Murder is Academic (28 page)

“Come on,” Guy said. “We’ll make a run for it on foot. It can’t be much farther.” The eerie silence was broken by a roaring noise.

“It sounds like a jet is going down around here,” I shouted to Guy. He merely pulled me along faster. My robe, now soaked with rain and water from the puddles we were running through, was weighting me down.

“Wait, wait! I have to find the key to the storage room.” I dropped to my knees in front of the sign at the entrance to the station, turning over rocks looking for the key beneath one of them. “Help me look. And hurry.” The sound of the roar got louder. Our frantic efforts to find the key were fruitless.

“We can’t take any longer! Let’s go.” Guy pushed me ahead of him. We ran for the buildings.

“I can’t go any farther.” My lungs were burning with the effort of breathing.

“We’re almost there. Show me where the storage room is located.”

“Around the back. It’s built into the side of the hill.” The roaring became deafening, and I could barely get the words out of my mouth. The wind was blowing so strongly that I despaired of making it to the door of the building. Guy pulled me close to the structure, and tried the knob. The door opened, and Guy shoved me into the dark room ahead of him. Suddenly, before we could pull the door shut, a chair came flying out of the darkness of the night and hit Guy on the back of the head. He fell halfway into the room, blocking the doorway.

“Guy!” No reply. I reached out and touched his head. There was a sticky substance I knew had to be blood oozing from a gash at the base of his hairline. I probably shouldn’t move him, not with a head injury, but I had to get that door closed to protect us from the storm. Oh, the hell with it, I thought as I pulled him into the room, shoving against the door with all my strength. It closed. I heard the storm hit harder beyond the door.

The room was pitch black.

“Guy?” I tried again and put my ear down near his head. I could hear him breathing.
Thank God he was still alive.

The building began to shake with a fury I identified only with the hurricanes I experienced when I lived in coastal North Carolina. But this was much worse. The roaring was deafening. I could hear objects hitting the door, which shuddered with each blow. Guy let out a low moan, which I felt rather than heard as I held him close to me. I worried his head wound was serious, but I was more concerned the building couldn’t stand much more abuse and would splinter around us.

The storage room seemed to be shaking itself apart and debris began to shower down on us from the ceiling. At that moment the door gave way and was wrenched from the opening. No sooner was it blown off its hinges than the force of the wind slammed a huge object against the empty space. Whatever it was, it was too big to be blown into the room, and it formed a barricade against the hole left by the door. Without it in the way, the storm would have sucked us out of the room and into its fury, tossed us against the walls of the room or pummeled us with other debris blown in from the outside.

Guy now appeared to be fully conscious, but struggled with getting his limbs to function properly. He had no control over his legs and could only move his arms sporadically.

I could hear the winds die, and the roaring sound diminished in volume.

“Thank God,” Guy said, “The tornado has passed. We need to get out of here.”

I couldn’t agree with him more. But how? As the clouds passed and began to thin, I could see a sliver of light shining in from outside. Wedged in the door way was a boat.

“Look what saved us. It’s one of the boats from the field station. It was blown into the doorframe after the door came off its hinges.” I got up from the floor and walked toward the doorway.

“There might be enough room for me to squeeze through on the side, but I can’t drag you through here. I don’t think I should move you. You’ve had a head injury. I think I should go for help.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” The voice came out of the darkness from the back of the storeroom. I recognized it, and it sent chills up and down my spine.

“Donald. I thought you went home.”

He emerged from the inky darkness of the room. “I decided the storeroom would offer more safety. My apartment building has no basement. You know, Dr. Murphy, I was thinking about you all the way back here. What a coincidence that you and your friend should turn up.”

I decided to play dumb with Donald, hoping he wouldn’t suspect what I knew about him, but he had another plan.

