The Square Root of Murder (12 page)

But this was a different room, matching neither the way I’d always seen it, nor the description Virgil had given me of it as a crime scene.

Not a surprise: The office had been stripped of the main pieces of evidence—I saw no lethal bottle of potassium chloride and no yellow pages that were allegedly from Rachel’s thesis. There was no white chalk line on the floor as I’d envisioned either. Today’s law enforcement officers had new techniques, I supposed. I checked the trash for the party cake, in case no one thought to look there.

Only Keith’s bookcases and the walls of his office looked as they did the last time I was here. Two walls were peppered with degrees, certificates, and photographs of Keith with distinguished scientists. Here and there were framed articles of his that had appeared in technical journals. I couldn’t imagine doing that with my own articles, but that was Keith.

“If we don’t promote ourselves, no one will,” he’d said often.

Whatever works, I’d thought.

His newest award, the designation as Fellow for his distinguished participation in the Massachusetts Association of Chemists, hung front and center on the Keith A. Wall, or, alternately, the Apep Wall, as I’d heard the students call it. There wasn’t a single family picture. There never had been.

I stood still, continuing my efforts to absorb the reality of Keith’s death. I was ashamed that I’d come here partly out of curiosity, like rubberneckers unable to avert their eyes from an accident on the highway. I wasn’t proud of the other reason either, that I thought I was smarter than the police—hadn’t I already proven otherwise, in several orders of magnitude?—and that I’d be able to see at a glance something they’d missed. Something that would exonerate Rachel, if not point directly to Keith’s real killer.

Now that I was here, however, it behooved me to at least make myself useful. I looked around. Keith’s bookcases were intact, as was an open magazine rack in which he always kept the latest technical journals. A black mesh organizer that held rubber bands and paper clips neatly separated had been left in its place at the corner of the desk.

A short side desk, where Keith had kept his laptop, stood empty.

I’d assumed the police would have confiscated Keith’s computer. The last time I’d seen him in his office, a few days ago, he’d been updating his organic chemistry grade sheet and complaining about the poor quality of students in his class. No one above a C, he’d said. I’d thought of recommending a peer review of his teaching style. Now I was glad I hadn’t.

I wished I could have had a look at his computer files. As I tugged at his desk drawers, I saw that the police hadn’t completely emptied them, though they’d definitely been rummaging and probably had taken a significant bundle away. I pulled open the shallow middle drawer. Pens and pencils were arranged next to each other on a long built-in tray. The rest of the space held a familiar folder with Henley College letterhead and its blue-and-gold Henley seal, issued to every faculty member. Nothing else crowded the drawer.

My own middle drawer, on the other hand, had the same items, but tangled together and mixed with eraser shavings and cough drop wrappers.

I moved on to the top right drawer, which held full-size file folders. Here, also, were signs both of Keith’s neatness and the slight disruption of order by the police. I imagined their going through every folder, taking only what seemed relevant, and wondered how they’d made their decisions so quickly.

I noted the labels on the manila folders and recognized committee names and issues actively being debated at faculty meetings. Keith was into every facet of life at Henley, from academic standards to fundraising to administrative policies and procedures. I was convinced that something in this office held the key to his murder, but I wouldn’t have been able to explain why I thought the police might have passed over that all-important clue.

I wished I could settle myself in his leather chair, which belonged to him personally, and read through everything.

A rattling sound out in the hallway brought my rummaging to a halt and reminded me that getting comfortable here was not a good idea. Something or someone was bumping along the tile floor.

I took some calming breaths. No bad guy bent on malicious mischief would make that much noise. In fact, the sound was familiar, and one that Rachel had described, the sound of a large barrel on wheels, being driven by a janitor.

In a few seconds, Woody Conroy appeared in the doorway wearing his denim overalls and looking, as usual, well past retirement age. He’d been about to call it a career last year, but his wife of forty years died suddenly and he couldn’t bear to be home alone all day. We were glad to keep him occupied.

“Afternoon, Dr. Knowles. Surprised to see you here today.”

