Hangman's Root (7 page)

Following Dottie's instructions to come in through the quad entrance, I walked around the building. The long, narrow quad was not nearly as deserted as the parking lot. A sizeable crowd

"fS Sudan Wittig Albert

was gathered in front of Noah's Ark under a large banner proclaiming "People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals." Most of the demonstrators carried signs, and several wore animal costumes. I saw an orange Garfield, a couple of gray Snoopys, and one unfortunate white rodent, hung up by the hindquarters in a wooden A-frame. On the frame was a sign that read "Hang Harwick Instead" and another that said "Don't Cast Me in Your Experiment!"

Amy Roth, holding a megaphone and wearing her PETA button, stood on the steps of Noah's Ark. She was not the diffident, hesitating young woman who had come into Ruby's shop on Tuesday morning in search of her mother. She looked sure of herself, authoritative, in command, like an antiwar activist from the sixties. I realized that she must be the PETA organizer.

I came up the steps. "Hi, Amy," I said.

She handed me a clipboard with a petition on it. At the top of the petition was handwritten, in large red letters, STOP SENSELESS MURDERS! "Your signature on this petition can help us keep Dr. Harwick from killing helpless—" She recognized me and broke off. "Oh, hi," she said, in a smaller voice.

I was relieved when she didn't apologize for thinking I was her mother. I glanced at the demonstrators, who were starting to chant on a cue from a kid wearing a "Save the Whales" T-shirt. "Isn't it kind of a waste to hold a rally during spring break? You don't have an audience."

"Are you kidding?" Amy pointed at a TV cameraman I hadn't seen. "The local ABC affiliate is here to cover the regents' meeting. We figured it'd be the best day to demonstrate, so we got a permit."

I had to grin. "Sounds like you play all the angles."

"Animals can't talk," she said fiercely. "Somebody's got to tell their side of the story. Somebody's got to say that animals aren't simply 'resources' to be used up and disposed of. They're living individuals. They deserve respect."

I looked at the rodent hanging helplessly in the A-frame. "You're protesting Harwick's experiment?"

She nodded shortly. "That, and the science complex." She waved at a "Preserve the Ark and Save Our Animal Friends" sign. "We've joined the conservationists and the Humane Society in their effort to keep the university from tearing down Noah's Ark. Do you know about that?"

"I read about it in the paper."

Amy pinned me with her piercing eyes. "I hope you also read PETA's statement that there's no justification for animal research." Her tone was that of a fundamentalist minister lecturing the congregation on the evils of drink and the devil. "When somebody commits a murder, it's a crime against society. But when animals are tortured and murdered in the name of science, it's business as usual. We can all see how immoral and inhumane Harwick's experiment is. How would he like it if somebody strung/?/>w up?" Her voice, which had become louder and louder, rang with the passionate energy of moral and emotional conviction. There was no doubt about it. Amy was her mother's daughter.

"Hang Harwick instead!" somebody in the crowd shouted. "Stop him from murdering innocent animals!" A chorus of voices took up the refrain: "Hang Harwick instead!" When I turned around, I saw the reason for the commotion. The TV cameraman was kneeling down with his shoulder-held camera, zeroing in on two demonstrators who had just strung up a straw-stuffed effigy of Harwick. Another danced in front of the camera with a "Save Noah's Ark" sign. It was showtime.

A soft, baggy woman with a Cabbage Patch doll face and a straggly brown perm stopped on the stairs beside me. It was Rose Tompkins, a secretary in the biology department. "A shame, that's what it is," she muttered, feet planted apart, hands braced on her heavy hips. "Somebody ought to stop these horrible people. Dr. Harwick's experiment is causing enough trouble—we don't need a demonstration to make it worse."

IVe known Rose since she signed up for my aromatherapy class. More recentl); she had come into the shop to buy a wreath, an expensive one, actually. It was a gift for the Castles' wedding anniversary, she announced, from her and the department's senior secretary, Cynthia Leeds. She said this in a tone that defied any negative judgments I might be inclined to pass on the subject of Dr. Castle's marital saga.

