Dark Mural

by Rick Homan

  He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything. I’d be surprised if they made a decision before December.”

  I took a sip of wine. “For your sake, I hope they offer you the job.”

  “Thank you, although in a way I hope they don’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  We took some time to enjoy our food.

  “Here’s an idea,” I said. “If they offer you the job, tell them you’ll accept it only if they also offer me a job in the art department.”

  He grinned. “I like that idea. It’s not unheard of, but I think they do that only for deans, vice presidents, and football coaches.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said with heavy irony. “I thought you were applying to be the football coach.”

  He laughed. “No, they already turned me down for that, so I thought I’d try for French professor.”

  After another sip of wine, I said, “December is still a couple of months away.”

  “That’s true,” he said, “and there’s no guarantee I’ll know anything by then.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “We could just take it slow.”

  “Yes,” I said, “we could take it slow, but not too slow.”

  He smiled, reached across the table, and squeezed my hand.

  Chapter 40

  At about three thirty on Sunday afternoon, I strolled over to the Arts and Humanities Building to meet Sheriff Adams at my office. My day-off outfit of a sweater, jeans, and sneakers was now augmented with a t-shirt under the sweater and a windbreaker. Autumn in Ohio was as cold as any season ever got in San Francisco. Next weekend, I would have to set aside a day to go shopping for some real winter clothes.

  The view from my office window over the wooded hillside was marvelous. Lionel had told me the fall color would be at its best this week, and it did not disappoint. I had seen paintings and photographs of autumn scenes in hardwood forests, but I had never seen the real thing. Orange was the dominant color, and there were gold accents. In the afternoon sunlight, the hillside looked as if it were on fire.

  I heard a knock and turned around to see Sheriff Adams framed in the doorway. I remembered how impressed I’d been the first time I saw him there. I’d seen him many times since, but he was still impressive.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff. Have a seat.”

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Noonan.”

  As he sat, I held out my hand to take his hat. He gave it to me, and I set it on the corner of my desk, nearest him.

  “How goes the investigation?”

  “We had some long hours, Friday night into Saturday, but by yesterday afternoon we were able to send the case to the prosecutor.”

  This gave me a jolt of adrenaline.

  He went on. “You may recall that when I questioned Huey Littleton regarding his whereabouts on the night of the murder he admitted he saw Kate Conrad at Buddy's Bar—he couldn’t really deny it, because we had so many witnesses—but he claimed he didn’t know anything about what happened after she left.

  “When I told him we’d found the murder weapon, and that it was part of the shelving he’d built in Schumacher’s basement, he started to look worried. Then I told him we knew he had a motive to kill her because everyone at Buddy's saw how angry he was, he had the means to kill her because he would have had a two-by-four in the back of his truck, and he had opportunity because he could have followed her after she left Buddy's.

  “That’s when he decided maybe he did have a little more to tell us. He said he was working at Schumacher’s house on the Friday afternoon before she died. Before he left, the professor showed him a picture of a student and asked him to keep an eye out for her whenever he was in Blanton. He said the professor asked him to call right away whenever he saw her.

  “So I asked him: If that’s true where’s the photo? He said it was probably still in his truck. We sent a deputy out, and sure enough it was on the floor under the driver’s seat.”

  I held up a hand to stop the sheriff. “Wait a minute. Jacob had a photo of Kate?”

  Adams nodded. “It looked like something that was printed from a computer. The prosecutor was glad to have that piece of evidence. He said it proves premeditation.”

  I knew this was good news for solving the murder, but it was also further evidence of the evil nature of a man I had thought of as a colleague. “So that night, outside Buddy's Bar, Huey recognized Kate as the student Jacob wanted him to spy on?” I asked.

  Adams nodded. “That’s right, and he admitted he saw her after she left Buddy's. He said he drove around town and caught sight of her walking along Main Street and turning onto that path that crosses a field and comes out on route 212 where it leads to the campus. That’s when he called Schumacher and told him her whereabouts.”

  “So Huey Littleton helped Jacob kill Kate?”

  “Littleton says the professor never told him why he wanted to find her, and he never asked. I imagine that’s true. I can’t see why the professor would have shared that information.

  “By the way, Littleton also confessed to vandalizing your car, though he swears Schumacher paid him to do it.”

  I’d already figured out Littleton did the spray-painting, so that didn’t surprise me, but learning that Jacob had paid for it made my guts twist. Jacob must have seen me working in the chapel on that weekend before I met my class there. He could have watched me from his house across the street. I tried not to dwell on it. “So, based on Huey’s testimony, you charged Jacob with murder?”

  “There’s a little more to it. Deputy Harding took his time processing Schumacher’s statement Friday evening. You know how it is when you have computer problems.” Adams smiled as he said this. “So, Schumacher was still in our office when we’d gotten all this out of Littleton. I took the professor into an interview room, told him I was arresting him on suspicion of murder, and read him his rights. Of course, he had to have a lawyer. That’s when we knew we were in for a long night.

