Sounds of Murder (7 page)

Her daughter Angela had been petulant, almost
as if one of her mother’s colleagues dying was a personal affront
to her. She had wanted to talk to Pamela the previous night and was
upset that her mother had had to stay late. Angela changed her
tune, however, when she discovered that her mother had found the
dead woman. Then, she’d seemed suddenly intrigued and Pamela had
had to provide her with a blow by blow description of what had
happened while she prepared Angela's breakfast—not a pleasant
combination What a ghastly way to bond with my child, Pamela had
thought—crime and cereal. However, the previous night’s events had
provided them an opportunity for a rare mother-daughter
conversation which eventually turned to more mundane matters:

"How did that essay come out that you were
working on last night?" Pamela had asked.

"I turned it in," answered her daughter.

"Good," said Pamela, carefully, not wanting
to unwittingly tackle a topic that would antagonize Angela during
this brief conversation opportunity. "What was it about?"

"I told you. We had to write about some
difficult experience we had. I wrote about Carl."

"You did?" questioned Pamela. She was
surprised that her daughter had actually discussed the painful
experience she’d had with a boy in junior high school who suddenly
began bullying her for no valid reason. The boy had terrorized
several students, not just Angela, and eventually had been shipped
off to boarding school by his parents. The bullying had stopped but
the pain had lingered for Angela.

“Did you get your paper back?” asked
Pamela.

“Not yet.”

She wanted to quiz her daughter further about
the content of the essay, but decided that Angela would reveal what
she wanted in her own good time. For the moment, Pamela was happy
to hear that Angela had managed to face this particular demon in a
positive, constructive way and that she was able to discuss it with
her mother. She only hoped that the English professor would not
belittle Angela’s revelations or focus so totally on her vocabulary
and grammatical mistakes that Angela would regret writing about the
wrenching event. Angela struggled with every aspect of her life.
She seemed to look for—or at least expect--the worst in everything,
especially herself. The results of that early bullying experience
just wouldn’t seem to go away.

Now, sitting here on her office couch, as she
thought about their talk this morning, Pamela felt a small tear
gather in the corner of her eye. She loved this little girl--or
rather this young woman--for Angela was now eighteen and a college
freshman, although Pamela often wondered if Angela had the same
feelings for her. Even a slight show of affection from her daughter
would be appreciated.

Was all that this morning? It seemed like
years ago. Yesterday--last night--the discovery of the body now
seemed like it had occurred in another decade. Pamela felt in
limbo. It was all she could do just to eat her sandwich—and
think.

She wondered if she should ring Jane Marie's
extension to see what was going on downstairs. Maybe the police
were finished interviewing Mitchell. She’d like to know the
outcome. She’d like to know if--when--Shoop would be coming back to
talk to her. Surely, he would. If she had more questions in just
the few hours since she’d discovered Charlotte's body, surely he
would too.

She hadn’t mentioned to Shoop that Charlotte
and Mitchell had been arguing when she overheard them talking in
Mitchell’s office last night before the murder. Now there was the
issue of the weird photograph that Charlotte had apparently placed
in Mitchell’s mailbox after the argument. Having never before been
interrogated in a murder investigation, she really wasn't sure what
was and what was not an appropriate concern for discussion.

She finished her sandwich. It was delicious.
As she sipped her spiced tea, she thought back to her classes this
morning. Oh, the students had been difficult, as she knew they
would be. In the past when tragedy had struck--like 9/11 or
Hurricane Katrina--students needed class time to process the event.
The death of Charlotte Clark was no different, except it was closer
to home and scarier.

Many of her students had questions about what
had happened. Many were concerned for their own safety because they
assumed that a murder in the building meant that a possible serial
killer was on the loose. Pamela tried her best to allay those
fears. She assured them that the police thought (although she was
not completely sure what the police thought) that Charlotte Clark’s
murder was an isolated event. Dr. Clark was alone in the lab, she
said, and it was very late at night. If they continued to be
reasonably cautious, they needn’t be afraid. That seemed to calm
them somewhat.

