Poison Ivy (16 page)

“How come nobody reported any of these guys missing?” Joel Killdeer, the head forensics specialist, asked of nobody in particular. He smoothed his glistening, freshly shaved scalp. “Four profs, maybe eight.” He chewed, mouth open. “Not one soul cared enough to ask where they were?” He snapped his gum and there was a faint fruity aroma.

The state troopers and Tisbury cops continued to dig up the site of Brownie's latest discovery.

“Sabbaticals?” Tim, the state trooper, paused in his work to wipe his forehead with a red bandana.

“Sabbaticals come once every seven years. They don't last seven years,” said Killdeer.

“Fieldwork, then. Leaves of absence? Assignments to another university?” Tim tucked his grubby bandana back into his pocket. “Professors get buried in their ivory towers all the time and don't appear until they retire. Nobody notices, once they've got tenure.”

“C'mon, Tim. Back to work!” barked his co-digger. “We don't have all day.”

“Close to full moon tonight,” said Killdeer. “You can dig all night by the light of the moon.”

Tim bent down over his work again. After a couple of minutes he brought his arm up to block his nose. “Jee-zus Kee-rist! Lemme outta here. Another one.”

*   *   *

The Ivy Green College Oversight Committee reconvened on the Ivy Green campus the next day. Professor Bigelow led the march up the hill from the ferry to the muddy shambles that was once splendid green lawn. Hammermill Jones strode along next to him, puffing slightly at the pace set by the older but more athletic Bigelow.

Math professor Petrinia Paulinia Kralich, the newest member of the committee, followed along with Cosimo Perrini, romance languages; Noah Sutterfield, African studies; and Reverend Bob White, religious studies.

“I'm so sorry Dedie's no longer with us,” said Professor Perrini. “I'm happy for her, of course, that she was offered that wonderful position, but, still…”

“But, still,” replied Professor Kralich, “she quadrupled her salary.” Professor Kralich's white hair floated halfway to her waist and lifted slightly with each step she took. In her sixties, Kralich was tall and gaunt, her face a wrinkled dried apple. Granny glasses, of course. She had gathered up the hem of her long diaphanous lavender-and-green printed skirt, which apparently had impeded her. Exposed unshaven legs ended in combat boots. She held a briefcase. Although her boots seemed almost too heavy to lift, she was outpacing her two younger colleagues.

“A great loss to the university,” said Professor Sutterfield, switching his own briefcase to his left hand. “Certainly to the oversight committee.” He brushed his dark forehead with the back of his hand. “Warm for this season.”

“Am I walking too fast for you?” asked Professor Kralich, slowing her pace slightly.

“Not at all,” said the Reverend White. “Speaking of Dedie Wieler, the university's loss is the business sector's gain.” He cleared his throat and added in a reverent tone, “A bright, spiritual woman.”

Professor Kralich turned, not slowing her pace. “Spiritual?” She guffawed. “Dedie? She's a dyed in the wool atheist.”

The Reverend White flushed.

Cosimo Perrini said, “Bigelow and Hammermill are getting awfully far ahead of us.”

“Do we know where we're going?” asked Professor Kralich.

“Left onto Greenleaf, where you see the crowd,” said Sutterfield. “That's the Ivy Green campus.”

Yellow plastic tape fluttered in the light breeze. The hum they'd heard as they approached became distinct voices. The words “serial killer” echoed through the crowd gathered in the shade of the tall oaks.

Professors Bigelow and Hammermill had crossed the street and were waiting for the other four members.

Bigelow looked at his watch. “We need to step lively. Lot to discuss with Dr. Wilson, and I want to catch the three-forty-five boat back to the mainland.” Bigelow's khaki trousers were still sharply creased, his shirt still seemed freshly ironed, his blue blazer pressed.

Hammermill was sweating. He undid the second button of his hibiscus-printed Hawaiian shirt exposing straggly gray chest hairs.

Someone in the crowd pointed to the six IGCOC members, and the noisy hum of voices died.

“What on earth are you staring at?” said Professor Kralich in a loud voice. “Ghouls.”

Hammermill wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief, and put his handkerchief away. “They think we're next. Eight bodies. Eight professors…”

“We don't know that they're all professors,” said Cosimo Perrini gently. “Only four, so far.”

