Day of the Dead

by Brenda Donelan

  Marlee and Diane looked at each other with their mouths agape. Marlee turned down the volume as a catchy jingle for potato chips filled the room. “What breaking news do they have?” asked Marlee.

  “I guess we’ll see in a minute,” said Diane, now on the edge of the couch, poised for the news update. She motioned for Marlee to turn the volume up again even though they were still on commercial break.

  Marlee turned up the news as the toothy newscaster reappeared and announced that a Midwestern State University professor has clues to Logan’s death. “What the hell!” shrieked Marlee.

  The scene then turned to a pre-recorded interview of Asshat in his office. Both Marlee and Diane rolled their eyes, disappointed that it would be more of this little troll’s pontificating on the topic. Asshat was sitting in his office with a television reporter sitting next to him. Asshat was wearing an Australian safari hat with one side pinned up. The videographer panned across Asshat’s small office, taking in his framed academic degrees and the countless books stacked neatly in the bookcases that lined the walls. The reporter narrated as the camera moved between shots of the office and photographs of Logan LeCroix. A brief biography on Professor Ashman was read, alerting the television audience to his academic qualifications in the discipline of History, his frequent newspaper columns and his blog. Asshat no doubt provided the reporter with his background material to lend credibility to what he was about to say.

  “Professor Ashman,” said the reporter, “I understand you have some new information on the death of Logan LeCroix.

  “Yes. Several of my colleagues and I have been patiently waiting for the police department to announce findings relevant to the investigation. Since none were forthcoming, I called Chief Langdon myself and asked to meet with him. He agreed, and we spoke at length about Logan LeCroix’s death.”

  “Why did he agree to talk to you?” asked the reporter.

  “Because I asked,” replied Asshat with an air of arrogance, which implied that no one dare turn him away when he requested information.

  “What did the chief tell you?” the reporter queried.

  “He said the matter was still under investigation. He said there was blowback of blood and tissue on Dr. LeCroix’s arm and gunpowder residue on both hands, suggesting he had fired the gun himself,” said Asshat.

  “So, the chief said it was suicide?” asked the reporter.

  “No, he didn’t say that but, based on everything the chief told me, I think it was suicide,” said Asshat, matter-of-factly, looking straight into the camera.

  “What else did he reveal that led you to think Logan LeCroix killed himself?” asked the reporter, on the edge of his seat with the microphone thrust even closer to Asshat’s face.

  “The chief said Dr. LeCroix left his car keys and his building keys in his office when he exited the building. He was wearing a t-shirt but no jacket, and it was very chilly. It seems to me that he didn’t intend on going back to his office or going home. I think he may have tried to stage the suicide to look like a murder,” said Asshat.

  “Where was the gun found?” asked the reporter.

  “It was buried in a dumpster about fifty feet away from Dr. LeCroix’s body. I asked Chief Langdon how one might be able to shoot himself, place the gun in a dumpster underneath other items, and then die in a location several feet away. The chief explained that frequently, when someone is shot, the bullet doesn’t kill them instantaneously, like we see on television. I believe Dr. LeCroix likely shot himself by the dumpster, dropped the gun in the dumpster where it fell underneath some large garbage bags, and then walked about sixteen yards away where he collapsed and died,” Asshat reported with a smirk, proud of himself for not only obtaining a private audience with the Chief of Police, but snaring a television interview and putting the pieces of the puzzle together himself.

  The reporter scratched his chin and asked, “Assuming that your speculation of suicide is correct, why would Logan LeCroix try to make it look like a murder?”

  “I don’t have any inside information on that,” said Asshat, “but maybe it was for insurance purposes. The beneficiary of any life insurance policies may not have been able to collect if the manner of death was self-inflicted by the victim.”

  “What else did you discuss with Chief Langdon?” asked the reporter.

  “He said that there were other items that have come to light, but that he couldn’t discuss them due to privacy concerns for Dr. LeCroix and his family. The chief also said that they are receiving help from other law enforcement agencies around the area. Besides that, they have submitted case information to a firearms expert, a forensics expert and a specialist who deals with cold cases. Langdon said they are awaiting the findings from these three independent consultants,” stated Asshat, slightly adjusting his Australian safari hat and tilting his head toward the camera in hopes of getting his best angle.

  The reporter looked both intrigued and annoyed by Asshat’s account of his conversation with Chief Langdon. He knew Asshat was playing to the camera and loving the attention. At the same time, the reporter was anxious to obtain any crumb of information on the matter, especially since the chief had been so close-mouthed up to this point. “So you believe Logan LeCroix’s death was suicide, based on your discussion with the Chief of Police, but he is awaiting findings from outside consultants? Is that right?”

  “That is correct. I believe this matter will be resolved shortly, and then we can go back to our normal routines on the MSU campus and in the Elmwood community,” said Asshat.

  With that final pronouncement, the interview was concluded. The reporter noted that Chief Langdon was contacted following the interview with Professor Ashman but had declined to comment. Then, the scene flashed back to the toothy newscaster, and she began talking about an international news item.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Marlee. “Since when does the Chief of Police have private conversations with people from the community who have no involvement in a case? Why would he tell Asshat any of that information? Did Chief Langdon swear him to secrecy?”

