculum for this department. For example, Garrison has a pet course, Journalism 306, Quantitative Research in Public Policy Reporting. Students spend a goddamn term measuring how many inches the Republicans get, how many inches the Democrats get in a particular newspaper over a three-month period.” He blew out an irritated spurt of air. “Jesus, why not count how many times the President gets his name in the paper? It’s not seeing the forest for the goddamn trees. It’s useless, but you can bet all those numbers get correlated, added, divided, and shined up for some paper he wants to submit to a refereed journal—I mean one where he’s got a lot of chums on the editorial board—and whoopee, our professor scores again with a professional publication. Now, I’ll admit I’m riding my hobbyhorse. I’m not saying research isn’t good, can’t be well done or necessary. But let a scholar do research on his own time and use the goddamn class time to teach. So, in my proposed curriculum we’ll drop Journalism 306 and substitute Journalism 310, which will be a course on covering elections from the precinct to the national convention with a lot of good, hard, usable information: how each party is structured from the lowest to the highest tier, the names behind the titles, the personalities behind the names, the movers and shakers. I guarantee you that any student who completes that course can handle an election story, plan TV coverage, or create an advertising or public relations campaign for any candidate—and do a hell of a job.”

  His gaze dropped from the ceiling, focused on a yellow folder. He sat forward, reached for it, and waggled it at them. “The new curriculum is in here—and it’s going to rattle some cages around here, all right. But I’ve got the power, and I don’t mind using it. Research is fine. Professional publications are fine. But the primary focus is going to be on a down-to-earth, practical curriculum that will teach students to be first-rate, thinking journalists. And the faculty is goddamn well going to like it or lump it.”

  Max had been following his torrent of words carefully. “Is everybody on the faculty opposed to you?”

  “Over the curriculum?” Burke countered.

  “Over anything.”

  Burke scowled. “You’re trying to figure out who might have a grudge against me?”

  “Yes, if compromising you was the real point of the leakage.”

  Burke’s eyes narrowed. He absently replaced the yellow folder on his desk. “Interesting possibility you raise. Because there are some other conflicts—but they all relate to private personnel matters.”

  “I’m not Brad Kelly,” Max said quietly. “Annie and I have no ax to grind, no reason to reveal anything we learn from you. But if we’re going to find out what really happened, we need to know everything we can about everybody. One of those personnel matters may have triggered this entire episode and caused Charlotte Porter’s death.”

  Burke pulled open his desk drawer, found a stick of gum, unwrapped it, and popped the stick in his mouth. He chewed ruminatively, then gave a decisive nod. “Miss Dora is a trustee. You’ll report only to her. Right?”

  Max nodded.

  “On that basis, I’ll tell you what I know. But it’s confidential, of course.”

  “Confidential,” Annie promised.

  The chairman glared down at his desktop. “Confidential files, too. That’s the rub. Either somebody got into the files, or somebody on the personnel committee is behind the leak. But that leaves a wide open field.” Those bright green eyes, reflective now, traveled from Annie’s face to Max’s. “On the committee: myself, Victor Garrison, Malcolm Moss, Josh Norden, Sue Tarrant.” His mouth twisted. “Victor’s a prick, believe me. Charm you out of your jock while he’s inserting a stiletto between the third and fourth ribs. To be fair, he thinks I’m a goddamned boob, an untutored fool, and an ignoramus, and it’s his holy duty to protect the academic integrity of the unit from my barbaric ravages. There are no flies on Victor, nothing the least bit derogatory can be said about his actions. Our struggle is for the future of the department, and he’ll never give up.”

  Burke pulled the pad on his desk nearer and glanced down at it. “All the little Indians are listed here.” He darted a sardonic look at Annie. “I’d like to turn them over to Mr. Justice Wargrave. That would cook their goose, wouldn’t it?”

  A
nnie murmured to Max, “And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie.”

  “If I could put them on an island for a week, I’d get some answers out of them,” Burke said confidently, “but I’m going to ask some damn sharp questions this morning and see what turns up. But you want to ask questions, too. Okay.” He tapped the list. “Moss. It’s power he wants. He doesn’t like my coming in and trying to run the department. I presume it’s the struggle for power that Kelly intends to write about. But it’s the rest of the faculty where it gets stickier.”

  “Josh Norden?” Annie asked.

  Burke shook his head impatiently. “Josh is a drunk. I’ve given him six months to get in a treatment program. But I don’t care how unhappy he might be with me, he would never have done anything to hurt Charlotte. Josh didn’t do it.”

  “Sue Tarrant thought the story in The Crier was awful,” Annie volunteered.

  Burke shrugged. “Sue’s emotional. It’s hard to read her, hard to know what might trigger an outburst from her.”

  “Is there anything derogatory in Kurt Diggs’s file?” Annie asked, her voice cold.

  “What’s your guess?” Burke asked.

  “I’ll bet he trades A’s for sex.”

  “You got it,” Burke replied.

  Max looked at Annie curiously. “How’d you know?”

  “His kind are legion.”

  “I’ve had a lot of complaints, but I can’t pin anything on him.” The chairman added grimly, “But I will.”

  “If some of the coeds have complained, why can’t you bring him before a board on a charge of sexual discrimination?” Max asked.

  “Oh, it isn’t the ones he’s screwed who complain, it’s the other students in the class who resent the favoritism. Diggs is too smart to fool with any but cooperative coeds. At least not recently. But I put him on notice. I’m watching and I’m watching closely. Like I told him, one of these days some coed will decide the A wasn’t worth it and blow the whistle—or maybe he’ll make a mistake and throw a pass at a girl who isn’t having any.”