Sounds of Murder (4 page)

"You mean," Shoop asked, "the computers in
the first row can do things that the other computers can't?

"Right," she said, smiling, now more in her
area. "They can do things even our office computers can't do.
That's why you’ll often find faculty working on the computers in
the first row."

"Did Charlotte Clark use these first row
computers a lot?" he asked.

"I’d assume she did; it was her lab," Pamela
said, almost laughing.

"Her lab?" he asked.

"I mean, she shared it, but it was through
her efforts and fame that we even had the lab," she said. "So, yes,
Detective, in a way, it was her lab."

"But, did you see her there, yourself, a
lot?"

"No," Pamela answered, "our schedules didn't
cross much. I believe she tended to work at night. I usually do
most of my lab work during the day."

Shoop readjusted his position. He obviously
was striving to become more comfortable. He pulled his large
handkerchief from his pocket again and blew his nose, then rolled
the cloth up tight and returned it to his pocket. Pamela sensed she
was in for a much longer grilling.

"Now, Ms. Barnes," he continued, "You say,
Dr. Clark considered the lab her lab. Did anyone to your knowledge
resent this?"

Pamela laughed out loud at this. "Detective,"
she said, shaking her head, "You have to understand academics. They
resent everything--particularly their colleagues who are more
successful. Charlotte is—was--absolutely the most successful
faculty member in this department, in, I would venture to say, the
college, maybe even the University. She’d been interviewed on
Oprah
and the
Today
show. Her research was
well-funded; some famous pharmaceutical companies were backing her
research on drug addiction. She was the authority on teenage drug
addiction--addiction of any sort. She made this department what it
is. So, yes, there was resentment, but what you have to understand,
is that there was also gratitude, because without Charlotte Clark,
we wouldn’t have this amazing laboratory, and Charlotte was nothing
if she wasn’t generous in allowing--no--encouraging her colleagues
to make use of it. She even discussed outfitting the lab with each
of us before it was built. She asked us what sort of features we
each wanted in the lab for our own research before it was funded. I
couldn’t do the type of research I do in the way I do it if it
weren’t for Charlotte."

"Yes," he said. "A wonderful benefactress.
But someone killed her, Ms. Barnes. And it appears--at least from a
cursory observation--that nothing was stolen, so why would anyone
go into the lab, kill Charlotte Clark, and not take one piece of
all that expensive equipment?"

"I don't know," answered Pamela. "I just
don't know."

"Is it possible," he prompted, "that someone
wanted her dead?"

"I ... I ...suppose," stammered Pamela.

"Can you think of anyone who might want that,
Ms. Barnes?" he asked, snorting up another sniffle.

"I can think of many people who were annoyed
with her or resented her, but ---wanted her dead----no," she said,
"I simply don't believe that anyone..."

"Anyone in your department at least," he
filled in.

"Why would it have to be someone in our
department?" she asked. "I mean, maybe she went into the lab, left
the door open, and someone came in and killed her."

"Some stranger who didn't know her or have
any relationship with her, just happens in, strangles her to death,
and leaves without taking anything," he said, his shaggy eye brows
punctuating his point.

"It does sound unlikely," said Pamela,
weakly.

“Tell me, Ms. Barnes,” he mused suddenly,
“would Charlotte Clark—or any faculty member, for that matter—be
likely to work in this expensive lab alone late at night—with the
door wide open? Given your security concerns, is that likely? Or
would it be more likely that she would lock herself in?”

“Hmm,” said Pamela, “It’s hard to say.
Charlotte is no shrinking violet, but she is very protective of the
lab. I’d say she’d keep it locked when she was working late.”

“And yet,” he noted, “when your assistant
discovered her body, he says the lab door was open and the lights
were on. If Dr. Clark was working in a locked lab, as you imagine
she was, the killer would have had to have a key to gain entrance,
no?”

“I guess,” responded Pamela, “I just can’t
imagine Charlotte working alone in the lab that late with the door
wide open. It would just be inviting trouble.”

"I think I’ve got enough for now, Ms.
Barnes," Shoop said, suddenly, closing his notebook and sticking it
back in his shirt pocket. "Should I have one of the detectives
drive you home?"

