Murder 101 (2 page)

Two

The Monday after Kathy’s murder became public and three days after I had been questioned by the police, I returned to school with a lump on my head and a raging headache. I had sustained a concussion from the fall in my office, and while I thought the weekend would give me an opportunity to rest and recuperate, my phone rang off the hook with calls from Max—who thought an hourly phone call to make sure I was conscious was necessary—a couple of newspaper reporters to whom I refused to talk, Max’s parents, and a few other concerned colleagues who had heard about my bad fortune. By the time Monday morning rolled around, I was almost relieved to go to work. I left the house around noon and got to school less than an hour later. I was commuting via Metro North; fortunately my home and school were on the same train line and I could walk to the train station from home in less than ten minutes. The walk to school from the train station was a bit longer; twenty if I wore sensible shoes, but thirty if, like today, I wasn’t using my head and wore heels.

I was not eager to return to my office. Not only had I fainted at the sight of Kathy Miceli crumpled up in my trunk, I also further demeaned myself by vomiting all over “good cop’s” shoes after I came to. Detective Crawford had insisted on taking me to the hospital, where he waited with me in the emergency room and filled me in on what had happened. My car had been found off the Saw Mill River Parkway, just before the Bronx ends and Westchester begins, off the road and halfway in a ditch, Katherine Miceli’s body in the trunk. She had died from a head wound—the coroner was still trying to decide how it had happened exactly, but her best guess was that she had fallen against something. My car was now evidence in a murder investigation and I would never see it again. When I started to black out again, he stopped his story and held my head as I vomited all over his shoes for a second time that day. As they say, “no good deed goes unpunished.”

My office still smelled slightly of vomit, but the only thing that got my attention when I entered was a note marked URGENT sitting on top of my desk. I picked up the lined piece of pink paper and studied it, my heart sinking when I saw that I had been called to the president’s office for a meeting. I had only been in the president’s office once—when I had been granted tenure—and was thankful that I had never been summoned back. There were about three layers of bureaucracy between me and Dr. Etheridge and that’s the way I liked it; I hated Mark Etheridge and his snotty attitude. The farther away I could stay from the cantankerous bastard, the better.

Maybe I wanted to remember St. Thomas as it used to be—small, private, and personal—but Mark’s style rubbed me the wrong way. And the fact that I was a good six inches taller than he was probably rubbed him and his Napoleon complex the wrong way.

I felt like I was walking the plank as I trudged up to the fifth floor and across the marbled hallways to the president’s office, located at the far end of the building from my office. I entered the darkly paneled office of the anteroom, where Mark’s secretary and my old friend, Fran Voight, sat.

“Good morning, Fran,” I said. She had been the president’s secretary since I had gone to school here and we knew each other well.

Fran didn’t respond, but looked at me over her bifocals and motioned with her head toward Etheridge’s office, her frosted helmet of hair not moving. The grim set of her mouth told me that this wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting. The triple strand of long pearls on her chest made a clicking noise as she swung around in her chair and put her back to the door of Etheridge’s office. I heard her whisper “good luck” as I entered the office and closed the door behind me.

Etheridge was sitting behind his grand desk, Sister Mary in front of him. There was an empty chair for me. He stayed behind his desk and motioned to me to sit down. “Good morning, Alison.”

“Dr. Etheridge,” I said, smiling nervously. “Good morning, Sister.”

Sister Mary avoided my eyes, and mumbled “good morning” back.

Etheridge folded his hands in front of him and stared at me. “So, this is a terrible situation,” he started. “Before the police get involved with you, I’m going to give you a chance to explain yourself.” He took his round, rimless glasses off and put them back on after checking them for spots. “How
did
a dead body end up in the trunk of your car, Alison?” He seemed genuinely curious rather than suspicious.

