Sounds of Murder (15 page)

"Joan!" cried Pamela, "offed?"

"I'm just trying out the appropriate lingo,"
responded Joan, brushing a few cookie crumbs from the front of her
lace blouse.

"So you don’t think the killer could be
someone in the department like Mitchell said?" asked Pamela
carefully.

"Of course not," responded Joan, "I can't
imagine anyone in our department doing such a thing. It's probably
an irate student who got an 'F' or a clerk in a store Charlotte
browbeat--or even," she bent her head low and whispered, "even a
scorned lover."

"Joan," laughed Pamela, "you read too many
mysteries. Charlotte was married to her job. Besides, she'd
emasculate any man who attempted to have sex with her."

"My dear you are delicious," smirked
Joan.

"Not as delicious as your cookies," said
Pamela lifting her eyebrows and joining in the hearty laughter. The
chuckling of the two women could be heard up and down the
hallway.

The tell-tale computer voice on Joan’s PC
announced “You’ve got mail!” and Joan clicked on the envelope
icon.

“Wonderful!” she scowled, reading the new
email message.

“What?” asked Pamela.

“The Charlotte Clark memorial service is
scheduled for this Sunday afternoon at 2:00 p.m..at the campus
chapel.” She drummed her fingers on her keyboard. “I’m almost
tempted to send my regrets.” She placed her fingers in a
keyboard-ready position.

“Now, Joan,” warned Pamela, reaching out her
hand and placing it on Joan’s keyboard fingers, “You know Mitchell
expects us all there. It won’t be so bad. We can sit together.”
Joan removed her hands from her computer, resignedly.

“At least we have
Who-Who’s
to look
forward to!” she added, cheerfully.

When Pamela finally left Joan's office it was
getting late. Pamela realized that Rocky would be wondering where
she was. She headed down the side staircase and onto the main
floor, noticing immediately that the side hallway leading to the
lab appeared deserted. Rex's, Phin's, and the grad students'
offices were all closed. The building seemed empty.

Pamela quickly slipped down the hallway
toward the lab. Just as Kent had said, the police tape had been
removed. Unlocking the door, she moved inside, and closed the door
behind her. As she looked around, she realized she was alone--as
she expected she would be--given what Kent had told her about
rescheduling her subjects for next week. She went to the master
console and reached into the side drawer from which she withdrew a
blank CD.

She moved carefully to the first row of
computers--scrupulously avoiding #4--where Charlotte Clark had
died. She stopped at #10, the furthest away from #4, in the first
row. She pulled out the chair and sat down. Here she could see much
of what Charlotte probably saw two nights ago. Not much. The
acoustic battening walls of the carrel surrounded her. She reached
inside her purse for the infamous computer disk. After powering up
the computer, she opened a CD drawer, inserted her disk, and placed
the blank disk in a second drawer. On the start up screen, she
clicked on "copy disk" and pressed "enter." It was possible to burn
disks on her office computer, but she knew the administration was
able to (and probably did) keep a record of all faculty activity on
their office computers. It was much safer to make duplicate copies
(particularly this one) in the lab. The computer whirred and spun
and the lights on the two drawers flickered. She was entranced
watching the duplication process when she heard the door to the lab
open.

Chapter 14

The noise was soft but unmistakable. Someone
had unlocked and opened the door to the lab. Had she locked the
door behind her when she entered? She was sure she had. The
mysterious person obviously had a key. Without thinking, she stood
up at the carrel where she was working.

"Hello," she called out cheerily. "I'm
working in here! It’s Dr. Barnes!" She waited for someone to enter
but the door was quickly closed.

Pamela looked down briefly at the progress on
the CD duplication. When the light clicked off, she opened both
drawers and removed the original CD and the duplicate, and slipped
them in their sleeves and into her purse. Waiting to see if the
person on the other side of the door would change his or her mind
and enter the lab, she remained standing in the carrel, breathless.
After a few minutes, which seemed like a few hours, she headed for
the door.