“I thought I might just take off after the storm. Who would be the wiser since I’ll probably be fired from my job anyway? No one would bother looking for me since they already had their murderer, and he was conveniently dead. But knowing how tenacious you can be, Dr. Murphy, I worried eventually you would put some things together. So I considered how I could get you out of the picture. Then this little storm delivered you right into my lap. And your friend, too. Oh, I remember you, Guy, and I suspect you now remember me too, don’t you? You probably even remember my real name now, huh?” Donald moved closer to us and pulled a gun out of his pocket.

“It would be real stupid of you to shoot us, Donald,” I said.

“I already know that, and I figure I don’t have to shoot you. With your friend here already rather incapacitated.” Donald struck out with his foot, catching Guy in the ribs. Guy let out a cry at the impact, but still had no movement in his legs and little in his arms, confirming what Donald already knew. Guy was no threat to him.

“As I was saying, with Guy here out of the picture, I need only finish what the storm started, a few blows with some debris and both of you won’t be doing any sleuthing, and I’ll be long gone to Canada.”

Even in the dim light of the room I could see the determination on his face matched the seriousness of his words. I decided to try to get him to talk about the murder in hopes it would give Guy time to recover the feeling and movement in his limbs. Barring that, maybe I could think of a plan if I just had a little more time.

“So you were the expert hired by Talbot to draw up plans for the waste water treatment system for the condominiums? And you certified the system was adequate to handle the waste water even though you knew it would only handle half the capacity of water because the development built twice as many condominiums as called for in the original plan. I guess Talbot must have paid you well for that.”

“He paid, but not well enough in my estimation, so I asked for more money and got it, every month. You see, it would have looked bad for Talbot if I came clean on what I did for him.”

He seemed pleased to share this with someone. I could keep him talking for a long time if I bolstered his ego by encouraging him to tell us how he managed to commit two murders and cover it up so well. Here was a man who, surrounded by academics and the trappings of intelligence, received little recognition. I would play on his combined sense of subservience and his arrogance.

“I don’t get it. Why would you kill Talbot then? Isn’t that a little like killing the goose that laid the golden egg?” This one did puzzle me.

“You know Talbot and what a little prick he could be. He was going to sell Stanford to the state and the feds and blame him for the water samples by providing proof Stanford was one of the original investors in the condominium project, which he wasn’t. If Stanford were seen as the culprit, I would have been tagged as his accomplice.”

The illogic of the action caused me to deviate from my intention to flatter Donald’s work, not question its sanity or reason.

Donald began to raise his voice. “Don’t you get it? He really pissed me off!” By now he was shouting, the sound of his voice echoing loudly in the small room. Donald had a real short fuse. I needed to calm him down.

“Very clever, your suicide note for Dr. Stanford.”

“Oh, but you don’t understand that one either, do you? You aren’t really very good as a detective, are you, Dr. Murphy? You can figure out just so much then you kind of lose the rest, huh? Let me fill you in, not that you deserve to know why I killed him, but I want to show you just how limited you really are. Stanford was such a wimp.” A small smile lifted his thin lips.

“Stanford decided he should tell the truth about the wastewater samples. Better to confess and suffer for it, than to suffer for a lie. He actually thought people would believe him over Talbot, so I thought to myself, I’ll just eliminate old Stanford too.”

“And burn down the Talbot house so that all the paperwork was destroyed, and you were in the clear. How ingenious.” I think some sarcasm crept into my voice, for Donald grabbed my arm and twisted it sharply.

“It was smart, Dr. Murphy. And with you and Guy out of the way, it will have been the perfect murder. Actually, two perfect murders. Do I get an “A”? Do I graduate with honors?”

Chapter 25

Donald pulled me close to him, breathing into my face. For the moment his attention was distracted from Guy. Guy threw his arms around Donald’s legs, knocking him off balance.

“Run, Laura, run!”