"No," she answered, "I'd really rather drive
myself. I'll need my car tomorrow."

"Fine," he noted, rising, grabbing his
overcoat, and heading towards the door. "I'll be downstairs in the
lab, probably for several more hours, while the Crime Scene folks
collect evidence. If you change your mind, just come by. I’ll want
to talk to you again, I'm sure." He handed her his card. "If you
think of anything--or anybody--that you didn't mention, please give
me a call." He turned and loped down the hall.

Pamela stood and watched him go. Then she
sank back into her desk chair, shaking her head. This did not look
good for the department—not at all.

Chapter 4

Pamela left her office and exited the
building as quickly as she could. The Blake Hall parking lot was
lit up like an airport runway. Several police vehicles, the
coroner’s van, and other cars were parked helter-skelter, with
their various lights blazing and blinking. Pamela almost ran to her
car, covering her panting sounds as she quickly unlocked her door
and jumped inside. It was hard to shut the door because of the
wind, but she finally managed to get inside and start the
motor--her fingers trembling badly. She carefully maneuvered her
Civic into reverse and out of the small lot, being careful not to
speed—not something easy for her. Wanting to get home as fast as
she could, she still didn't want to do anything that would
jeopardize her safety or cause her to risk breaking a law--however
minor. She already had a few moving violations and tonight was not
the time to acquire another.

She drove slowly down the winding campus
streets she knew so well. The old brick buildings with white wood
trim, the towering white columns and the enormous elms and oaks,
interspersed with magnolia and cypress always made the campus feel
like a page from Civil War history. Here and there the streets and
the sidewalks were cracked from years of wear and the many
hurricanes whose remnants had managed to blow far enough north to
reach their small town of Reardon. She passed the library—closed
now after 11:00 p.m.—the largest structure on campus, right in the
center of campus, with sidewalks jutting out from it at all angles,
going to all the various different buildings that surrounded it.
Although much of the campus was in disrepair, it still maintained
its old Southern charm, Pamela thought, sort of the Blanche DuBois
of the academic world. It was a deceptive look, however, because
Grace University was a renowned research university which offered
doctorates in five areas—although not in Psychology, her field,
which offered Masters’ degrees only.

As she left the campus grounds and headed
onto Jackson Drive, Reardon’s main street, she noticed at once that
there was hardly any traffic--not unusual for this late on a
Tuesday night. Very few cars were on the streets. The whole place
had a ghostly appearance—unlike the Blake Hall parking lot she had
just left. She was not accustomed to driving this late at night.
Her night vision was not good and she just didn't like driving at
night--and alone--this night especially. With clear roads ahead,
however, she picked up speed.

As she passed Reardon’s downtown area, neon
signs from some businesses twinkled on either side of the street.
One side street, she knew, wound around behind the city square
where the famous Reardon Coffee Factory was located. The Coffee
Factory was actually a misnomer, because Romulus Reardon, the
town’s founder, had established the business during the Civil War
to produce coffee substitutes for the Confederate troops when real
coffee became impossible to import due to Union blockades. His
efforts had been so successful that his line of alternative coffee
products made from beets, sweet potatoes, and other local produce
now brought tourists from around the globe to the charming
factory/restaurant. However, at this time of night, the Reardon
Coffee Factory would have few patrons.

Other than a few cars on Jackson, she saw no
signs of life. Life, she thought--the life that had been snuffed
out tonight. The life of someone she knew. And she’d seen the
results personally. She couldn't help but replay the events of the
preceding hours in her mind as she drove. Her foot pressed harder
on the gas pedal and she drove instinctively.

She couldn't stop the picture from forming in
her mind. The picture of Charlotte--her body slumped over in the
computer carrel, head lying askance, arms hanging loosely, and that
power cord from the headphones wrapped sinuously like a giant snake
around her neck. It was so gruesome. Charlotte’s eyes open, her
skin just starting to turn a color Pamela couldn't and wouldn't
want to describe.