  “We know what Asshat said, but we don’t know how accurately he reflected what the chief had to say,” reminded Diane, always on the lookout for possibly-misconstrued information.

  “That’s true,” fumed Marlee. “I can’t believe the chief would even talk to Asshat. I’m also disgusted that what Asshat believes is a basis for a news interview. That’s ridiculous! Does everyone who has an opinion get an interview now? Other professors will be lining up to chime in on what they think happened. The local evening news is nothing but a televised rumor mill.”

  “Well, you know the old saying about opinions and assholes,” Diane reminded her with a smile.

  “Yes, I just didn’t think this particular asshole would go on TV to share his opinions. Asshat makes it sound like the chief thinks this is suicide too but just isn’t ready to confirm it,” said Marlee, attempting to process Asshat’s account of his conversation with the Chief of Police.

  “Is it true what he said about someone not dying immediately from a gunshot wound?” asked Diane.

  “That is true. That’s why police officers are trained to shoot to kill. They shoot until the person is completely incapacitated. They don’t just assume that one bullet will kill a person, although much of the time one bullet is all it takes. It’s all about what part of the body is struck by the bullet. If it’s just a tissue wound, or if the bullet misses internal organs, then a gunshot might not stop someone at all,” said Marlee, referring back to her lecture from last semester on gunshot wounds in her Crime Scene Investigation class.

  “What’s the likelihood that someone would kill himself and try to make it look like a suicide?” asked Diane.

  “I think something like that would be very rare. There’s not much sense to it. Most people who commit suicide do so out of hopelessness and desperation. They are so far down that they can’t see a way up, and suicide seems to be the only solution,” said Marlee.
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  “But why would someone do it?” asked Diane quizzically.

  “One reason is so that the grantor of the life insurance policy would pay the death benefits to the next of kin or whoever was named as the beneficiary of the policy. Some policies won’t pay out if the person kills himself. Another reason to make a suicide look like murder is to get someone else in trouble, which requires a level of deep-seated anger that most suicidal people are beyond at that point, so it doesn’t happen very often. Religion might be another reason. Some religions teach that, if you commit suicide, you will go to hell. The person who kills himself may try to disguise the suicide as a murder or accident to protect the family from scrutiny and judgment from the community and the church,” Marlee reported.

  “Based on what you just heard from Asshat’s interview, do you think it was suicide, Marlee?” Diane asked.

  “Anyone might commit suicide given the right conditions and situations, but I just don’t feel this death was a suicide. The most distraught person knows that shooting himself in the neck on the left side when he’s right-handed isn’t the most efficient way to accomplish the goal. Sorry to be so blunt,” said Marlee apologetically as she looked at Diane’s surprised expression. “It just doesn’t make much sense. Asshat mentioned blowback and gun powder residue on Logan’s body, suggesting he fired the weapon. I would think that both of those things could be on his body if he struggled with the shooter or tried to grab the gun. Another thing that strikes me as odd is that Logan left the office without his coat, his building keys and his car keys. It was below freezing that night. It’s almost as if something or someone lured him outside. Maybe he heard something odd and went outside quickly to check. Maybe somebody called him and asked Logan to meet up outside. Maybe Logan planned to meet someone at a designated time on campus. Maybe, maybe, maybe,” said Marlee, her voice drifting off as she continued to contemplate the possibilities.

  “So there’s a murderer wandering around out there? Maybe someone who lives right here in Elmwood? Maybe someone who works or goes to classes at MSU?” asked Diane.

  Marlee nodded. “I think so.”

  Cover-ups, secrets and unfounded speculation comprised the inquiry into my death. Much more was known by those in charge than was being made public.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, Marlee was up, showered and dressed before she thought of checking the newspaper for any new developments on Logan’s case. She was so focused on Asshat’s television interview last night that she even forgot to make coffee right away, part of her usual morning ritual. No new developments were revealed in the newspaper, although a front page article parroted what Asshat pontificated in his television interview the previous night. It’s sad when you have to rely on the sensationalistic media for any scrap of information about this case, Marlee thought, as she began scooping coffee grounds from the orange Dunkin’ Donuts pouch into the coffee maker. Technically, Marlee did not need to be on campus today. It was Thursday, the one day each week when she didn’t have any classes or office hours. She usually stayed home in her pajamas and graded papers or prepared for the next week’s classes. Today she knew she needed to get to the MSU campus quickly.

  Edging her CRV into the parking lot nearest Scobey Hall, Marlee exited her vehicle and half-jogged, half-walked to the Student Union. It was early, but Marlee knew Kendra Rolland would probably be in her office. She arrived early in the morning, left late in the evening and attended most campus events on weekends and after normal work hours. The scent of bacon and hash browns filled Marlee’s nostrils as she breezed into the Student Union. A few students were holding plastic trays as they stood in line in the lower level of the building, waiting to be served breakfast. Several students sat at the dining tables eating their morning meals. Some ate alone, but most were in groups of three or more and chatted noisily above the din of the nearby kitchen. Marlee loved breakfast, and the aroma of bacon beckoned her. She knew she had a limited amount of time to catch Kendra before she was in meetings for the day, so she resisted the temptation.

