by Dean James
I took a firm hand with my temper. “Rob did not bash Charlie over the head, for any reason. And I don’t know what you mean by ‘relationship,’” I added frostily. “If you think they were lovers, you’re mistaken. They were friends and roommates, nothing more. And as annoying as Charlie was, he didn’t do anything to Rob to make him commit murder.”
Bella snorted and tossed her head, like a temperamental horse. “Well, if you think they weren’t lovers, that just shows how naive you Mississippi boys can be. Didn’t you ever see the way Charlie looked at Rob? He had hungry eyes. But if you insist that they weren’t in a relationship, I guess I’ll take your word for it.” She paused. “And why are you getting so hot under the collar, anyway? Were you jealous of Charlie? I’ve noticed the way you’re always looking at Rob.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I snapped. “You’re imagining things, as usual! I’m not interested in Rob.” My denial sounded weak, even to me. Maybe Bella was right and Rob had lied to Maggie and me about his relationship with Charlie. Charlie was the only person who could have contradicted Rob, and he was dead. And if Charlie left Rob something in his will, that surely meant Charlie had strong feelings for him. What was it Charlie’s letter had said? That Rob would never have to worry about money again? Sounded like love to me.
Then I thought of something else. Was Rob trying to make peace with me simply to disarm me? Did he want to divert suspicion from himself? Was he lying about his relationship with Charlie? This left me more shaken than I wanted to admit.
I tuned back in to Bella. “Charlie must have annoyed someone an awful lot. Who knows, Whitelock may have finally gotten enough of Charlie’s misunderstood genius routine and done it himself. It sure irked me most of the time.”
Bruce spoke, startling both me and Bella; we had forgotten he was there, he had been so quiet. “Then that gives you about as good a motive as Dr. Whitelock, doesn’t it, Bella? If sheer annoyance with the little twerp were the motive, hell, I could have done it myself.” He shrugged.
The “twerp” had taken special delight in making maliciously jocular remarks about the relationship between Bruce and his charge, most often within Bruce’s hearing. Fortunately for Charlie, Bruce’s even temper and tolerant good nature had kept him from responding to the taunts. II he had, no doubt Charlie would have emerged the loser; Bruce could easily have broken any bone in Charlie’s body. So could Bella, I thought suddenly. She was in excellent physical condition; she worked out with Bruce, who made sure she knew how to defend herself. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
“I think annoyance is an inadequate motive for murder in this case, or else you both might be in trouble,” I responded spitefully. “Charlie certainly gave you cause—not to mention practically everyone in the history department, for that matter.”
Perplexed, Bella shook her head. “I know. I’ve never seen anyone who put so many people’s backs up deliberately.”
I wanted to laugh. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
“And the worst thing,” she added, “Charlie got away with it.”
Bruce laughed. “Everyone was afraid of what he’d say next—Bella, even his professors. No one else was quite that fast with his tongue, or enjoyed being that malicious. And you have to admit, he was pretty funny sometimes.”
Recalling Charlie’s remarks about Azalea, I had to agree, although I felt uncomfortable in doing so. She was fully capable of defending herself; some of Charlie’s other targets, like Elspeth Farrar, had not been.
“He was really bright,” Bella said. “I give him that, even though I was jealous. Seemed like every time I turned around, he was winning some sort of award. This year, I heard he was a shoo-in for the Dunbar Award. I was hoping for a chance at it, so I could go to North Carolina to do research in the Southern Historical Collection.”
She rolled her eyes in annoyance; her father, who, before seeking political office, had been one of the Southwest’s most successful criminal lawyers, could certainly afford to fund his daughter’s research trips. But since Bella had defied him by seeking a Ph.D. in history, rather than a law degree, Frank Gordon was unsympathetic to her needs as a history graduate student. “But Logan,” she continued, “who’s on the awards committee, you know, hinted to me a couple of days ago that Charlie was going to win.”
