Voice Mail Murder (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The more she thought about Shoop’s call and his insistence on her speedy response to his demands, the madder she got. She wasn’t on his payroll. She was a volunteer—as she had been in the past, and the man was beginning to treat her as if she was his employee. Part of the problem, she realized was that he simply didn’t understand the complexities of vocal analysis. There was no magic button—or even magic formula for determining anything from merely listening to someone speak. Of course, you could make informed guesses, but that’s all they were. Eventually, she realized that she was stewing in her own fury and what she really needed to do was to confront Shoop with her complaints—tell him exactly what she did know—and maybe get him to confide in her what the police knew—if anything—so she could expand her analysis.

She closed up shop for the day, heading out into the bright fall sunshine, directing her little car towards the downtown area where she knew the Police Department was located. Taking the back way, she drove down Gaylord Street where the Athletic Department’s headquarters were located—a side street close to the stadium. She slowed her speed and stared at the two story brick building with white trim. It was old and dilapidated—like much of the campus, but what caught her eye was the profusion of flowering bushes framing the entrance and under the windows on the main level. Where most greenery was beginning to fade with the advent of fall, this building was alive with reds, pinks, yellows, and purples. Truly, she said to herself, it looks like it should be the Botany Department not the Athletic Department.

On a whim, she turned into the small parking lot in front of the building and pulled into a marked “Visitor” slot. She wasn’t planning on staying; she was just curious. This was the home of the fallen hero—the Coach who had met an inglorious end in a sleazy motel room. Nothing screamed to her, “football” or “sex scandal” or “murder.” She sat quietly in her car as she glanced around at the building. Students were coming and going. She opened her car door and stepped over to the bushes near the front door. Did this building have a private nursery service? All the plants had been recently trimmed. The sod was cleared and mulched. Not a weed could be seen. She bent down and peeked into the hedges. All of a sudden, she heard a knock. Looking up, a woman’s face appeared at the window above her head. Pamela smiled at the face behind the glass as the woman waved her arms, tapping at the window, trying to indicate something to Pamela. As she backed up and turned around, she found herself standing face-to-face with a young couple, both wearing athletic running suits. The man she recognized instantly as the young assistant coach, who had led the school’s football team to victory Saturday night.

“Ooops,” she laughed. “I was marveling at your beautiful flowers!” The couple continued to stare. She realized that it was probably unusual to find a grown woman on her hands and knees in front of their building, scrounging around in the bushes.

“Uh . . . yes . . .” the man began uncertainly.

“I . . . — “ she stammered, “I . . I’m Dr. Barnes, from Psychology. You’re Coach Dooley. I recognize you from the game!” She bounded forward. The woman next to him frowned, and the couple looked at each other in confusion.

Just then the woman from the window appeared from out of the front entrance. Coming quickly to join the group of three, she entered the conversation.

“Jeff,” she said, “this woman was nosing about in the bushes.”

“I . . . I was just admiring your flowers!” exclaimed Pamela. “You’re Rosemary. I’m Pamela Barnes. We met at the game Saturday. Remember? Jane Marie introduced us.”

“Dr. Barnes?” asked the woman.

“Dr. Barnes,” said Dooley, “what are you doing in our bushes?”

“Really, I just happened by and saw how beautiful your plants are—certainly much grander than at our building—Blake Hall.”

“That’s Rosemary’s doing,” interjected the woman in running garb. She took a slurp from a large paper cup. “She’s very proprietary about her bushes.” The woman smiled at Pamela and gave a little chuckle.

“Truly, I’m sorry to cause you any concern,“ said Pamela, in her most obsequious voice. The last thing she wanted was for any of these three potential murder suspects to suspect her—and her involvement in the murder investigation.

“That’s all right,” said Dooley with a shrug. “You’re not the first to notice Rosemary’s green thumb. The whole building is awash in foliage.”

“And the inside too,” added his compatriot, switching from one hip to another.

“Um. . .” continued Dooley, “I’m Jeff Dooley. This is Hannah Schlegel, our cheerleading coach—and you said you’d met Rosemary.” He shook Pamela’s hand and she exchanged quick greetings with all three.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, enthusiastically. “Congratulations on your win Saturday too, Coach Dooley.”

“Thanks,” replied the young coach. “The guys were motivated to win—for Coach, you know.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I can imagine. This whole experience must just be really hard for all of you.”

“About the worst thing ever,” he said grimly, “and I’d really just like to chuck it, sometimes, but I know that’s not what Coach would want me to do.”

“Or what the team would want,” added Rosemary primly, standing guard next to the twosome.

“So you were at the game, Dr. Barnes?” asked Hannah Schlegel, taking another slurp, and flipping her long, blonde pony-tail over her shoulder.

