Sounds of Murder (12 page)

"What is that?" he repeated, a look of
horror, or maybe fury on his face.

"It's," she stammered, realizing that she
wasn’t going to be able to lie to her husband. "It's a recording of
Charlotte's murder."

"What?" he shrieked in a whispered voice, not
wanting to wake Angela.

"The master console in the lab automatically
records anything when the toggle switch in a carrel is pushed.
Charlotte must have bumped the toggle while she was being strangled
and the system recorded it," she explained, quite reasonably, she
thought.

"Okay," he said, hesitantly, "but what are
you doing with it? Why did the police give it to you?"

"They didn’t actually give it to me," she
said, weakly, feeling more than a little guilty, "I recorded it.
They don't know about it."

"What?" he yelped, again, trying to squelch
his voice.

"I mean," she stuttered, "I mean, it just
dawned on me this afternoon, that the system might have recorded
the murder—if--if Charlotte accidentally bumped the toggle switch
on during the murder, an unlikely possibility. The police had
already finished collecting evidence in the lab, Rocky. I wasn't
doing anything wrong."

"Wrong!" he yelled, not being very successful
in maintaining low tones, "You have a recording of the murder. You!
The police don't know anything about it and you blithely bring it
home to listen to. What do you intend to do with it? Solve the case
yourself?"

"No, of course not," she protested. "I didn't
even know what would be on it. It might have been all dead air, for
all I knew. Rocky, this is what I do. This is my specialty. I
understand about acoustic waves and how to analyze them. I think I
can figure out what these sounds are. Maybe, if I can figure them
out, it might help the police catch the killer."

"Are you crazy?" he huffed, "This is not some
academic research project, Pammie. This is a murder. Somebody
killed this woman and here you have a recording of them doing it.
If they found out that you had this, your life would be in danger.
As it is, your life is in jeopardy. I mean, you found the body. You
can't go digging around the crime scene looking for clues. That
could get you killed--just like Charlotte."

"Now, sweetheart," she said, touching his
arms, "I appreciate your concern, really I do...."

He removed her hands, and placed his hands on
her shoulders and looked pointedly in her eyes. "No. This is more
than concern, Pamela. I want you to take this disk to the police
first thing in the morning, tell them what it is, where and how you
got it, and then leave it in their hands. Do you understand?"

"But ...."

"This isn't a request," he said, grimly. "I'm
insisting. I'm insisting not only for your sake but for your
daughter's sake--and mine too. What would Angie do without you?
What would I do?"

"Nothing is going to happen to me," she said
belligerently, "I'm fine and I can take care of myself."

"Pamela...."

Continuing to argue was useless, she
realized. Besides, she was very tired.

"Oh, all right," she replied, relenting.
"I'll take it to the police, if you insist."

"First thing in the morning."

"First thing," she agreed. Then, as they both
seemed to be argued out, and as it was evident that he wasn’t going
to let her examine the disk, she removed it, replaced it in its
sheath and returned it to her purse.

They went to bed again, quiet and tense. But
Pamela didn’t sleep well. She was grappling with how she would
handle this. She wasn’t about to give up on analyzing the disk now
that she had it. And, on top of everything else, she had to get up
extra early to attend a faculty meeting that promised to be
anything but a touching tribute to the late Charlotte Clark.

Chapter 11

No, she wasn't late. Thank heavens. Her
nerves were on edge and she’d hardly slept. Pamela entered the
hallowed confines of the seminar room, where she’d held her
acoustics class the night of the murder only a few days ago

It was already ten minutes after 7:00 a.m. on
Thursday morning. So much for punctuality. Yet, she was the first
to arrive. She scouted the room and staked out her favorite
spot--the side closest to the door. Just right, she thought, for a
quick getaway, but with the best view of the campus's lovely elms.
Setting down her purse on the floor beside her chair, she put her
books, papers, and grade book on the table. Her light jacket, she
placed over the back of the chair.

She pulled out the chair and was starting to
sit when Arliss entered at breakneck speed, her ponytail bobbing up
and down.