Some students seemed worried about Pamela's
welfare also. They expressed concern that she might have been in
danger. This touched Pamela deeply, and she admitted to herself
that she was frightened, although she tried not to let her students
see her fear.

But her fear was not so much that some maniac
was on the loose somewhere on campus and might strike at any
moment. No, her fear was of something more insidious. Someone had
killed Charlotte Clark, and Pamela did not think, any more than
Detective Shoop evidently thought, that it was done by a thief
caught in the act of stealing equipment from the lab. Pamela was
beginning to believe more and more strongly that whoever killed
Charlotte had intended to do so for reasons of their own, reasons
that had nothing to do with theft.

Chapter 7

She heard the crisp, sharp tapping of
footsteps coming quickly towards her office. She recognized the
sound of Dr. Joan Bentley's sturdy, yet lady-like heels. Joan
appeared at her door, and knocked. Pamela leaned back on her
sofa.

"Thank God, it’s you," she sighed, looking up
at Joan.

"My dear," said Joan, entering and setting
herself primly on the straight back chair near the door. "You’ve
been a busy girl since I saw you yesterday. What a horrible night
for you!" The older woman tilted her head of white hair, stylishly
coiffed in a loose bob, and looked expectantly towards Pamela.

"Joan," Pamela sighed, "When did you
hear?"

"Arliss called me last night," Joan said. "We
debated whether to call you at home, but decided we’d talk to you
today. You needed your sleep."

"Arliss heard about it last night?"

"It was on the local eleven o'clock news,"
reported Joan calmly, nodding.

"Did they mention me finding her?"

"No, dear," Joan answered, "But they said a
female colleague in the Psychology Department who was teaching a
night class found her. That would be you."

"No," groaned Pamela. "I don't want to get
involved with reporters."

"Just avoid them. If they ask to interview
you, just say no," she replied, as if it were quite simple. Pamela
wished Joan would loan her the magic wand she used whenever she
encountered a nosy reporter. Joan was a well-known researcher in
her own area of educational psychology, almost as famous as
Charlotte Clark was in the field of addiction. Some of Joan’s
studies had even drawn attention from the local media and she was
well-accustomed to handling the press.

Pamela heard the sound of another set of
footsteps heading down the hallway. She recognized this pair
also--the long, striding, sneaker-clad gait of Arliss MacGregor.
Arliss's head appeared in her doorway. Arliss was lean and lanky
and dressed more like a boy, in trousers, a man-shirt, and a
vest--than like the instructor and lab director that she was.

"My God, Pam!" She entered the office, waving
her arms around. "What happened?" She plopped down in Pamela's desk
chair.

"I wish I knew," said Pamela. "I wish I’d
just gone home last night instead of checking to see if the lab was
locked. Someone else would have found her then."

"Thank you, Mitchell Marks!" announced
Arliss, hands on hips, "Protect our computer lab at all costs! Who
knows what you may find there?"

"Arliss!" chided Joan, "This has been a
traumatic experience for Pamela. Just imagine finding a dead
body."

"And to make it worse--it was Charlotte's,"
said Arliss, pulling a wayward black lock out of her face and back
into her ponytail.

"Arliss,” said Joan.

"Come on, Joan," sneered Arliss, "You didn't
like her any better than anyone else did." She leaned back and put
her feet up on the desk. Pamela was not thrilled when Arliss took
over her desk like this, but it was one of the drawbacks she
tolerated in order to maintain her favored position on her
sofa.

"I didn't wish her dead," said Joan, her
nostrils puffing out as her nose rose skyward. She folded her hands
neatly on her lap.

"Neither did I," said Arliss, slamming her
feet firmly on the floor.

"Please, you two!" Pamela cried, throwing her
hands up in defense. "Can't we stop this?"

"I'm sorry, Pam," said Arliss, "really, I am.
For you, I have nothing but sympathy." She blinked and stuck out
her lower lip.

"Yes, dear," agreed Joan, reaching over and
patting Pamela’s hand. "We both are here for you. You're the one
we're concerned about. Nobody can do anything now for Charlotte
anyway."

"So," Arliss, began again, "What can we do to
help you? Anything. Just ask." She flung her arms wide in a gesture
of conciliation.

