Authors: Bill Crider

A Knife in the Back (4 page)

BOOK: A Knife in the Back

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S
ally went back to her office and sat down at her desk. She resisted the urge to have another Hershey bar, but it wasn't easy. She tried to busy herself with grading a set of multiple-choice quizzes that she'd given her American literature class on one of the reading assignments, but she couldn't stop thinking about Jack and his situation.

One thing she wondered about was the knife that had been used to kill Bostic. Jack's knife. What did that mean? Did someone steal the knife for the purpose of framing Jack? Or did someone steal it and only later decide to use it for the murder? If someone was trying to frame Jack, why?

She couldn't come up with answers any better than those her students had circled on the reading quiz. Several of them thought that “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” was set in New York City. A couple of them thought that Macomber had been shot by “a Mafia hitman.” Sally wondered if she was making the choices too difficult, but decided that wasn't the problem. The problem was that some people just hadn't studied the assignment.

Maybe what she needed to do was study the murder more carefully. Maybe then she could discover some answers. For example, she might be able to find out who had clued A. B. D. Johnson in about Bostic's dealings with the college. Sally was sure he couldn't have discovered anything on his own.

It wouldn't do to go directly to A. B. D., of course. He would be sure that she was involved in some plot against him, mainly because he was constantly suspicious of everything and everyone. He believed that the administration was secretly (or not so secretly) conspiring against him and that his fellow faculty members were out to discover the secret topic of his unfinished doctoral dissertation so that they could claim it for their own. While his mild paranoia didn't go a long way toward endearing him to anyone, it would have made him an ideal candidate to pass along information to the board. He would have seen the revelation of Bostic's questionable dealings with the college as a way of striking back at everyone involved.

Sally knew that if she questioned him, he might think that she was somehow trying to undermine his credibilityânot that he had any to undermineâor even to get him fired. Sally would have to find out who his source was from someone else. Fortunately, there was someone else who would probably know.

Sally looked out her door toward the office suite of James Naylor, the academic dean, located inconveniently nearby. Sometimes Sally was sure that the dean had assigned her to an office near his own so that he could watch every move she made. In her heart of hearts, she realized that wasn't the case, but anyone who worked in academia at any level had a little bit of A. B. D. Johnson lurking somewhere inside.

Sally saw that Wynona Reed was sitting at her desk in Naylor's outer office, working at the computer. Sally couldn't actually see Wynona because of the computer terminal, but she could see the top of Wynona's copper-colored hair, teased to a majestic height, of which several inches were visible over the top of the monitor.

Sally got up and walked over to the dean's office. She stood quietly in the doorway until Wynona finished whatever she'd been working on and looked up.

Wynona had, besides her brassy, teased hair, a number of outstanding features, including her eyes. It was as if she had bought a
book called
Makeup Secrets of TV Evangelists' Wives Revealed!
and made each secret her own.

“You need to see the dean?” Wynona asked. “Because if you do, he's not in there. He's in some kind of meeting with the president and one of your faculty members. I guess you know why.”

“I know,” Sally said. “Do you?”

Wynona looked smug. “Dr. Naylor tells me pretty much everything.”

Sally wasn't sure that was such a good idea, but she, along with everyone else on campus, knew that Naylor was one of Wynona's many sources of information. In Sally's opinion, Wynona knew far too much about the college's business, but there wasn't much Sally could do about it.

“Actually,” Sally said, “I didn't come to see the dean. I came to see you.”

Wynona didn't pretend to be flattered. Instead, she was suspicious and defensive, which Sally knew was generally the case. She seemed to assume that everyone wanted either to give her more work to do or complain about something she'd done. The truth was that Wynona was good at her job, and hardly anyone ever complained. And while people were always giving her work, it was nothing that wasn't part of her regular duties. Sally thought that Wynona shouldn't complain about doing anything that was just part of her job, but Wynona had a high opinion of her own importance. In fact, it sometimes appeared to Sally that Wynona thought she was actually the dean and Naylor was just some guy who had the big office in back of her.