"Pam," she huffed, obviously out of breath,
"My God, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning! How can anyone function at
such an hour? This will not be a pretty meeting." Arliss careened
into the spot beside Pamela and let a stack of papers and books
she’d been clutching slide precariously onto the table.

"Are they ever?" asked Pamela. “Do you know
something I don’t?”

"Now that Charlotte’s not here to protest,"
said Arliss, dropping a folder and trying unsuccessfully to tuck a
stray lock into her wayward hair, "I’ve decided to bring up the
state of the animal lab to the entire faculty. I mean, everyone in
this department has a vested interest in the welfare of our
animals."

She slammed her remaining folders and papers
on the spot next to Pamela and lurched into the chair, turning to
Pamela, continuing her frenzy without missing a beat. "There's only
so much one person can do. We have cages piled on top of each
other. We simply don't have the funds to get the equipment to care
for our animals properly, and yet there has been endless funding
for that computer lab of Charlotte's! Now that she’s not here to
run roughshod over us, I don't see why some of that money can't be
directed to our area."

Pamela nodded. "Has something new happened to
get you so riled up?" she asked Arliss.

"We had six more rats die yesterday, and Dr.
Goodman's youngest chimp is ill too. We aren’t veterinarians and we
simply don't have the funds to provide our animals with the proper
conditions they need." She slouched in the chair, noticeably
drained.

"Bring it up, by all means, but I suspect
that Charlotte’s demise will be the focus of this meeting."

At that moment, Joan entered the room.

"Ah!" she announced primly. "As usual, I see
the women have arrived on time and the men are late."

"Joan," responded Pamela, "I might point out,
that you’re 15 minutes late."

"Yes, but the men never need to know that, do
they, my dear?" Joan answered, her eyes twinkling.

"You’re certainly cheerful for so early on
such a grim occasion," Pamela smiled warmly.

"Dear girls," said Joan, taking a seat on the
other side of Pamela, and carefully placing a large briefcase on
the table before her. “It’s a lovely fall day. Why not enjoy?” Then
she neatly and almost formally sat in the chair, pulling herself as
close to the table as possible. Pamela expected her to call the
meeting to order.

"Ladies!" a booming voice called out as
Willard entered, wearing a black suit with a black shirt and tie.
He walked slowly and carefully, leaning on his wooden cane with the
beautifully carved handle.

"Willard," greeted Joan, "Aren’t you
stylish."

"Dr. Swinton," said Arliss, "How are
you?"

"Willard, did you wear that outfit
trick-or-treating last night?" asked Pamela

"No, I’m just getting ready for Charlotte’s
memorial," responded Willard. "My, my. A roomful of lovely ladies
all to myself. Now, that's what I get for arriving early," His
round face and dimpled cheeks beamed as he bowed elegantly to each
of the three women, “Dr. Barnes, Dr. Bentley, Miss MacGregor.”

"You're 20 minutes late, Dr. Swinton," teased
Arliss, noticeably warming under his friendly gaze.

"So I am, Miss MacGregor. However, I’m not
used to arising at such an early hour. It’s not a fit hour for man
or beast, don’t you agree?" He chuckled, puffing slightly, as he
maneuvered his way into a chair at the near end of the table.

"Doesn't Miss MacGregor agree with what,
Willard?" asked Bob Goodman, entering briskly. He pulled out the
chair next to Arliss.

"Oh, that we academics are poor timekeepers,
that's all, Dr. Goodman," responded Willard. He hung his cane
carefully over the back of his chair.

"Willard, given that I’m uncharacteristically
late, I’ll have to agree with you--at least today," smiled Bob, as
he opened a folder in front of him and handed a paper from it to
Arliss. “Latest stats on Bailey” he whispered.

"I'm so sorry. So sorry," gasped Laura
Delmondo, wearing a wispy, pastel-colored dress, entering
immediately behind Goodman. "My alarm clock...traffic... sorry."
She quickly floated to the opposite side of the table and slid with
a dancer's grace into a chair.

"Good morning, Laura," greeted Pamela.

"Good morning," Laura responded. She fluffed
her long blonde hair out over the back of her chair.

"Hmmph," scowled Arliss, slamming her own
folders shut as she started reading the paper handed to her by
Bob.

