Sounds of Murder (5 page)

Now on Pamela’s right was All America
gym--where her daughter had studied gymnastics for many years when
she was younger. Those were easier, happier days when Angie was in
grade school; there was so much more drama now that Angie was a
teenager. A few more blocks and she’d be home. Rocky would be there
waiting for her. What would she say to him? When she’d called him
earlier, she'd only told him that someone had died and that she’d
be late. He must be crazy with worry. Oh, God, please, give her
strength to get through this.

A rabbit--no, a squirrel--bounded across the
narrow road onto which she’d just turned off Jackson Drive. Pamela
slammed the brakes suddenly. Her car screeched to a halt and her
body lurched forward, straining at her seat belt. She paused a
moment to catch her breath, then carefully, ever so carefully,
started back on her way. There was much less light on these narrow
residential streets and the last thing she wanted to do was hit
something--like a family pet or—worse--a person.

She thought back to Charlotte, slumped over.
That power cord, dangling. The computer screen was lit up brightly,
she was sure. What else? What else was Charlotte doing? Surely she
wasn't recording; that wasn't something Charlotte typically did
even though she could have recorded from the carrel she was in. And
what did it matter what she was doing, thought Pamela. Why does
what she was doing necessarily have anything to do with her murder?
If the killer was a thief, he could have followed her into the lab
and Charlotte was just in the way.

No, reasoned Pamela. She wasn't just in the
way. If that were the case, we’d surely have found her body in the
doorway, as if she were trying to prevent someone from entering or
leaving, possibly. The fact that she was seated and had been
strangled from behind, said to Pamela--and it said it to her quite
suddenly--that Charlotte was murdered intentionally and the killer
had sneaked up on her from behind. There was no confrontation.
Charlotte didn't realize the killer was there until that power cord
tightened around her neck.

Oh, my God, Pamela thought. Somebody intended
to kill Charlotte Clark. She felt sure of it. She didn't know why
it didn't dawn on her when she first saw Charlotte's body there in
the lab, but now that she thought about it, there was no other
possibility. Maybe.

She turned onto Colonial Court, her street,
her headlights leading the way to her house which was about halfway
down the lane. Each house she knew like a member of her family.
Charlotte had no immediate family that Pamela knew of. The only
people Charlotte really knew were her colleagues in the
Department--the only people who could be considered on a list of
possible suspects. And if the animosity Mitchell probably felt
towards Charlotte after experiencing her wrath earlier this evening
was shared by other faculty members, then the list of suspects
could include virtually everyone in the Department.

She pushed the garage door opener on her key
chain and the door slowly rose. Rocky was standing in the kitchen
doorway, lit from behind. With exquisite care, she pulled into the
garage, opened the car door, and slid out. Then she rushed towards
Rocky's waiting figure.

Chapter 5

Oh, how good his arms felt around her. She
wanted to just stand there in his embrace forever, but after a few
moments, she pulled back. Rocky was appropriately named. He was a
large, burly man, with short brown hair and stubble on his craggy
face. He took her books and her purse from her shoulder and set
them on the kitchen table. Then he carefully removed her jacket,
placing it over the back of the kitchen chair. With his arm tightly
around her shoulder, he guided her towards the bedroom.

"Oh, God, Rocky," she cried in a small voice,
"It was awful. You just can't imagine."

He sat her down on the edge of their bed and
with ritualistic care bent down and removed her heels, placing them
neatly to the side. Then, quietly, he brought her a robe and
nightgown which were hanging from a hook on the bathroom door.

"Where’s Angie?" she asked.

"She wanted to talk to you, but I told her
you had to stay late for something. She went to bed hours ago," he
said.

"She wanted to talk to me?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "Something about a car.
Don’t ask."

"Did she finish her homework?"

"Early," he said, "Then spent most of the
night trying out different hairdos or whatever you women do."

