Medieval Murders

by Aaron Stander

  “How about Hendrickson?”

  “There’s a study in contrasts. Where Dalton was demure and not overly effusive, Hendrickson was loud, aggressive, yes, even obnoxious, but she was charming in her own way. She was bright, bawdy, humorous, a bit of a drunk, and, to use my mother’s rather Victorian phrase, ‘a wanton woman.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well,” said Chesterton with a broad smile, “she was not restrained sexually.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Hendrickson was very open about liking sex and had numerous lovers, both male and female. If she were important or famous and rich, we’d be talking about her sexual addiction. She’d have gone off to one of those expensive clinics for treatment.”

  “Might Hendrickson have been involved with Dalton?”

  “Interesting thought, but I would rather doubt it. They were too different. But who knows, the old cliché about opposites attracting one another.”

  “Let me backtrack for a minute. You had five medievalists, and three are now dead. It looks like two suicides and a traffic accident. This is statistically improbable. Who would like these people dead?”

  Chesterton finished his cognac and stood. “Sure I can’t get you a drink?”

  “No, later perhaps.”

  Chesterton replenished his and settled back into his chair. He rolled the stem of the glass between his thumb and forefinger. “I think I know what you’re fishing for. Not that I’m a specialist in genre fiction, but I’ve read enough of the crime stuff to know that motive is always the big thing. So, you’re asking if these deaths were murder rather than what they appear to be, what would be the motive, or perhaps who would have a motive?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I’ve seen people try to do one another in over tenure, but in this case I don’t think it works. Until Oscar dies or retires, none of these people had much hope of tenure. They all had a reason to bump him off. Pity they didn’t. He’s a wretched teacher and a loathsome human being.”Before continuing, Chesterton swirled the dark golden liquid in the crystal globe and took an immoderate sip. “If they were doing in their rivals, they wouldn’t be up to the blood and gore. It is much more polite to use rumor and innuendo.” Chesterton gestured with his left hand, “You know, ‘So and so’s book on Piers Plowman was published by a third-rate university press and got lousy reviews.’ These people get obsessed with things that no one beyond our cloistered walls has ever heard of, much less give a damn about.”

  “Sheila,” Chesterton continued, “had her enemies, especially among the right-to-life people and the radical right. She was obstreperous and often mean-spirited, but within the department I don’t think anyone hated her enough to want her dead. She was more of an embarrassment than anything else—the crazy aunt that you’d like to lock away in the closet when company comes. The people in the department just wanted her to go away. The other two were competent teachers and pleasant enough. I don’t know everything that goes on, but I can’t imagine they had any real enemies.”

  “How about students? Any disgruntled students who might have it in for one or more of these women?” asked Elkins.

  “There’s always that possibility. We have our share of nutcases on campus. In my early years in this profession I never heard of students making threats to faculty members, now it happens several times every term, especially near finals. And more and more, these are the problems that absorb my energy. Days can disappear by the time I talk to the faculty member, the student, your office, then involve the dean’s office. And it’s always boys, never women. It’s the lads who are about to fail because they haven’t done the work. These threats usually get them kicked out of the university, but I always live in fear that one of them is going to come back with a gun. It happens, Ray, you know it happens. I don’t understand those lunatic politicians who think students should be able to carry concealed weapons on campus.

  “Did any of these women receive threats from students?” asked Ray.

  “Bensen was the only one students complained about. I have a complete record of those complaints in her personnel file. Students were upset because she would often not show up for class, and when she did, she wasn’t prepared, and she seldom returned papers. Our students are getting to be better consumers. They are paying a lot for tuition, and when they’re not getting their money’s worth, they let me know.”

  “Any student complaints against the other two women?”

  “This year Hendrickson was involved with a graduate student. That got a bit sticky. She chaired the young man’s dissertation committee, but the other committee members rejected his work the first time through. Her colleagues were concerned that her judgment was influenced by her relationship with the student. When I confronted her, she asked why she wasn’t allowed the same prerogatives as her male colleagues.”

  “How am I to interpret that?”

  “I think there’s only one way, Ray. She was a piece of work. Unfortunately, there was some truth to what she said.”

  “How about Dalton, any complaints or threats?”

  “None. She was a smart, competent woman, a real professional. That said, Constance might have been very fragile emotionally, but I didn’t know about that part of her life.”

  “This was sitting next to Dalton,” said Ray. “It’s a suicide note of sorts.” He removed the plastic encased sheet from a folder and handed it to Chesterton.

  Chesterton skimmed the verse. “You know what this is?”“My guess is one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  Yes, very good. I’m not sure which, but it’s one of the later ones.”

  He got up and walked to one of the floor to ceiling bookcases that surrounded the study. He studied a section of one shelf and finally removed a volume, opened it, and thumbed through it for a few moments. “Yes, ‘Sonnet 148.’”

  “What do you think?”

