“I couldn’t believe that...,” she stammered, but the detective continued.
“I noticed,” he said, speaking softly but intently, “when I came in that there was a group of your colleagues here chatting. Now, I'm sure they were all just very concerned about you, and their presence gave you a sense of support, but, Dr. Barnes, you don't know who you can trust. So, for the moment, until we catch this person, I'd advise you to keep conversations with people on campus to a minimum--or at least--avoid discussing the murder."
She absorbed this information and the policeman's suggestions. It was difficult to believe that she was in any danger--particularly from her friends and co-workers. Even so, she vowed to do as the man requested.
"All right, Detective," she nodded, "if you think that's best, I’ll be very discreet."
"Good," he said, smiling his sad smile and looking over his notebook, which he finally closed and placed back in his shirt pocket. He pushed himself out of the sofa where he’d almost taken root in the soft cushions.
"Detective," she stopped him as he started for the door, "One question."
He turned to her. "I was wondering," she asked, "if your men are still working in the lab? This may sound callous, but I have data collection scheduled in there and I know you have the lab screened off. I was just wondering when we--I mean--the faculty could get back into the lab to work?"
"They’re not there now," he said. "But we’re leaving the tape up because we may want to get back in. Also we need to go over the lab with your Department Head, Dr. Marks, with his inventory list and confirm that nothing of value is missing. You’ll have your lab back in a day or two."
"Thank you, Detective," she said.
He was at the door. He turned back to her. "Oh, and Dr. Barnes, I'm serious. Keep a low profile," he said, "and if you think of something else that might have anything--anything at all to do with Dr. Clark's death-- contact me at once." Then he loped down the hall and out of her sight.
Pamela waited for his disappearance. She looked at her watch; it was after three o’clock. Other than her colleagues earlier and Shoop's visit, no students had shown up for her office hours. That was typical, she noted. Some days it was barren and other days her office was like a zoo. Today’s lack of student visitors must be a reaction to Charlotte's murder. She guessed that she too would find it hard to think about academic pursuits if one of her instructors had been murdered.
She glanced out her window at the parking lot below. Shoop was climbing into his car and heading out of the lot. The police still had the lab barricaded, he’d said, but no one was in there now. Reardon was a small town with a small town police department—not the New York City Crime Unit. Just how sophisticated could Reardon’s little police department be and what could they possibly have found?
No time like the present, she thought. Quickly, she grabbed her jacket and purse and headed out her office door, locking it securely as she left. As she walked down the hall, she noticed that Joan's and Willard's offices were closed. They were either in class or had left for the day. Hopefully, the situation would be the same on the main floor. As she headed down the stairs, she felt her heart start to beat faster. At the bottom of the steps, she opened the stairwell doors and peeked through. The coast was clear; she could see no one in the side hallway that led to the lab. Quickly she slipped through the doors and down the hall. Shoop was right. The yellow tape was visible at eye level, barring the lab door. The door was securely locked, too, forcing her to fumble in her purse for her keys. As she unlocked the door, stooping carefully under the tape, and went inside, she thought, what are you doing? This is probably exactly what Charlotte did yesterday, and look where it got her.
She looked around the lab. She noted the sign plastered above the check-in table. It’s large font stated, “Only graduate students and faculty are allowed keys to this laboratory. Please do not leave the lab unattended.”
At the far end of the room were some storage compartments where they kept replacement parts for the computers, microphones, and headphones. She walked to the back of the room and surveyed the entire laboratory.
Taking up almost the entire room were four rows of computer carrels, each with a computer terminal. The second through fourth rows had computer terminals only. The carrels in the first row had computer terminals, free-standing microphones, headphones, and control panels immediately to the right of the free-standing microphones. The front-row booths were all separated by acoustic paneling that rose to a height of eight feet and extended out a width of five feet on both sides.
Pamela walked up the side of the lab and down the first row of carrels. When she arrived at Carrel #4, where the murder had occurred, she saw that the police had removed the computer terminal, keyboard, and microphone, and all the attaching wires. They were probably looking for trace evidence and dusting for fingerprints. She noticed bits of black powder on the interior walls of the carrel and realized that it was probably remnants of fingerprint powder from where the technicians had examined the interior of the booth—its desk, the walls, and probably the chair and the surrounding floor too.
She sat at an unoccupied booth in the first row. Thus seated, she could see no one and hear no one in either booth beside her if anyone were sitting there. She loved these first row terminals. In addition to the extra recording paraphernalia, the computers in the first row also provided the subscription database services that were not available free over the Internet and that had made her research much easier.
Directly in front of her and facing the four rows of computer carrels, was the master control panel. This long table allowed graduate students and faculty to have access to and control of the data being recorded or listened to in any of the 40 carrels. Indicator lights showed which computers were in use. These lights also indicated which computers were in "record" versus "listen" mode. They indicated the number of subjects who had used each terminal each day and how many times each stimulus tape had been played, among other types of data. From the master control panel, a faculty member or graduate assistant could, technically, control anything going on in any of the terminals, and could record--or delete--anything recorded in any terminal.