“Hi, Woody.”

While I fumbled for something other than “I happened to be in the neighborhood,” Woody went on with his own agenda.

“Isn’t it awful what happened here?”

“It certainly is.”

Woody shook his bald head and rocked on the heels of his thick work shoes. “Never in my life, and I’m an old man, did I see anything like that.”

As I understood the crime, it was about as bloodless as you could get. But the impact of the scene, gory or not, would have been tremendous for whoever was unlucky enough to be the first to come upon it.

I wondered how soon I could interview this first-on-the-scene person without being thought too insensitive. I waded in.

“You must have been very upset, Woody. I’m sorry for Dr. Appleton and I’m sorry you had to see him that way.”

“I hear things, you know, and I know a lot of people thought Dr. Appleton was mean or stuck up or just ornery. But he was always nice to me, always said thank you when he saw me taking out his trash.”

What a surprise. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Woody opened his denim shirt a bit and showed me a familiar Henley College logo T-shirt in blue and gold, the school colors. “He give me this for my birthday.”

What? I who prided myself on knowing birthdays did not know our janitor’s, and Keith Appleton not only knew it but gave him a present? I could hardly stand it.

“How nice of him,” I said. “When is your birthday, Woody?”

“May twentieth.”

“Like Cher,” I said.

“What’s that, Dr. Knowles?”

“Never mind.”

Woody took my comment as liberty for him to go on about the great Keith Appleton. “Well, there was also that time I was off a couple of weeks with pneumonia, he give me a little something to help out. Not that I asked, but he slips me a check one day and says how I probably could use a bit to tide me over while I got back on my feet.”

Stunned, would have been putting it mildly. Keith the Good Samaritan? Keith the champion of the worker?

“He was kind-hearted,” I said, astonishing myself.

“No matter what anyone thinks, he was a man, you know, and no man deserves that.” Woody pointed over my shoulder into Keith’s office, where
that
had happened.

“You’re absolutely right, Woody,” I said, and meant it.

 

 

When Woody left, surprisingly not asking what I was doing in the deceased’s office, I shook myself into focus. Information, clues, I told myself. You’re here to work.

I went back to the desk and opened the second of the file drawers. This one had folders with names of students I recognized as Keith’s chemistry majors. I flipped through and saw term paper after term paper. Again, I was overwhelmed with the desire to hide in a corner of the office and read every scrap of what the drawers contained. Now that I knew Woody was around, I felt more comfortable, as if an old man past retirement was all the protection I’d need against a murderer. I was glad neither Woody nor I would be here after sunset.

More noise in the hallway. Woody was back in the doorway, this time with a dolly piled high with empty cardboard boxes.

“This should be enough to start with, Dr. Knowles. Dean Underwood didn’t tell me who she was sending over to clean out Dr. Appleton’s office but I guess you’re it.”

No wonder Woody hadn’t questioned my appearance at the crime scene. “Uh—” I stammered.

“Except I should tell you that I said to her, that’d be Dean Underwood, that, much as I like my job, there’s just so much I’m willing to do. And goin’ through the belongings of a person who’d just passed in that awful way”—Woody paused and bowed his head, his skinny old hands resting on the handle of the dolly—“well, that wasn’t one of them. So she said she’d send someone over to pack everything up, and then she wanted the boxes taken over there to her office.”

I cleared my throat and forced an informed expression on my face. “Yes, well—”

“You sure got here fast, by the way.”

“I was close by.”

Woody gestured to the boxes behind him. “I brought these up from the cellar. Let me know if you need any more.”

Could I pull this off? At least temporarily, why not? “That’s super, Woody. I’ll get started right away.” Before my jig is up.

The old man dragged the empty boxes off the dolly, one or two at a time, and planted them in the doorway of Keith’s office. I wondered if he’d ever go any farther. Given the small amount of time he had left to his career, probably not.

Woody pointed to the new addition to Keith’s award wall.