"Yes, dear, why don't you take a day or two
off? I’d be glad to cover your classes." Joan offered, flouncing
her skirt out a bit as she edged closer on her chair.

"Me too," agreed Arliss. The two friends
edged closer to Pamela, hoping to provide support.

"No," said Pamela, firmly. "That’s not what I
need. I need to keep busy. My mind is working overtime. I just
can't stop thinking about it."

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Joan, shaking her head,
"it must have been horrible."

"What did she look like? I mean, was it
gross?" asked Arliss, sotto voce, scooting even closer to Pamela on
Pamela's wheeled desk chair.

"Arliss!" responded Joan, "I can’t believe
you. You’re not typically so insensitive." She gave Arliss a
penetrating stare.

"Hey," said Arliss, "I'm just curious. Pam's
the first person I’ve ever known to discover a dead body. Don't
pretend that you aren't curious too, Joan." She peered back at Joan
over the tops of her black frame glasses.

"Ladies," said Pamela, holding up her hands
and calming her two friends as best she could, "I'm happy to share
my experience with you. Lord knows, I had no special feeling for
Charlotte, but she was a fellow human being, so I'd at least like
to be civil, if that’s acceptable?"

"Just tell us the juicy details and we’ll be
models of civility," agreed Arliss, flinging one arm in front of
herself in a sweeping gesture. Joan nodded in agreement.

"There's really not much to relate," said
Pamela, "Kent Drummond, my graduate assistant, went to check on the
security lock in the lab after our seminar, and almost immediately
came running back yelling. I went down there and discovered
Charlotte, at Carrel #4, bent over, the power cord from a headphone
set wrapped around her neck. It was quite obvious she was dead.”
She related all the events of the previous evening for her two
friends, including the gruesome details for Arliss’ benefit and
concluded with, “That was it. Nothing more."

“Nothing more,” said Arliss. “Correct me if
I’m wrong, but doesn’t a power cord around her neck mean she was
murdered?” Arliss whispered this last part.

“Surely not,” said Joan, eyes wide.

“I saw it, and it certainly didn’t have the
appearance of one of those freak accidental power cord
strangulation deaths,” said Pamela.

“I can’t believe that someone would
intentionally kill Charlotte,” maintained Joan. “Yes, she was an
overbearing, obnoxious prima donna, but you don’t kill people for
that. Besides, we were all beholden to her, financially at least.
She had national recognition. She had clout. And that brought in
money this department would never have seen if she hadn’t been the
star that she was."

"Too bad she had to have such an unpleasant
personality," noted Arliss.

"Isn't it?" sighed Joan, shaking her head. "I
don't know why we can’t all behave like professionals and not
little children. I mean, we’re psychologists; we study behavior.
You’d think we’d recognize unpleasant patterns in our own behavior
when they occur, that she would have recognized the unpleasant
patterns in her behavior."

"At least she wasn't an addict--not that I
know of, anyway. She was an expert on addiction," added Pamela.

"She was addicted to cigarettes," noted
Arliss.

Pamela and Joan both laughed.

“I suppose she was especially testy lately
because of the pressure she was under as Chair of the Tenure
Committee,” said Joan, with a coy smile.

“Pressure?” asked Pamela.

“From the Dean, to curtail our number of
candidates,” responded Joan.

"But, Joan," responded Pamela, “I thought she
was fighting the Dean on this tenure business. At least, that’s the
impression I had.” That, thought Pamela, was probably what her
complaint was about the Dean in her fight with Mitchell last night.
“Besides, we can't choose or not choose who goes up for tenure
based upon the Dean’s request. That’s a departmental decision."

"Don't be naive, Pamela," whispered Joan,
bending closer to the younger professor, "I’ve been in this
department and on this campus longer than any of you, and I know
our Dean. He’ll do what he has to do to make ends meet, and if that
means limiting tenure candidates—so be it. Besides, why would
Charlotte have had any compunction about dropping one or more of
the candidates? Well, maybe not Laura; she was her protégé, but
certainly not Rex or Phin. It was nothing to her and she might even
have used her chairmanship of the committee as a bargaining chip
with the Dean."