Anthony Logan, professor of Southern history and an amiable gossip, was Bella’s advisor and, often, the source of the interminable flow of information about the goings-on of the history department. She was probably right, since Logan was seldom wrong. He made it his business to know something about everyone in the department.
I focused abruptly on something Bella was saying. “Of course, Charlie really didn’t need the money, since his parents are so wealthy. He could have taken off for Paris and the Bibliotheque Nationale anytime he wanted. He didn’t have to wait for university travel money.”
“Well, Bella,” Bruce responded, “now that Charlie’s definitely out of the running, you may just win the award yourself.” He grinned wickedly at me. “How’s that for a motive? Beautiful graduate student kills obnoxious fellow student in dispute over travel money.”
I wasn’t amused; I hadn’t liked Charlie, but making speculative jokes about his death seemed inappropriate, even under the guise of being open about one’s feelings. Bruce sensed my disapproval and had the grace to look somewhat abashed, but Bella was oblivious as ever.
“That award doesn’t offer enough money to kill for,” she replied. “It’s entirely possible that I might win now, but I’m not so sure I want to, given the circumstances. Thank goodness they don’t make you keep that horrible little trophy. I can’t stand the thing.”
“Bella,” I asked quietly, “how did you know Charlie came from a wealthy family?” I put aside my mental picture of “that horrible little trophy” and the role it had played in Charlie’s death.
She peered suspiciously at me, as if my question was some sort of trap. “Bruce and I ran into him and his mother one time in the Galleria last year. Believe me, the clothes his mother was wearing, the family is loaded.” With Bella’s experience as a model, she knew clothes and what they cost. I believed her.
That settled, I decided I'd had enough. “Well, guys,” I said as I stood up, “that’s about all from Crime Central right now. I’ve got books to read.”
Bella didn’t look happy; she would have enjoyed gossiping about the murder for hours, but I was ready to get away from the two of them.
Before she could make more than a token protest, I was out the door. Just a few steps into the hallway, I pulled up short. Heads bent together, backs in my direction, Selena and Margaret were whispering. Pretty heatedly, too, from the way Selena’s head bobbed up and down.
The two women were blocking my way in the narrow hallway. If I didn’t get past them and on to the door leading to the stairs, I was afraid Bella and Bruce would come charging out after me again.
“Excuse me,” I said, and Margaret’s head whipped around in my direction.
Her face flamed scarlet, but Selena smiled coolly and waved me through with a “Hi, Andy.”
I could feel their eyes on me as I walked down the hall. I hadn’t gone far before the whispering resumed. Probably just dissertation nerves, I thought.
Down on the fourth floor, I headed for my carrel, picked up a couple more of the books on my reading list, and took them to the circulation desk to check them out.
My transaction completed, I headed gratefully for the parking lot, sweating and wiping my brow as I went. The inside of my car was at least a hundred degrees, and it had just cooled off by the time I finished the short drive home.
I had barely gotten out of my car before Rob’s front door swung open, and he came running across the yard to greet me. He was carrying a videotape.
As I put my key in the front door, he exclaimed, “You’re not going to believe what’s on this tape!”
Chapter Eleven
Rob was hard on my heels as
I unlocked my front door and went inside. I was intensely curious, of course, but I didn’t want to talk on the doorstep. In the living room, I dropped my books on a table and plopped down on the couch, motioning for him to sit beside me.
“You won’t believe what’s on this tape,” Rob repeated as he settled on the couch.
I took the tape from him and read the hand-printed label. “So it’s not Conan the Barbarian?”
“No,” he laughed. “It’s surely not.”
“Why would you even think twice about this?” I brandished the tape, and he took it back from me.
“I was cleaning up,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “My late-night visitor left things a bit messy. He had been pawing through the videotapes, and I was too tired to pick them up last night. Or this morning, rather. So, while you were gone, as I started reshelving the tapes, I noticed a couple with odd titles. Like the Conan one.” He looked expectantly at me.
“I guess Charlie wasn’t a Schwarzenegger fan?”
