Angel Food and Devil Dogs (4 page)

"But something has happened to suggest this might not have been suicide?" I suggested.

"The autopsy report. A contact in the Coroner's office called me specifically to tell me about it, for which I'm grateful. Carl left his office on the second floor of the Music History building and took the elevator to the sixth floor. He seems to have opened the outside door of a small west side balcony with a key. The key was left in the door. He climbed over the railing, which is about four feet high, and jumped... but..."

Bouchet paused again to look out the windows to his left. The view included the Music History building. We could both see the sixth floor balcony where this all took place. It was eerie. Bouchet went on, "But the coroner says there are bruises on Carl's back and the back of his legs. He hit the railing very hard on the way over. The thing is..."

"The bruising doesn't make sense if he killed himself?"

"Right," said Max Bouchet, "and the inquest is public information. The press will jump on the physical inconsistencies. And they'll revel in what was actually in the note. Carl blamed others for his distress."

"Who's mentioned in the note?"

"Those whom you are about to meet, the people on the Tenure Review Committee. They'll be furious, because much of the note is absolutely untrue. The press may not make it clear that Carl's note is unfounded. It could hurt these people's careers..." sighed Bouchet.

"So you want me to find out why Rasmus was being unreasonable and if this really was suicide or murder," I said, "and if he was murdered, you'd like me to find out who the murderer was. And you want me to do it before the inquest information is made public?"

Bouchet was beginning to smile. "Guess this is a tall order?"

"Regardless," I said in a businesslike way, "it's what you want me to do. Dr. Bouchet, you have to understand, I can't shield anyone for the good of Irwin College..."

"I know that," he broke in. "Look, I'm new in town and this has been dumped in my lap. I guess that sounds shallow. I'm very sorry about Carl, I didn't know him well but he seemed like a good man and I'm sorry he's dead, but I'm most concerned with the health and safety of the rest of the College people right now." He shook his head a little. "I'm used to success. I have a lot of money. What I want is to be able to concentrate on making the College the best it can be. I can't do that with a cloud of doubt and fear hanging over the whole campus. So, I'm proposing that I will pay your salary personally. That way I won't have to get Board approval, which frankly would not only take too long, but would probably be impossible. Will you do it? What are your terms?"

I explained my fee then added, "I'll give you a detailed accounting of how my time is spent and what the expenses are. If I'm answering solely to you, then I'll give you a daily report, if you want."

"Fine, and I'd also like to propose that if you are able to find the answers you just listed before the inquest, which is next Tuesday, I'll give you a bonus." He mentioned a figure that would easily buy a very, very nice car, "Frankly, I don't know whether that's a good
deal
for you or not?" he asked with eyebrows raised.

"It's a great deal. I work hard on cases and I don't need the extra incentive, but since you offered, I'll take it. Because as you said, this is a tall order. I have a contract form here and I'll need a retainer. And one more thing, I am going to ask tough questions of everyone. Since you're hiring me, people will blame you if they think I'm being ruthless or rude. Do you still want to do it this way?"

"Yes, I do," he said. We shook on it. Then I pulled out the contract and filled it in, including the part about the bonus. He signed it and gave me a retainer check. I gave him a copy of the contract and my card.

"A few things..." I said seriously, "were there fingerprints on the key to the balcony door?"

"Too smudged to distinguish."

"I want to see the note, not just a copy. I'll need to see Rasmus's office and have the freedom to talk to everyone who could possibly have any information. Do you think you can get the police to let me see the computer?"

"I'm not sure if they took the computer out of Carl's office or not. Until we can find out, here's a copy of what Carl wrote. Bouchet handed me a sheet of paper. This is what it said:

To all:

It is impossible to live this sordid life. I know that homosexuals are often murdered by other homosexuals or otherwise die a slow painful death from AIDS, which is God's punishment for immorality.

The Tenure Committee: Knightbridge, Roth, Carvelle, Getty, Anthony, Harmon, Cohen and Smith have done nothing but encourage me to continue in this meaningless existence while they laugh at me behind my back because I am a blind homosexual. I know I will not receive tenure and that I am morally corrupt and alone. Killing myself is punishment for my sins.

