The Probability of Murder (27 page)

“Believe it.”

“I need your take on it. Lunch?” she asked, checking her watch and packing up to leave for class.

“Not today,” I said, though sharing a sandwich with Fran was much more appealing than trudging over to Admin and eating with Martin Melrose. Especially since I no longer considered him or Garrett, whoever he was, a suspect in Charlotte’s murder.

“Earlier, then? Are you free at ten?” Fran asked.

“Uh-huh. Let’s meet in my office.”

Robert Michaels, the Chemistry Department chair, walked in, apparently having just shared a joke with Judith Donohue, the head of biology, who was right behind him. Both stopped laughing when they saw me, and while they didn’t embrace me, they were flustered enough to drop a pen (Robert) and a textbook (Judy).

“Hey, you must be devastated to read all this about Charlotte,” Judy said, with Robert nodding in agreement. “I was blown away. I find it very upsetting, and I didn’t even know her all that well.”

“Neither did I, it turns out.” I smiled as a way of accepting the sympathy of all.

In some ways it was a relief that the news about Charlotte’s past, and maybe her present, had spread. No more secrets, no more solitude in my grieving. And I knew that, at least with Fran, I’d be able to share my feelings of resentment also.

Thirty students, give or take, fell silent when I entered the classroom just inside Franklin Hall’s front door. I didn’t have to clear my throat till it sounded like a foghorn, or tap
on the desk and shout, “Good morning. Let’s get started. Please.” I half-expected them all to jump up and join me for a group hug.

It dawned on me only at that moment that I might have to say something about the crime on their campus, the fate of their librarian. Even those who didn’t know that Charlotte and I were friends, not simply casually acquainted as colleagues, deserved some words of explanation or acknowledgment of the crime that had been committed in their midst.

I had a fleeting memory of a story my high school physics teacher told us of Marie Curie. The famous chemist and physicist stepped in as professor to replace her husband at the Sorbonne after he’d been killed in a street accident. An entire auditorium of people sat in silence waiting for her first words. It added to the drama that Marie became at that moment the first woman to teach at the Sorbonne. With reporters present and all eyes on her, Marie opened Pierre’s notebook to his last lecture and picked up the discussion of radioactivity from the middle of a paragraph.

Or so the tale went.

Even if the story was only partly true, it put my own little drama in perspective.

I addressed my waiting class, and, unlike Madame Curie, satisfied their need for a transition.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m sure you’ve heard the news of the death of our reference librarian, Charlotte Crocker. I’d like us to take a moment to remember her. She was an important part of our daily lives on the Henley campus. Let’s think of her service and all the good things she did for us, and remember also those who loved her and will miss her.”

It was the best I could do ad hoc, and maybe even if I’d taken hours to prepare.

I looked over the heads of my students, past their laptops and their textbooks, at a poster Charlotte had given me featuring the prime numbers in bright colors. I hoped eventually the nice things she did would outweigh her crimes in my memory.

I was conscious of Chelsea, safe and sound in the front row as usual.

Though it had been decades since we recorded attendance in college, it was a time-honored tradition, an unwritten rule, that students took the same seats in every class session. If a brave student did try to take a different place, chances were the rightful owner would glare, face the intruder with a questioning look, and then be extra early for the next class.

The practice was a help to professors who could then map a person to a seat, and thus learn students’ names more quickly. It was easy to see now that Daryl Farmer’s place, one row over and one seat behind Chelsea, was empty.

During the silence, ostensibly for Charlotte, I sneaked in a thought of Bruce, imagining him safe at home. I took a breath and tried Ariana’s method of pushing the stress out of my body, through my modern Mary Janes and onto the old wooden floor of the classroom.

“Thank you,” I said to the class. “Now let’s look at chapter seven.”

I got through examples on sampling techniques without much of a hitch. As when I worked a puzzle, once I started on a math problem, my focus was complete. Halfway through the explanation of sample size and confidence levels, I might have taken on a confused look if someone mentioned the names Charlotte Crocker or Bruce Granville, thinking they had theorems named after them.

