Voice Mail Murder (14 page)

“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Pamela. “I really could get your mother from class, Jack. . .”

“No, no, please!” he said, holding up his hand as she started to rise. “It’s not like I won’t be back to visit. I’m not going to Siberia—just Seattle! I just have to leave today—now, actually!” He rose and bent over her desk to shake her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Barnes. Mom talks about you all the time. You’re the detective, right?”

“Oh, not really,” laughed Pamela. “I just dabble.”

“Well, be careful,” suggested the young man, grabbing the handle of his suitcase and heading for the door. “And, please tell Mom I’m sorry I missed her—and tell her I love her.”

“I’ll do that,” agreed Pamela. Then running quickly to the doorway, she embraced the man with a tight hug. “This is from your Mom! Congratulations—and good luck!”

“Thanks!” he smiled, and headed jauntily down the hallway.

Chapter Twenty-Five

She was pondering Joan’s son and their brief meeting as she drove her little Civic home along Jackson, the main thoroughfare of Reardon. When Joan finally returned from class, Pamela was just heading out and her explanation of the encounter was brief. Joan was understandably confused and delighted. She’d be getting her apartment back, but she’d be losing the companionship of her son that Pamela knew she was enjoying—a mixed blessing. She and Joan would have much to discuss, she thought as she drove past the fringes of campus and headed out along the long stretch of road that led towards her house. It would probably call for one of their outings to Who-Who’s.

Nearing an intersection, she put her foot on her brake pedal and discovered to her dismay that her brakes were not responding. Strange. She gave the pedal a few short taps, trying to loosen what she figured must be a jammed pedal. No response. Looking ahead, she saw a white van stopped at the upcoming red light on Hilliard. If she couldn’t get her brakes to function quickly she was going to ram right into the rear of that van. Slamming furiously hard on her brakes, she quickly pulled her steering wheel rapidly to the right. Her Civic jutted suddenly at a right angle and slammed head-on into a metal lamp post on the side of the road. She was only going about twenty miles an hour, but even so, the strength of the collision slapped her backwards and then forwards. Her airbag exploded with a pop and smacked her in the face. The noise of the crash and the airbag expulsion were followed by total silence.

The only thing she could hear for what seemed like hours was the sound of her own breathing. Then, from a distance, a man’s voice called out:

“Lady, are you okay? Hey! Lady, are you okay in there?”

She twisted her head to the left which caused her a horrible throbbing sensation in her forehead. A man’s nose was pressed against her window, a look of alarm covering his face. She reached carefully to her left and pressed the unlock button. The man quickly opened the door.

“Are you okay?” he continued to ask her. He touched her face, examining her carefully and looking into her eyes. From his pocket he retrieved a cell phone and dialed a few digits. “Hey, yeah, 911? Yeah, there’s an accident at the corner of Jackson and Hilliard. Yeah. Yeah. No, just one vehicle. Slammed into a lamppost. No, just the driver. I’m here with her now. She appears to be conscious, but she’s pretty banged up. Me? I’m Jeremy Potter. I’m a tech for MacMillan Air Conditioning. I was right in front of her. I think she swerved to avoid hitting me in the rear. Okay. Will do.”

He slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Don’t worry. There’s an ambulance on the way . . .”

“No,” moaned Pamela. “I’m fine. Just a little shook up.” She put her hand to her forehead. She could feel a gash over her right eye. Liquid was dripping from the gash into her eye. She wiped it away and looked at her hand. It was red.

“You’re not fine,” declared the man. “Wait here a minute. I’m going to get my van out of traffic.” He disappeared. As she cautiously glanced over her left shoulder—a move which all of a sudden was very painful—she could see that he had driven his white van into the parking lot of a strip mall on the right side of the road. Several other cars that had slowed to gawk were now continuing on their way, obviously convinced that there were no serious injuries. Jeremy, the air conditioning specialist, returned to her open door and knelt down beside her.

“Hey, how ya doin’?” he asked, with an encouraging smile. “Hang in there.”

“I’m fine,” repeated Pamela, now looking around tenuously. She had to get out of her car, she thought. She tried to unbuckle her seat belt but couldn’t. Suddenly, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her and she froze. Maybe not.

“Now, lady,” said Jeremy, steadying her. “Let’s not try anything foolish. You just wait here until the paramedics check you out. I’d feel a lot better.”

