Sounds of Murder (8 page)

"You mean, she would have offered to cut one
of our tenure candidates from the list if..." Arliss asked.

"Certainly, to get the Dean to do something
she wanted, or even to get retribution against Mitchell. He was not
her favorite person," noted Joan.

"Joan, I can't believe Charlotte would do
something like.... Oh, I just can’t stand even thinking about it
any more." Pamela sighed audibly and wrapped her arms around
herself. The other two women looked at her with concern and then
glanced at each other.

"I believe there's only one solution," said
Joan, with delight.

"What?" asked Arliss, with anticipation,
sitting up straight and turning directly to face her more
sophisticated friend.

"A night of riotous drinking at
Who-Who's
," Joan answered.

"Yes," Pamela agreed. "It's been ages since
we 'owls' have put our heads together and solved all the world's
problems while downing a pitcher of Margaritas."

"I for one,” said Arliss, perking up, "could
use several pitchers. The situation with the animal lab has me in
such an emotional pit that I just can't think straight."

"Arliss, you can't let the animal lab become
your personal crusade," said Pamela.

"Yes, dear," added Joan to Pamela's concerned
comment, "Make Bob Goodman handle it. He’s in charge over there—not
you. He needs to solve the financial problems in the animal
lab."

"But, Joan, Pam, if he doesn't solve them
soon, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be out of a job," said Arliss, her
shoulders sinking in dejection.

"Now, dear," said Joan, "you’re young. You
have your whole life ahead of you. What about going on for your
Ph.D.? Didn't you tell us that was your ultimate goal? If Grace
University's animal lab folds, it would be the perfect opportunity
for you to strike out on your own."

"But, I don't want the lab folding to be my
motivation. I want my motivation to be something positive." Arliss
sat with her elbows on her knees looking down at the floor. She
shivered. "This lab means so much to me, to Bob; we’re doing such
important work there. I just don't see why the department can't
come up with enough funds to help us maintain it better."

"There, there, dear," said Joan. "I’m sure
something will happen soon. You never know what’s around the
corner." Joan reached over and placed a soothing hand on Arliss’
shoulder.

"I say we plan our
Who-Who's
outing
for this Friday, ladies," announced Pamela suddenly. "Okay?"

Both women immediately perked up and nodded
in agreement. Joan smoothed her flowered dress. Arliss poked her
glasses up her nose. Both women seemed to realize at that moment
that it was getting late and that they needed to go.

"Well, dears," announced Joan, grabbing her
keys from Pamela's desk and standing abruptly. "I must be going. I
have that paper for
Educational Psychology Abstracts
that
must be finished and off to the editor by tomorrow. It’ll be a late
night for me." She stepped lively to the door and turned, "Friday
it is.
Who-Who's
." Then she was gone.

Arliss remained seated. Pamela looked
suspiciously at her friend.

"What is it, Arliss?"

"Joan talking about me going back for my
Ph.D. just made me even sadder. I hadn't thought about that in
ages." Arliss lifted her head. "Pam, all I can think about is the
lab. You just don't know what a mess it is. I’m trying so hard, but
we don’t even have a graduate assistant. We have over 40 mice and
the two chimps, Sheila and Bailey. Bob’s making so many advances
with Bailey. You wouldn't believe how much progress he’s making
with the little fellow. Bailey is really recognizing and expressing
different human emotions. I mean, Bob’s close to a breakthrough.
And it all could be jeopardized because of Charlotte Clark and her
stupid million-dollar grants depriving our animal lab from getting
even the most meager of maintenance funding. Now that she’s dead,
there’s probably no chance of our lab ever getting any of that
funding."

"Arliss," Pamela said, moved to see her
friend in such turmoil. "I wish there was something I could
do."

"Just listen," replied Arliss. "Just listen."
The two friends sat like that for a second or two.

Suddenly, Kent, appeared at the door. He was
wearing jeans and his customary black t-shirt, today with a flaming
dragon design on the front.

"Hey, Dr. B, I contacted all our experimental
participants and cancelled them for today. I figured with the
police in the lab, you know, that we couldn’t collect data. Do you
think I should cancel our subjects for the rest of the week too?"
asked the energetic young man.