Carefully, she touched the keyboard in front of her. She noted the various buttons for volume control and other output. The toggle switch, as she had described to Shoop, was located on the right side of the keyboard, slightly toward the front edge of the desk. She imagined Charlotte sitting here. This booth was just like Carrrel #4. Someone had grabbed her from behind and strangled her. Was it at all feasible that Charlotte might have inadvertently bumped or pushed the toggle switch while she was being strangled? If that had happened, Pamela knew that nothing would show on the monitor because Charlotte wasn’t attempting to record anything. The police obviously had checked or would check the monitor from Carrel #4 to discover whether or not a recording had been made. But, Pamela reasoned, if Charlotte had bumped the toggle switch and then maybe bumped it back---quite possible if there was a violent struggle---then the sounds of that struggle might have been recorded. Not here on the computer in Carrel #4, but....
She walked directly to the front of the room, toward the master control console and pressed the master power switch. Lights lit up the entire unit. Each terminal was listed by number. On the right side of the console, she found the storage unit, which she knew was the device that kept all recordings made in each carrel in the first row of computers. These recordings were stored until a faculty member or graduate assistant went through and manually deleted them.
As she clicked on the storage unit, the carrels from #1-#10 lit up, each showing a graph for amount of sound recorded. All ten graphs were at zero--except for Carrel # 4, the carrel where Charlotte was found. Oh my God!, she thought. She noted the date--October 30—yesterday! She carefully clicked on the segment. There was only a small amount, probably just a few seconds worth of sound. The time stamp said "8:27 p.m.”
She glanced around. Already she’d been here
too long. The police techs might return at any moment, and after what Shoop had said to her, she didn't want to run into anyone in here. Grabbing a blank CD from a bottom drawer in the master console, she slid it into the CD slot and hit duplicate. The console whizzed and whirled and then quickly stopped. She opened the drawer and removed the CD, placing it back in its paper sleeve and into her purse. Then, after shutting down the console, she gave the lab a quick once over, and when she was certain it was the same as it was when she entered, she hurried out, stopping briefly to duck under the police tape and lock the door behind her.
Chapter 9
She had barely exited the lab and locked the door when she bumped into Rex and Phineas walking out of Rex's office. The two men had obviously been arguing, but they quieted immediately and turned their attention to her.
"Pamela," greeted Rex, warmly, "Surely, you weren't in the lab? I thought the police had forbidden us to enter." He came towards her, followed by Phineas.
"I just had to check on some data," she mumbled, "I'm running an experiment this week and I need to see where we stand on participants. I didn’t think they’d mind." She stopped herself before she babbled on unnecessarily.
"Dr. Barnes," said Phineas, coming closer, "I’m so sorry about what happened. I heard you were the one who found Charlotte in the lab. I wish I’d stayed later last night so I could’ve been here for you."
"Yes," she nodded at the two men, "That would have been nice." She was starting to go.
"So, what did you find?" asked Rex in a low whispered voice, glancing back at the lab door.
"What?" stammered Pamela, clutching her purse as if it contained gold.
"The lab. Did the police make a mess of it? I assume they probably turned the place upside down," boomed Rex, shaking his head of thick chestnut-colored hair.
"Yes," agreed Phineas, nodding fiercely. "Did they--you know--clean everything up?" He grimaced squeamishly.
"It looks as it always did," offered Pamela. "Feel free to go check for yourselves if you like." She was feeling more and more uncomfortable standing here; the newly burned CD felt warm inside her purse.
"Well, take care, Pamela," said Rex, squeezing her arm, "Personally, I believe I’ll wait until the police give their approval before I venture into the lab." He had an uncharacteristically somber look on his face.
She stopped suddenly. "Well, that’s very circumspect of you, Rex.”
"All I meant was," he replied, "that I’d feel uncomfortable to go in there now." Then he smiled that broad, toothy grin.
"Yes," agreed Phineas, nodding insistently. "I wouldn’t want to go in the lab unless I absolutely had to. I can just imagine how terrible it must make you must feel, Dr. Barnes. Just being in the lab probably reminds you of Charlotte, of finding her last night. I just can't believe I was here in the building when it happened." He cringed and his mouth gathered into a little pucker.
"Gentlemen," announced Pamela, straightening herself, "I’m perfectly fine and it doesn’t bother me to be in the lab. I’m truly sorry about Charlotte, but I’m not going to let what happened to her prevent me from doing my job, and I assume you won't either." She beamed her most gracious smile at them, turned, and headed down the hall toward the main office.
For almost an instant, Pamela forgot the CD in her purse--the disk with seconds, maybe even minutes of sound that had been recorded at the computer desk where Charlotte had been murdered at a time when the murder probably took place. Pamela was anxious to listen to the CD, but she knew that this would be something she’d have to do in private.
She turned the corner toward the main office. Charlotte's office door was closed and the yellow crime scene tape barred all entrance. The main hallway looked reasonably normal once again. The dim lighting in the hallway was interspersed with the warm glow from large hanging lantern chandeliers and matching wall sconces. The sounds of student voices rang from a side hall. As she passed the door to Laura Delmondo's office, she could see Laura sitting at her desk, her head in her hands. The young professor appeared frozen in this position except for some slight heaves from her thin shoulders. Pamela thought how much she wanted to leave work and get home to listen to the CD in her purse, but the sight of a fellow teacher sitting there so forlornly, touched her heart, so she stopped at the doorway and knocked gently.