Pamela obeyed the young man. Soon, she could hear sirens and almost immediately thereafter, a rotund, middle-aged police officer poked his head in and asked how she was doing. She reassured him. He collected her personal information and was on his intercom with his superiors when two paramedics appeared and nuzzled in front of him. One began examining her, looking in her eyes with a small light, feeling her neck, and listening to her heart with his stethoscope. Assured that her vitals were sound, the two medics carefully removed her seat belt and slid her out of the car and onto a waiting gurney.

“Really,” exclaimed Pamela, “I’m fine.”

“Lady,” said one of the men, “you might have a concussion. You should be checked out at the hospital.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” she declared. “I never blacked out. I just have a bump on my head. I’ll be fine.”

“If you refuse medical treatment,” he continued, “you’ll have to sign a release form.”

“Not a good idea, Dr. Barnes,” said a voice that she recognized from behind her. She turned abruptly—and waves of pain shot through her head. Shoop was standing behind the paramedics, arms folded, a look of disdain on his already scornful face. “I’d suggest you get yourself checked out by a physician—just like these gentlemen suggest.”

“What do they suggest?” asked another familiar voice. Behind Shoop she recognized—although he was disturbingly fuzzy—Rocky. “Pamela, honey, are you all right?” Her husband pushed in front of the men surrounding her and collected her in his arms.

“Rocky,” she asked, squinting. Why does everyone look so blurry? “Rocky, what are you doing here?”

“Your Detective Shoop called me,” he said.

“Yes, Dr. Barnes,” explained the tall detective, his overcoat hanging open by his sides. “I heard the call about the accident and when the officer called in your name and license number, I figured you might be up to something—and I called your husband.”

“Thankfully,” said Rocky to Shoop with a nod. “Just what did happen, Pamela?”

“I don’t know,” she said weakly. “I tried to stop at the intersection, but my brakes wouldn’t work. I pumped them hard. I tried everything, but nothing happened. So, I figured it would be better to pull to the right than to ram into a car ahead of me.”

“Unfortunately,” noted Shoop, “pulling to the right included a lamppost. Luckily you hit one of those new breakaway hollow aluminum poles. If it’d been an old steel job, you’d have been toast.”

“Thanks,” she said, cringing in remembrance.

“My God, Pamela,” said Rocky, now closer to his wife. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’ll be fine, Rocky,” she assured him, not all that certain. “It’s just a cut.”

“The medics say she should be checked out at the hospital,” said Shoop.

“I’ll take her,” he responded to the detective.

“Good,” agreed Shoop. “She’s in no condition to drive. Besides, no one’s going to be able to drive this thing for a while anyway.”

Pamela glanced cautiously back at her tiny blue car, now mangled and torn. It was her baby and it looked as if someone had taken a baseball bat to its face. How in the world had this happened?

“Detective,” said Pamela to Shoop, as they both stared at her car. “I’ve never had brake problems with my Civic before. I was just driving along and all of a sudden my brakes just disappeared.”

“Yeah,” he grimaced, “I see. This isn’t a good sign, Dr. Barnes. Actually, I’m going to have your car impounded and have our technicians go over your brakes.” He gestured to one of the officers.

“You think someone cut her brakes?” asked Rocky.

“It’s a possibility,” said Shoop, as he strode slowly around the little car, looking underneath and popping the hood. “Just where has this car been today, Dr. Barnes?”

“Just sitting in the Blake Hall parking lot,” she replied.

“Where lots of other cars are parked,” he said, “Anyone could easily slip underneath a vehicle parked in one of those small campus lots and cut a brake line. If anyone saw the culprit, the person could always say they lost something under their car, or some other innocuous excuse.”

“Yeah,” said Rocky, “Pammie, you’ve gotten yourself into another mess with all this investigating. And now look what’s happened! When will you learn?”

She knew she was being chastised by her husband and she knew Shoop was trying to explain something about cars and brakes, but it all seemed so far in the distance—and getting farther and farther with each passing moment. Shoop was getting quieter and farther away. Rocky’s loud voice was softer and he was fading away into the distance too—far into the distance. Eventually they all went black.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was just a mild concussion the doctors said. Even so, they had held her overnight and she was now bundled in her bed with orders to stay home from work for the day. Rocky was scurrying around like a dervish bringing her goodies for her nightstand so that she wouldn’t have to fix herself anything to eat while he was teaching his classes. He had suggested that he stay home from work—it wasn’t as if the man ever called in sick—but she wouldn’t have any of it. It was nice to be waited on, but truly she just wanted to rest—and think—and Rocky would never allow that with all his fussing.

