by Bill Crider
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Also by Bill Crider
Copyright
1
When Perry “A. B. D.” Johnson strode into the office of Sally Good, chair of the Division of Arts and Humanities at Hughes Community College, he was in a state of medium dudgeon.
His condition came as no surprise to Sally. With A. B. D. Johnson, as Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say, it was always something.
A. B. D. arrived on campus at 7:30 A.M. every day, already in a state of low dudgeon. He worked his way up as the day went along, usually reaching high dudgeon somewhere between 2:30 and 3 P.M., at which time he went home and took out his frustrations either by grading his students’ papers or working on his doctoral dissertation.
His dissertation, or rather the fact of his dissertation’s incompleteness, was the reason for his being known all over campus by the initials A. B. D. They stood for “All But Dissertation,” a condition that described exactly how far Johnson had advanced in graduate school. He had finished all his course work and passed both his minor and major oral examinations seventeen years previously. He had then left graduate school and accepted a job at Hughes.
Ever since his arrival on campus, A. B. D. had supposedly been working toward the completion of his dissertation in his spare time. The topic was rumored to be phallic imagery in the “Calamus” poems of Walt Whitman, though no one was certain. No one had ever seen a copy of the work in progress, and A. B. D. resolutely refused to discuss his ideas with anyone, possibly for fear that his listener might steal them and publish them to worldwide scholarly acclaim.
A. B. D. had gone through two wives, four dissertation directors, two division chairs, and three deans since arriving at Hughes, but as far as anyone knew, he had made little progress on his magnum opus.
He had, however, achieved what Sally believed to be the world record for pleading with, cajoling, wheedling, and outright begging graduate-school administrators to allow him to continue in the program without having to repeat his course work.
He was, in Sally’s opinion, perfectly equipped for begging and pleading—baggy clothes, big sad eyes, longish black hair (going slightly gray) that flopped over his forehead, and a hang-dog face that reminded Sally of either Richard Nixon or Walter Matthau. She was never quite sure.
At any rate, A. B. D. had always been successful in his petitioning. Deadline after deadline had come and gone, and he had failed to meet a single one. Yet he persevered in his work, or claimed to, and Sally supposed she had to give him credit for doing that much.
She looked up at his red, cheerless face and resisted the impulse to say what she really wanted to say, which was “What is it this time, A. B. D.?”
Instead, she smiled as if she were actually glad to see him and said, “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. How are you today?”
He didn’t bother to answer the question. He said, “Val Hurley has a new chair.”
Val Hurley was the chair of the Art Department, and it was true that he had a new chair. Sally acknowledged the fact.
A. B. D. looked at her accusingly. “It’s an executive chair. It’s all leather. It has a pneumatic seat. It has ball bearings in the rollers.”
Sally continued to smile, even though she was sure she knew where the conversation was heading. “That’s right. It’s a very nice chair.”
A. B. D. Johnson’s face got redder. It seemed almost certain that today he was going to reach high dudgeon way ahead of schedule.
“I don’t have a new chair,” he said. “I have the same old chair that I’ve been using for the last seventeen years, ever since I came to Hughes. The vinyl one that’s practically held together with duct tape I bought myself. The one with the frozen rollers. The one that won’t even lean back without tipping over.”
For just a moment, Sally felt a little guilty and self-conscious, sitting there in her own executive chair, which was actually a little nicer than the one Val Hurley had bought. The feeling passed quickly, however.
“You could have had a new chair if you’d wanted one,” she told Johnson. “When I was working on the departmental budget, I asked everyone to let me know what office equipment they needed. Val Hurley included a new chair in his departmental budget, and I would have been glad to include one for you in our budget if you’d asked.”
“I’m sure you would have.” A. B. D.’s voice began to rise, and his jowls shook just the tiniest bit. “I’m sure you would have, even though it’s common knowledge that the faculty hasn’t had a raise in two years and the enrollment is dropping and the whole school is going down the financial tubes. At least that’s what Fieldstone keeps telling us.”
There was a sarcastic edge to the last sentence that indicated that A. B. D. Johnson was not merely a simpleton to be taken in by anything that Harold Fieldstone, the college president, might say about the school’s finances. A. B. D. was much too shrewd a fellow to believe a scum administrator.
“You’re exaggerating,” Sally said. “It’s true that we haven’t had a raise lately, and it’s true that the enrollment is cause for concern, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have decent chairs for our faculty members.”
“Hah!” A. B. D.’s jowls shook even more, and Sally made a sudden realization: it was Nixon whom A. B. D. most resembled.
“What it means,” A. B. D. continued, “is that we can have whatever the president wants us to have around here. He likes things like fancy chairs and new cars. Did you know that Campus Security has two new cars?”