“I come up here special to hang that new frame yesterday morning. Dr. Appleton wasn’t in yet, but I wanted him to be surprised at how quick I did it. Now I don’t know if he even saw it more than a minute. I didn’t spot his car out there until close to about noon, and I don’t know when he”—Woody gulped, sending his Adam’s apple on a trip along his throat—“you know . . . passed.”

Noon. The same bracket Virgil had mentioned for the time of Keith’s murder. Some time between noon and four o’clock when Woody found him behind his desk. How clever of the police to ask Woody that question. They were so thorough, maybe I was wasting my time.

On the other hand, here I was, standing between Keith’s full file drawers, a dolly full of empty boxes, and a mandate from the dean to an anonymous person who might as well be me. I needed to get to it.

“I’m sure Dr. Appleton appreciated everything you did, Woody”—I pointed to the boxes—“and so do I.” A gentle dismissal.

“Thanks, Dr. Knowles. Holler when you’re ready to take them to your car. Probably best if you drive them over to the delivery door of Admin ‘stead of pushing this dolly all across the campus.”

“That’s just what I’ll do,” I said, not mentioning the little detour I’d planned to my garage. I could bring the boxes back any time over the weekend, once I’d gone through everything. It’s not like the dean needed anything inside them, or was hanging around waiting for the delivery.

Woody brushed dust off his bony hands. “I don’t know who’s going to want to use this office now.”

I hadn’t thought of that. And it occurred to me that Woody could be of even more use to me. I patted him on the hand. “I’ll bet you remember every detail of the scene and will remember it for a long time.” I cringed. I was such a hypocrite.

“You betcha I remember, Dr. Knowles. Everything tossed around like that”—Woody waved his arms around to indicate chaos—“all the papers, and the lamp, and the food and all.”

“Food?” Did Woody say food? “Did you say food?” The word seemed to have a life of its own.

“Uh-huh, there was this pretty little paper plate with cake from the party downstairs, and a couple of cookies, and a can of cola”—he pointed to the chair tucked under the small desk—“right there.”

I replayed my conversation with Virgil. No cake, no food, no drink he’d said. He’d flipped through his notes right there in my den and come up empty on edibles and potables. Rachel, on the other hand had claimed she left the cake outside the door. Now Woody was saying he saw the cake, but on a chair in the office. My head reeled.

“And you’re sure, Woody—’cause I know that scene must be so clear in your head.”

“You betcha.” Woody leaned over his barrel, his personal shield against the ill-fated office, and probably as close as he would venture for a while. “I got rid of it, you know, while I was waiting for the police to show up,” he whispered.

I felt my heart beating up higher in my chest than it should have been. “You got rid of the food? Why did you do that, Woody?”

You destroyed evidence
, I wanted to shout. But it was more evidence that worked against Rachel, who’d told the police she never entered the office, and who’d told me she’d—very confusing. So was I glad Woody tossed it, or not?

Why was this all so complicated? Why wasn’t it like one of those simple yet fascinating puzzles where all you had to do was fill in a grid of letters, given a few clues like P is next to L, which is above Q but below G?

I looked at Woody. Apparently, although I hadn’t shouted, the old man picked up on my distress. He clutched the rim of his barrel.

“I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I thought Dr. Appleton would have wanted me to take that food away. First off, he always gave me things like that when anyone brought him something.”

Another point for Keith, feeding the help.

“Did you eat the cake, then?” I asked without thinking.

Woody looked horrified. “’Course not.”

I chided myself: bad move, Sophie. “Of course you didn’t, Woody. I’m just a little upset, like you. I’m not myself today.”

“Oh, I know what you mean, Dr. Knowles. See, Dr. Appleton, he never allowed dirty plates or leftover food in his office. He wouldn’t never leave cake or nothing just sitting around on a chair like that. Sometimes I’d see him right after he ate his lunch in there, carrying his bag of trash, and he’d toss it down the chute, and he’d say thanks to me even though he done it hisself. Like he knew I’m the one that takes it away in the end.”

I could barely grasp this new Keith Appleton, who thanked people and gave them unsolicited presents.