  “Are you asking for an interpretation of the text giving consideration to the context in which it was found?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve read it, and the meaning is quite clear. This is one of the later sonnets written to the mysterious Dark Lady. The poet was completely in love, or at least totally in lust for that woman. And she was, obviously not there for him. I think of Theseus’s lines in Dream:

  Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

  Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

  More than cool reason ever comprehends.

  “Or perhaps more simply put in the words of that old song, ‘Falling in love with love is falling for make believe.’ That said, this sonnet is a rather curious suicide note. It has always seemed to me that the kind of passion reflected in these sonnets is that of a young man, more about hormones then cognition. I would have thought Dalton was beyond that.”He paused for a long moment and looked over at Ray,

  “I’m just pulling at straws. I hope I’m not babbling on too much. Let me think. I’m not sure who was close to Dalton. Ask Alice Widdowson, my secretary, she’s a bit of a snoop. I think she is on top of most of the department’s gossip. I don’t know what else to tell you.” Chesterton finished his cognac and walked out with Ray. They paused on the back deck.

  “Have any of my babblings helped?” Chesterton asked.

  “Yes. I’m collecting pieces and trying to put them together in a way that will help me understand this chain of events.”

  Stephanie was still planting mums. She stood as Ray approached. “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’ll be better when I have some answers,” he responded, giving her a weak smile.

  25

  Shortly after 9:00 on Friday morning, Ray Elkins parked in the staff parking lot near the rear entrance of the medical center and made his way toward the pathology department. Almost two weeks had passed since the death of Sheila Bensen, and now two of her colleagues were also dead.

  “We’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” Dr. Kristin Gutiérrez affected a
stern tone in her voice. “And you’re late. Your assistant has already been here.”

  “So what does my assistant know that I don’t?”

  “Time of death. You know how exact I can be on that. Probably between 5:00 and 8:00 A.M. If you’re into averages, 6:30 A.M. is a good number. Cause of death is carbon monoxide poisoning. Anticipating your question as to whether or not the deceased might have been placed in the car, I went over the body very thoroughly. There are no contusions, no tissue under the nails, nothing that would suggest a struggle.”

  “How about toxicology?”

  “This is what I have so far, fairly high level of alcohol, I won’t have the rest of the toxicology for several weeks. I didn’t find any pills in her stomach. You know what I think?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This one appears to be a suicide.”

  Elkins looked thoughtful. “What else?”

  “She didn’t have anything that would kill her in the near future. She did have a small benign growth on the right ovary. I don’t imagine it had been detected. It wouldn’t have caused her any discomfort. Her tubes were tied, not recently. Her period was about to start in a day or two, and she had had an appendectomy, years ago. She also had diverticulitis. Other than that, she appeared to be in fairly good health, although her muscle tone was pretty flabby. She wasn’t an athlete. In sum, the woman had no real health problems for someone in her early forties. That said, who knows what was going on in her head. That’s where the real data is in these cases. Someday we might have a way of tapping into that, our own little flight recorders.”

  “I certainly hope not,” said Ray.

  “Yes, that would be horrible. Someone rambling through your thoughts.”

  “Is there any relationship between menstrual cycle and suicide rate?”

  “I don’t know that, I wouldn’t be surprised. However, most of us aren’t crazy when we’re having our periods.” She gave Ray a long look. “I’m not accusing you of buying into that lore, Elkins. However, the combination of alcohol, hormonal influences, and her emotional state might all contribute to her....”

  “Actions.”

  “Yes, and if there is a history of depression, it could be a contributing factor. That’s essentially what I meant.” Her sudden change in expression indicated that the serious conversation was over. “Thanks for bringing me a body that’s in good shape. The work’s more enjoyable when the stiff isn’t mashed or fried.”

  Elkins shook his head back and forth. “What will you do to my parts when I pass?”

  “Don’t worry, Elkins. I’ll be totally discreet. And after I examine the contents of your skull, I’ll stitch your face back on real tight. You won’t have any wrinkles. You’ll look terrific in the box. Everyone will say, ‘Old Elkins, he hasn’t looked that good in years.’”

  “Thanks. Something to look forward to.”

  26

  After leaving Dr. Gutiérrez, Elkins walked through a tunnel from the main hospital to the new Professional Arts Building. The tunnel system was a major design feature of the new complex, allowing barrier-free pedestrian traffic under roads and parking lots from the main hospital complex to the adjacent buildings that were continuing to sprout up from former corn and soybean fields. The pedestrian subways provided year-round protection from the sometime harsh Midwestern weather, the fierce winds and arctic blasts of winter and the scorching heat of summer. They also potentially offered a safe refuge for thousands of patients and staff in the event of a tornado threatening the area.

  Ray avoided the elevator and took the stairs to the third floor hoping to find Dr. Margrave in. As he approached his destination, he saw Margrave hurrying in his direction from the elevator.“Elkins, good morning.”