“I fixed up your thermos, as usual,” he was droning on, as he placed the container on her nightstand. “It will keep your tea hot so you won’t have to traipse into the kitchen to fix yourself more.”

“I can make tea,” she argued, leaning back on the two extra pillows Rocky had placed behind her. He had arranged a plate of cookies and small appetizers (easier to eat) within arm’s length. “They checked me out at the hospital, Rocky. They said I’d be fine.”

“They also said to rest,” he snapped, broaching no disagreement. “I don’t want you out of bed except to go to the bathroom. Is that clear?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I swear,” he said softly, sitting gently on the bed beside her, “Pamela, how do you manage to get yourself into these fixes?”

“My brakes went out!” she cried in self-defense.

“They were probably cut by some maniac. I shouldn’t even be leaving you at home,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re overprotective,” she replied. “Shoop said even if someone did cut my brake line, they were probably just trying to warn me. “

“Right,” he noted, shaking a finger in her direction, “because you need warning—a warning to stay out of this murder investigation.”

“Please,” she whined, holding her palm to her temple. “Please don’t shout. It hurts.”

“Sorry, Babe,” he whispered, bending towards her and tucking the covers around her neck.

“I’m not cold,” she said in slight annoyance. Then she regretted her peevishness and stuck out her lower lip in her most beguiling manner. “Forgive me; I’m grouchy because I’m sore.”

“Of course, I forgive you. Can I get you something? Some aspirin?” She shook her head. “And besides, there’s nothing to forgive. You’ve been through a terrible experience and you just need to relax and take it easy for a while.”

“Rocky,” she began, “if someone did cut my brakes, it must be because I know something—or the killer thinks I know something about the murder. Don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily,” replied her husband. “Look here, Pammie. You’ve been involved in this investigation since the beginning. Good Lord, you’ve been sitting in on Shoop’s interrogations of most of the suspects. I don’t know what these people know about you—or think they know about you—or what Shoop has told them, but even if they know nothing, you have a reputation on campus. I mean, you were involved in those other investigations and were instrumental in solving them, because of your expertise. A lot of people know that—particularly people on campus—or people who know people on campus—such as anyone who knew Coach Croft. If any of the people who are being interviewed by Shoop see you there and know who you are—and connect you to those other investigations—who knows what they’ll think you’re doing now—or what you know—or will eventually figure out about this case too.”

“I get it,” she sighed. “My reputation precedes me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what you get for being a famous crime fighter.”

“But, even if the killer thinks I know something crucial,” she argued, “I don’t know what it is.”

“It just may be that the killer resents your snooping around.”

“The police are snooping around.”

“Yeah, but it’s not so easy to cut the brakes on a Police cruiser,” he suggested, “and if the killer did, what good would it do? There are more official vehicles where that one came from.”

“I’m an easy target, is what you’re saying,” she hinted, stretching back on her pillows. Rocky looked at the wall clock and stood up. The movement evidently awakened the couple’s dog and Candide appeared from under the bed.

“Here’s my little watchdog,” announced Pamela. Candide responded by leaping up on the big bed and snuggling under her arm. A small black nose peeked out from under her arm. “You’ll protect me, won’t you Candide?”

“I’m going to have to get going or I’ll miss my first class,” Rocky said to her. “I’ll only be gone a few hours, now. I’ll cancel my office hours today and come straight home. You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to have Angie come over and stay with you while I’m gone?”

“Of course not,” she sniffed. “I’m not going to have her miss a class her last semester.”

“All right,” he agreed. “And your classes?”

“I’ll call Jane Marie right now,” she told him. “Can you hand me the phone?” Rocky picked up the white landline unit and placed it on the bed next to his wife.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he whispered, bending over and kissing her forehead.

“Careful,” she cringed. “Kiss the left side.” He did and then turned and disappeared out the door. She could hear the garage door raise and then lower.

“Well, buddy,” she said to the little dog beside her. “How much damage can we do on the phone?” She reached over for one of Rocky’s tasty chicken and bacon appetizers and held it up for the canine who snarfed down the treat without even chewing. Pamela lifted the receiver on the phone and called the departmental office.

“Jane Marie,” she said when the secretary answered, “can you cancel my classes for me?”

“Dr. Barnes!” cried Jane Marie, “Are you sick? It’s not like you to cancel classes!”

“A car accident,” she replied. “I rammed a lamppost. Spent the night in the hospital.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed the perky secretary.

