by Donn Taylor
He drummed his fingers again. “Why haven’t you told this to the police?”
“They haven’t given me a chance,” I said. “They’re hung up on the fact that the body was found in Professor Thorn’s car along with some Wiccan symbols.”
“Her car was in front of your house,” he said.
“Yes, sir. It had been there since Wednesday night, the night an intruder knocked me in the head. When I didn’t show for a meeting with her and Dr. Sheldon, she came and checked on me. She ended up nursing me through the night till I could navigate again. Meanwhile, someone booby-trapped her car.”
He waved a hand. “We will not go into that. We were talking about the computer network. You think I should have some of the computer faculty check it out?”
“No, sir. If someone is doing something untoward with the network, they’re the logical suspects because they have both access and the necessary technical knowledge. We need an expert from outside the college, someone who’ll keep his findings confidential.”
“Do you know someone?”
“Richmond Seagrave works for a computer security firm in St. Louis. I knew him years ago in Special Forces. He’s tight-lipped and dependable. I think I can have him in your office tomorrow morning, and the two of you can take it from there.”
Cantwell paused again and drummed his fingers. He looked like a man about to jump off a cliff into a promised safety net he couldn’t see.
Finally he sighed. “Have your man phone me today, and we’ll work something out.”
Outside, it occurred to me that I might have set myself up to get fired. I had no evidence beyond the coexistence of Marcus Fischbach’s suspicions and the fact of his murder. My inference of possible causation could be totally wrong, and Richmond Seagrave might find nothing out of sorts with the computer network. If he didn’t, I’d be seen as an alarmist at best. At worst, Dean-Dean and President Cantwell would see me as a liar trying to divert attention from my suspension. If Clyde Staggart heard about it, he’d imagine a worse motive and look for evidence to prove it.
Strangely, though, beneath those anxieties, my newfound peace held firm.
From home, I phoned Richmond Seagrave.
He greeted my explanation with a laugh. “Press, trouble finds you like male mosquitoes find a blonde in a bikini. You couldn’t stay out of trouble if they locked you in a soundproof box.”
“Your principle is sound,” I said, “but not your analogy. My entomologist colleagues would say you are projecting your own libidinous impulses onto innocent mosquitoes, whose genetic code inclines them to entirely different stimuli.” For the sake of simplicity, I did not refute his assumption that my being locked in a box would not in itself constitute trouble.
Seagrave laughed again. “For stuffiness, Press, no one can match a Special Ops type turned academic. Yes, I can shake loose for a couple of days. I’m still curious about that wiped sector on your hard drive. How do I contact this Cantwell character?”
I gave him the numbers and hung up, but the phone rang before my hand left the receiver. Cindy’s voice came through with its special sweetness, though it sounded like she’d been crying.
“Daddy, is it all right if I come home for Thanksgiving instead of staying with Heather?”
My caution raised its readiness state to orange. “Of course it’s all right, dear. I’ll be delighted. Is there a problem with Heather?”
“No, not with Heather.” She sniffed a couple of times and added, “The problem is Eduardo. He turned out to be a real jerk.”
My caution went on red alert. “What has he done?” She’d been so confident about him before, but now I could almost hear her deciding how much she wanted to tell.
“He was so polite when we met this fall in our dorm’s residence life program,” she said. “I thought I’d found someone I could depend on.”
She paused and I asked, “Did he prove otherwise?”
“In spades,” she said, her voice low but throbbing with anger. “They’d been teaching us how we ought to be nonjudgmental and inclusive, and it sounded like a really good idea. But last night Eduardo tried to get too inclusive. . . .”
She paused again and I said, “He tried to include something that wasn’t his to include?”
She sighed. “You could call it that. But the residence life group says I’m being judgmental.”
“For rejecting unwanted advances?” This was uncharted territory for me. “I thought the feminist thing was adamant on that score.”
She gave a sad laugh. “That’s kind of . . . in a different mental compartment. The residential life program’s emphasis this month is ‘dismantling systems of oppression.’”
