Stump Speech Murder (5 page)

“Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, with a startle as she noticed Pamela sitting there when she glided into her small office.  She slid neatly behind her little desk in front of the only window in the room.  “Were you waiting for me?  I just zipped out to the restroom for a minute.”  She picked up a powder compact from her desk and quickly gave her nose a puff.  Always neat, Jane Marie was attractive and dressed nicely, but certainly not ostentatiously.  Today she had on a simple print cotton skirt and a white organza short-sleeved blouse. 

“No, no!” said Pamela. “I just wanted to read this story in the
Advocate
about the murder.”

“Oh, yes!” responded Jane Marie. “Poor Mr. Grant!  My husband had such hopes that things would improve if he were elected.”

“You insinuated as much down in the lab this morning, Jane Marie,” said Pamela, scooting her straight back chair closer to the secretary’s desk.  “You husband evidently has much to complain about with regards to the present city government.”

“Oh, don’t get me started, Dr. Barnes,” replied the pert secretary, chatting amiably while she began typing from a handwritten letter setting on an easel to the side of her computer screen.  “According to him, there’s not a business in Reardon that wouldn’t rejoice if someone could defeat Hap Brewster—anyone!”

“Really?”

“I’m not kidding, Dr. Barnes,” she said, removing her flying fingers from her keyboard momentarily and leaning towards Pamela.  “That man runs this town like his own private fiefdom.  No one opens a business in Reardon without the approval of Hap Brewster.  And believe me, you can’t get his approval just by a friendly handshake.”

“Can’t someone report him to the Federal Trade Commission—or something?” asked Pamela.

“If anyone has tried, nothing has worked.  At least, nothing has since I’ve lived here—and I’ve lived in Reardon all my life,” Jane Marie whispered.  Pamela wondered who might be listening.

“He doesn’t seem to bother the University,” mused Pamela.

“I know,” agreed Jane Marie. “And we can consider ourselves lucky.  I think it’s just because he has no interest in Grace.  There’s a big separation between the school and the city—if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Pamela.  It was true.  Many townspeople, she knew, perceived of their local university as another world that just happened to be stuck right in the middle of their downtown area.  She was quite certain that many residents of Reardon drove around the edges of the Grace campus as they went about their daily activities—avoiding and ignoring the scholarly pursuits going on within.

“But believe me,” continued the secretary, her shiny dark curls bouncing as she spoke with animation and intensity, “the businessmen—and women—in Reardon are well aware of Mayor Brewster and how he controls this town.  They may not personally be able to counteract his grip on the community, but I know they were all thrilled about James Grant taking him on in the upcoming election.”

“So, many people in town are going to be devastated about James’s arrest?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding.  “And totally demoralized.  He was a last hope for many.”

“Jane Marie, do you think Hap Brewster could have set up James for his wife’s murder?”

“He would certainly have the clout to do it,” suggested Jane Marie, scratching her head thoughtfully, “but I don’t know if he’d have the ingenuity.  It would be more like Brewster to just threaten people to vote for him or get their kneecaps smashed.  A devious plot in which he kills a rival politician’s wife and then manages to implicate the man in her death, seems really far-fetched—even for Hap Brewster.”

“It does to me too,” agreed Pamela.  She leaned her elbows against the top of Jane Marie’s desk, pondering the situation and rereading the front page story.  “I wish I had more information.  This newspaper story only provides the bare essentials.”

“I can’t help you there,” said the brunette, shrugging and continuing her typing.  Pamela realized that she had probably intruded on Jane Marie’s work time and that she should get back to her own office in case students were piling up outside of her door.  Although it was summer and she was only teaching two classes, she could never predict just when a student from one of her classes would show up asking for help.  As it was technically during her posted office hours, she headed out of the departmental office and up to her office.

On her way down the second floor hallway, she noticed Willard Swinton’s office door open.  As she walked by, she saw Willard sitting alone at his desk, uncharacteristically watching his small television set, instead of being hard at work on one of his research projects.  As Willard and Pamela shared similar interests in language and vocal features, they often collaborated on research.  She stopped at his door.

“Watching soap operas in the middle of the afternoon?” she questioned the large black professor with a suppressed giggle.

“Pamela,” he said to her, looking up from his small black and white screen that resided on top of one of his four, five-foot high filing cabinets.  “I turned this on to see what the local news might be saying about James Grant’s arrest.”

“Did you know James?” she asked, stepping inside Willard’s office.  This office was an exact replica of hers, although Willard hadn’t invested nearly as much time as she had in decorating his space.  He did have a number of photographs of various groups to which he belonged.  She knew, for instance, that in his youth, Willard had served in the Navy and was exceptionally proud of his accomplishments while he was enlisted. 

“I didn’t know him well personally, my dear,” said Willard, motioning her to come further in and take a seat in the padded straight back chair in front of his desk.  “But I had certainly heard about him and everything he’s been doing for Reardon.  Amazing man!  And, of course, I do know Martin.”

You mean, his campaign manager?”

“His campaign manager and long-time friend and law office partner.  They are actually more like brothers—if such a thing can be said about a black man and a white man—but they are.   Here, my dear!  Look!”  Willard directed Pamela’s attention to the television screen on which could be seen text appearing as a voice-over spoke.  “It’s the 911 call from the wife.”

“Oh!  From Stacy Grant?”

“Yes,” he said. “Listen.”  He turned up the volume with a small remote on his desk.  Pamela focused on the small screen.  The picture quality was not good and the sound quality was even worse.  Even so, the call from James Grant’s wife to 911—although short—was riveting.

