The Kingdom of Dog (6 page)

 

I took Rochester back to my office and left him there, then walked to Sally's office, which was empty. I found her down the hall in Joe's old office, one of the largest in Fields Hall, with French doors like the ones in my office, and a sweeping view over the front of the campus. Downhill I could see the massive iron gates that marked the entrance to Eastern. To the right and left were classroom buildings in gray and brown fieldstone. A few students crossed the campus, bundled against the cold.

“I was just talking to Norah Leedom,” I said. “She says the police think she killed Joe.”

“I can't believe that. She's such a nice person. And she's a vegan.”

“Like vegans never commit murder,” I said. “Anyway, she suggested I look through Joe's files and see if I can come up with any other suspects. I was hoping you might have some free time to help.”

"Joe saved every letter ever written to him," Sally said drily. "I'm sure we can turn up a few crackpots with a motive for murder.” She stood up and crossed the room to a file cabinet against the back wall. “It's creepy to be in here when he hasn't even been buried yet. But I need access to all his files and I can't keep running back and forth.”

She began pulling folders out of the drawer. “Wow. This whole drawer is filled with angry letters. I didn't know there were so many.”

She began ferrying file folders to the credenza next to her desk. I picked up the first one and looked at the dates. “This is my class,” I said.

“The files go that far back?” Sally giggled. “Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it came out.”

“I know, I'm a dinosaur. I'm forty-three. So that means Joe was in the admissions office just over twenty-five years.”

“I'm twenty-five. That means he started working here the year I was born.”

“And he was making trouble even back then,” I said. “Look at all this stuff.”

In 1985 they were still using carbon paper at Eastern, and a lot of the letters in the files were on flimsy paper, letters smudged, still smelling faintly of musty ink. Joe had saved copies of rejection letters that had received negative responses, and it was sad to see how many people hadn't had the opportunity I had to get an Eastern education.

“It makes you wonder what happened to all these people,” Sally said. “Did they go on to college somewhere else? Are they happy?”

“Hope so. It must be a big responsibility, deciding who gets into Eastern and who doesn't. You can make or break someone's whole life.”

“It's not quite that dramatic. Admissions is a very subjective process. Someone who doesn't get in to Eastern might still get into another very good college. And even if they don't, there's always Penn State. I know a lot of people who got great educations there.”

We worked through the files, pulling out any letters that seemed threatening. As we the pile grew, I turned to the computer and started doing some research, beginning with a couple of the business networking sites. I put aside anyone I could find online, who looked like they had a degree from somewhere else and a successful career.

It took us a couple of hours, and my back was sore and creaky by the time we finished. Most of the files we still had open were from more recent years, as you'd expect. Those applicants were harder to track down, and it was likely their grudges were freshest.

We ended up with close to two dozen names. The most troubling was a guy who had applied to my own class, named Thomas Taylor. His application, transcripts and recommendations were bundled into a large manila folder.

Taylor's record at Allentown Regional High School was a little above average, his test scores were acceptable, and his recommendations lukewarm. There was nothing on the surface to indicate either acceptance or rejection; he was one of those borderline candidates whose decision rests on unquantifiables like extra-curricular activities or a personal interview.

A short note in Joe's handwriting, on a half-sheet of Eastern letterhead, brought it all together. It was headed “Taylor, Thomas” and read: “Very enthusiastic about Eastern, though seemed somewhat unbalanced. Potentially unstable. Check further with references.”

There was no mention of what further checking might have brought other than the red stamp “Reject” in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope. The letters began in late May of 1985 and continued periodically through 1990. Apparently Thomas Taylor had applied only to Eastern, and when rejected, had entered the Army. Several of the letters remained in their original envelopes, and showed a military return address.

The letters blamed everything that had happened to Taylor after his rejection from Eastern on Joe. He had been beaten down in boot camp, made fun of by his fellow soldiers, had numerous run-ins with authorities, and eventually was dishonorably discharged.

“Whew,” I said, looking up from the letter describing his discharge. “That's a powerful motive.”

“Wait, Steve, there's more,” Sally said. “No letters from 1990 to 2000, but then they start again, sporadically, one every couple of years. The last one came in just last month.”

“Where's that one postmarked from?”

“Southeastern Pennsylvania. Isn't it helpful that the post office switched to that system. It could be from anywhere in four counties. No return address, of course.”

“Of course. ” I stared out the window at the rooftops of Leighville. “He could be here in town, you know. Those letters make it seem like Taylor blamed everything that happened to him since 1985 on Joe. That gives him a big motive for murder.”

