Murder at the Library of Congress (12 page)

Dolores said without smiling, “He didn’t trust banks and hid his cash in books. Poor fellow died of a stroke before he could tell anyone where he’d put the money. When they moved the collection into this building, workers found more than six thousand dollars in old, dusty volumes. People swear they hear fingers desperately flipping through books in the middle of the night.”

“Sad.”

“And, of course, there’s Houdini,” said Consuela.

“The magician?” Annabel said.

“None other. He bequeathed most of his collection of books on psychic phenomena, spiritualism, magic, and witchcraft to us, along with a lot of the mechanical devices he used in his magic shows. We have a reference librarian who says Houdini still uses some of those devices at odd hours.”

“Maybe Houdini killed Paul by popular demand,” Annabel said, quickly uncomfortable with her uncharacteristic flippancy.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Consuela said.

The detective who’d allowed Annabel to leave the night before—his name was Nastasi, she remembered—opened it. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to Consuela, “but I wonder if you could spare me a half hour or so.”

“Of course.”

“Good morning,” Nastasi said to Annabel.

“Good morning, Detective. How’s the investigation progressing?”

“Progressing. I’d like to speak with you a little later.”

Annabel glanced knowingly at the two women. “That would be fine. Am I free to go to my work area on the balcony level?”

“Afraid not. It’ll be off limits for the rest of the morning.”

“I understand. I’m scheduled to be in the Manuscript reading room. That’s where I’ll be.”

“I’ll find you there. Dr. Martinez?”

Annabel stayed in Consuela’s office for a few minutes digesting what she’d been told about John Bitteman. His name hadn’t surfaced in the little research she’d done on Las Casas, and she made a note to look for what work he might have left behind on the subject.

She eventually left the office, crossed the police line,
and walked slowly through the European reading room, which was open and already busy with researchers working at desks. She was almost to the end of the room when her Public Affairs contact, Joanne Graves, came around a corner, saw her, and increased her pace.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “More accurately, Lucianne Huston is looking for you.”

“I thought she was going back to Miami.”

“The murder changed her mind. She wants to interview you.”

“She already did.”

“About having discovered the body.”

“I don’t want to talk about that, especially on camera. I’m trying to forget it, not broadcast it.”

“I know, but I told her I’d ask. She’s with the rest of the press across the street in the Pickford Theater. She’s kind of a celebrity among them.”

“The power of TV. What have you heard this morning?” Annabel asked.

“Nothing. They’re saying he was killed with the kind of lead weight we use in Conservation.”

“I heard that, too, but it’s just a rumor.”

“I suppose all we’ll get are rumors for a while. Going to Manuscripts?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell Lucianne you’re not available.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry to see your two months here get off to such a horrible start.”

“Not a problem as long as I can hide from Ms. Huston’s hot mike and red-eyed camera. Thanks for the warning.”

13

Once homicide detectives Frank Nastasi and Marcus Shorter had settled in at a round conference table in what once was the office of the Librarian of Congress, Shorter commented that he’d never interviewed murder suspects in such a nice place.

The old Librarian’s office, with its large inlaid antique desk, rich Oriental carpet, bookcases, paneled walls, and two flags on stands behind the desk, one the American flag, the other bearing the official seal of the Library of Congress, had been the scene of numerous official events. Presidents and foreign heads of state had been feted in the room, as had business leaders and literary lights. The original Librarian of Congress, John J. Beckley, appointed by President Jefferson, would have been appalled at the use to which the room was being put this day.

“Too nice,” Nastasi countered. “You need a little grunge to keep ’em honest.”

Their differing takes on their surroundings summed up how they would approach their interview subjects—Shorter the good cop, Nastasi the bad. They’d been playing that time-honored game as partners for four years.

Consuela Martinez was the third person to be interviewed there that morning. The first had been chief of the Personnel Directorate Office; the detectives had wanted
to gain an initial understanding of how the institution was structured, especially in terms of those working at LC. The second subject was General Counsel Mary Beth Mullin, who was asked about the cocktail party the night of the murder. She provided a written guest list.

“What was Mr. Paul’s relationship with others at the party?” she was asked.