“I'm quitting this committee as of now,” sputtered Hammermill. “This place gives me the willies.”

Bigelow smoothed his mustache and frowned. “Don't be such an ass, Hammermill.”

 

C
HAPTER
19

Victoria and Casey met with Sergeant Smalley and Dr. Joel Killdeer at the state police barracks on Monday morning. The barracks was a quaint Victorian building painted a soft Colonial blue. A picket fence was out front.

They met again around the conference room table with yellow pads and pencils at each place. Trooper Tim Eldredge carried in a tray of coffee and doughnuts, and plugged the coffeepot into a wall outlet to stay hot.

Smalley introduced Dr. Killdeer, who nodded at Victoria. “Seems to me we met a few bodies back, Mrs. Trumbull.”

They shook hands. He was taller and more slender than Victoria had recalled, completely bald, his skin dark and polished. He was wearing a yellow collared knit shirt that showed off broad shoulders and muscular arms.

Victoria said, “I believe Brownie had just unearthed the third victim. And now there are, what, four more?”

“Five more,” said Killdeer. “Total of eight so far, and that dog is still sniffing around.” He sat to Victoria's right, Smalley to her left, and Casey next to Killdeer.

Casey unfastened her utility belt and hung it on the back of her chair with a heavy thunk. “Eight deaths, and no one reported them missing?”

Smalley poured coffee into mugs. “They were reported missing from their own locales, but nobody tied their absence to the Island. “Coffee, Doc?”

“I'll pass,” said Killdeer.

Smalley handed a mug to Victoria and a mug to Casey, who reached for the sugar.

“Brownie is quite remarkable,” said Victoria.

“A natural. One in a million. Who'd have thought that flea-bitten cur would be a champ?” Killdeer brought out a package of chewing gum and held it up. “Anyone?”

Head shakes around the table. “No, thanks.”

“I told Walter he could retire on what he'd get for that dog,” continued Killdeer, stripping the foil wrapper from a stick of gum.

“You mean, sell Brownie?” asked Victoria. “I don't think so.”

Killdeer folded the gum into his mouth and Victoria marveled at his splendid white teeth.

Smalley cleared his throat. “We called you in, Mrs. Trumbull, because you are not only part of law enforcement on the Island”—at this, Victoria smiled—“but as a faculty member of Ivy Green, you are in a unique position to help the investigation.” He pulled his scratch pad toward himself. “Dr. Killdeer can explain where things stand as of now.” He picked up his pencil and nodded at Killdeer, who was chewing steadily.

“I'm ready to help in any way I can,” said Victoria, attempting to sound modest. “Have you determined how the victims were killed?” She looked from Smalley to Killdeer, and clasped her hands on top of her own yellow pad.

Killdeer looked across the table at Smalley, who lifted his hand. “It's okay, Doc. Go ahead.”

Killdeer leaned back in his chair. “Most were strangled, possibly a cord or wire with handles at each end. Two may have been asphyxiated. Buried alive.”

Victoria scribbled a note on her pad.

Killdeer crossed brawny arms over his chest. “Eight corpses. The first was the one you found in that old garage…”

Loyal to Thackery Wilson, Victoria said, “That's Catbriar Hall, our auditorium and classroom.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Killdeer grinned. What teeth! “Brownie's first find was underneath that poisonous vine.”

“Poison ivy,” said Victoria.

“Whatever.” He snapped his gum and eyed her. “Brownie's second find—the third body—was where, I understand, your class usually met.”

Victoria nodded.

“Once we turned Brownie loose, he located five more. Diggers having a hard time keeping up with that dog.” He grinned again.

Victoria twisted her pencil around in her gnarled fingers. “You've identified four of the eight so far.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Killdeer looked up as Tim Eldredge came into the conference room and gave him a printed sheet. “'Scuse me a moment.” He studied the paper, chewing steadily, then passed it to Smalley. “Fax from Sudbury.”

“Autopsy report?” asked Casey.

Killdeer nodded. “Fifth and sixth bodies ID'd. Males. College professors. Range in age from around forty-five to under sixty-five.”

“Where were they from?” Casey brushed her doughnut crumbs into a tidy pile beside her scratch pad.