Rob nodded. “Got it in one. He hated the guy, so I didn’t think there was any way he’d have one of his movies on tape. Another was labeled Predator. I thought there was something strange about them, and, boy, was I ever right!”
“So show me what’s on the tape,” I responded, getting up, ready to head upstairs to my TV and VCR.
He shook his head. “I don’t think you want to see this, trust me. It’s pretty hard-core stuff.”
I sat on the couch again. Now was not the time to discuss my ability to view pornography without being permanently warped. “We-e-ell,” I said in slight exasperation, “what is on the tape?”
“Tacky is not the word for it, let me tell you,” he responded with a grimace. “First of all, this tape is definitely amateur work, and in this case, the amateur had to be Charlie. I told you he had an expensive video camera, didn’t I?”
At my nod, Rob continued. “I’m pretty sure he must have recorded these... these activities, but when and where I don’t know.”
“What activities are you talking about, Rob?” I asked impatiently.
I wasn’t completely surprised when he answered baldly, “Kinky sex, involving Whitelock and some woman. Or women. I’m not sure. There are lots of scenes with whips and other devices, and the woman is dressed in leather, wearing a mask. Whitelock is naked as the day he was born. He’s not wearing a mask, so you know right away who he is. I did a lot of fast-forwarding.” He paused to scrunch up his mouth in distaste. “We’re talking serious S and M here. Gracious, what a sight! Whitelock naked is enough to put you off sex for a lifetime! I couldn’t even make myself fast-forward through the second tape. I just looked at the beginning long enough to determine that it was more of the same. I had enough with the first one.”
“You don’t have any idea who the woman was?”
“No,” Rob said. “Unless she happens to wander by wearing one of the leather outfits from the tape! I told you, she wore a mask of some sort.”
“Maybe there are some distinguishing marks, or something else that could be used for identification.”
“Probably, if you want to go through the tape looking for them!” Rob made a funny face. “To think of Whitelock...” He shivered with revulsion. “And the kinds of things they’re doing. I’m not sure I can even look at him in class again.” He flourished the videotape. “This kind of thing goes on all the time in certain parts of the gay community, and I’ve got one friend who’s really into it, but I’ve never known anyone—anyone straight, that is—who went in for it.” He shook his head.
I laughed. “I didn’t know you were such a prude. Those kinds of activities”— I mocked his tone—“are probably a lot more common than you think, in both the gay and straight worlds.”
Flushing, Rob riposted, “I guess I don’t have your wide experience, then. The sight of people beating each other while they’re having sex doesn’t do much for me, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t know anything about my experience. But just because you don’t approve of their sexual practices doesn't mean you can get on some moral high horse. It’s none of your business. As long as they’re consenting adults, they can do what they want with each other.”
Rob glared at me, breathing hard. I returned his stare, refusing to back down.
Then, to my surprise, he laughed. “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, I guess. I don’t want anyone telling me what I can do in my bedroom, either. Point taken.”
I shrugged. “Good. So, what do we do now?” I asked. “I suppose we should call the police and turn it over to them. The longer we hold on to this tape, the more trouble we could be in.”
Rob stood up and began to pace to and fro. After a minute or so, he turned toward me, scratching his nose.
“That’s my first inclination, too,” he admitted. “I want to shove the responsibility onto someone else. I dragged you into this because I was scared they’d arrest me, and now that I’ve actually got evidence that could implicate someone else, I’m having second thoughts.” He laughed hollowly. “This tape is such a gross violation of privacy, and I don’t want to carry it any farther. I wish I’d never looked at it.”
I leaned back on the couch. “The best thing we could do is throw the tapes in the garbage and forget them. If I believed they had absolutely nothing to do with Charlie’s murder, I’d do that and not think twice about it. But I have a hard time believing there’s no connection between Charlie’s having this stuff on videotape and his murder.” I thought for a moment. “Besides, you could’ve been severely injured, or even killed, last night, possibly because of the tapes, if that’s what the burglar was after. That, frankly, scares the hell out of me.”