“I’m fine, truly!” said Pamela. “Just a mild concussion. They just said to stay home today and rest—and you know Rocky!”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t brook no back-talk!” Jane Marie answered. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to be married to a drill sergeant!”

“Well,” said Pamela, drifting, “it has it moments. . . .”

“Yes, I can imagine. . . “ chuckled Jane Marie. “What happened? Were you hurt?”

“Just a small gash on my forehead. My brakes gave out and I rammed a lamppost.”

“Your brakes? Just gave out?”

“Yes,” responded Pamela.

“Oh my, that’s terrible! Well, don’t worry, Dr. Barnes. I’ll see to it that your classes are cancelled.”

“Thanks.”

“And if you’re interested,” she continued, “Dr. Marks is in a much better mood today. Seems he and the missus have reconciled!”

“How lovely,” responded Pamela. “Don’t think we could tolerate a scruffy Mitchell Marks.”

“Or a smelly one. . .” added the secretary.

“There’s just too much drama over there,” said Pamela. “It’s probably a good idea that I stay home for a while. Maybe things will calm down.”

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, “trouble seems to follow you.”

“That’s what Rocky says. Now with this accident he wants to lock me up and throw away the key . . .”

“But, Dr. Barnes,” she exclaimed, “it’s not your fault if your brakes failed.”

“That’s not the point,” said Pamela, grabbing her thermos lid and sipping her new warm tea. Mmmm. It was orange—very spicy. “The police think someone may have cut my brakes.”

“Oh my God! Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sighing and relishing the warm beverage. “Who would want to cut my brakes?”

“Someone who doesn’t like you messing around in Coach Croft’s murder investigation?”

“And who would that be?”

“How would I know? Maybe one of his mistresses—you know—the ones whose voices you’re studying on that recording?”

“One of those women is dead. Remember?” she prompted the secretary.

“One of the other two?”

“One of them lives in Boston.”

“Then the third one. Surely the police can arrest her?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Pamela. “She’s just one suspect. The police consider every person connected to Coach Croft a potential suspect—with the possible exception of his wife.”

“I know, she’s in a wheelchair,” said Jane Marie, “but maybe that’s an act! Maybe she’s not really handicapped.”

“Then she’s been pulling this ‘act’ off for many years,” argued Pamela.

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes,” exclaimed the secretary, “I wish I knew the answer, but you’re the specialist. Can’t you listen to all these peoples’ voices and figure out who killed the Coach—and his mistress?”

“If only it were that simple,” said Pamela. She tossed another chicken-bacon square to Candide who downed the small morsel and proceeded to lick Pamela’s fingertips on her free hand.

“Isn’t that what they do with a lie detector?” queried Jane Marie.

“Something like it, Jane Marie,” she explained, “but my approach and that of lie detector technology are neither fool-proof. Both only point to possible deceptive behaviors; there’s really nothing definitive about most lie detection protocols. If there were, then it would be more likely that such protocols would be allowed in court.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Dr. Barnes,” said the secretary, “but if you can help the police find out who killed Coach Croft, you should do it. Just be careful! We don’t want anything to happen to you!”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. She believed the woman’s concern and she also believed that she was relatively safe in continuing her acoustic investigation. Even so, her brakes had broken and she did get in an accident. She concluded her call with Jane Marie, assured that she would take care of Pamela’s classes in her one-day absence. She had barely hung up the receiver when the machine again rang. Lifting the handle, she spoke tentatively into it.

“Yes?”

“Your brake line was cut,” snarled the voice she immediately recognized as Shoop’s.

“You’re sure?” she questioned him. This was not news she wanted to hear.

“Yup,” he confirmed. “Nicked—made a slow leak. With a sharp instrument.” He let the pronouncement hang in the air, apparently awaiting her reaction.

“What does this mean?” she finally asked.

“It means—Dr. Barnes—that our killer considers you a threat,” he said with precision. “We’ve got this person worried and trying to cover their tracks.”

“And I’m the one lying on the road?” she screamed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, calmly. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. But, we are going to pursue your line of investigation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he explained, “we’re going to bring everyone in—every possible suspect in this case—and we’re going to record them—and have you listen to them while we’re doing it. We’re going to make sure they know that you’re helping us and we consider your input very valuable.”

“You do consider my input very valuable, don’t you?” she questioned.

“Of course,” he replied, hesitantly, “but we’re going to make certain our suspects know that. And we’re going to see what they do next.”

“In other words,” she said cringing, “you’re going to make me the guinea pig.”