Cautiously turning the knob, she peeked out,
and seeing no one in the hallway, she slipped out, and turned back
to lock the door behind her. As she turned around, she found
herself staring into the face of Willard Swinton who’d just come up
behind her.

"Pamela," he began.

"Willard," she spoke, breathlessly, shocked
to see him appear seemingly out of nowhere. "I didn't see you. Did
you just open the lab door?"

"The door? No. I was in the men's restroom,"
he explained. His dimples indenting his dark cheeks like a
chocolate mousse. "Sorry to have scared you. You weren't working in
the lab, were you? If it were me I’d stay far, far away from that
place."

"I…" she stammered, "I have data to
collect...." She started to walk past him.

"Pamela," he called out, touching her arm,
"Could I have just a word with you?"

"I ...." she sputtered, anxious to get going
and very conscious of the contraband in her purse. "I guess, all
right. I’m in a bit of a hurry, though."

"Of course," he said sweetly. "I simply
wanted to get your views on our tenure problems now that Charlotte
is...."

"Yes," said Pamela, "yes, of course. I really
hadn't thought about that, Willard. I guess I’ll have to. We do
have three candidates waiting on our decision."

"We do," he noted, "and now that Charlotte
is...um...out of the picture...well, I’m afraid our decision is
going to be even more difficult."

"How?" she asked.

"You may have heard," he began, "that the
Dean is talking of restricting our department to two tenure
appointments instead of three."

"I had heard that," she said.

"And with Charlotte gone, there are now only
four members on the Tenure Committee. If there’s a split vote--and
there may be--how will we come to a decision?"

"Willard," she answered, sighing, "Let's get
past this horrible event. Charlotte is barely dead. I just can't
think right now about how her death will affect my committee
vote."

"Pamela," he said softly, his cheeks
flattening, the dimples gone, "You’re so right. This has been such
a terrible ordeal for you ...finding her body. I never should have
even mentioned this to you. I’m so sorry." He bent his head and
looked genuinely grieved.

"It's all right, Willard," she said, "truly
it is. But, can't we talk about it later? I really need to get
going. It's getting late and ....”

"Yes, I'm so sorry," he replied. "I'll talk
to you next week. We have plenty of time to discuss this. Maybe you
and Joan and I can get together and...."

"Yes," she nodded, now walking away and
calling back to him, "we'll do that. Bye!" She strode down the
hallway and out the corner entrance and into the parking lot. Even
inside her car she was unable to calm down. Not that Willard
Swinton bothered her. He was a dear, sweet, gentle soul. It was
just that she was so nervous about making the duplicate CD. It was
as if all eyes were on her, and then to bump into him right as she
left the lab. It was as if he appeared out of nowhere. It was
simply unnerving. Had he been the one who opened the lab door? And
if so, why did he deny it when she asked him?

She started her engine and bolted out of the
lot. No one seemed to be looking at her as she left. Thank
goodness. Oh, she was becoming paranoid. Now, she thought, off to
the police station.

The local police headquarters-court house was
located in the downtown area, several blocks from campus and around
the corner from the Reardon Coffee Factory. Pamela had actually
been there many times, to pay derelict traffic fines—of which she
had accumulated many. Rocky called her Lead Foot because of her
penchant for driving over the speed limit. Maybe that’s why she was
procrastinating in bringing the CD to Shoop. The place reminded her
of one of her embarrassing flaws—she was a bad driver. She tended
to drift off and think of anything other than the road
or—worse—she’d allow her emotions to bleed into her pedal
foot—particularly angry emotions—and before she realized it, she
was speeding. It happened far more often than she cared to realize.
The tickets in the mail were enough of a reminder, but having to
come here to the local courthouse/police station—was just too
much.

There it was. An old concrete building stuck
on the corner. It looked like some dilapidated public school built
in the 50's--ochre in color, two stories, with grey porticos.
Imposing but not very elegant. A small parking lot was in front.
One section of the lot was labeled "Visitors." She found an empty
spot in this section, parked, and with a gulp headed toward the
police entrance on the parking lot side.

Inside the building, the place was busy.
Uniformed officers were moving around. Some workers were seated at
desks out in the open, and some she could see in offices to either
side of the large central area. She walked up to a counter that was
manned by a uniformed officer.