“My husband . . . outside . . . trying to . . . break in.  Please help!”  That was all.  Almost immediately, the call ended—or the caller hung up.  She couldn’t tell.  The audio recording continued with the voice of the 911 operator.  “Ma’am . . . can you tell me your address?  Ma’am, please don’t answer your door.  Ma’am?  Ma’am?”  The operator continued to attempt to make contact with the caller but the line was dead. 

The television reporter then pointed out how hysterical the caller sounded and how calm the operator sounded.  The co-anchor responded with another comment about the conversation between Stacy Grant and the operator, if you could call it a conversation, and then they played the recording again.  Pamela listened a second time, noting the elements of the recording in which her research made her an expert—the sound of the caller’s voice.  As she glanced at Willard, she could tell that he had been doing the same thing and had probably listened to Stacy Grant’s 911 call more than once.  Finally, after they had both heard the emergency call at least a dozen times, Willard switched off  his television set with his remote.

“So, Pamela,” he said, looking at her with a questioning glance, “what do you make of that?”

“I’m not sure,” she said hesitantly.  “There’s something strange about it though.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but I’m not sure just what it is either.”  He sat quietly, looking down, obviously in thought.  His round, compact body seemed to draw together like a turtle pulling inside its shell in contemplation of its next move.

“I wish I had a copy . . . .” she said, almost to herself.

“Ah, my dear!” he interrupted her with a start, as if she’d awakened him from a daydream, then leaned over to his computer’s hard drive and pressed a button which opened a drawer.  Popping out a compact disk, he slid it into a paper sleeve and handed it to Pamela.  “I thought you might say that, so I made you one.”

“Willard,” she chuckled, “you never cease to amaze me.”  And it was true.  Saying farewell to her colleague, saluting him with the new CD in hand, she headed out his door and a few steps down the hallway to her own office.  However, she was relieved to note that, contrary to what she had feared, no students were lined up waiting to see her.  She would be able to enter and think—about a very unusual 911 call.

Chapter Six

Several students did eventually show up and Pamela helped them develop their research paper ideas.  Even so, the afternoon had that lazy summer day quality.  With only two classes to teach, no committees meeting to attend, and all of her research projects on hold until the fall semester when her graduate assistants would again be providing her with help, the summer seemed very much like a vacation.  Pamela was able to sip her tea and listen to the 911 call made by Stacy Grant only minutes before her death.  She’d already heard the short but strange recording in Willard’s office earlier in the day, but now–later in the afternoon–she was not only able to listen to, but also look at, a visual display of Stacy Grant’s voice and the emergency operator’s voice on her computer screen as the terse conversation progressed through the use of her acoustics analysis software.  Her experienced eye traced the sharp lines of the two voices—noting the fluctuations and pauses, the variations in intensity, pitch, and other vocal phenomena.  She was lost in thought as she played and re-played the brief recording.

“Pamela,” called a soft voice at her door.  She looked up to discover Willard standing there with another African-American man and Joan.  “Pamela, I hate to disturb you.”

“Oh, Willard,” she replied, closing down her acoustic program and rising to greet her two colleagues and the unknown visitor.  “You’re not interrupting.  This has actually been a very slow day . . . very few students.”  She smiled and chuckled and motioned for the three people to enter.  Joan, uncharacteristically quiet, escorted the visitor in and then turned and carefully shut the door behind her.

“Pamela,” said Willard, “I’d like you to meet Martin Dobbs.  Martin, my colleague Pamela Barnes.” Dobbs, a neat, slender black man, dressed in a navy blazer and grey trousers, immediately reached out to shake Pamela’s hand with both of his. 

“Dr. Barnes,” he greeted her. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear that you are interested in helping James.”

Pamela looked at her two colleagues quizzically.

“Pamela,” said Joan, “remember, I told you about Martin.  He’s James’s campaign manager.”

“Actually,” interjected the energetic Dobbs, “not only his campaign manager, but also his business partner—and long-time, best friend.  James and I were roommates in college and we’ve been sort of tied at the hip ever since.  It sort of seemed natural that we would open our own law firm together after we both graduated from law school at the same time.”

Pamela looked at the new man and finally began to place him from yesterday’s rally.  She remembered him standing beside James Grant throughout the young politician’s speech and the television interview that followed. 

“Mr. Dobbs,” she said to the newcomer, “yes, now I remember you.  Actually, Joan took me to the rally in the park yesterday.  I believe I remember seeing you there.  Would you like to sit down?”  She gestured to the group and Dobbs and Willard immediately plopped onto Pamela’s comfortable sofa and Joan took up her typical post in the straight back chair near the door.  Pamela returned to her desk chair.

“I was there all right,” Dobbs responded, laughing.  “Wherever James goes, I go.  If you must know, James was originally going to hire a campaign manager.  Really!  Well, I wasn’t going to have that.  I told him, if he had the gumption to run against Brewster—then he was getting me for a campaign manager.  And, believe it or not, I think I’ve done a pretty good job.”  His cheerful, expressive face suddenly fell—in rhythm with his powerful shoulders.  His eyes latched onto Pamela’s like a vise.  “Well, at least I thought I was doing a pretty good job until yesterday.  We were ahead of Brewster in the latest poll—not much, but a little.  Then it all fell apart.” 

“Pamela,” said Joan from across the room by the door, “Martin appealed to Willard and he to me for help.  You said yesterday at the rally that you were going to work on James’s campaign . . . .”

“Oh, wonderful, Dr. Barnes!” interrupted Dobbs with a small bounce on the sofa cushion, “we can use all the help we can get.  Of course, I didn’t expect things to get so bad . . . .”