  “Once the lawyer was there, I laid it out. We had proof of premeditation with the photo. He had means because he could have borrowed the two-by-four from the stack of lumber in his basement. He had motive because of what you told us about his opinion of Ms. Conrad’s research. And he had opportunity because of what Littleton told us.

  “Schumacher answered a few questions, but his lawyer shut it down pretty quick. Eventually everybody got some sleep, Schumacher spent the night in a cell, and we were back at it Saturday morning. When we got your statement, we called in the prosecutor. It’s all up to the lawyers now. I’m not sure, but I think the professor is going to cooperate and plead guilty in return for a guarantee that the prosecutor won’t seek the death penalty.”

  My chest felt hollow, and I had to take a deep breath before I could speak again. “There’s something I’m still trying to make sense of. Jacob knew Kate was walking on that path because of Huey’s phone call, and he would have had a rough idea of when she would reach route 212.”

  Adams nodded his agreement.

  I continued. “So he could have driven down the road from campus, turned around, and been there waiting for her when she got to the end of the path and started walking along the road toward campus. But, at that point, if he had chased her in his car, she would have run into the woods, and if he had chased her on foot, she easily could have outrun him.”

  Adams scowled as if he hated what he was about to say. “Once his lawyer gave him the go-ahead to make a full confession, Schumacher admitted he stopped his car across the road from where Ms. Conrad was walking. According to his description, he then stepped out of the car, waved to her, and offered her a ride. When she crossed the road and started to walk in front of the car, he stepped behind her and hit her.”

  “And he left her lying there by the road,” I said.

  Adams nodded.

  I felt cold all over wondering if Kate had a moment of terror as she saw a friendly ges
ture turn into violence.

  “How did the two-by-four end up as part of his shelving?” I asked.

  “I asked him about that. He said when he got home he went to the basement and threw it back on the pile of lumber, assuming it would get hauled away along with the rest of the scraps. I think it was by chance Littleton used to build the shelving. If he hadn’t, I doubt we ever would have found it.”

  I could think of nothing else to say, and I had nothing to ask. “Thank you for taking time to come here and go over this with me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Adams leaned forward and picked up his hat. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Sheriff, I want to apologize. From the beginning, I felt like I had to fight for my students, Devon and Kate. I know it seemed like I didn’t trust you, and I am sorry for that.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll admit I’m not used to people taking a hand in the investigation the way you did, but I’m not sure I would have gotten it right without you bringing things to my attention.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stood up, and I stood up with him.

  “This is your first year at the college, isn’t it?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I hope this hasn’t soured you on it. This can be a nice place to live.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chapter 41

  I had sent Mom and Dad a text Sunday morning, promising to call in the afternoon. After talking with Adams, I was glad I’d waited so I could give them all the facts.

  After I laid it out for them, Mom said, “That was nice of the sheriff to come by and fill you in on the whole story.”

  “Let’s remember,” said Dad, “sheriffs are elected. He wants your vote.”

  “I know, Dad, but I think he was doing it to help me. He knows I went through a lot, and that this is my first semester here.”

  Dad went on. “That history professor is a monster.”

  “Yes, he is, Dad. And now he’s in jail.”

  Mom asked, “Why would they let someone like that be a professor, let alone chairman of a department?”

  “I don’t think he was always like that. I’m sure for years he taught and did his research like the rest of us. I’ve read one of his books, and it’s good. So he deserved to be on the faculty. But he’s in his sixties now, and he said the biography he was writing would be the completion of his career. He couldn’t stand the idea that Felix Fuchs and the commune he founded were in some ways on the wrong side of history. He didn’t want that story to get out. Plus, it would reflect badly on his own ancestors.”

  “I see what your saying,” said Mom, “but I don’t like the idea of you living in a place like that.”

  “Mom, it’s not ‘a place like that.’” One man was responsible for all this. He ordered the vandalism of my car to try to scare me away. He killed Kate Conrad rather than let her discover the truth. He spied on me, and, when he thought I was too close to the truth, he came after me.

  “But now that man is locked up, and I think he will get convicted. He’s not part of this place any more, and there are a lot of wonderful people here like Abbie and Lionel. Kate Conrad is gone, and she was a rare student, but I’ll watch for another one to come along, and meanwhile I’ll do my best for the others.”

  “Well, so long as you’re safe.”

  We talked about what else was going on back home, and I told them how beautiful the fall colors were. They hadn’t seen them since they’d made a trip to the East before I was born. I promised I would call again before the middle of the week.

  Monday morning I felt free and easy about teaching and research—about everything, really. That quiet voice inside seemed to be asking, “What’s the worst that could happen?” After all I’d been through, grumpy students, goofy colleagues, and gossipy staff didn’t scare me. As I sat in my office at nine o’clock, enjoying the fall color, I laid out plans for that morning’s art history class, content to give them something predictable and reassure them the exam would not be too difficult.