“He was a senior specialist on the Hispanic and Portuguese division staff,” she replied. “The party was in honor of Senators Menendez and Hale, both of whom play an important role for us in the Senate. Because Senator Menendez has championed the Hispanic division for many years, various top people from that division were invited. Dr. Paul was one of them.”

Nastasi said, “He may have been a top guy, but not in the polls. We get the word that nobody around here liked him.”

Mullin smiled demurely. “Michele Paul was difficult to get along with. He was egotistical and opinionated. He was also a brilliant scholar. Such people are often self-absorbed.”

“Who really had it in for him, Mrs. Mullin?” asked Nastasi.

“I really don’t think I should be the one to—”

Shorter interjected: “What he means is, Mrs. Mullin, was there anyone who’d displayed a blatant, open hostility toward him?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Consuela was next to be questioned. That she was visibly nervous as she took a seat held out by Shorter was demonstrated by the small handkerchief she twisted with her fingers and a tic in her left eye.

“You were the deceased’s boss?” Nastasi said.

“Yes. Michele was part of my staff.”

“How long did he work for you?”

“Ever since I became chief of Hispanic. That was six years ago next month. Michele had been at the library considerably longer than that.”

“We have his personnel file,” Shorter said. “He came to work here in nineteen seventy-seven, twenty-two years ago.”

“If that’s what it says.”

“What did he do for you?” Nastasi asked.

“Do for me? What do you mean?”

“You say he worked for you. What kind of work did he do?”

Consuela sighed and dabbed at a bead of perspiration on her cheek. “I suppose it’s misleading to say he worked for me,” she said. “Scholars on Michele’s level really don’t work for anyone. They do their own thing, as the saying goes, pursuing their research at their own pace and on their own schedule. But there has to be organization, someone in charge. That’s been me for six years.”

“You get along with him?” Nastasi asked.

Consuela clutched the handkerchief in both hands and focused her eyes on it.

“Dr. Martinez?” Nastasi said.

She looked up. “I’m sorry, my mind wandered. What was the question?”

“You and Mr. Paul. Did you get along?”

She paused: “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Nastasi asked, as annoyed with her response as he was when his kids answered that way.

“Michele was … well, he was difficult. He was—no, we did not get along especially well. He was abrasive.”

“To you personally?” Shorter asked.

“Yes. I think—I know Michele resented me from the day I became chief of the division. I suspect he was jealous.”

“He wanted the job?” Nastasi asked.

“I think so. He spread lies about me.”

“Lies?”

“Yes. When he heard I was being hired to head the Hispanic division, he told people I was a whore who’d slept her way into the job.”

“A sweetheart.”

“He planted other vile, false stories about me, hoping Dr. Broadhurst and others at the top would deny me the job. Fortunately, they didn’t.”

“That must have upset you,” Nastasi said.

“Of course it did.”

“Why didn’t you fire him?”

“I would have if I’d had the option. But his credentials are—were impressive. There have been a number of important donors to the collection who gave their historic materials to us rather than another institution because Michele was here.”

“Tough position for a boss to be in.”

“Very tough.”

“I assume you and he had more than a few confrontations about it.”

Consuela managed a smile. “Many. He denied, of course, having been the source of the lies about me. Besides being unpleasant, Michele was an accomplished liar. Smooth would be the kindest way to describe it.”

“Yesterday?”

“What about yesterday?”

“You had a confrontation?”

“No.”

Nastasi looked up from the pad on which he’d been making notes. “No?”

“No.”

“Sure you don’t want to think about that before you answer?”

“Why should I?” Consuela said, changing position in the chair.

“I heard you
did
have a confrontation with him yesterday.”

Consuela’s brow furrowed. “I can’t imagine who would say that. Do you mean a telephone conversation we had?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

Nastasi hadn’t heard from anyone that Consuela and Michele Paul had had a tense phone conversation. But if you challenged a witness, it often resulted in a voluntary change of story.

Consuela took a deep breath before saying, “He hadn’t come to work the day before. He was supposed to be here. I questioned him about it. As usual, his answers were, well, let’s just say frustrating.”

“So you were mad at him yesterday.”

“Not any more so than usual,” Consuela replied, wishing she hadn’t.

Nastasi’s smile wasn’t genuine. “Ever think you’d like to kill Mr. Paul?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Would be natural,” the beefy, gruff detective said. “You must have had that thought now and then.”