A loud, cheerful voice rang out from the
hallway, singing
Proud Mary
, and Rex Tyson entered,
sashaying his way around the table, all eyes turned to
him--obviously just what he wanted, thought Pamela. He gave a mock
blessing to all faculty members on either side of the table.

"Really, Rex," said Joan, "I believe you plan
all your entrances for their most dramatic effect."

"Of course, dear lady!" chortled Tyson. He
rounded the table, and as he reached Joan, he bent, grabbed her
hand and gave it an air kiss.

Following on his heels, Phineas whined, "Rex,
what about the second personality study?"

"Not now, Phineas,” answered Rex, with a
dismissing wave at the shorter man, “Just take a seat." Phineas
frowned and took his seat, somewhat belligerently. Then, Rex pulled
out a chair next to him and, rolling his leg over the top in the
style of a bronco-rider straddling a horse, took his seat.

"Hello, Dr. Ottenback," said Pamela, greeting
the small man.

"Yes, Phineas, how are things in the deviant
personality area?" asked Bob Goodman.

Phineas nodded and gave a squinty smile.

"All right, faculty, we’re late! We can never
seem to get these meetings started on time!" announced Mitchell
Marks as he entered rapidly, followed by Jane Marie, carrying a
pile of papers. He walked determinedly to the chair at the head of
the table and sat. Jane Marie plopped down the papers beside him
and then quickly exited.

"All right," continued Marks, glancing around
the table, "Who are we missing?"

“All present and accounted for, Boss!”
reported Rex.

“Except, of course, Charlotte,” added
Willard. The group groaned softly.

“Now, people, you know the reason for this
meeting. A horrible event has occurred. Dr. Clark was killed
Tuesday night in our own computer lab. You’ve probably all been
interviewed by now by the police. It’s quite likely that you’ll all
have to answer additional questions as the police continue their
investigation.”

“Don’t they know what happened yet?” asked
Bob.

“What they appear to believe—and this is only
supposition on my part because they aren’t sharing their suspicions
with me—is that Charlotte was working alone in the computer lab and
someone unknown came in behind her and strangled her to death.”

“Do they have any clues as to whom?” queried
Joan.

“Not at the moment. They’re considering
everyone. The lab door was open, so apparently anyone—a worker, a
student, a transient even—could have come in and killed her. But
according to our own graduate student Kent Drummond who discovered
the body, he locked the lab Tuesday afternoon when he left for the
day. Now, we know that Charlotte liked to work late in the lab, but
she typically always locked herself in. Of course, it’s possible
that she left the door open and the killer just walked in. But that
seems unlikely.”

“So, Mitchell, what do the police think is
likely?” asked Pamela.

“They seem to think that Charlotte was locked
in the lab and that the murderer unlocked the door quietly while
Charlotte was working, entered, killed her, and then exited,
leaving the door open after he or she left.”

“But,” said Laura, looking quizzical, “that
would mean that the killer had a key to the lab.” She looked around
quizzically at all the people at the table who all looked as
startled as she did.

“Right,” confirmed Mitchell, nodding his
head, “and you see where that puts us. Only faculty and a select
few graduate students and Jane Marie have keys to the lab. I know
I’ve been harping on lab security recently. My concern up until
this point was the expensive equipment housed there; it never
occurred to me that any of us were in danger when we were working
there.”

“I’m sure anyone could gain entrance to the
lab—key or no key—if they were determined,” added Rex.

“Yes,” agreed Bob, “but, why? The police said
nothing was stolen, so why would anyone need to get into the
lab.”

“That’s exactly the point,” added Mitchell,
“The police seem to believe that the person wanted to kill
Charlotte and succeeded.”

The entire group was silent for several
moments as they all looked at each other.

“All right, I’ll say what all of you are
thinking,” spoke up Mitchell, breaking the silence. “Who would want
to kill Charlotte? Few of us liked her. I’ve probably said it
myself-- I could kill that woman. She drove me crazy, I’ll admit
it. She probably drove a lot of you crazy. But someone actually did
kill her.”

“And it looks like it was one of us,” said
Willard, looking around at his colleagues.