Carl Rasmus

Grim and sad. And it sure wasn't one of those notes from mystery fiction that was really written to mean something else and then just misinterpreted by the cops. I stashed the copy in my shoulder bag.

"You're going to tell these people what this note says... today?"

"I have to. It'll be out in the papers by the middle of next week. These people may feel they need to defend themselves. Listen," Bouchet said, dropping all pretense, "I have to admit, I'd really like to be the one who solves this problem. It's intriguing and if I didn't have to deal with the fall out, if this wasn't all so lamentable, I imagine untangling the clues could be interesting."

Whenever someone suggests solving a murder is
interesting
, it always makes my bullet scars itch. "Uh huh," I said, dubiously.

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly, "I'm not going to get in your way. If this was a murder... Christ... I'm a suspect. I guess anyone is, if they had the opportunity... Carl was arguing one way or another with everyone on the Tenure Committee. I'm still checking but as far as I know not one of them has an alibi. None but Kathryn Anthony. She was in Seattle at the time."

I was absurdly elated that Kathryn Anthony wasn't the murderer.

"Look," Bouchet went on, "Kathryn is on the committee. She knows everyone fairly well, but though Kathryn's been part of the Irwin faculty for years, she's been on an
Exchange of Faculty Touring Program,
set up by the United States College Cooperative System, the CCS - EFTP they call it, until last September. I trust Kathryn, and I think she might be able to help you."

"Are you going to order her to be a snitch?"

"No, no, no. Not at all, it's not like that," he boomed, "she's just someone who could give you simple information, like who's who. She doesn't have a full load of classes and her grant activity is mostly done for the year..."

"So you're volunteering her time?" I said dryly.

He nodded his head with a deep chuckle, "I'm a bastard when it comes to that kind of thing, and it's even worse than that, because she's my friend. I've known her since grad school. I won't tell her anything else except that you might want to talk to her. How would that be?"

Well, that was true. I did want to talk to her. In fact, a little voice in my brain suggested I ask her on a date, if she were so inclined.

Bouchet looked at his watch. "Time to face the lions."

As Bouchet and I walked out of his office toward the open door of the large conference room, we were joined by Miranda Juarez, who handed me a piece of paper, "I have made a list of the people you are about to meet. It includes their titles, contact information and job responsibilities on campus," she explained.

"I asked Bart Edgar to make up that list for Ms. Gale," said Bouchet to Miranda pointedly.

Miranda gave him an
Oh, please
look
.
To me she said, "I am sure you will need other information. Do not hesitate to ask." A model of efficiency. The kind of assistant everyone needs to get all their work done for the good of humanity with time left over to achieve their dreams.

The conference room contained an oval table big enough to seat twenty. One end was near the door we'd come in. The room was freezing. Six people were already seated. Some still had their coats on.

The left wall was floor to ceiling windows with a remarkable view of the half-round drive and more of the campus beyond. I could see the balcony where Carl Rasmus plunged to his death from here, too. Was it just my fertile imagination or were the people around the table avoiding that view. Bouchet took the nearest chair and indicated that I should sit next to him. Miranda Juarez sat to Bouchet's right.

"Miranda," said Bouchet, "why is it so cold in here? Please, turn up the heat." Miranda got up silently and fiddled with the thermostat. Bouchet looked at his watch. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 2:15 PM. Connie Robinson came in balancing a tray of soft drinks in bottles and cans. She put the tray on a little table at the far end of the room.

"Ah, thank you Connie." Bouchet raised his voice and said expansively, "Here are the beverages you all enjoy." He sounded condescendingly
Lord of the Manor
. He was back to the
Mr. President
persona. Was he trying to hook these folks with free sodas?

He turned a little and watched Connie come in again with a plate of cookies, which she put on the table in front of us. They were Pepperidge Farm! Wow, top dollar. Hey, I'm a ho for good cookies. I was hooked. I scooped up a Bordeaux and a dark chocolate Milano.