“I dismissed those classes for you,” Wynona said. “If that's what you're worried about.”

“I know you did, and I really appreciate it,” Sally said. She wasn't too proud to stoop to flattery if it would help.

“Why else would you want to see me?” Wynona asked.

“I thought you might be able to help me out with something,” Sally said.

Wynona rolled her big eyes, looking like a raccoon in distress. Then she sighed, as if to indicate that she'd known all along Sally was there just to pile more work in her already overflowing in-box.

“What is it, then?” she asked. “You need some changes in the schedule for next semester? In the book orders? If it's the book orders, you're too late. I've already sent them on to the bookstore.”

“It's nothing like that. I was looking for some information.”

Immediately Wynona's attitude changed. She smiled and wiggled a bit to get more comfortable in her chair.

“What kind of information?”

“It's something about Ralph Bostic.”

“He's dead,” Wynona said. “Everybody knows that.”

“True,” Sally agreed. “But not everybody knows how A. B. D. Johnson got that information he gave the board about Bostic's sweetheart deal with the college.”

Wynona's smile widened. “They sure don't.”

“But I'll bet you do,” Sally said.

“I might. But it's just a rumor. You know I don't like to repeat rumors.”

On the contrary, Sally knew that Wynona loved to repeat rumors, but she never liked to do so unless she was getting something in returnâsomething like another rumor.

“I don't like to repeat gossip, either,” Sally said. “But did Troy tell you why you were dismissing the classes?”

Wynona looked peeved. “No. I asked him, but he said he was in a hurry.”

“He was,” Sally said, glad that Wynona didn't accumulate information as quickly as Troy. “We had to get Jack Neville out of jail.”

Wynona's mouth got round. Her exaggerated eyes got even larger.

“You're kidding,” she said.

“Nope,” Sally said, and gave her the short version of the story.

“I can't believe it,” Wynona said. “I mean, I knew Ralph Bostic
was dead. I can believe that part. I heard it on the radio. What I can't believe is that Jack Neville was arrested.”

“Believe it. Now you can see why I'm interested in who gave A. B. D. that information.”

“I certainly can. Of course I don't know for sure, but I heard it was Roy Don Talon.”

Roy Don Talon had given Sally trouble before. He was a well-known local car salesman whose slogan was DRIVE TO HUGHES FOR HUGE SAVINGS.” Apparently a great many people in Houston and other nearby towns took his advice because Talon had made tons of money. He collected cowboy art, and every year he was one of the high bidders for some prize-winning animal at the Houston stock show and rodeo. He cultivated a rhinestone cowboy image in his dress and always wore a big western hat and boots, along with an assortment of jackets that wouldn't have looked out of place on one of the stars of the Grand Ole Opry. Sally suspected that Talon had never been on a horse in his life and had never come any closer to an actual cow than the ones he bid on at the stock show.

She could easily see why Talon wouldn't want Bostic to be ripping off the college by overcharging for vehicle repair. Talon probably thought that if anybody was going to rip off the school, he should be that person. But it wouldn't have been politic for him to turn Bostic in. People would undoubtedly have suspected his motives. For some reason, nobody trusted a car salesman.

“Thanks, Wynona,” Sally said. “I appreciate the help.”

“Any time,” Wynona said, which Sally knew really meant
anytime you have some gossip for me, I'll be glad to trade.
“You're not going to get mixed up in this mess, are you?”

“Who, me?” Sally shook her head. “I know better than to do that again.”

Wynona blinked her striking eyes and said, “Sure you do.”

J
ack walked slowly over to Fieldstone's office, and though it was a nice day, he didn't really notice the sunshine or the green grass or the students who passed by him. Some of them waved and said “hi,” and Jack always managed to respond. But his mind was on other things.

Like job security. He'd never done anything except teach, not unless you counted the jobs he'd done during the summers of his high school and college years. Those jobs had been okay at the time, but he didn't really think he could go back to washing dishes at a boardinghouse or bagging groceries. He wasn't even sure there were such things as boardinghouses these days. There certainly weren't any around the Hughes campus. Besides, he'd gotten a terrible case of dishpan hands, even though he'd used rubber gloves. His skin had turned red, dried out, and cracked. He wouldn't want to have to deal with that again.