Five or six years ago, before I came to Pecan Springs, Frank Castle went through w hat was popularly supposed to be a midlife crisis. He divorced Margaret, his wife of twenty years, to marry a pretty young graduate student. The event attracted widespread attention in the close-knit CTSU community, especially among the wives, whose curiosity quickly became apprehension. If it could happen to Margaret (who'd had to get a job and move out of the expensive home she and Frank had shared), it could happen to them. The new lywed Castles had not been invited to very many dinner parties that year, and even now the "new" Mrs. Castle wasn't a popular person. University communities have long memories. But through it all. Rose had been her boss's staunch supporter.

Now, she turned to me, her plump hands fisted, her dumpling-cheeked face grim. "I'm going to call campus security. We can't have things like this going on today, with the regents meeting just across the quad. Dr. Castle is there this very minute, discussing the new science complex."

"I don't think it'll do any good to call the cops," I said. "The demonstrators have a permit."

"A permit! For that}'' She pointed at Harwick's effigy swinging from the tree. "It's disgraceful!"

It wouldn't do any good to argue the principle of free speech with Rose, who was obviously incensed by anything that besmirched her boss's reputation or that of the biology department. "I'm here to see Dottie Riddle," I said. "Can you point me to her office?"

"First floor," Rose said. "Two doors down from the drinking fountain."

44 4

Dottie's office faced aw^ay from the quad, but the sounds of the protest were still audible.

"What do you think of what's going on out there?" Dottie asked, stubbing out a cigarette. Her office was small, but the very high ceilings gave it an illusion of spaciousness, and the tall casement window behind her littered desk swung open onto a view of the river.

"I doubt that the demonstrators will be able to convince the regents to cut down on animal research," I said, taking the chair that was obviously meant for students who were there to discuss their performance on the last quiz. "Somehow, I can't see univer-sit\' officials turning away grant money."

Dottie's expression grew dark. "That's it exactly, China. Money. The bottom line. In fact, that's why Castle is promoting the new^ complex. Better animal lab facilities will attract more grant dollars." Her tone was acid. "If we're all grubbing for grants, who'll teach the students? Which one of these publish-or-perish yahoos will take a minute from his research to pay attention to a kid who doesn't understand the basics? I'm going to keep hammering away at the principle of this thing, even if Harwick and Castle and the rest get so sick of it they want to shoot me."

I could see w hy Dottie was unpopular among the science faculty. But I understood her passion, just as I understood Amy's. I tended to take their side—at least, as far as I understood the issues. But I wasn't sure the conversation was leading us anywhere. "You mentioned a letter," I prompted.

"Oh, yes." Dottie rummaged for a moment in the litter on her desk—student exams, departmental memos, a hairbrush, hand lotion, copies of the campus newspaper. She found what she was

looking for folded into her grade book. "This is it," she said, thrusting it at me. "Came in campus mail, like the others."

I took the paper gingerly, by the corners. "You've handled it, I suppose.^"

"I had to read it, didn't I?" She passed her hand over her eyes. "Sorry, China. The last couple of days I've felt like a volcano. When I opened the letter, I even blew up at Cynthia." She made a disgusted noise. "Of all people. I should have known better."

"Cynthia Leeds?" The biology department's senior secretary.

"Dr. Castle's henchwoman," Dottie said with emphasis. She made a face. "She's worked for him so long she knows what he wants before he does. She knows her job, but if you ask me, she knows too much. Anyway, she's had it in for me for years, ever since I opposed Castle's nomination for the chairmanship."

McQuaid says that there's a rule of thumb about staff jealousies: the more penny the ante, the higher the intensity of feeling. It was my guess that Cynthia Leeds, like Rose Tompkins, didn't have any real power in the department. What little she had, she used whenever she got the chance. You couldn't really blame her for that. "You told her about the letter?"

"She was standing beside the departmental mailboxes when I opened it. Read it—you'll see why I came unglued."

The letter had only one sentence. "Shut up about the lab and get rid of the cats or you're dead." Short on detail but straight to the point.

I frowned down at the letter. Dottie's voice wasn't the only one raised against the lab. There was a whole crowd of demonstrators on the quad protesting Harwick's experiment and Castle's Castle. "Who else is getting letters like this?" I asked.

"Who else wants to build a cattery on the vacant lot next to Harwick's house?" she asked bitterly.