A good discussion of populations and probabilities could do that for me.

I knew it would be impossible to walk back to my office at the opposite end of the building from my classroom by myself.

Several students hung back to accompany me, and it would have been insulting to dissuade them. I’d been grouchy enough lately.

The overriding theme of the entourage taking me down the hallway was, “Anything new on who killed Ms. Crocker, Dr. Knowles?”

I continued to shake my head and promise that I’d let them know if I heard anything before they did.

Nothing came up about Charlotte’s nefarious background. I decided that the sixties were officially over and college students didn’t read newspapers, especially not before a nine o’clock class. I figured it wouldn’t be too long before the Charlotte Crocker case went viral on a social network.

I was moved by my students’ gestures of care and support, summed up by a senior biology major’s offer: “Let us know if you need anything, Dr. Knowles. Like, we could take you to a movie or something.”

How about
The Eiger Sanction
?

In my office, waiting for Fran, I checked all possible avenues for news of Bruce or Daryl.

A voice mail from Virgil had the simple statements, “DF is in the wind. Not official.” As long as it wasn’t “BG is in the wind,” I hardly cared. I figured I’d done my part and it was now up to the Henley PD to find DF and prosecute him for Charlotte’s murder.

An email from Martin Melrose read, “If today is still on, I’ll be here.” One might have thought Marty wasn’t looking forward to seeing me. At this point I’d lost motivation for the lunch date myself and was tempted to call it off. If he was involved in a scam, did I really care? I felt my only job now was to help keep Chelsea safe while Virgil and his department went after Daryl.

“Knock, knock,” Fran said, pushing my office door farther open than the rather uninviting crack I’d set it at.

Who would have thought that a simple “Come in” to a friend would have set me off, choking me up once again, prompting Fran to give me another hug. Her grandmother persona was working overtime today.

It was a couple of minutes before I could intelligently explain to Fran that my distress at the moment was about 15 percent Charlotte, 80 percent Bruce, with a 5 percent random stress factor having to do with deadlines for the new statistics research paper and life in general. Few people other than Fran Emerson, former chairwoman of mathematics, would have understood my report.

I gave her a rundown on my Daryl Farmer–cum–David Foxwell theory, partly to test it against someone who knew Daryl and partly to spread the word that if she saw DF she should not approach, but rather call the HPD. I also threw in a request that she keep her eye on Chelsea, though I figured that if Daryl did skip town, we’d never see him again. At least, not by that name. Doug Finch, maybe. Or Don Fletcher. Or Daniel Fuller.

I felt a new idea for a word puzzle developing on the spot.

“I guess you never really know anyone,” Fran said. She’d taken a seat and now stretched out her long legs and gazed up at a corner of my office, as if mulling over a basic issue of epistemology. “First Charlotte wasn’t who she said she was, and now Daryl? A freshman with a past?”

“Not your ordinary freshman,” I said.

“Not as far as computers go,” said the one who, as the director of our new computer science major, would know. “He’s writing an advanced app for a smartphone. Way ahead of the curve.”

“So you think he has the skills to hack around and track down the woman he feels was responsible for his father’s suicide?”

“Let’s just say he’s the first one I’d call if I needed anything like that done. Hijacking, phreaking, decompiling to find exploits.”

“Do I even want to know what all those activities are? When did students get smarter than teachers?” I corrected myself. “All except you, Fran.”

“Ha. You should come to class sometime. He essentially took over my Java lecture. And I don’t mean coffee.”

“Smart doesn’t always equate with good judgment,” I said.

“Amen. Did you say the HPD is looking for him?”

I thought of Virgil’s cryptic “Not official” that the HPD hadn’t put out any kind of bulletin on Daryl, but was simply making inquiries and trying to track him down unobtrusively. It was something, and I took the effort to mean that Virgil gave some credence to my theory.

“Unofficially,” I said to Fran. “My guess is we’ll never see him again.”

“A guess and a hope.”

I nodded agreement.

“Do you have any more classes today?” Fran asked.

“My ‘History of Math’ seminar at eleven,” I said.