"Kent, thank you for thinking of that. Yes,
cancel all week. Our experiment totally slipped my mind, what
with…" stammered Pamela.

"It’s okay, Dr. B. I figured you’d be upset
after what happened last night," he said softly.

"Kent, this is Miss MacGregor, from the
Animal Lab," introduced Pamela. “Arliss, this is Kent Drummond, my
grad assistant.”

"Hey, Miss MacGregor, I know you. The rat
lady—ooops--no offense," he stammered; his spiky hair edged in
purple remained rock solid as if his head had been dipped in
glue.

"None taken," answered Arliss, laughing.
"You’re not the first to call me 'Rat Lady,' Kent.”

“I’ll touch base with you later, Dr. B!”
announced Kent. Pamela waved to him as he disappeared down the
hallway.

Pamela heard the sound of two sets of
footsteps coming down the hallway. Bob Goodman and Willard Swinton
came into view in her doorway.

"Dr. Barnes," greeted Willard with a slight
bow. He was a large, rotund African-American man, dressed nattily
in a brown suit with an orange shirt and matching bow tie. He was
leaning on an ivory-handled cane. "Dr. Goodman and I thought we
should come and see how you’re doing," he said, his buttery voice
sonorous enough to be doing food commercials. Willard was a
departmental fixture, his warm, courtly demeanor always upbeat,
even though his physical health seemed to be deteriorating more and
more each year. His smiling face belied the pain he obviously felt
with every slow step he took. Pamela and Willard shared research
interests in linguistics and often conferred on various research
problems.

"Yes, Pam," agreed Bob Goodman, a tall, slim,
even emaciated, man, his hands embedded tightly in the pockets of
his jacket, "We heard about your ordeal on the news and from Jane
Marie. My God, what a terrible thing for you, for the department,
for all of us." Pamela was surprised to see Bob on her side of the
building. He was typically ensconced in his animal lab or teaching
one of the several courses the department offered in animal
psychology. She kept up with his activities mostly from reports
from Arliss, who, as his laboratory director, worked closely with
him.

"Absolutely," intoned Willard, "Absolutely
terrible for all of us." His bow tie wobbled as he spoke. Pamela
looked around at the small crowd that was beginning to form in her
office. She had nothing against popularity. In fact, she liked
being popular, but she surely didn't want to acquire popularity by
finding dead bodies--particularly the dead bodies of her
colleagues.

"Thank you, everyone, really," she sighed,
"But, truly, what I need is...."

Just then, the phone rang. She stood up and
went to her desk to answer it. After listening for a brief period,
she groaned, placed her hand over the receiver, and spoke to the
entire group, “It’s Jane Marie. Mitchell’s called an emergency
faculty meeting for tomorrow morning at seven a.m.!”

Arliss threw up her arms and spun around on
Pamela’s desk chair. Willard sighed and leaned more heavily on his
cane. Bob groaned.

Pamela turned back to the phone. She heard
Jane Marie then inform her that Detective Shoop was on his way up
to her office. He had a few more questions for her.

"Wonderful," she replied, "Can this day get
any better?"

Chapter 8

She didn't know how it happened but Shoop was
again seated in her office, his lanky body draped over the back of
her sofa. He had greeted her colleagues officially and then
requested some private time for additional questioning "if she
didn't mind." Of course not, she thought, I love being grilled
about a murdered colleague by the police. I love recalling every
ugly moment of finding Charlotte's body in the lab.

She was seated on her desk chair, no longer
in her comfortable spot on her sofa. She felt robbed. This big
giant of a man was not only invading her privacy, he was invading
her space. She steeled herself for the onslaught of questions.

"Now, Dr. Barnes," noted Shoop, as he pulled
out his trusty black notebook.

At least he’s using my title today, thought
Pamela.

"Let's go over your testimony from
yesterday." His lack of enthusiasm radiated from his droopy eye
lids to his slumped posture.