He wondered what sort of work he'd have to do if he went to prison. Whatever it was, it was likely to be worse than washing dishes.

He remembered some of the men he'd taught in classes at the prison units. He wondered if any of the ones who'd failed his classes were still there, and he thought about what kind of revenge they might wreak on him if he wound up imprisoned with them. Getting killed would be the least of his worries. There were worse
things: dismemberment, gang rape, maiming. It really didn't do to think about it.
And after all,
he told himself,
no innocent man ever goes to prison.

“What's so funny, Mr. Neville?” a passing student asked.

“Oh,” Jack said. He hadn't even realized that he'd laughed aloud. “I was just thinking.”

“Must've been a pretty funny thought.”

“Not exactly,” Jack said.

Eva Dillon rose from her chair when Jack entered the president's office and smiled at him. It reminded Jack of one of those strained smiles you see on people who are about to deliver some particularly nasty piece of news and hope the smile will somehow help. It hardly ever did.

“Dr. Fieldstone is waiting, Mr. Neville,” Eva said. “You can go right in.”

Jack went through the heavy wooden door, and Eva pulled it silently shut behind him. Dean Naylor was sitting on the couch, and Fieldstone was behind his massive and entirely clean desk.

Naylor stood up and walked over to Jack, throwing an arm around his shoulders. There was nothing unusual in that. Naylor was a touchy-feely guy, a hugger, in a world when hugging could be dangerous. Sometimes Jack wondered how he had lasted as long as he had without having some kind of sexual harassment complaint lodged against him. He'd probably never hugged Vera Vaughn, the campus's militant feminist. She would have flattened him.

“How are you, Jack?” Naylor asked. “I hope you didn't have any problems with the police.”

“Not really,” Jack said. “I'm an innocent man.”

“Thank God for that,” Fieldstone said as Naylor guided Jack toward a seat on the couch.

Fieldstone was immaculate, as always, dressed in an expensive navy blue suit and sparkling white shirt. His tie had probably cost more than Jack's entire outfit, which was composed of khakis and a shirt he'd bought at Wal-Mart. Fieldstone always looked exactly
the way a college president should look; confident that he was in control. He walked around his desk to shake hands with Jack before Jack was seated. Then he put the desk between them once again.

Good fences make good neighbors,
Jack thought. Or maybe he's just afraid of me. Mad-dog Neville, the psycho killer.

“I'm not at all sure your situation is as amusing as you seem to think it is,” Fieldstone said.

“Sorry,” Jack said. “I seem to find myself laughing out loud for no reason at all.”

Fieldstone looked alarmed.

“Oh, don't worry,” Jack said. “I'm not going crazy. At least I don't think I am.”

“You could have fooled me,” Fieldstone said, trying for a light touch, something that he could seldom manage. “If I were you, I'd be feeling pretty somber right about now.”

“I am,” Jack said, repressing a smile. “That's probably why I'm laughing. Defense mechanism.”

Fieldstone appeared to think the idea over and decide that it was as good an excuse as any. He gave Jack a straight look and said, “The question is, are you guilty?”

“As I said, I'm an innocent man. The police didn't hold me, so I must not be guilty.”

“You see?” Fieldstone said. “That's what I mean. You're taking this much too lightly.”

“I don't mean to. I just can't see how anyone could believe I'm a killer. Do I look like a murderer to you?”

“No,” Fieldstone admitted. “But then most of the people I see on the television news shows don't, either. And some of them have done some terrible things.”

He had a point there, Jack conceded, thinking again about the men he'd taught in prison. For the most part, they looked just like everyone else. Nobody passing one of them on the street would ever give him a second glance.

“It doesn't matter how I look,” Jack said. “I didn't do it. I'm not capable of something like that.”

“I didn't really think you were. But we have to consider the school's position in this.”