“Yes, I was quite moved by the President’s remarks.”

“He’s . . . quite . . . a guy,” added Dooley, with a furtive glance at Hannah. Pamela looked around at the faces of these three individuals. Did any of them have a motive to murder the popular Coach? Rosemary Ellis, his long-time secretary, could have known about his afternoon adventures. If she did, would she keep quiet? And whether she did or not, what would prompt this obviously loyal employee to murder her boss of many years? And Jeff Dooley? He was an immediate beneficiary of the Coach’s death, but he couldn’t be assured that he’d remain as Head Coach. The Administration might very easily conduct an outside search and he could be relegated back to Assistant Coach in a heartbeat. Or did the young assistant have some other reason to hate his leader? And this young cheerleading coach? Hannah Schlegel? Why would she want to murder the Coach? Was she one of his mistresses? She seemed far too cozy with Dooley and Pamela guessed that theirs was an office romance brewing if not fully developed. Was she one of the three voice mail women? Pamela didn’t think so. She was, however, probably one of the voices on the interview recording—as Rosemary would be. As the two women stood there talking on the sidewalk outside the Athletic Department, Pamela listened to their voices, trying to place their voices with the appropriate voices from the interview recording.

“Jesse . . .” Rosemary was saying.

“What?” asked Pamela, realizing that she had lost track of the conversation as she listened to the voices.

“I was just saying, Dr. Barnes,” continued the secretary, “that I wanted to thank you for talking to Jesse.”

“Jesse Portillo?” asked Dooley.

“Yes,” answered Rosemary. “He was very taken with you, Dr. Barnes. He told me how thoughtful and kind you were to him in letting him register late for your class. He said you spent a lot of time chatting with him and making him feel better. He was really upset about Coach Croft.” She placed a hand on Pamela’s arm and smiled warmly.

“Jesse is a good kid,” acknowledged Jeff Dooley.

“Yeah,” added Hannah, “he’s a super kid.” She swung her hair around again, like a whip. “Comes from an impoverished background. Now he’s ready to graduate.” She smiled proudly as if the young man were her own son.

“Right,“ agreed Dooley. “First kid in the family to go to college.”

“That was Coach Croft,” Rosemary said quickly. “He always went out of his way to help these kids who came from under-privileged backgrounds. Do you remember Paco?” She directed this question to Dooley.

“Yeah,” he responded and was soon into a monologue about a poor boy from a background of drugs and poverty who the Coach had recruited for the team and had turned around. The kid had gone on to become a business leader and ultimately had returned to his down and out neighborhood and started programs to help the youth there. Pamela was getting the full treatment of the wonders of Coach Croft. It didn’t appear as if any of these three individuals standing here with her had anything bad to say about the man—even though he had been cheating on his wife—with at least three women.

“He was remarkable,” she agreed, nodding. “I’m so sorry about all this. And I’m sorry if I frightened you by trying to get a closer look at your beautiful flowers.” She directed this last remark to Rosemary, who beamed.

“That’s quite all right, Dr. Barnes,” Rosemary said. “Feel free to come over any time and admire my bushes. I’m really very proud of how I keep our department looking.”

“That’s for sure,” agreed Hannah. “The main office is like a jungle!” Rosemary gave the young coach a quick smirk and Dooley scowled in her direction. Obviously, thought Pamela, Hannah Schlegel is not terribly discreet.

“Maybe you can give Jane Marie a pointer or two,” Pamela suggested to Rosemary. “She has a few plants, but nothing this grand!” She motioned around and Rosemary smiled graciously. “It was nice to meet you all,” she said, shaking each one’s hand in turn. “I’d better get going.” She turned and got in her car. As she started the engine, she looked up and noticed that all three people were still standing there, staring at her as she drove away.

Continuing down Gaylord, she turned onto Jackson and then took the short-cut that she knew would take her down the back route to the Reardon Police Department. She had come to know this imposing, old building over the last few years when she had become entangled in the investigations of two local murders—the first one being that of her own department’s Charlotte Clark, and the second a local disc jockey. In both cases, the police—or rather Detective Shoop—had enlisted her help because they’d had a recording of the actual murder and she had the expertise to provide information with her knowledge of acoustics. In both cases, her input had been crucial. She had come to know this building and Shoop’s office—or more truly—his home away from home.