Testimony, she thought. He makes it sound as
if I'm in court. I'm not certain if anything I said yesterday is
accurate. I was so distraught, she thought. She put her hand to her
head and rested her elbow on her desk.

"I know that it's hard to think back," he
started. Out came the handkerchief. Pamela tried to avoid
cringing.

"Detective," she interrupted, "To be frank,
thinking back is all I can do. I can't get any of it out of my
mind. I’d like a break from it for just a brief moment, but no one
will let me do that." She contorted her face and rubbed her
eyes.

"I'm truly sorry, ma'am," he said, reaching
for a tissue from a container at the edge of her desk and handing
it to her.

"No, no," she said, brushing it away,
thinking of the germs transferring from his large hanky to her
tissue. "I'm fine, really. Let's just get on with it. What else do
you need to know?"

"Dr. Barnes," he said, "You say that you can
think of nothing else. While you’re thinking...have you remembered
any information that you didn't mention when we spoke yesterday? I
mean, you were traumatized. You’d just discovered a colleague,
murdered. You undoubtedly were upset and not thinking clearly. Now,
after a passage of time, you might remember things that you didn't
yesterday."

"Detective," she said simply, "To be frank, I
don't remember what I said to you yesterday."

"Let me review the highlights of your
testimony," he replied, opening his notebook. At this, he quickly
ran through several pages of his notes, very thorough ones, she
observed.

"All right, all right," she said, thinking.
"One thing I did remember was the computer screen--it was on."

And that was strange to you?" he asked.

"Not strange," she said, "But it did suggest
why Charlotte was in the lab. The computers in the first row are
equipped with special subscription databases that we don't have
available on our office computers. I believe I mentioned that."

"And you think," he completed her thought,
"that Dr. Clark was probably in the lab using this subscription
service?"

"I would say it was likely," answered Pamela.
"Charlotte visited the lab often to check on research studies of
hers being conducted there, but there were no subjects or graduate
assistants there last night, which I know because my assistant Kent
checked the lab sign-up sheet and my experiment was the only one
scheduled in the lab this week and there was no one scheduled to be
working in the lab last night because he was in class—with me. So,
I can only assume Charlotte was there to use the databases."

"All right," he said, jotting this
information in his notebook. "Is there any other reason Dr. Clark
might have been in the lab late at night at that carrel?"

"It would be unlikely," responded Pamela,
"that she’d be recording. Her uses of the lab tend toward survey
data collection for her studies on addiction. She's world famous,
you know."

"So I keep hearing," he said, reaching again
for his hanky and letting loose another blow. He replaced the hanky
in his pocket and Pamela breathed in relief. “Would the computer
screen be on if Dr. Clark were recording?"

"Not necessarily," said Pamela, "You can
record directly by using the toggle switch on the computer desk.
However, if you want to keep a copy of what you record, you’d have
the screen on and a file selected. I didn't see anything like that,
so I doubt she was recording."

Shoop paused and stared at her a bit, then
scribbled a few notes in his small pad. Then he asked, "So, would
there be anything else she might have been doing there in the lab
in that first row of computers?"

"No," said Pamela firmly, "she’d either be
using the databases or recording. If she wanted to do anything
else, such as general Internet research or writing, there’d be no
reason to do it in the lab. She could use her office computer."

"Good," he noted. "Assuming she was using
this special database service, what sorts of things might she be
doing with that information?"

Pamela rolled her eyes and said, "Detective,
I’d have no idea what sort of topic Dr. Clark was investigating--if
she was--probably something to do with addiction. If you really
must know, you can probably contact the subscription services-–Dr.
Marks can give you their contact information--and they could track
it down. But, anyway, I just don't see how knowing what she was
researching would help find who killed her."

"Dr. Barnes," he said, staring at her
intently, his shaggy brows lowered, "It may not have anything to do
with her murder, but we’re investigating all possibilities. We’re
working on the assumption that this was not a random killing. We
believe--and I am guessing you might be too--given you have
'thought about nothing else,' that Dr. Clark was not the victim of
a random crime. We believe, at least at the moment, that someone
sought her out and intentionally murdered her."