Here it comes,
Jack thought.

“What is the school's position?” he asked, maybe a little more sharply than he'd intended.

“Now, Jack,” Naylor said from his place beside him on the couch, “there's no need to be upset.”

That was just what Jack would have expected him to say. Unlike the town of Hughes, the college could afford both a good cop and a bad cop.

“I think there is,” Jack said. “I think I'm about to get some bad news here, and I don't deserve it.”

“It's not bad news,” Fieldstone said. “We just want you to take a little vacation. With pay, of course. Why would anyone object to a paid vacation?”

“Have you talked to Dr. Good about that?”

“That's not necessary,” Fieldstone said. “Dr. Naylor is her supervisor, and he's already agreed to the decision.”

“Nothing like due process,” Jack said.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Jack said.

“You can appeal the decision, Jack,” Naylor said. “You certainly have that right. But it could make things very difficult for the college.”

“What about me?” Jack asked. “If you take me out of the classroom, people are going to believe you think I'm guilty of something, whether I am or not.”

“I'm sure everyone will understand,” Naylor said.

“Then you have a lot more faith in people than I do. Besides, I don't understand. And I don't like being thrown out of my own classroom. The students won't like it, either. They like consistency when it comes to little things like tests and grading.”

“I'm sure you'll be back in the classroom within a couple of days,” Naylor said. “After all, the Hughes police force is quite competent. They'll have the real killer in jail before you know it.”

“You have a lot more faith in the police around here than I do, too. Remember the last time they had a murder to investigate?”

Neither Naylor nor Fieldstone liked being reminded of the last time. Some of the things that had come out during the investigation of Val Hurley's death hadn't been exactly flattering to the school. And of course the Hughes police hadn't really cracked the case. Sally Good had done that pretty much on her own.

“This won't be like the last time,” Fieldstone said. “This time the college won't be involved at all.”

Jack couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. He said, “The college is already involved. I'm part of the college, and I've been taken to the police station and questioned. Now you're about to jerk me out of my classroom. How can you say the college isn't involved?”

“
Jerk
isn't exactly the right word,” Naylor said. “We're just asking you to take a couple of days offâwith pay, rememberâand wait for the police to do their job.”

“Who's going to take my place in class if I go along with this?”

“That would be me,” Naylor said. “I minored in English, as you may know.”

Jack knew, all right. He also knew that Naylor hadn't been inside a classroom in fifteen years except maybe to check and see if anyone had stolen a pencil sharpener.

“Besides,” Naylor said, “this is Friday. I'm sure the police will have everything wrapped up before we get back here on Monday morning. You probably won't have to miss any classes at all.”

Jack wished he shared some of Naylor's touching faith in the abilities of local law enforcement.

“It's not as if you really have any choice in this,” Fieldstone said. “The decision has already been made. I don't want any calls from students or their parents after they see the newspaper tomorrow.”

“I suppose I could take this up with the faculty senate,” Jack said.

“You could do that,” Fieldstone agreed. “But I don't think you'll find that it's a good idea.”

“You don't think the group will support me?”

“I'm sure you'd have a great deal of support. I just don't think it's in the best interests of the school.”

“What about my best interests?”

“We're thinking of you in all this, Jack,” Naylor said. “If you went into that classroom, no matter how much your students may like you and trust you, there would be at least a couple of them who'd be suspicious of you and think you didn't belong there.”

“Just the ones who are failing,” Jack said.

“You know that's not true,” Naylor said. “You know how people are.”

Jack knew all right. Naylor might as well have been talking about himself and Fieldstone. Jack wanted to protest, but he was getting tired of all the talk about the school's best interests, not to mention his own. Naylor and Fieldstone were going to force him out of his classroom, and that was that. By the time the faculty senate met, which couldn't possibly happen much earlier than Monday afternoon, the damage would already be done.

“All right,” he sighed. “I'll do it your way.”

“I knew we could count on you,” Naylor said.

If that was supposed to make Jack feel better, it didn't work at all.

BOOK: A Knife in the Back

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