I took a deep breath. “First of all, the police are already involved with me,” I said, my hands gripping the sides of the chair. “I was questioned on Friday.” I stared at him, and he stared back. “And I’m not in jail, so I’m assuming that they’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have anything to do with this.” I gave him an idiotic half smile; perhaps if he thought I was a complete moron, he wouldn’t suspect me of anything more than having bad luck. “And I have no idea how a dead body ended up in my trunk.” I wanted to add, “So now that we’ve cleared that up, can I go now?” but I could see that this meeting was far from over.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“My car was stolen a week ago. I reported it to the campus police and the police from the Fiftieth Precinct who came to take the report. I explained all of this to the two detectives who came to my office.” I crossed my legs and then uncrossed them.

He took his glasses off again and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his vested belly. “This is a terrible situation.” He looked at me, and I could see his face soften a bit. “I’ve spent the weekend dealing with this. And thinking about what to do—what’s best for the students’ protection, and how to keep the media away from them and you. And from
here,”
he stressed, “I think the best course of action would be to suspend you until this blows over.”

I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach, but somehow, I managed to remain impassive.

He held a hand up to ward off any potential emotional outbursts, putting it down when he saw the look on my face. “But Sister Mary has talked me out of it.” He leaned forward again. “So, teach your classes and grade your papers. Do not talk to the press, to your colleagues, or to anyone but the police about this.” The phone on his desk buzzed and he picked it up. “Yes? Tell him I need one minute.” He hung the phone up. “A Detective Crawford is here, and I need to see him. Are we clear?”

I should have gotten up and left, but I opened my mouth to speak instead. “Crystal.” Sister Mary gave me a look and put her hand on top of mine, silencing me before I could say anything else. I nodded and stood.

He continued, even though I thought the conversation was over. “Alison, let’s be clear . . .”

I held up a hand to silence him. “I get it, Mark.” I stood for a minute more, and when he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Are we done?”

He nodded, and I left the office. Detective Crawford was standing in front of one of the bookshelves, perusing the titles that Etheridge kept there. He turned when he heard me exit the president’s office. “Hello.”

My face went red when I thought back to the Friday before and our conversation in my office. Then, I flashed back on my trip to the hospital and the part where I threw up on his shoes. My stomach got a little sick. “Hello,” I mumbled, and strode past him and into the hallway, going too fast and misjudging the space between where the carpet of the president’s office ended and the marble in the hallway began. I skidded onto the marble floor, my ankle twisting in my high heels. Just before I crumpled to a heap on the floor, I grabbed on to the door handle and righted myself. I saw Crawford start toward me and then stop, one of the books from the bookshelves in his hands. I looked at his shoes and from their high gloss could tell that they were new.

“Are you all right?” he asked from inside the office. Fran leaned over her desk to see what had happened, her ample bosom grazing the top of a stack of files.

“I’m fine,” I choked out. I managed to not lose it completely until I had put a great deal of distance between the two of us, and I raced down the hallway, cursing the janitor who had buffed the floor to such a dangerous gloss. I kept going until I reached the stairwell, thinking, My work here is done; I was completely humiliated.

I made it back to my office without injuring myself further and closed the door. Classes had been canceled and grief counselors called in, so I had no reason to stay at school other than to get out of my empty house. I swept a pile of papers off my desk and into my briefcase, which was right where I’d left it on the floor. A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I called to the person to come in.

Sister Mary poked her head around the doorjamb tentatively and asked if she could come in. Mary isn’t usually timid; on the contrary, she’s officious and starchy. But being as she had to sit through Etheridge’s reprimands and had probably witnessed my skid across the floor in front of Fran and Detective Crawford, she probably felt just a little bit sorry for me. She came in and sat in the chair across from my desk where Detective Crawford had sat a few days before.

“I’m not sure what to say, Alison,” she said, probably the first time she had ever uttered that sentence.

Despite my best efforts, a sob slipped out, sounding like a hiccup. “If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be suspended by now,” I said, and continued stuffing papers into my briefcase frantically. Tears ran down my face and dropped onto my desk.

“We all know that Etheridge is a bas . . . nasty, nasty man,” she said, her face flushing at the thought of using the word “bastard.” “I know you had nothing to do with this. So does everyone else. Etheridge just likes to make decisions that he thinks will make him look strong to the outside world.”