She pulled her Civic into the large lot behind the old grey stone building and climbed the set of old concrete stairs to the back entrance, which allowed her to alight directly onto the main floor—a nest of divided office spaces—wood from floor to waist height and tempered glass from waist height to above eye level. The partitions provided only some privacy. In the back, and closest to this rear entrance, a small office housed the illustrious Detective Raymond Shoop. She entered from the back and walked directly through Shoop’s office door. As usual, his small office was cluttered—his desk a maze of folders, papers, boxes, and files. A small space heater sat in the corner but was not running today. One window overlooked the side street, but it was grimy and she doubted that Shoop could see out this window if he ever had the inclination to do so. A faint smell of Vick’s Vapo-Rub pervaded the room. Shoop was seated behind his desk, a folder spread in front of him. In his left hand, he held a set of papers. He was glancing back and forth from papers to folder.

“Detective,” she announced as she stood in his doorway, “we have to talk.”

Chapter Fifteen

She cringed and cautiously stepped over an electrical cord running from the space heater in the corner to an outlet on the other wall. She brushed off a layer of dust from the olive green Naugahyde sofa before perching on the edge of it. She had sat here several times before and each time, she felt she was surrounded by strange strains of unknown viruses. At least, Shoop’s large handkerchief remained in his shirt pocket today—she could see it peeking out over the edge.

“Detective,” she continued as Shoop looked up at her, now comfortably in charge from her higher position on the sofa. His facial expression revealed nothing. “I figured I’d bring these back.” She plopped her purse on her lap, opened it, and removed the two plastic CD cases.

“Those are copies, Doctor,” drawled Shoop, files still poised in his left hand. “You can keep them.”

“I know they’re copies, Detective,” Pamela spat out, setting her purse and the CD’s on the ground. “I just took them out to make a point. You need to realize that what you’ve provided me here—with these recordings . . .” She waved the CD’s in the air. “What you’ve provided me are just tidbits, uh, just minute instances of these individuals’ voices. This may be enough to allow me to compare and identify two samples—but this much audio of a person’s voice is simply not sufficient for me to draw up a complete personality profile. I’d need much more vocal input to do that . . .”

“We could—“ he mused, leaning forward, “have our technicians make you another CD with longer sample segments . . .”

“No!” she exclaimed. “You’re not getting the point. This is time-consuming. I’m not on the police payroll . . .”

“Now, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, his voice and eyes softening. “I thought you believed in public service?”

“Don’t start on me, Shoop,” she said, a finger snapping in his direction. “I’ve bent over backwards to help you—and this department—and you know it, and I’ve never asked for anything in return—and I don’t intend to! That’s not the issue!“

“Then what is?” he questioned with an intake of breath.

“It’s that I’m supposed to provide you with information at your command, but you provide me with nothing . . . I mean no information . . .”

“We provided you with these CD’s . . .”

“No! I mean I’m just supposed to be an underling working in the background. You’re not sharing anything pertinent with me that might help me make sense of what’s actually on these CD’s.”

“I don’t get what you’re saying, Dr. Barnes,” replied Shoop. He leaned forward in his chair and slammed his elbows on his desk.

“Look,” she told him as she stood and walked to the window. She bit her lip, looking out at the parking lot. “Look, right before I came here I was at the Athletic Department and I was talking to two of the women I am sure were interviewed on that second CD. I recognized their voices. One was the Coach’s secretary, Rosemary Ellis, and the other was the cheerleading coach, Hannah Schlegel. It was clear to me almost immediately which voices they were . . .”

“Dr. Barnes,” Shoop scowled. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“What . . . why?” She turned back to him, flustered.

“I’ve told you to stay out of the investigation. It’s unwise.” Then under his his breath he said, “Now, I’ll have your big, ex-military husband on my case.”

“Good Lord, Detective,” she continued, walking to the edge of his desk and speaking in an intense whisper. “I was merely conversing with colleagues. You don’t mean to tell me that I can’t talk to people from other departments at the University?”

“Not if you’re going to be discussing the murder.”

“We weren’t discussing . . .” she started, then stopped. “Well, we were discussing the murder, but I wasn’t grilling them, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It was just a normal conversation to which I was listening very carefully.”

“That may be how you see it,” he said quietly, now very close to her face, “but must I remind you that someone killed this man? We don’t know who it is. You’re better off letting us do the questioning and you just listen to our interviews after the fact.”

“No!”

“What?”

“I said no!” she exploded, hands on hips. “Listening to segments of recorded interviews is not going to work for what you want me to accomplish. I need to hear these people speak face-to-face.”

“Too dangerous,” he said, shaking his head. “And too suspicious! You can’t go around interviewing all of the suspects and people involved in this murder yourself.”

“No,” she agreed, “but I could accompany you as you interview—or re-interview them. I assume you will be interviewing most—or all of them again, won’t you?“

“Probably,” said Shoop. “And I’m supposed to drag you along on all of these sessions? How would I explain that to the suspects?”

“You could say that—you could say—“

“See,” he gestured in her face. “It doesn’t make any sense, and nobody would fall for it!”