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Let me check my schedule.” Margrave unlocked the outer office. Elkins followed him through to the consultation room. Margrave sat at his desk, turned on the terminal, and brought up his calendar. “You’re in luck. My first patient has canceled. What can I help you with?” he asked as he came around and sat, motioning Elkins to the patient’s chair.

  “Constance Dalton, was she a patient of yours?”

  “Yes, she has been for several years. What’s this about?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know?”

  “She was found dead yesterday morning. It appears to be a suicide.”

  “Oh, God. No. We were up to the cottage getting in a few more vacation days. Didn’t return until late last night. What happened?”

  “Carbon monoxide. A friend found her sitting in her car, motor running, garage door closed.” Elkins paused for a moment and let the information soak in. “Did you think that she was suicidal?”

  “That’s a really hard question.”

  “How so?”

  “With most people who talk suicide, it’s usually an attention seeking device or a cry for help.”

  “How about Dalton?”

  “She never mentioned it, but she was extremely closed, very hard to work with.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “You know, Elkins, after you were here last time I sought out the medical school’s ethicist, name is Barney Carrick, old fellow, looks a lot like Freud.”

  “And?” pressed Elkins.

  “He didn’t call me back yet. And you need the information…” his voice trailed off.

  “When there is an unnatural death, we have to make a complete investigation of the circumstances surrounding the death. In this case we are trying to determine whether or not this was a suicide.”

  Margrave rubbed his chin as he thought things over. He got up, opened a file drawer and after a few moments of looking, withdrew a folder. As he sat down again he looked over his notes. After a long silence Margrave looked up and said, “She never discussed suicide as an option, but somehow her taking her own life is not totally surprising. Constance was a very bright, complicated, and confused woman.” He thumbed again before continuing. “She was an only child, her parents were close to forty at the time of her birth. By her account, they were two very neurotic people who were constantly giving her mixed messages. As an adult she was never able to unload any of this baggage. Constance was always trying to conform to their standards, and, at the same time, rebel against them. The irony, of course, was that her parents had been dead for years.” Margrave looked up at Ray. “That’s one of the dumb things we often do to ourselves, try to meet our parents’ expectations long after they are gone.”

  “What can you tell me about her personal life?”

  Margrave flipped to the front of the folder. “She was married, let’s see, for about a dozen years and divorced about two years ago. They had one child, a boy. I imagine he’s ten or twelve by now. He lives with his father. She didn’t want custody. I worked with Constance and her husband in couple therapy before the divorce. He seemed like a decent sort of fellow, he was in physics. She would give lip service to trying to save the marriage, but I could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. Shortly before the final split, she got involved in a lesbian affair. I didn’t know it at the time. She brought it up when I started seeing her in individual therapy.”

  “Did she tell you with whom she was involved?”

  “I don’t know. All she ever said was the woman was a colleague. Well, I guess there is a little more.” He looked at his notes. “She said she finally understood that one could have a richer relationship with a woman than a man because women have so much more emotional depth.”

  “But she never named the person?”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t mention Bobby Jo Hendrickson or Sheila Bensen?”

  “No. She didn’t use names. ‘Colleague’ was the term she always used.”

  “How about Mary Caswell. Ever mention her?”

  “No. Constance had a great many taboos. Using names was one. Sex was something else she couldn’t talk about. Shortly after this affair started, the marriage was
over. She was really,” Margrave paused, “I’m searching for the right word. I don’t think she was openly hostile toward men, but she certainly was uncomfortable with most men. I was always curious about her relationship with her father. Might there have been some sort of physical, or psychological, or sexual abuse?”

  “And?”

  “She skirted the issue. I don’t know. Perhaps there was nothing there, or maybe she wasn’t ready to confront the issue. As she talked about her parents, they seemed to be a unit and she was the outsider. They had been together for almost twenty years when she arrived. From her description, they never quite figured out how to deal with her.”

  “How about her relationship with her son?” asked Ray.

  “She didn’t seem to connect to him emotionally. I didn’t see any real maternal feelings or that she was conflicted over giving her husband custody. In fact I had a sense that she was happy to have that part of her life over. I never made much progress with Constance. We wasted her money and my time.”

  “And you think that suicide was a possibility?”

  “Absolutely. She was very brittle, very fragile. As long as she kept her guard up, she could continue to function, but if something happened that would put a chink in her psychic armor, I’d think she’d collapse.”

  “Would the death of a lover do that?”

  “Death, betrayal, or just a crack in her carefully constructed defenses.” Margrave sat still for a minute, and then gestured with his left hand, pointing two fingers at Ray. “I guess I’m really angry. I hate it when a patient commits suicide. I’m angry with myself for not finding a way to get to them, and I’m angry with them for being so completely stupid. Anything else?”

  “If this is a suicide, could Bensen’s have triggered a copy cat behavior?”