“He's nuts, the poor guy. I'll bet he never got to college after all.”

It made me wonder. What would have happened if I hadn't gotten in to Eastern? Would I have gone off the rails like Thomas Taylor? Ended up writing crackpot letters to Joe Dagorian?

“We should see if any of the names from Joe's files show up on the guest list for last night,” I said. “But we'll have to do that tomorrow. I need to get Rochester home for his dinner, and I need to call Tony Rinaldi and give him the list of rejects with grudges.”

When I got back into my office, I discovered that Rochester had made a mess of my desk. The guest list for the party had been strewn across the floor, and he was lying beside my office chair with one piece of paper under his paw.

“Rochester! What did you do?”

It wasn't his fault, of course. I shouldn't have left him alone in the office for such a long time. I leaned down and picked up the page, tugging it out from under him. Looking down, I saw it was the page that ran from K to N. There was a big hunk of doggie drool right in the middle-- next to Bob Moran's name.

I looked at Rochester. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

In the past, Rochester had demonstrated an uncanny ability to point me toward clues. Was he telling me something about Bob Moran? But I realized that Norah Leedom's name was on the list, too. And so was Sally Marston's, and Mike MacCormac's, as well as about fifty other people. Maybe he was just annoyed that I had left him behind?

It was too much to think about. I knew I needed to call Tony Rinaldi, but I couldn't face any more thoughts about death. I grabbed my briefcase and Rochester's leash, and said, “Come on, boy, let's go home.”

At least I understood his response to that pretty clearly.

 

I stopped at Genuardi's and picked up a couple of sandwiches, one for Rochester and one for me, and we went home. I hid a couple of vitamin pills in the bread and watched him scarf them down, then ate my own meal sitting in front of the TV, with Rochester sprawled next to me on the floor.

I couldn't concentrate on the TV; I kept thinking back to Joe Dagorian, wondering who could have killed him. Finally I got up and moved to the kitchen table, where I pulled a pad and a pen out of my briefcase. Hercule Poirot would have considered who had a motive to kill Joe, I thought. So I started listing suspects.

Tony Rinaldi had his eye on Norah Leedom. Ex-wives were always good suspects; I knew that if I was ever murdered my ex would be on top of the list. And I knew from our conversation that afternoon that Joe had been trying to keep Norah from leaving Leighville. And who knew what other issues they had between them? Joe wasn't an easy guy to work with, so I figured he'd been even worse to live with.

Thinking of who Joe worked with brought me to Sally Marston. She was bright and enthusiastic, with lots of new ideas about college admissions, but Joe had kept her on a tight leash, not giving her the chance to experiment. And with him gone, she had stepped into his job. She seemed to have an alibi, though.

The first thing she'd done, I knew, was offer a place in Eastern's next class to Bob Moran's son Marty. Could Moran have killed Joe? College admission seemed like such a minor thing-- yet I knew from experience that it meant a lot to many people. It could make or break a kid's future. And for someone like Bob Moran, who had such a personal connection to Eastern, having his son rejected must have been hard to take. Was it enough to kill Joe over, though?

Joe had argued with Mike MacCormac, too. Joe thought the capital campaign was too big, too wasteful, and doomed to fail. He tried to stonewall Mike whenever he could, arguing over every detail of the campaign. Could Mike have finally had too much of Joe's interference?

Another person Joe interfered with was President Babson. He and Joe often clashed over policies, and though Babson was in charge, Joe was so entrenched he couldn't be fired easily. I knew Babson was a megalomaniac, and easily conflated himself with Eastern. But could he be off the charts enough to commit murder?

“There are still so many suspects,” I said to Rochester. “I don't understand how Hercule Poirot does it.”

He didn't respond. Finally I dragged myself up from the table, took him out for a quick walk, then went up to bed.

Exhausted from my lack of sleep the night before, I dozed off to the sounds of the house settling, the rattles and creaks and pinging pipes that I had come to associate with my feelings of home ownership.

The next day was cold and clear, and Rochester took way too long on our morning walk around River Bend. “Come on, dog, I've got stuff to do,” I said. But he wouldn't pick up the pace, preferring to mosey along with his nose to the ground like a bloodhound.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Tony Rinaldi. “I've got some stuff for you,” I said. “Can you come by my office sometime?”