“I’ve never wished anyone dead.” She sounded strong for the first time since the questioning began.

The detectives looked at her.

She started to cry.

“It’s okay, Dr. Martinez,” Shorter said, reaching and touching her arm. “Take it easy. These are just questions we have to ask. Part of the job.”

She used the handkerchief to wipe her tears. “I understand,” she said, “but please don’t think I might have killed Michele. I didn’t.”

There were a few moments of silence.

“Where were you last night?” Nastasi asked.

“I was at the party, of course.”

“After the party?”

“I went home.”

“Right away?”

“Yes. I mean, I stopped at my office to pick up a few things. My raincoat. A book. I’d left my purse there, too, locked up.”

Shorter asked, “Is theft a problem here at the library?”

“Not at all. I understand it used to be before the new security system was put in place. Locking up your purse is automatic, anywhere, any place.”

“Of course,” said Shorter.

“Who disliked Mr. Paul as much as you did, Dr. Martinez?” Nastasi asked.

Consuela sat up straight and back, as though the question exerted physical force. “You make it sound as though I hated Michele,” she said. “I didn’t. Yes, there were times I could have strangled him, if that’s what you want to hear. And yes, our relationship was tense at best. But I did not dislike him any more than many others did.”

Nastasi slapped the table and stood. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Who are the others who disliked him, maybe enough to kill him?”

The questioning of Consuela Martinez lasted another twenty minutes. During that time she refused to name anyone who held a grudge against Michele Paul. As she was leaving the old Librarian’s office, Detective Shorter stopped her. “Who was he sleeping with?”

Consuela turned at the door. “Michele? I never asked.”

“You have some pretty attractive women working in your division, Dr. Martinez.” He consulted his notebook and read a series of names, including Annabel Reed-Smith.

“I suggest you ask them,” she said. “As for Mrs. Reed-Smith, she doesn’t work in the Hispanic division. She’s researching an article for our magazine.”

“Thanks for your time,” Shorter said. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss what we talked about with others.” The request was de rigueur. Of course she’d talk about it.

After she was gone, Nastasi turned to his partner and asked, “What’a you think?”

“She didn’t sleep with him.”

“You’re right about that. No love lost, though.”

“I don’t think anybody had any love to lose,” Shorter said. “Who’s next?”

“The rest of the people from her department. But let’s have another talk first with Lapin, the security chief. Besides, I want to get out of here for a while. Libraries give me the creeps.”

“Yeah? I like libraries.”

“And you weren’t brought up in a Catholic school with an ugly old battle-ax who passed for a librarian. She was a book guardian and sergeant at arms, always on me for making noise. She used to tell me to put my hand on her desk and she’d give it a shot with a book.”

Shorter grinned. “Must have hurt.”

“Yeah, it hurt. I never liked libraries ever since.”

“Scarred you for life.”

“You being funny?”

“Me? Hell, no. Just feeling your pain.”

14

Annabel subjected herself to the strict security procedures at the entrance to Manuscripts and went to the only vacant reading desk, closest to the main librarian’s station. The Book of Privileges wouldn’t be available for her until noon—something to do with a minor repair being made to it—but there were other materials she requested that were delivered. As she began to go through them, the chief of the division, John Vogler, came to the desk. Annabel had never met him but knew who he was. He’d been named chief of Manuscripts four years earlier, replacing Jim Hutson, who’d resigned to devote full-time to writing books. Hutson had been considered one of LC’s most outstanding scholars, under whose leadership the library had mounted an impressive array of exhibits based upon his years of research into the papers of the Founding Fathers. John Vogler’s credentials, too, were extensive and impeccable, but whether he would match up to Hutson’s legacy remained conjecture. Perhaps it was Vogler’s quirky personality that made it difficult for him to move out from under Hutson’s shadow. He defined for his colleagues the term eccentric. It was as though he occupied two spaces at once, where he actually was at any given moment, and where he seemed to be. Some commented on how Vogler always appeared startled in the middle of a conversation that someone
was talking to him. Others joked that the little yellow Post-it notes Vogler stuck on his sleeve were to remind him that he’d gotten up that morning. Still, he was treated with the respect due a man of his intelligence and knowledge.