Suddenly she arrived at—almost ran through
one of the dozen or so stoplights on her route. Hitting her brakes
hard, her car reverberated from the effort. Sitting all alone at
the light made her more frightened, even though her car doors were
locked. She had a nagging sense that someone--maybe the
murderer—no, that was ridiculous--but someone might leap out and
force her to open the car door. The light changed to green and she
breathed audibly. She thought suddenly, "If I hadn’t sent Kent back
to check on the lab being locked for the night, he wouldn't have
found Charlotte and I wouldn't have discovered her and called the
police. I'd be home now, in bed asleep. Someone else would have
discovered her body--probably tomorrow."

She drove past her dog’s veterinarian, a
friendly man who always made her smile and whom her poodle Candide
genuinely seemed to enjoy visiting. Not so, "visiting" with
Detective Shoop. Now there was someone who was all business. He
seemed to have little concern for the trauma that she and Kent were
experiencing and was only interested in wrenching as much
information as he could from her before he felt compelled to excuse
her. She knew he’d be back tomorrow and more interrogation would
occur. If only she hadn't found the body. That meant more
questioning.

Now she was past the inhabited part of
Reardon and headed out into the "boonies" where her house was
located. The speed limit here was 50 and Pamela increased hers
several miles an hour over that. She thought back to when she had
arrived at the building tonight. Why couldn’t she remember? Were
any of her colleagues there? She’d told Shoop that she didn’t see
any faculty members in their offices—other than talking to Phineas
and hearing Mitchell and Charlotte argue in Mitchell’s office. Was
she right about that? Obviously, Phineas was there because she’d
spoken to him. Oh, my God, could Phineas have finished his class
early and gone down to the lab and found Charlotte there and killed
her? He seemed all concerned about the Tenure Committee when she’d
spoken to him earlier and Charlotte was the Chair of that
committee. Maybe Charlotte threatened to prevent him from getting
tenure. Surely, that wasn’t possible.

Or could Mitchell have chased Charlotte down
the hall after their fight, followed her into the lab and killed
her? Charlotte had certainly reamed him out during that argument.
What could they have been fighting about? It might have been
something that Mitchell simply couldn’t stand and he felt obligated
to do something about it—something like kill Charlotte. Oh, that
was ridiculous.

Of course, the person who killed Charlotte
could have been someone from outside--someone they didn't know,
maybe someone who wanted to steal some of the equipment in the lab.
After all, that's why Mitchell was so paranoid about lab security.
He obviously felt that the equipment in it was threatened. Well,
Pamela thought, maybe Mitchell was right. Maybe, someone waited for
Charlotte to open the lab, went in, strangled her, and then...stole
something? Stole what? If something major had been taken, Pamela
hadn't noticed. She supposed the thief could have taken some small
items, but, for God's sake, why murder someone for petty theft? It
was driving her crazy.

Driving. Yes, driving. Just concentrate on
driving. She was whizzing past fields now going around 70. This was
the quieter part of her drive; she preferred this segment usually,
but not tonight. It was too dark, too quiet. What if her car broke
down out here? She started pondering again the events of the night.
What had she seen when she entered the lab? What exactly did
Charlotte look like? Charlotte was seated in Carrel #4, Pamela
remembered. Was the computer screen on? Yes, she was sure of it.
That meant that Charlotte must have been working on the computer,
probably using the subscriber databases. What was she researching?
Why would Charlotte have this horrendous fight with Mitchell and
then run to the lab to do research? Did her computer research have
something to do with Mitchell and their fight? That’s ridiculous.
She was probably just working on her addiction research. Pamela
tried to remember what Charlotte was working on—what was on the
computer screen. She simply couldn’t picture it and it was too late
now to find out because Charlotte’s body had probably been removed
and the police had no doubt checked the computer for evidence and
turned it off. Oh, Charlotte was probably just doing her addiction
research. For Pamela, it was hard enough keeping track of her own
research much less remember what studies all her colleagues were
doing too. It was unlikely that Charlotte was collecting her own
data. She was probably doing some sort of background research for
one of her projects. That would be why she was in the lab and not
working in her office; she needed information from the online
subscription databases. She tried to remember what was on the
screen when she had found Charlotte’s body.