“Two from Cape Cod University. Two from Ohio. One from Florida. One from Ontario, Canada.” He studied Victoria. “Thoughts, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Were they all tenured professors?”

“Let's see that fax again, John,” said Killdeer, holding out his hand for the paper. He looked it over again and shook his head. “Doesn't say.”

“I don't suppose it would,” said Victoria, thinking. “How far back do the killings date?”

“Seven years, best guess.” The gum snapped.

Victoria dropped her pencil onto the table. Her thoughts were of Roberta Chadwick and her desperation for tenure. “I can imagine someone who'd been denied tenure at some point. Rage built up and finally, seven or so years ago, that anger pushed him—or her—over the edge.”

“Hundreds of Ph.D.'s denied tenure,” said Killdeer.

Casey dipped the remains of her doughnut into her coffee. “It won't be the first time someone tried to kill off her tenure committee.”

“Do we assume our killer is male?” Victoria asked.

“Most likely,” Killdeer answered. “There are female serial killers, but most are males. A female's more likely to use poison.”

“It was a female who shot up her tenure committee,” said Casey, defending the role of woman as killer.

“Why would the killer choose the Ivy Green campus to bury his victims?” asked Victoria. “Were all the victims killed on campus?”

“No way of knowing.” Killdeer leaned back again, arms folded, and watched Victoria. “Keep talking.”

She looked down at her coffee, at the swirls of steam rising from the surface. “The victims were most likely visiting the Island and were probably killed here. It would be cumbersome to transport bodies on the ferry.” She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes against the steam.

Casey said, “The Steamship Authority requires a passenger ticket for a corpse.”

Killdeer laughed. “He kills and buries them on the Island to save ferry fare.”

“How would the killer know they were faculty members?” Victoria continued. “The victims were probably not frequent visitors, or someone would have missed them.”

Killdeer nodded. “Umm hunh.”

“The killer must know the Island well. He either lives here or spends a great deal of time here.”

Killdeer chewed steadily.

Victoria said, “He had to know when the Ivy Green campus would be deserted so he could bury his bodies. Each burial must have taken some time.”

“Want to guess his age?” asked Killdeer.

Victoria lifted up her coffee mug and held it in both hands then set it down without drinking. “Do they teach strangling in the military?”

“Depends on the branch of service, but yeah. The military would teach him how to use a rope or a wire.”

“Age,” murmured Victoria, looking down at her scratch pad. “He'd have to have completed his graduate work at the doctoral level in order to be on a tenure track.”

“Figures,” said Killdeer.

Victoria sighed and then sipped her coffee. “Let's say he graduated from high school at eighteen and went into the military to pay for college. Three years or more in the service, four years of college, two years to get a master's degree, four years for a Ph.D.” She paused. “Was that the route you took, Dr. Killdeer? Military service?”

“You got it. So by then he was thirty-one, -two. Somewhere around there.”

“He may have accepted a teaching job right away, on a tenure track. I think that ranges from five to seven years.” She deferred to Killdeer. “You would know more about tenure track time than I.”

“No, ma'am,” said Killdeer. “Never wanted that academic shit.'Scuse me. Puts him at around forty.”

Victoria nodded. “Assuming he was denied tenure, he may have tried to get another academic position.”

“Being denied tenure is not necessarily a career killer,” said Smalley.

“Not if he'd taught at an Ivy League college,” said Killdeer.

“But if he taught at a less-than-top-ranked institution and was denied tenure, he'd have had a difficult time finding another position,” said Victoria.

Smalley was sketching what looked like a brick pattern on his pad.

Killdeer leaned over, examined the sketch, and snapped his gum. “You want ivy on that brick wall, man. Some of that poison stuff.”

Smalley tossed down his pencil.

“I'm really just guessing here,” said Victoria. “Would it take three years, four before he started killing?”

“You're doing just fine, Mrs. Trumbull. So we're looking for a guy early forties.”

Victoria said, “I don't mean to tell you what to look for.”

Killdeer leaned back in his chair again, arms behind his head. “You got a great future as a profiler, know that? Eight or nine years, you'll be tops in the field.” He grinned. “So this guy has a Ph.D., taught at some Podunk college, lives on the Island or at least knows it well, and hates professors.”