Their daughter was just beginning her college
career. She had been a good student in high school—and never
engaged in any of the typical adolescent problems such as drinking,
drugs, or wild partying. Even so, Angela was a handful and her
attitude was often belligerent and morose. She never seemed to fit
in and her friends were few.

"Where's Candide?" she wondered, looking
around for her usual little greeter.

"Under the bed, asleep, I think. Now," he
said, "Quit stalling, soldier. Get those clothes off and into your
jams." She obeyed robotically, her eyes staring straight ahead.
When she was comfortably clothed, she leaned back on the bed where
Rocky had piled some pillows against the headboard.

"I need to talk to you," she said,
whispering.

"I know," he said, touching her shoulders
gently but firmly, "Wait just a minute." He went quickly into the
kitchen and returned almost immediately with a cup of steaming
liquid.

"Hot chocolate with latte foam just like you
like," he pronounced softly. "I thought it would help calm and
relax you."

She took the steaming cup of warm liquid and
sipped it slowly.

"Thank you," she smiled up at him. "You’re
the best."

He rounded the bed and propped himself up
next to her. Rocky had spent most of his life as a career military
man—an Army sergeant—a cook to be exact. They had met in graduate
school at a new student orientation. Their chemistry had been
instant and they had married within a year of meeting. When Pamela
had continued on for her doctorate, Rocky had been happy to remain
at the instructor level with his Masters’ degree and be a house
husband, caring for their young daughter. He made good use of both
his teaching skills and his military training to mold his students.
Pamela always felt secure with him because he approached all crises
with calmness and firmness. She knew she would need his fortitude
in the coming days.

"Now," he said, looking straight at her.
"Tell me what happened."

"I found her," she said, gulping. "I mean,
one of my students actually found her, but...”

"Wait a minute, Babe," he interrupted. "You'd
better start at the beginning. All I know is that someone died and
you had to stay late."

"Right," she nodded. "It was Charlotte.
Charlotte Clark."

"You mean the diva?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, "I mean, she was famous,
Rocky. She’d just been on
Oprah
, for God's sake."

"Did she have a heart attack?"

"My God, no!" she sat up abruptly. "She was
murdered!"

"What?" he exclaimed.

"That's what I meant. I found her," she
repeated. "I found her body."

"What makes you think she was murdered?" he
asked, a patch of wrinkle lines appearing over his nose. "Did you
see someone kill her?"

"No," she responded, "But when Kent found
her--he's my graduate assistant--he called me to the lab, and I
went there and I saw her. She had a power cord from a set of
headphones wrapped around her neck."

"God," he exhaled. His face contorted into a
frown. "You were there by yourself?"

"No," she said. "Kent was there."

"But, the two of you were alone in the
building?" he asked, developing that slow burn that she recognized
as a prelude to his very infrequent outbursts.

"It was after nine and all the evening
classes were over. Everyone was out of the building as far as I
knew."

"Except the person who killed Charlotte," he
said.

"We didn't see anyone at all," she responded.
She could see how worried he was for her.

"What did you do then?" he asked, calming
some what.

"We called the campus police and they came
almost at once," she said. "That's why I was there so late. Then
the local police--this Detective Shoop was asking me questions
until just a little bit ago."

"Couldn't he have waited until tomorrow?" he
queried, now more annoyed than angry. She’d finished her chocolate.
He took her cup and placed it on his nightstand.

"Rocky," she said, feeling much too tired to
get into an argument with him over her safety, "It's all right. I'm
home. The police wanted to get my reactions while they were fresh
in my mind. I understand. Everything turned out all right." She
looked at him and put her hands on his face as if to say, "I'm
safe." She loved this dear, sweet man who had her best interests at
the very top of his list.

Rocky gave in to her plea and stood up long
enough to draw back the covers on their bed. She snuggled inside
the warm bed. Rocky climbed in beside her and turned out the
light.

"I don't think I can sleep," she said, her
shoulders quivering.

"I didn't expect you would," he responded.
"Just try to relax. This has been a terrible ordeal for you. You
should stay home tomorrow."