Sally knew. “They were bought with money brought in from the sale of parking permits.”
“Hah!” The jowls waggled. “That money could have gone into raises for the faculty just as easily as it could have gone into new cars for the cops.”
“We’re getting away from the subject,” Sally said.
She couldn’t fool A. B. D. He said, “It’s all the same subject, as you very well know, but never mind that. I just wanted you to understand that I’m going to speak to Val, and I’m going to write a memo to the president about this matter. Fieldstone thinks he can get away with this, but he can’t.”
“The president didn’t have anything to do with getting Val a new chair,” Sally said. “As Val’s supervisor, I approved his departmental budget. Then I sent it to Dean Naylor, who also approved it. The president p
robably doesn’t even know about the chair.”
A. B. D. Johnson looked at her with pity. “That’s what he’d like us to believe,” he said. Then he turned and stalked away.
Sally sighed and leaned back in her own executive chair. It was going to be one of those days. There might even be a repetition of the parking incident memo, which had been written after A. B. D. saw a student parking in a space reserved for the faculty.
A. B. D. had been furious, especially because when he had called the student’s attention to the transgression, the young man had said, “What’s it to ya?”
A. B. D. had reached high dudgeon in record time that day, storming into Sally’s office to demand that the student be shot or, failing that, withdrawn from all his classes.
“Shooting him would teach the students a wonderful lesson,” A. B. D. insisted. “We should probably shoot one student at the beginning of each semester as an example to the others of what could happen if they don’t toe the line. It would solve a world of problems around here.”
Sally was pretty sure that A. B. D. was kidding, but he sounded awfully serious.
“I’m not sure the Board would approve,” she said.
A. B. D. was ready for that one. “Let Fieldstone explain it to them. That’s his job, isn’t it?”
Sally had talked with A. B. D. a few minutes longer and persuaded him that the best thing to do, if he was still feeling vindictive, would be to report the student to Campus Security so someone could ticket the student’s car.
A. B. D. had stalked away toward the Security Office, clearly disappointed in Sally’s lack of initiative. Two days later, Sally had received a call from President Fieldstone.
“I have a memo here from one of your faculty members,” Fieldstone said. “What do you know about it?”
It was an ominous question since Fieldstone didn’t like to receive memos from faculty members, and it was doubly ominous since Sally had no idea what he was talking about. If there was anything Fieldstone liked less than receiving memos, it was a division chair who didn’t know what was going on in her own division.
So instead of answering the question, Sally asked, “Which faculty member?”
“Perry Johnson,” Fieldstone said. He never called him A. B. D.
Sally remembered the parking incident at once. “Complaining about the student car in the faculty parking spot?”
“Indeed. He seems quite upset. Do you think his idea has any merit?”
Sally didn’t believe that even A. B. D. would be stupid enough to suggest shooting a student in a written memo. Still, she thought she’d better be cautious.
“What idea?” she asked.
“The idea of putting something called ‘the boot’ on cars that are parked illegally.”
Sally had heard about the boot before. Big-city police sometimes used it to immobilize the cars of parking violators. She told Fieldstone that she didn’t think it was something that was needed on a college campus.
“My thought exactly. We don’t want to antagonize our students; they’re our bread and butter.” Fieldstone paused and then said, “Is there anything … wrong with Johnson? You aren’t pressuring him to finish his dissertation, are you?”
A year or so earlier, Johnson had written a memo to complain that he felt under tremendous pressure from “certain administrators and department chairs” to complete his dissertation so as to “make the faculty look better” when accreditation agencies visited the school. Sally had never figured out who had been pressuring Johnson, and no one had ever admitted it.
“I haven’t been pressuring anyone,” she said. “Mr. Johnson’s just excitable.”
“Try to calm him down, then. I don’t like having to reply to memos like this one.”
Sally started to tell Fieldstone that he didn’t have to reply, but she thought better of it. It wouldn’t do any good. Fieldstone never let anything go without a reply. So she assured him that A. B. D. wouldn’t be writing any more memos for a while.
And now Val Hurley’s new chair was going to make a liar out of her. Maybe A. B. D.’s idea about having a student shot could be revised somewhat, Sally thought. Instead of shooting a student, the division chairs could draw straws, with the winner getting to shoot one faculty member.
No, it would never work. Fieldstone could never get it past the Board. Unless, of course, he reminded them of the payroll reductions involved …
Sally shook her head and smiled to herself. The Board would never go for it, but it was a pleasant fantasy. Now, however, she had to do something practical.
Like warn Val Hurley that A. B. D. was on the warpath.
2
Sally pushed aside the stack of papers that nearly covered her telephone and pulled the phone across the desk to her. She could never remember whether she was right-brained or left-brained, but whichever it was, she simply couldn’t manage to keep her desk uncluttered for more than twenty minutes.