I stopped pushing papers into my bag and looked at her, my face tear-stained and wet. “What did you have to promise him?”

She looked back at me.

“To keep me around? What did you have to promise him?”

She ignored the question. “Let’s just make sure we cooperate fully with the investigation and tell the detectives anything that we think is germane to the case.” She stood. “Why don’t you go home for the day? There won’t be any classes until Wednesday, the earliest.”

I nodded. “Are you sure you won’t need me?” I asked.

She shook her head. “As long as Father McManus is here, and the grief center is open, I don’t see any reason why you should have to stay on campus until classes start again.” She reached out and took my hand. “Go home,” she whispered, and gave my fingers a little squeeze.

I gave her a resigned shrug. “Sister, please know that . . .”

“I know, Alison. This is just a terribly tragic situation. There’s nobody to blame,” she said, and put her hand on the knob of the door. “Yet.”

I waited until she left to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I took out the small mirror that I kept in my top drawer and looked at my face. Terribly tragic indeed. I used a tissue to wipe away the black under my eyes and the smeared lipstick around my mouth. I took my sweater from the back of my chair, slipped it on, and grabbed my briefcase, making a hasty exit from my office and the building.

I made my way off campus and onto the avenue, walking unsteadily on my too-high heels and twisted ankle. It was after two o’clock, but after what I had been through in my short time at school, I felt like it was time for bed. I passed the doorway for the Avenue Steak House and got a whiff of that old, familiar bar smell: a mixture of smoke, peanuts, and fried food. I stood for a moment, deciding what to do. After a few minutes, I turned around and went in.

I didn’t think the instruction “drink martini” was on the form entitled “What to do if you sustain a concussion” which I was given when I left the hospital, but I didn’t have any aspirin in my briefcase. A martini seemed to be the next best thing. I’m not usually a middle-of-the-day drinker, but the extra-strength Midol in my purse just wasn’t going to cut it, in terms of stress relief. I went up to the horseshoe-shaped bar, which was empty of customers, and took a seat on one of the mahogany barstools. A television hung over the bar and was tuned to one of the cable news networks.

The bartender, a young guy with red hair and a pudgy face, put a cocktail napkin down in front of me and gave me a smile. I had been in here a few times, and, while I couldn’t be considered a regular, he obviously remembered me. “What can I get you?” He closed his eyes for a minute and put one hand to his forehead. “Wait,” he said, holding up his other hand. “Ketel One martini, extra dry, three olives.”

I whistled. “You’re good. I don’t think I’ve been in here since before Christmas.”

“I always remember the pretty ones,” he schmoozed, leaning on the bar and giving me a winning smile.

I sat up a little straighter in my stool. I had about ten years on him, but after what I had been through in the past few days, I thought a little flirting might help take the edge off.

“And you look like my older sister.” He turned and took a martini glass off the shelf behind the bar and began mixing my drink.

He had a lot to learn. His tip dwindled as I considered his last remark and watched him pour too much vermouth into the glass. He redeemed himself by adding an extra olive to the drink and proffering a menu. “Hungry?”

I picked up the glass and took a sip of my drink. “Actually, yes.” I studied the menu and asked him for a salad with chicken. I thought I might feel less guilty about sitting in a bar on a Monday afternoon if I also ate lunch. He gave me a little salute and disappeared into the kitchen.

I took another sip of my drink and looked around. I was the only person in the bar besides the bartender, so I focused on my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I didn’t know what murderers generally looked like, but I found it hard to believe that they ever looked like the pathetic image staring back at me. I ran my hands over my head of frizzy hair in an attempt to tame it and pinched my cheeks; my face was devoid of color, my lips the same shade as my pallid skin. There was no hope. I needed a long bath followed by a long nap. I sat and waited for my food, hoping that by virtue of being the sole customer, it would come out quickly. Finally, tired of staring at myself and getting more depressed, I asked the bartender for the main section of the
New York Times
sitting at the end of the bar.