Her answer begged the question, but I didn't argue. "Do you still have the envelope?"

Wordlessly, Dottie pushed it across the desk. It was a number ten white, plain, hand addressed. I examined it. "Harwick's handwriting?"

"This time he tried to disguise it, but I'm sure it's his." Dottie leaned forward. "Can you get him on this? I mean, the others only threatened to kill my cats. This one threatens to kill me. That's pretty serious, isn't it?"

I looked at her. Something about this situation struck me as peculiar. I liked Dottie, and I sympathized with her. But I was beginning to wonder if I was being used. Had Harwick really sent this letter?

"I'm not the one to 'get him,' Dottie." I used her words with emphasis. "The police will have to see this letter, and the others. Do you have them?"

Dottie dropped her eyes. "Yes," she muttered. She yanked the desk drawer open and fished around in it. She pulled out two envelopes and tossed them on the desk. "This is the lot. Take the damn things. I don't want them."

I pulled the letters out of the envelopes and examined them. They looked identical to the one Dottie claimed to have received today. The handwriting on the three envelopes didn't look exactly the same, however. I'm no handwriting expert myself, but I've examined and cross-examined my share, and I know something of the art. It was my guess that whoever addressed the first two envelopes had not addressed the third. I remembered telling Dottie that it would be easier to prosecute Harwick if he threatened her.

I put the letters back in the envelopes. "Since these came in campus mail," I said, "you should notify campus security. Because of the death threat, I'm sure they'll bring in the Pecan Springs police. They'll need these for evidence." I hoped she was smart enough not to make an accusation the evidence would not support. She could get into almost as much trouble forging death threats as she could slinging hammers.

Dottie looked at me, then away. "I thought maybe you could just kind of handle this," she said slowly. "You could talk to him. You're a lawyer. You can get people to . . . stop doing things they shouldn't. Like threatening my cats."

Now I was sure I was being used, and although I understood Dottie's motives, it made me angry. When I replied, I was terse.

"A death threat is police business. They'll examine the handwriting, the printing, the paper. They'll look at everything before they attempt to decide who sent the three letters." I paused and looked her straight in the eye. "If there's any indication that Har-wick isn't the one who wrote them—" I stopped. I'd already made my point.

"Okay, okay," Dottie growled. She scooped all three letters into the drawer and stood up. "There's something I want to show you." She took a camera off a shelf and checked the flash. "Come on. We're going to the basement."

I stood up too, hoping I'd heard the last of that letter. However Dottie intended to take revenge on Harwick for catnapping Ariella and threatening her rescue project, framing him with a bogus murder threat definitely wasn't the way to do it.

The basement of Noah's Ark was a warren of hallways, labs, and graduate student offices. The section where Dottie was taking me was apparently only used for storage and utilities. The hallway was so dimly lit that there was barely enough light to see the cracks in the cement floor and the water stains on the walls.

"Not very pretty, huh?" Dottie said as we ducked under a steam pipe. "Just wait until you see this. " We had come to the end of the hallway. She produced a key from her pocket, unlocked the solid-core door, and pushed it open. "I came looking for the source of a bad odor in my office this morning, and I found this." Her sarcasm was scorching. "I wonder what the animal rights people will say when they get a look."

The stench of animal odor, ammonia, and disinfectant hit me Hke a fist, and I took an involuntary step backward. "What is this place?" I asked, when I could breathe.

"It's an animal holding facility," Dottie said disgustedly.

The windowless room was dark and airless and smaller than my shop. Against one cement wall were shelves of caged mice, hamsters, rabbits, many of the cages caked with filth, urine and rust encrusting the wires. Along another wall were stacked dozens of cages of guinea pigs, with three and four animals crowded into a cage—over a hundred in all. Along a third wall were smaller cages housing frogs, lizards and other reptiles, even a few birds. Opened sacks of food pellets, trash cans overflowing with litter, and boxes of supplies were stacked along the fourth wall, some of them wet from a dripping pipe under a filthy scrub sink. A bag of apples had broken. Moldy fruit, much of it gnawed by rats, was scattered across the floor. A shelf held a litter of file folders and papers—animal records, I supposed.