  Climbing the stairs to the top level of the Student Union, Marlee saw Kendra rounding the corner coffee mug in hand. “Hey, Kendra,” Marlee called out.

  “Oh hi, Marlee. How are you today?” asked Kendra, taking a sip from her silver, insulated coffee mug with the MSU logo. Kendra was dressed in a stylish brown pant suit and print blouse. She accessorized her outfit with gold hoop earrings and a chunky gold, brown and black necklace.

  “I’m fine,” said Marlee, anxious to get the mandatory pleasantries out of the way. “How are you doing? Busy, I’m sure, with all this investigation going on, huh?” She really didn’t want to have this conversation in the lobby, but Kendra was hard to track down, and Marlee knew she needed to question her right then if she were to have any chance of talking to the busy administrator today.

  “Very,” said Kendra, dragging out the pronunciation of every letter as a way to emphasize just how busy she was.

  “So, I was wondering,” said Marlee, “did anyone ever review the tapes from the campus security cameras from the night of Logan’s death?”

  “Now, Marlee,” said Kendra, with a slight level of exasperation, “you know I can’t tell you anything about that. Didn’t your dean instruct the faculty to stay out of any investigation that’s going on in this matter?” Kendra was a genuinely nice person, but she made it very clear that any information about security camera footage would not be coming from her. Apparently, all of the campus administration was on the same page in directing faculty and staff to let the police handle all investigative matters.

  Marlee was dejected. She had been hoping she could get some details from Kendra, but that was clearly not the case. “Yeah, I know. I just thought about it and wanted to make sure somebody remembered to check out the footage.”

  “The police are on it,” said Kendra, stepping toward her office. “I have to run. There’s a President’s Cabinet meeting at eight, and I need to be prepared for it.” Kendra gave a quick wave as she turned toward her office.

  “OK, thanks, Kendra,” Marlee called out. Kendra hadn’t helped her at all, but it was always best to end any conversation on a positive note. Who knew when she might need information from Kendra that she was not prohibited from revealing?

  Marlee exited the Student Union and made her way to the campus physical plant. The employees at the physical plant were in charge of all building and grounds maintenance, campus parking and a host of other responsibilities. She knew one man who worked there and thought he might be able to shed some light on the camera situation on campus. Stan Shepherd worked full time at the physical plant, but also worked in his off hours as a handyman around the community. He helped people with simple fix-it projects around their homes and yards. The majority of his clients were single female professors who owned their homes but were not particularly adept at home maintenance.

  The physical plant was housed in an old, two-story brick building. The main floor held the heating, cooling and water control systems for the various buildings on the campus. Offices were located on the top level. Marlee knew she would probably not get any worthwhile information from anyone in the offices, so she went into the mechanical room looking for Stan. She didn’t see him at first, but then he peaked around the corner and grinned at her. Stan was in his early 50s and was an aging hippie. His blonde hair hung in various layers to his shoulders, giving him a surfer-dude appearance. Stan’s laid back approach to life and slightly stoned demeanor added to the surfer persona. Today he was dressed in faded jeans that were a size too large and a gray Megadeth t-shirt. The t-shirt was originally black, but years of wear and washing now resulted in the faded and nearly see-through appearance of the garment.

  “Hey, Marlee, what’s up? Are you on your coffee break?” asked Stan. It amused Marlee that Stan just assumed everyone else on campus had official break times during the day to chat with co-workers.

  “Hey, Stan! No, I don’t have classes or office
hours today, so I guess I don’t even have to be here,” said Marlee.

  “That must be nice, to have a part-time job like that. I have to work full time,” said Stan. If these remarks had been made by anyone else, Marlee would have known they were sarcastic. Stan was not one to use sarcasm. He assumed anyone not punching a time clock and working at least eight hours during the work week was a part-time employee. On numerous occasions, when he was at her house installing a new faucet or painting her garage, Marlee had attempted to educate Stan on the differences in work schedules between hourly employees and salaried professors. He still did not grasp the fact that most professors work well beyond forty hours in a week, and that much of that work is done after hours, on weekends and at home.

  “Stan,” said Marlee, letting the part-time job comment slide, “what do you know about the cameras on campus?” Stan and the other guys at the physical plant were known gossips. If they hadn’t known the whereabouts of the cameras before Logan’s death, she was betting they knew about them now.

  Stan opened his mouth to speak just as his cell phone rang. “Just a minute–I gotta take this,” he said, reaching for the phone attached to his belt. “Yeah. Uh huh. Okay. Okay. Okay, I won’t. Yep. Bye,” said Stan. His conversation with the party on the other end lasted no more than ten seconds. As he was replacing his cell phone in the holster on his belt, he looked up at Marlee and said, “I’m not s’posed to say anything about the cameras.”

  “Did somebody just tell you that?” asked Marlee.

  “Yep, it was Kendra. I’m not s’posed to say nothing to nobody about cameras or film footage. She’s my boss’s boss, so better keep it zipped,” Stan said, as he made a zipping motion across his mouth.