  My phone rang, I answered, and a voice I didn’t recognize said, “Good morning, Dr. Noonan. This is Georgina in President Taylor’s office. How are you this morning?”

  The candid reply would have been, “surprised to hear from the president of the college,” but instead I said, “Fine, thanks. And you?”

  “I’m just fine too. The president would like to speak with you and he has some time open in his schedule later this afternoon. Do you think you could drop by the office at three thirty?”

  “I would be happy to.”

  “All right. We’ll see you then.”

  We hung up, and I swiveled my chair to resume looking at the treetops. The yellow highlights were especially well lit this morning.

  Maybe the president made a practice of inviting new faculty members to his office for a get-acquainted chat during their first semester, although, considering the events of the past week, maybe I was being called on the carpet for my part in getting Schumacher arrested. I would find out soon enough.

  Art history went pretty much the way I had planned. Ursula Wilmot took her notes and seemed to be indexing them as she went. Byron Hawley struck his characteristic pose as the artist weighed down by petty concerns. The others politely responded when I posed questions to the class and otherwise distracted themselves with their cell phones.

  My only problem that morning was two empty chairs. My eye kept darting to the places where I had last seen Kate and Devon sitting. I wondered if he would return for the remainder of the semester. I hated the idea that his education was being postponed by the unfair suspicion that had fallen on him, and I hated the thought that his family might blame him anyway. Kate would never return to a classroom and that made teaching just a job for me, a way to make a living.

  There are worse ways.

  After class I checked email and saw that the dean of students had written to all in the campus community re-stating the college’s policy on inclusiveness: no discrimination based on race, religion, country of origin, or sexual orientation. I guessed this was in response to Friday’s story in the student newspaper about Kate having a “lesbian affair.” The dean’s message wouldn’t change anyone’s attitudes or behavior, but I was glad to see it anyway.

  The dean of faculty also had written to the campus community acknowledging news stories about the arrest of Professor Jacob Schumacher in connection with the murder of Kate Conrad and promising full cooperation with the authorities. I had no doubt that Jacob was a killer, but I wondered if faculty, staff, and students who were “from around here” would choose instead to believe that the lesbian student and the outsider from San Francisco had robbed them of the college’s grand old man.

  I was distracted from these gloomy thoughts by a knock on my office door. There stood Devon, a shadow of his former self. No longer the action hero, he slouched, his head hung low. He looked pale, and I thought he might have lost weight.

  “Can I talk to you?” he asked.

  “Of course. Come in. Have a seat.”

  He perched on the edge of the chair, hands resting on his thighs. He kept his eyes down. His jaw worked as he decided where to start. “Teresa called me.”

  I waited.

  “She told me she talked to the sheriff and told him I never hit her.”

  “I’m glad she did that.”

  He nodded. “She said her dad told her she could never talk to anyone about what happened that night, but she called the sheriff anyway to help me out.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. I thanked her. She also told me you talked her into it. So, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you glad to have that over with?”

  “I guess, but it’s all so screwed up. I didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t do anything wrong. But we got separated, and I got a reputation as some kind of creep, and it was all so her dad could get elected.”

  So Abbie and I guessed right a
bout that. “Are you going to see her again?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been three years. We can’t undo that.”

  “Three years might not be as long as you think.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’ve had a tough few weeks. We all have.”

  “Yeah. I just got back to campus last night. I’ve been home for the past week-and-a-half.”

  “How was that?”

  He slid back in the chair and sat up straight. “Bad at first. Better since Teresa talked to the sheriff. Dad and I argued about whether I was coming back here. He kept telling me what I could and couldn’t do, and how I was supposed to report to him. Then he said he was going to talk to campus security and see if they could keep me under a curfew. That’s when I told him to forget it. I said I’d work, get an apartment, and go to community college. It just wasn’t worth arguing with him any more. I’d rather do it on my own.”

  “But you’re back.”

  “Yeah. After a couple days, he said I could come back to school here like before. I think mom talked to him.”

  “I’m glad it worked out. A lot happened while you were away.”

  He nodded. “I read the news about Dr. Schumacher. Why would a professor do that to a student?”

  “People don’t always want to hear the truth, especially not when it ruins the story they’ve been telling themselves. Schumacher’s ideas about this place mattered more to him than the life of another human being.”

  He shook his head. “I also read the article in the student newspaper about Kate being gay. I feel bad for her. I guess I made it worse by asking her out.”

  “No you didn’t. Everybody is just trying to figure out who they are and who they can love. That’s not easy for anyone.”

  He looked out the window behind me for a moment, resting his eyes on the riot of color in the treetops. “I’ve been out of class for three weeks. I’ve already dropped two classes because there’s no way I’ll catch up in them. I wanted to see if I could make up the work in art history. I’ll do all the reading, and I could do some library reports if that would help. I know it would be extra work for you, but if I could finish this course and two others, I could take a couple of classes over the summer and still graduate.”