“How about around lunchtime? We can eat at one of those phenomenal lunch trucks you've got up at the college.” A flotilla of lunch trucks were usually parked out on Main Street just beyond the college gates. When I was an undergrad, they had specialized in the kind of greasy foods college kids love to eat-- under-cheesed pizza that melts through thin paper plates, overcooked hamburgers disintegrating day-old buns, French fries encrusted with salt, and hot dogs made with every variety of meat substitute known to man.

Nowadays there was a kebab truck as well as a vegan offering. But the quality was pretty much the same as it always had been.

“I'm sensing some sarcasm in your voice,” I said. “Sadly, the lunch trucks go on vacation whenever the students do. Neither the trucks nor the students will be back until Monday.”

“Fine, I'll meet you at the Hungry Horse at noon.”

I hung up. The Hungry Horse was only one step up from the lunch trucks, a venerable institution that hadn't changed its menu (except to update prices) or its décor since I was a student.

Rochester's bladder was finally empty and we returned home. Within a half hour we were back up at the college. I spent the a couple of hours sending out press kits, answering phone calls and trying to tell people that Joe's murder had nothing to do with Eastern.

Then I went over each newspaper article about the past evening's events, highlighting the good things that were said about the college. And then, because I couldn't resist, I went over my own movements again and again, and tried to reconstruct Joe's. I even drew a diagram of Fields Hall and tracked my movements against his.

Around eleven o'clock Sally came into my office. “I've been thinking,” she said. “What do you think Joe was doing outside? He might have gone out there to meet someone. But I know he also got claustrophobic sometimes, and he might have gone outside just to get some fresh air.”

“And the killer followed him.” I pulled out the guest list. “I was thinking we could cross-reference this list to the rejected applicants.” Sally read the names we had found off to me – but there wasn't a single match.

“So much for that idea,” she said. She looked at me. “Do think we could have done anything at the party to protect Joe? Put a guard in the garden? Made people walk through a metal detector?”

“I don't think anything could have saved Joe,”I said. “But you never know when something else is going to happen. There ought to be more security guards, and better locks on the doors, and more prevention lectures to the students. Eastern College was just a disaster waiting to happen.”

Sally pushed back from my desk. “I really have to get back to my own work. I'm totally swamped and without another professional in the office I don't know how I can manage.”

“I thought you had four kids helping you.”

“I do. Ike Arumba is my superstar – he knows every high school in the Mountain and Plains regions and he puts in about twenty hours a week interviewing too. He's been terrific since Joe died. But there's something strange going on. I always thought Joe and Ike got along really well until about a week before Joe died, when Ike backed out of a couple of appointments and told me he couldn't be around as much anymore. Up until then, I thought he was angling for my job. He was always Joe's favorite.”

She sighed. “But I finally went through my in-box yesterday and I found a draft of a letter from Joe to Babson recommending that Ike be disciplined and possibly expelled from Eastern.”

“Really? Why?”

“It's unclear. Something about violating the ethics of the admissions office. Taking advantage of his position. Similar high-flown and meaningless language. All I can find is references to a letter from a girl we admitted last year named Verona Santander. She eventually went to Barnard.”

“A good school.”

“Oh, I can't argue that, considering I went there,” Sally said. “But I'd love to know what she has against Ike. Her file says nothing-- Ike interviewed her in Oregon last fall and gave her an excellent rating.”

“I have a trip planned to New York this weekend,” I said. “I'm meeting with some alumni and press contacts. If you'd like I can give her a call.”

“Would you, Steve? That'd be great. I'm so swamped I haven't got the time to do it myself and I'm afraid to find out anyway. Ike is really my best and most experienced interviewer, and I'd hate to lose him now when I'm so busy. I was kind of hoping he'd agree to work even more hours, and eventually accept a full-time position after graduation.”

“I'll let you know when I go,” I said.

My cell phone alarm played a marimba beat to remind me of my lunch date with Tony Rinaldi. “I'm going to meet Tony now,” I said to Sally. “Maybe later we can brainstorm more about the guest list.”

I stood up and Rochester jumped up, too. “Sorry, bud, but I can't take you with me,” I said to him. “I promise to bring you a treat, though.”

He looked up and cocked his head at me. I scratched behind his ears and walked out to where Dezhanne sat, wearing an Eastern College sweatshirt and poring over a chemistry text. “I'm going out to lunch. Can you stay until I get back?”

“Sure. Do you need me to walk Rochester?”

He heard his name and trailed out behind me, sprawling next to Dezhanne's chair. She smiled and petted him. “If you want to take him out for a few minutes that would be great.”