With only a moment’s hesitation, and much as I feared for Guy’s life, I could see no other alternative. A shot rang out as I ran for the small gap between the doorframe and the boat, squeezed through it, and made for the woods. The soppy, wet terry bathrobe was too heavy to run in. I threw it off and clad only in my bra and panties, I sprinted for the cover of the trees. They had disappeared. The tornado had ripped through the woods surrounding the station and leveled the area. All that was left was a tangle of brush and tree limbs, too snarled to allow me passage through them.

The wind swept the clouds away, and the moon was rising, giving me light to see how to find my way through the wreckage left by the storm. It also provided light for Donald, who managed to squeeze through the blocked doorway. I turned and could see him behind me. Blocked by the impenetrable tangle of underbrush and downed trees, instead I ran for the shoreline, a short distance before me. I was hoping one of the rowboats would still be there, and I could somehow escape using it.

“I killed your boyfriend, Dr. Murphy. Aren’t you worried? Are you sad?” Donald called to me as I searched the shore for a sign of a boat I could use.

Frantic that Donald did shoot Guy, I could only forge ahead in the hope of escaping and finding help.

Out of the corner of my eye, I say the pointed bow of a boat. It looked to be in pretty rough shape, but the oars were still in the oarlocks. I ran to it, pushed it out into the lake, and jumped in.

As I began to row, I noticed the bottom was full of water, and it rose rapidly.
Just my luck to get a boat with a hole in it.
It was impossible to make any progress rowing the thing, and I was beginning to sink. I continued to battle with the swamped boat.

Donald was luckier, grabbing a boat more seaworthy than mine. His powerful pulls on the oars brought him close to my craft. I looked up from my struggles to see Donald’s gun pointed at my face. It was no good. I was exhausted and defeated.

“Get in, slowly and carefully, unless you want the same fate as Will Stanford. I hear drowning is a terrible way to die. He didn’t go easily. I had to keep poking him under the water.”

I bent down as if to grab the side of the boat as I climbed in. Instead I grabbed the anchor and tossed it toward him.

“Catch!” The line didn’t fool him one bit, but the anchor did catch on the side of his craft, rocking it back and forth and spilling him into the water. I hopped into his boat, preparing to row like crazy for the shore.

“Help, Dr. Murphy. I can’t swim.” I hesitated in mid row. “I’m not kidding. I can’t swim.” He splashed around, swallowing water as his head continued to go under the surface.

I rested the oars in the water and gave some thought to the irony of Donald Hall, who helped Will Stanford drown, becoming a drowning victim himself. Seemed like some kind of poetic justice. Besides, how could I rescue him without endangering my own life? I decided. He had one chance and, if it didn’t work out, I was leaving him in the middle of the lake.

I scavenged under the seat to see if there was a life jacket there. Nope, no life jackets. They must have been taken by the storm. I sighed. It was really very hard for me to contemplate someone drowning, even a murderer.

I detached the oar from the oarlock and threw it to Donald.

“Here! Hold onto this. I’ll get someone to come for you.” It was the best I could do. I had no idea when anyone could be gotten out in a boat to rescue him, but now it was his only chance.

I began to use the oar as a paddle, slowly working my way back toward land, thinking only of Guy. If Donald was lying and he really could swim, it still would take him some time before he made it to shore. With any luck, I would get there first and find help for Guy and for me.

After a half-hour of paddling, I was too tired to hold the oar. My wet underwear was little protection against the wind that continued to blow. I stopped often to listen for Donald behind me, either swimming or using the oar as a float and kicking his way into shore. I could hear nothing. There was no visibility either as clouds again rolled in, obscuring the moon and stars. If Donald was behind me, he was being very quiet.

A cold rain began to fall, making me shiver. Just then, the boat hit bottom, and I could see trees and other debris on the shoreline ahead of me. I got out of the boat and pulled it onto the bank. I wasn’t anywhere near the station. It appeared I had rowed north of it. The only way back was along the road because the shoreline here was also a maze of tangled limbs and storm debris. I struck out for the road, my path perpendicular to the lake.