Things just seemed to pile up, and her desk was always nearly hidden beneath piles of student papers and exams, syllabuses, schedule forms, books, purchase orders, magazines, memos, letters, empty envelopes, class notes, the odd Hershey wrapper, and God knows what else. Her old college transcripts might be in there somewhere for all she knew, though she certainly hoped not. She wouldn’t want anyone to find out about that D she’d made in algebra when she was a freshman.
She punched in Val Hurley’s number and let the phone ring five times before hanging up. She couldn’t remember Val’s schedule, and God knows where her copy of it was, but she didn’t believe he had a class at eleven o’clock on Tuesdays. He could be anywhere, however—in the restroom, in the art lab, in the library, in the bookstore. There was no use trying to track him down. He’d just deal with it if A. B. D. got to him before Sally did.
Sally pushed the phone back across the desk through the accumulation of papers and looked around her office. She had been at Hughes Community College for six years, and she had brought all her books with her from her previous school. With those added to the ones she had acquired since arriving, the bookshelves were as bad as her desk. Worse, maybe.
There were books stacked on top of books and in front of books. There were books on the typing table and on top of the IBM Selectric that hadn’t been used since Sally moved into the office. There were books on the filing cabinets and on the computer desk. There were even books in a grocery bag on the floor.
Sally was wondering what she was going to do if she ever got any more books, which of course she inevitably would, when the telephone rang.
She dragged the phone back through the papers, picked up the receiver, and said, “Sally Good.”
“Please hold for Dr. Fieldstone,” said the voice of Eva Dillon, Fieldstone’s secretary.
A chill went through Sally as it always did when Fieldstone called, despite the fact that Eva had a very pleasant telephone voice, the kind that made you think she was probably a svelte brunette of dignified mien.
The dignified part was right, and Eva was definitely a brunette, but she wasn’t svelte. She had a serious chocolate habit and kept a bag of king-size Snickers bars in the bottom drawer of her desk. She had once confessed to Sally that she ate at least three a day. Sally could identify with this, though she managed to keep her own chocolate consumption down to one Hershey bar with almonds a day. Well, most days, anyway.
While she was waiting for Dr. Fieldstone to come on the line and give her the bad news, whatever it was, Sally said “shit” under her breath a couple of times. She was afraid that instead of writing a memo, A. B. D. had gone straight to Fieldstone’s office to complain about Val Hurley’s new chair. That would be even worse than writing a memo. Although Fieldstone liked to talk about his “open-door policy” in every faculty meeting and go on at length about how faculty members were always welcome to drop in to see him, he didn’t actually like for them to drop in on him at all. He especially didn’t like for them to drop in if they had complaints.
“D
r. Good?” Fieldstone said.
That was a bad sign. When he was in a good mood, he used her first name.
“Yes?” she said.
“Could you please come over to my office for a moment?”
Uh-oh. A really bad sign. Otherwise, he would have had Eva ask her to come over. That damned A. B. D. Johnson.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.”
Fieldstone hung up, and Sally leaned back in her chair, which didn’t seem quite as comfortable as it had earlier. She sat for a few seconds and straightened some of the papers on her desk, a futile task if ever there was one. But she wasn’t going to give Fieldstone the satisfaction of her rushing over.
After she had sorted some of her students’ homework into separate stacks, she stood up, made sure her blouse was tucked in, and walked into the hallway, which was practically deserted, as it always was during classes. Most of the faculty members who weren’t teaching at that hour were in their offices grading papers or surfing the Internet, and the students who didn’t have class were either in the cafeteria drinking coffee or in the game room shooting pool.
Sally walked down the hall, the soles of her sensible shoes squeaking a little on the tiles. The only person in sight was Jorge “Rooster” Rodriguez, the only convicted killer of Sally’s acquaintance. He had just come out of his office, and when he saw Sally, he stopped to wait for her.
“You get a call from the Big Guy, too?” he asked.
Jorge had a high-pitched voice that didn’t fit at all with his appearance, considering that he looked like a walking advertisement for steroid consumption. His upper body was huge and solid, tapering down to a waist so narrow that Sally had more than once regarded it with a twinge of envy.
She wasn’t envious of the rest of him, however. He seemed about to burst out of the dark suit that concealed the elaborate tattoos on his arms. Sally had seen the tattoos in the summer when Jorge wore short sleeves. His arms were covered with snakes that coiled around his biceps; hearts pierced by daggers; weeping eyes; skulls; spiders.
There was supposedly another tattoo on his back, the tattoo that had given him his nickname. Sally hadn’t seen that one. She’d heard about it from Troy Beauchamp, one of Sally’s English instructors, who had seen Jorge working out in the gym.