“Agreed.” Rob returned to the couch and stood solemnly looking down at me. “I think the tapes make Whitelock look like Suspect Number One. That reminds me, did you have a chance to read his article in the Medieval Quarterly yet?”
“Yes, and I think it was probably plagiarized from a seminar paper of Charlie’s that I read. Whitelock uses exactly the same evidence and arguments. And speaking of that paper, I know I have a copy of it in my files upstairs. I’ll go get it right now.”
Rob nodded, and I jumped up and ran up the stairs. It took only a couple of minutes of rummaging through my desk to find the paper. I skimmed it quickly as I walked downstairs.
“I was right. Some of the phrasing is even the same. I’m positive he plagiarized Charlie’s work.” I paused to measure Rob’s response; receiving none, I continued, “Does that confirm what you suspected?”
He gave me an odd look. “Actually, Andy, it was more than suspicion on my part. I didn’t tell you everything yesterday. Charlie... confided in me the afternoon of the day he... died.” Rob was having a difficult time maintaining his composure, thinking about Charlie’s last day, but he took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing.
“I’d never seen him that upset.” Rob shook his head slowly, remembering. “Charlie had just found his copy of the Medieval Quarterly in his mailbox, and he glanced at the contents page and found Whitelock’s name on the lead article. After he looked over the article, he came straight to me. He could hardly talk, he was so angry. He shoved the journal at me and pointed at Whitelock’s article, but I didn’t understand what was going on. I hadn’t read his paper, so I had a hard time believing that Whitelock had stolen his work.”
“Charlie actually accused Whitelock of plagiarism?”
Rob nodded. “When he could finally talk without cussing, he told me Whitelock’s article was essentially a rewrite of one of his old seminar papers. Then he went on to say that was probably why Whitelock had gotten him on the program of the S.H.F., with another paper that Charlie didn’t think was quite as good. How come you had a copy of Charlie’s paper?”
“During the first week of classes, I was talking to him about what Whitelock expected from us in his seminar, and he offered to let me read one of his papers that he said Whitelock had liked.” I paused
, reflecting. “I think he couldn’t resist showing off a good paper. And, if Whitelock was going to steal, I guess he’d steal the good one.”
“Why bother, otherwise?” Rob laughed bitterly. “To be honest, though, I thought Charlie had to be exaggerating. I couldn’t imagine Whitelock doing such a thing and expecting to get away with it.”
“That’s a good point,” I responded. “All Charlie had to do was dig out a copy of his paper and cause a big enough stink to embarrass Whitelock, if not prove that he was guilty of plagiarism.”
Rob shrugged. “That’s what I would have done. And Charlie was angry enough when he first told me about it that I thought he was ready to do something rash. But then he started calming down. I asked him what he was going to do, and he smiled at me. It was a pretty repulsive smile, though.”
“What did Charlie do after he talked to you?” I asked. “Did he confront Whitelock?”
“He did, right after lunch that day. The next time we had a chance to talk about it was later that night in the grad lounge, after the lecture. He told me about his first confrontation with Whitelock, but he didn’t say anything about what went on when they talked after seminar that afternoon. You walked right into the middle of our conversation.”
I thought hard until I recalled what I’d overheard. “You were saying something about someone making a threat.” I closed my eyes “... really threatened you if you didn’t stop? ” I quoted triumphantly.
“Good memory,” Rob replied, impressed. “When you walked in, Charlie had just finished relating the big confrontation scene, and I said something like ‘You mean he really threatened you if you didn’t stop?’ After you left, Charlie and I kept talking. He had gone to Whitelock’s office early Tuesday afternoon, before the seminar. Charlie showed him the article and accused him, flat out, of plagiarism. According to Charlie, he blanched a little, but then he laughed in Charlie’s face.
“Charlie kept trying to argue the point with him, but all Whitelock would ever say was that, while Charlie’s work may have suggested certain trains of thought, he hadn’t taken anything substantive from it. He insisted that the footnote that mentioned Charlie was sufficient, and he didn’t see why Charlie was so upset.”