"May I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

"I'd like to see Detective Shoop, if he's
in," she responded.

"One moment," the officer answered, leaving
her there, and heading off towards the back of the central area to
one of the side offices. He disappeared into a doorway and soon
came out followed by Shoop. Pamela would recognize that tall,
loping gait anywhere. The two men walked to the counter.

"Dr. Barnes," greeted Shoop, wiping his nose
with his large handkerchief and then stuffing it in his jacket
pocket. “Seems you know your way around here, so I hear.”

“What?” she gulped.

“One of my friends in Traffic tells me they
have a Pamela Barnes who has racked up quite a record of fines.
Would that be you?”

“I don’t see what my driving record has to do
with a murder case.”

He gave her a Cheshire Cat smile and held out
his hand which she shook very unwillingly. "It doesn’t. Have you
remembered anything else?"

"Yes," she said, "and I have something for
you."

"Oh?" he said, sounding intrigued, "Well,
then, why don't you come back to my office."

He led the way and Pamela followed him,
trying vainly to keep up with his long strides. When they reached
his office, Shoop stood aside and held the door for her to enter.
It was a glum looking room, smelling of mentholated spray and
spearmint. There was a small humidifier in the corner spewing
steam. Shoop removed some papers and magazines from a green plastic
couch and gestured for her to sit. She did so cautiously as the
furniture looked as if it had been donated from a rummage sale.
Shoop returned to his desk and pulled a lozenge from a jar and
popped it in his mouth.

"Sorry," he said, "Got a bit of a cold. Now,
Dr. Barnes, you say you have something for me?”

"Detective," she began, "First, let me say,
that after your men were finished going over our computer lab, I
went down there to look around. I got to thinking."

"Not always a wise thing, eh?" he
chuckled.

"Probably not," she responded, "as I'm not
sure you’ll approve of what I’ve done. I know my husband
doesn't."

"Hmm," he said, "this is sounding more and
more interesting."

"Anyway," she continued, "I was in the lab
today.” She surely wasn’t going to tell him that she’d broken in
yesterday before the crime scene tape was removed. “and I thought
about what might have happened when Charlotte was ...was ...when
she died. I thought it was probably likely that there would’ve been
a struggle. You see, each computer desk in the first row has a
toggle switch for recording."

"Yes," he added, "I realize that. But the
toggle switch in the carrel where Dr. Clark was found was off."

"I know," Pamela continued, "but I speculated
that if during the struggle between Charlotte and her
killer--surely there must have been a struggle--what if the killer
pushed Charlotte down on the desk or if she pushed her hands down
to get leverage--or any number of possibilities--and accidentally
pushed the toggle switch."

"Even so, Dr. Barnes," Shoop replied, "the
toggle switch just turns the sound on and off--it doesn't actually
start a recording. Our crime techs have gone all over that
computer."

"I know," she said, feeling somewhat
exasperated, "I use that lab all the time. But what you don't know,
Detective, is that the master console makes back-up recordings
anytime a toggle switch is turned on. These back-up recordings are
erased at regular intervals when it’s determined that they’re no
longer needed. Usually a graduate assistant does that."

"I see," he nodded.

"So," she said, "I thought, just on the off
chance that maybe there was a back-up recording made of the
murder--or even a part of the murder--that it might be worth it to
just check those back-up recordings for the period when the murder
probably took place."

"And?" he queried, his big brows lifting
skyward, the lozenge rolling in his mouth.

"A back-up did record briefly on Tuesday
night at 8:27 p.m., in Carrel #4--about two minutes worth of
sound." She reached into her purse and brought out the original CD
in its paper sleeve.

He reached out for the CD, saying smugly,
"You are the little scientist, aren't you?"

"That's my job, yes," she replied. She sat
quietly then, as Shoop examined the disk. He bit his lip, obviously
thinking about what to do next. Then, shrugging, he slid the disk
out of the sleeve, pressed the CD drawer on his small, desktop
computer and loaded the disk.