"Laura," she said softly.
The young woman raised her head and blinked. "Oh, Pamela," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be sitting here like this. Students could come in at any moment; it's just that..." She heaved a huge sigh, clutching the side of her head again. Pamela quietly entered the office and shut the door.
"It's okay," she said, sitting on a chair opposite Laura's desk. "This has hit all of us. You’re allowed to be upset."
"I know," Laura replied, "I feel so terrible. Charlotte and I had a big fight yesterday. It was the last conversation between us and now she's...she's dead. The last thing I said to her was so hateful." This was news, thought Pamela. More than just Mitchell had had a fight with Charlotte yesterday.
"Now, Laura," said Pamela, soothingly, placing her hand on Laura's arm from across the desk, "you and Charlotte were close. I'm sure she knew that you cared for her." Laura’s desktop featured a color photograph of Laura and her husband in their wedding attire.
"She knew," said Laura, biting her lower lip, her long golden hair falling around her shoulders in dishevelment. "She knew how much I appreciated her and everything she’d done for me. I mean, I wouldn't be here without Charlotte; she was my mentor. If it hadn’t been for her, I never would have considered an academic career or gone on for my doctorate. She was instrumental in my getting the position here at Grace University too. I just can't believe she's gone." Another bout of tears welled up and Laura reached for a handful of tissues from a box on her desk.
"Charlotte cared about you, Laura," said Pamela. "She showed that by her actions. She was just a very—argumentative—person, and yesterday you were on the receiving end. It didn't mean she didn't realize your concern for her."
"I did. I did," stammered the younger woman. "She was concerned, but just about my job--always about the job, and my research, and getting published. Pamela, you're a woman--you're married with a child. You know there’s more to life than just your job."
"Absolutely, I do," said Pamela, smiling.
"But Charlotte didn't," insisted Laura. "She was all about work. I guess it was because she didn't have a family. She turned me into her family--sort of like her daughter. I thought at first that might be nice because I'm estranged from my own mother and I’d like to have an ‘adopted mother,’ but Charlotte didn't want me like most mothers would want a daughter. She wanted me as her protégé--and for that I had to produce. Research! Papers! Whatever I published, it was never enough for Charlotte; she was always demanding more."
"She was hard on you just as she was hard on herself," agreed Pamela. "Without a doubt, she was the most prolific researcher I’ve ever known. And those grants! How could one person produce so much grant money single-handed, I’ll never know."
"Me neither," said Laura, "And she expected everyone to be just like her. But, Pamela, no one can do that and have a life. I have a husband and we—we’ve been wanting to start a family. We haven't been successful and we were just starting to try in vitro fertilization."
"I see," nodded Pamela.
"It's very expensive," she confided, "And it's very time-consuming. I simply haven't had any time for working on my research or even for regular classes. I’ve missed some of my office hours because of all these doctor appointments lately. And Charlotte was harassing me about it to make matters worse. She told me the in vitro was all a waste of time and that I needed to forget about being a baby machine."
"Being a baby machine?" asked Pamela delicately.
"Yes," replied Laura, sighing, “Those were her exact words.”
Pamela patted Laura's arm again. "It sounds like the insensitive
thing Charlotte would say. I feel such sympathy for you."
"Thank you, Pamela," Laura said, smiling demurely. "It really helps to be able to discuss this. I don't have anyone to talk to now that Charlotte is...."
"Listen to me, Laura," Pamela added firmly, "You’re better off confiding your personal problems, if you feel the need to do so, to someone—anyone--who’ll be more empathetic than Charlotte ever could be."
"Yes, I see that," said Laura, wiping a final tear aside and smiling a much broader grin now.
"Will you be okay?" asked Pamela.
"Yes, thank you," added Laura, "thank you for stopping to talk to me. I really appreciate it." Pamela squeezed Laura's hands with hers, smiling back and then rose to go. She turned at the door.
"Good luck with the in vitro," she whispered. "I have tremendous faith in modern science." Then she was off down the hall. She’d forgotten, for the brief duration of her conversation with Laura Delmondo, her original goal. Now, she was doubly motivated to get home.
She pushed through a crowd of students and turned into the main office, quickly grabbing her mail from her slot, and then glanced around the corner into Jane Marie's smaller office. Jane Marie was typing furiously, a ray of sunlight from an outside window piercing through orange and black crepe paper bunting and striking her hair.
"Is he in?" she whispered to Jane Marie, pointing at the Department Head's door.
"Dr. Bentley’s in there now," answered Jane Marie, looking up. "She's been in there for at least 20 minutes. He's been looking for you."
"Oh, no," Pamela scowled, "since when?"
"Just a bit ago," she assured Pamela. "He spent most of the morning with that Shoop, and then with the Dean trying to deal with the fall-out from Charlotte’s murder, and then this afternoon that woman reporter from local KRDN was here interviewing him and ....”
Sounds of Murder Page 7