I walked down the hill to Main Street. Only a few fair-weather cumulous clouds marred an otherwise empty blue sky. There was a bit of a breeze, which nipped at my cheeks and made me draw my scarf tighter around my neck.

When I got to the Hungry Horse Rinaldi was already there, in a booth by the front window, looking glum. “What's the matter?” I asked. “Look at the menu?”

“It's not like we get a homicide every day around here. It's a hell of a lot of work trying to figure this all out. Driving me nuts.”

The server was Felae, a morose teen from somewhere in Eastern Europe who'd been in the same mystery fiction class as Dezhanne. “Welcome to the Hungry Horse. How may I serve you today?” he said.

“Felae? It's me. Professor Levitan. From last year?”

He looked at me. “And?”

Tony snickered across the table from me. “And I'll have an onion soup and a cheeseburger, medium,” I said. “Lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise. Fries.”

He scribbled something on his pad. Tony said, “Make that two soups and two burgers. With extra onion rings on mine.”

When Felae had gone back to the kitchen, probably to commiserate with the chef over actually having to work, Tony said, “You have something for me?”

I opened my briefcase and pulled out the copies Sally had made of Thomas Taylor's file, along with the information on the other rejected applicants.

Felae returned with a confused look on his face. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water,” we both said.

I couldn't tell if he was trying to interfere with our conversation, or if he was just the most inefficient waiter on the planet. Every time Tony and I started to talk, Felae was there. He brought one set of silverware, then returned a moment later with a second. He brought both the waters at the same time, but then he delivered a bottle of ketchup, then soon after a jar of mustard.

“If you say anything to him, he's going to spit in our food,” Tony said during one of our brief interludes without Felae lurking beside us.

“Can't you arrest him for something? After he brings the food?”

“Incompetence is not a criminal offense,” he said. “If it was, your faculty would have us up at the college every other day.”

“I guess you're right.”

In between Felae's interruptions, we went over all the files I had brought. “I'll check them out,” Tony said. “But right now we're looking closer at home.”

Felae delivered our soup and we started to eat. Maybe I was hungry, or the cold weather had done something to my taste buds, but the soup was pretty good.

“By closer to home you mean what?” I asked. “Norah Leedom?”

“Can't say.”

“Then why did you? Just to tease and torment me?”

“You're not going to go all Nancy Drew on me again, are you?” he asked. “Sticking your nose into my investigation?”

I pushed back from the table. “I just gave you some good information. I don't consider that sticking my nose in your investigation.”

“You and your dog,” he said. “Neither of you can resist a good scent.”

Felae looked interested in that comment as he swapped our empty soup bowls for the cheeseburger platters.

“Norah Leedom came to my office yesterday. She thinks you've got it in for her.”

“I don't have it in for anyone,” Tony said, between bites. “I'm just investigating. But the case just seems to get worse against Mrs. Leedom. We've learned about a pending deal between her and the deceased. The details aren't clear yet, but some land in New Hampshire was about to be sold. As the deal stood, she got 50% of the profit, but according to his will, if he died before the land was sold his interest went to her.”

“I don't think Norah would have killed Joe for a couple of house lots.” I bit into my cheeseburger, and despite the dingy surroundings and our morose waiter, it was terrific.

“Not a couple of lots,” Tony said. “Enough for a whole subdivision. Several hundred thousand dollars.”

My mind jumped back to the conversation I'd had with Norah about the freedom Joe's death had given her. Not just emotional freedom, I thought, but financial freedom as well. I shook the thought out of my head.

“What about Bob Moran?” I asked, and I couldn't help remembering the way the Rising Sons had riffed off his name in song. “Did you check him out?”

“Steve. You need to leave the investigating to me. I appreciate the help—but it's time for you to pack your dog up and go home.”

“Uh-huh. ” I noticed that he didn't answer my question, and wondered why. Bob Moran was a wealthy, influential businessman in Leighville, and I could see that Tony wouldn't want to ruffle his feathers.

“Say, I was talking to your friend Rick Stemper the other day,” Tony said. I noticed the change in direction but didn't remark on it.

“I need to call him myself. I've been so swamped with this new job I haven't been doing much besides go to work and take care of Rochester.”

“See, here's an opportunity. Go hang out with Rick, complain about your ex-wives, and forget about snooping in my case.”

“Yeah, yeah.” We talked for a while about Rick, about how unseasonably cold the winter was, and a few other things too mundane to mention.