“Do you want me to take it so you can go home?”

“Thanks, but Liz Harkov is a guest speaker today. And then I have lunch with Marty, so I might as well stay.”

“Marty? You’re rejecting my offer for someone named Marty?”

I’d forgotten that no one in Franklin Hall ever called our main money guy by a nickname. “Martin Melrose,” I said. “Long story.”

“Ah. He’s another one who’s been acting strange lately,” Fran said.

“How so?”

“He’s had this young guy staying with him for about a week, I think. Martin’s secretary, Mysti, and I got chummy last year when I was on the budget committee. She gives me the scoop even when I don’t want it.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“This was the whole school budget, remember, not the Math Department budget, so you’re safe. Anyway, this term I have my cognitive class and my GUI workshop in the admin building on the same floor as Melrose’s office and the kid is there a lot. He looks like kind of a loser, sits in the waiting area in the hallway. It’s like he’s guarding Melrose, or something. Or vice versa.”

“Is his name Garrett, by any chance?”

“Yeah, that’s the name Mysti calls him. Do you know him?”

“Not yet.”

Fortunately, neither Chelsea nor I was responsible for leading the discussion in the “History of Math” seminar.

Liz Harkov, from Henley’s Modern Languages Department and an expert in Russian history, had offered to speak to the class. Her topic, dear to my heart, would be the socioeconomic background during the life and times of mathematician Sonya Kovalevsky, the first female member of the Russian Academy of Sciences. I loved cross-curriculum projects. And the timing couldn’t have been better to give me both a break and the pleasure of hearing a knowledgeable colleague speak.

Liz handled the seminar beautifully, fielding questions that covered the interaction between government and academia and the state of mathematics research publications in Russia. Some of the guys in the class tried to look bored—on principle, I assumed—during the discussion of the treatment and opportunities for Russian versus American women mathematicians.

As fascinating as I found Liz’s presentation, my mind drifted now and then during the hour. I was happy that I’d crafted my own questions weeks ago when Liz and I set the date for her talk.

I hoped Liz didn’t notice my distracted state and take it as a lack of interest or a reflection on her ability to engage us.

I decided I should be compiling a list of those to whom I’d owe an apology when things were back to normal.

Eating lunch in the Administration Building was anything but normal for me. I walked by the east wing of the Emily Dickinson Library, dodging puddles from yesterday’s significant downpour, and climbed the outside side steps of
Admin. It was strange to find them empty, where on Friday the staff had gathered for what looked like a photo shoot but was really the front row seat to a crime scene. The same crime scene that brought me to the building now.

I entered the building and remembered, too late, that Admin people dressed better than those of us in the outlying buildings. Residents of Franklin Hall were especially casual, with mathematics students and teachers all piggybacking on the excuse of the scientists above us, that lab work was messy. Never mind that the math labs involved only computers and the occasional new set of whiteboard markers. Some of us in math even wore lab coats to cover up an especially casual outfit.

I worried that my lunch wouldn’t measure up any more than my outfit did. I had no idea what Ariana had packed for me and hoped it wasn’t anything embarrassing, like lotus flowers or soy soup. Not being restricted by slow starts in the morning, she might have made a quick trip to the local health food store. She’d simply mentioned that there was a surprise in the bag and not to open it before noon.

I walked by all the skirted and suited administrators and administrators’ helpers, nodding when I had to, successfully avoiding any attempt to engage me in conversation. It had been a while since I’d seen so many men’s ties in one spot on campus.

Since Charlotte was now beyond my reach, it was Bruce who was going to have to pay for my surly mood eventually. I patted my hip pocket where my cell phone lay in wait.

Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Whirrrr.

I started. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d set off my ringer accidentally.

Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Whirrrr.

But it wouldn’t keep ringing. This was a real call.

I dug the phone out. Virgil again.

I ducked around the corner by the elevator I’d be taking to Marty’s office and clicked on in relative privacy. The little alcove was left over from one of the many renovations
the old Admin Building had gone through in its hundred-year history. I might be standing in what had been a pantry for the nuns who’d taught here when this property housed a convent school.