"No," she muttered, "I can't do that. It’ll
be a zoo over there. Things will be in an uproar and the students
will be upset. I have to be there. And besides, that Shoop will
probably want to question me again."

"Pammie, Babe," he said, nuzzling close to
her ear and wrapping his arms around her in the way that always
made her feel totally safe and secure, "You don't need to feel
obligated to go in. My God, you found a dead body tonight. Anyone
would understand if you wanted to take the day off tomorrow."

"I’ll be fine," she said, turning towards
him. "Right now, my brain’s on overdrive. I can't stop thinking
about it."

"I can imagine," he responded. "It must have
been horrible--finding a dead body." They whispered, nose to
nose.

"Yes, it was creepy," she said, "I mean, I’ve
seen dead bodies at funerals, but never like this. And I had to
touch her--you know--to check her pulse and listen for breath
sounds. That was scary. The very thought of it gives me the
willies."

"You were never one to tolerate blood well,"
he said, flashing her a half smile. "Wasn't it third grade when
your classmates got some sort of shot and you fainted?"

"And I didn’t even get the shot," she
answered, "I'm a wimp." She stuck out her lower lip.

"You proved your bravery tonight," he said,
squeezing her.

"There was no bravery involved," she said.
"It was just odd. I keep thinking about it, wondering what
happened. I mean, did some stranger come into the lab while
Charlotte was sitting there, and for no reason strangle her?"

"Is that what the police think happened?" he
asked.

"They don't say exactly. I mean, Detective
Shoop didn't really say what he thought," she noted. "He just asked
what I’d seen and what I knew."

"And?" he suggested.

"I keep thinking about it and it doesn't make
any sense."

"What doesn't?" he asked.

"Why would some stranger go into a lab, kill
someone sitting there at a computer terminal, and then leave
without taking anything?"

"They didn't take anything?" he asked. "I
thought that lab of yours was full of expensive equipment."

"It is," she said. "That's why it's so
strange. If it was a killing tied to a theft, then why didn't the
thief take something? I know that lab like the back of my hand,
Rocky, and I’d swear that nothing--at least nothing of value--was
missing."

Pamela couldn't see her husband’s face but
she could feel his breath on her cheek. She could feel his body
tense as his brain tried to process this information.

"Then why?" he asked.

"I think the person wanted to kill
Charlotte," she said. There was a long pause as Rocky pondered her
words.

"Why?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," she answered.

"But you could be in danger," he said, "The
entire faculty could be."

"I don't think so," she said, "I mean, it's
unlikely. Some crazed person trying to wipe out the entire
Psychology Department?"

"Stranger things have happened, he added.

"Rocky," she scolded, "Remember you teach
English literature. You have a far more vivid imagination than I
do. I evaluate everything scientifically."

"Oh, yes," he nuzzled her nose, "I know how
scientific you are, Miss 'I-don't need to read the recipe, I'll
just put in a little bit of this and a little bit of that.'"

Rocky was an excellent cook and a stickler
for following recipes to the letter. She laughed. Then, suddenly,
she stopped.

"Oh, God," she said, "here I am laughing and
one of my colleagues has been murdered."

"Life goes on, Babe," he said.

"Yes," she answered, "But, I was there. I’m
in the thick of this whether I want to be or not. Someone murdered
Charlotte and more than likely it was intentional. It’s also more
than likely that it’s someone I know."

"Such as who--?" he paused, curious and
worried at once.

"I don’t have the slightest idea," she mused.
"If I go by who disliked Charlotte it could be anyone. I mean, she
antagonized just about everyone in the Department. Just before my
class tonight I overheard her in a huge fight with our department
head, Mitchell Marks, right in his office. I had just gone into my
classroom when Charlotte stormed out of his office in a huff. And
on top of that, Charlotte is--was the Chair of the Tenure Committee
and three of our faculty members are up for tenure. At the last
faculty meeting, I recall, she demanded that all the tenure
candidates include their doctoral dissertations in their tenure
portfolios. Can you imagine that?”