The two women and four men already seated got up and went to the back table to get their soft drinks. Bouchet, Miranda, and I stayed in our places. There was quite an array of drinks but just one per person. There was a bit of soft-drink gridlock, because the space near the back table wasn't very roomy. After each of the folks had finally snagged their pleasure, remaining on the table were, a can of diet cola, and bottles each of iced tea, Cafalatte, Lifeline Organic Juice, and spring water. Bouchet turned to me and asked if I wanted anything. Of the things left on the table, I chose the water. But when Bouchet called my order to Connie, she brought me a water from the reception area. I guessed the water on the back table was for someone else.

"Still a little early," said Bouchet. "Whom are we waiting for?"

Miranda Juarez, ever the efficient assistant said, "Dr. Georgia Smith and Prof. Daniel Cohen."

"And Kathryn, I believe," said a precise-voiced, older woman sitting to my left. She looked sharply at me. I'd seen her many times before in the Mews. She had long gray hair pinned up in a coil at the back of her neck and skin tanned from years of outdoor exposure.

"Kathryn did make it back in time, but she had to rush to Harrisburg, so she won't be attending," said the President. Someone exhaled. I couldn't tell whom.

A man with flaming red hair, sat just beyond the imposing woman on the left side. I recognized him now as Jimmy Harmon, Irwin's one nationally famous professor. Even at the young age of 42, he had an amazing body of successes to his credit. He'd created two classic Broadway shows that were destined to be performed in high schools and little theater forever, but could pull in crowds on Broadway with each revival. He'd written a pop TV theme and composed a rock opera. He had also recorded some of the greatest collections of American folk music to date and written about them in an engaging yet scholarly way. He was dressed in wild mismatched clothes, including bright orange overalls that echoed his "I Love Lucy" hair color.

He said excitedly, "To Harrisburg? Has the satellite grant gone through?"

"Yes, yes it has. Kathryn is helping the Governor with the press release," said Bouchet.

Everyone seemed pleased. I heard someone say, "Well, that is wonderful news."

I took out my small laptop computer and opened it on the table. I put the list of people Miranda Juarez had given me on top of it and quickly typed the names into a spreadsheet.

A man and woman entered the room. Miranda had indicated the late people were Georgia Smith and Daniel Cohen, so I checked off their names.

There were now eleven people at the table counting me. Bouchet didn't pull any punches as he began the meeting, "There has been a very serious development regarding Carl Rasmus's tragic death."

Heads shot up. Bouchet had everyone's full attention. He explained in a general way that the autopsy did not fit well with the original presumption of suicide. He added that information from the coroner's inquest would be made public sometime next week.

"We have planned a memorial service for Carl on Sunday, in the College Chapel along with the regular service at 11:00 AM. It will help the students... and the rest of us deal with the shock of Carl's death by celebrating his life. I hope you will all attend." He made it clear that absence was not an option.

"And there is something else as well," said Bouchet. He turned to Miranda and she handed him a sheaf of papers that he passed around to everyone. "This is a copy of Carl's suicide note. It may be made public as part of the inquest evidence. As you can see, everyone on the Tenure Committee is named and Carl blames us all and himself for his unhappy life and untimely death."

As everyone scanned the note, I heard the words, "Slander, libel, obscene, preposterous, ridiculous, and crap," said with various intonations and emphasis.

An expensively dressed man at the end of the table said, "Max, this is really too much," in a pompous way. Georgia Smith's eyes glistened.

Bouchet said, "Yes, I know, what Carl says here is unfounded and untrue. And what he says about himself is... odd. That coupled with the facts of the autopsy has brought me to a decision." He indicated me. "This is Maggie Gale. She is a private investigator who comes highly recommended. I have hired her to get to the truth of this matter. She will be..."

A black-haired woman in round-rimmed glasses sitting at the far right end of the table stood up. According to the list she had to be either Dr. Amanda Knightbridge or Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzman. She interrupted angrily with a German accent, "Max, really, of this you cannot be serious," she eyed me. "This is not the cops and robbers. Carl killed himself, there is no mystery. He was an unfortunate young man with demons. He could not..."