She walked back to the sofa and gingerly sat back down, this time leaning forlornly into the dilapidated cushions. Rocking her upper body back and forth, she thought.

“Let me ask you this,” she queried, sitting bolt upright. “Why are you going to interview any of the suspects again?”

“What do you mean?”

“For what ostensible reason would you return to any—or all—of these various suspects and question them again?”

“The police can always re-question suspects; we don’t have to provide them with reasons.”

“I know, but in your own mind, what would the purpose be?”

“Possibly to see if any of them had remembered anything they hadn’t told us since the first time they were interviewed, or possibly to see if any of them changed their story since the first time they were interviewed . . .”

“What about the voice mail recording?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What do the various suspects know about the three women on the voice mail recording?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I told you. That information is being kept quiet. We haven’t revealed the existence of the cell phone—or the messages on it—to the press, so obviously none of the suspects are aware of it.”

“Have any of the suspects mentioned Coach having a private cell phone or even having affairs?”

“Now, Dr. Barnes,” Shoop huffed, folding his arms, “aren’t you overstepping your bounds?“

“Here’s why I ask,” she said quickly. “If none of the suspects is aware of the voice mail recording—or the messages on it, then it seems to me that it would be possible to set up a simple test.”

“What sort of test?” he asked wearily.

“Surely the suspects must have guessed that Coach was probably having an affair. You did ask them if they knew why he was at that motel, didn’t you?”

“We did,” he said, nodding, “and most expressed shock. I don’t know if this was a true reaction or if any of them actually were aware of the Coach’s infidelity. If anyone was aware—no one we interviewed said so—not even the wife and daughters.”

“They were all trying to protect his image.”

“That or they simply weren’t aware of his sexual activities.”

“It just doesn’t seem possible that he could be meeting three—maybe more—mistresses on a regular basis in the afternoons and that none of his colleagues—no one in his family—his wife—his two daughters—no one tumbled to the fact.”

“Stranger things have happened,” sighed Shoop. “He was a very clever football coach; he won almost all of his games. Evidently, he transferred those strategic skills to hiding his infidelity from everyone around him.”

“And these three mistresses?” she questioned. “None of them have come forward? None of them have contacted you to provide information about the killer of the man they were sleeping with?”

“Nope,” he replied. “Why would they? They probably realize that they are our primary suspects. After all, he was killed in the motel room. The obvious assumption is that he was killed by one of these women—maybe because she found out about the other two—or maybe because she wanted Coach to divorce his invalid wife and marry her. Who knows?”

“I see, “ she answered, “but assuming the three mistresses didn’t kill him together as some sort of group revenge plot, surely the ones not involved in the murder would come forward and try to help find the killer?”

“Dr. Barnes,” he said slyly, looking at her above the tops of his horn-rimmed glasses, “if you were having an affair with a famous football coach who was then murdered, would you leap forward and announce your adultery to the police?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It would be embarrassing, of course, but it’s a man’s life we’re talking about.”

“But, that’s not the issue,” Shoop said. He stood up, in an attempt to get Pamela’s mind back on track. “You said something about a test?”

“Right,” she agreed. “I’m thinking. You’re going to interview all of your suspects again anyway. Why not, this? When you do, you play the voice mail messages and see if any of the suspects recognize any of the voices?”

“Hmm.” Shoop chewed the eraser on his pencil. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Right now, no one—you being the exception—knows about the voice mail recording. We assume the killer doesn’t know that we know. If we start playing the recording for people, we let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”

“But don’t you—at some point—need to take the next step, particularly if you aren’t making any progress towards finding the killer? Surely, the next step seems to be—to me at least—to see what happens when the suspects you do have realize that you have this recording, when they realize that Coach was obviously seeing these women regularly for these . . . trysts . . . if they didn’t know it already.”

“The minute they hear the voice mail recording,” he suggested, “you know they’ll realize the implication. They’ll know we know about the three women—that we have those three suspects. And they’ll realize—probably—that we don’t know which of the three women—if any of them—is the primary suspect.”

“So?” she asked. Shoop gnawed on his pencil eraser. Little flakes of pink rubber drifted to his desktop.

“And your part in all of this?” he asked.

“I would like to be there to see—and hear—their reactions when you play the recording. I believe I’d get a much better sense of their voices—and probably a much better sense of their voices under pressure--which would really provide me with more data to give you some better profiles.”

“It would have to be done carefully,” he said. “We’ll have to be careful what we tell them about your presence there—and the sample voices.”

“Don’t tell them anything,” she suggested. “Just play the recording and ask them if they recognize any of the voices.”

He stood there, nodding quietly.

“It could be done,” he agreed.

“Then, let’s do it,” she responded, smiling broadly. She reached her hand out over his desk and they shook on it.