“And sexual continence is a system of repression?”
“That’s what they’re teaching, Daddy. But I told them I wasn’t buying it. I said this was my business and I wasn’t changing.”
Now it was my turn to sigh. With relief. “Good for you, honey. Will you be okay until Wednesday, or do you need to come home early?”
“They’re not going to chase me out of here early, Daddy.” Her voice rang like iron. “I’ll get in their faces every time they mention it.”
My heart swelled with pride. “That’s the spirit, Cindy. If you stand your ground they’ll either come around or prove they’re not the kind of people you want as friends.” I sounded exactly like what I was, a father preaching to his daughter.
For once, though, Cindy didn’t resent it. “That’s what I think, too, Daddy. I’ll be home around six Wednesday evening.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I said, and we hung up.
Afterward, I sat down and worried the way all parents do when their children leave home and have to cope with the multifaceted threats of a fallen world. In the end, I said a prayer and resigned myself that at present I could do nothing more. Except chide myself for being behind the times. I’d known about indoctrination in the classroom, but now they’d moved it into the dormitories with peer pressure as enforcer.
Cindy would arrive Wednesday evening. But what would she come home to? If Mara and I hadn’t found the murderer, or murderers, by the beginning of Thanksgiving break at Wednesday noon, our suspects would scatter to the four winds. And the faculty hearing committee would meet Wednesday afternoon. By the time Cindy got here, I might not have a job.
What good would my newly regained sense of the Eternal do if I lost the one thing that gave my life meaning? The emptiness of the house closed in, made more oppressive by a lyric melody from my internal strings. The sight of the silent piano brought back grief as sharp and painful as I’d known in the first months after Faith’s death. I knew I had to do something decisive or else sink into despair. But what could I do? Grade more research papers in spite of my dubious faculty status? Call Dr. Sheldon? Call Mara?
Before I could decide, someone pounded on my door. I looked out the window and saw two police cars. The pounding came again. Wearily, I shuffled over to the front door and opened it.
Beyond the clear plastic storm door stood two uniformed policemen and Dogface himself.
“Did you lose something last night?” I asked. “Did you come back for your bone?”
He said nothing, but one of the uniformed types held up a paper for me to see.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” the policeman said. “The charge is suspicion of murder.”
CHAPTER 35
You might know Staggart would have them handcuff me and march me out to the police car in front of the whole neighborhood. The planned public disgrace didn’t work, though, because as far as I could see none of my neighbors were watching. They’d get wind of it soon enough, but at least they wouldn’t have visuals to start with.
We rode to the police station in silence, though Dogface gave me a dirty look every thirty seconds or so. At the station he disappeared, and the others booked me and read me my Miranda rights. At that point I took the Fifth and asked for the phone call I was authorized. They responded by isolating m
e in a tiny room with one shabby desk, two straight chairs, and no phone. I suppose the idea was to build anxiety and maybe keep me under covert observation.
Whatever their intention, I wasn’t playing. I sat down at the desk, put my arms on it and my head on my arms, and pretended to sleep.
I almost did sleep. Then the door opened and I looked up to see two uniformed policemen thrust a small, raggedly dressed man into the room. He wasn’t an inch taller than five feet, his face hadn’t seen a razor in a week or two, and, judging from his fragrance, he must have been overdue for his annual bath. When he talked, the smell of cheap whiskey flooded the room.
“I didn’t do nothin’,” he whined. “I was sittin’ on a park bench mindin’ my own business and they run me in for nothin’.”
“If you’re smart,” I said, “you won’t say anything to anyone, including me.”
His voice grew confidential. “What are you in for? I bet you didn’t do nothin’, either.”
I’d never seen a more obvious plant. Staggart must have thought I’d forgotten the interrogation techniques we used in Special Ops. What came next? Would this character start a fight so they’d have something to charge me with? Just in case, I rose from the chair and faced him. I certainly wasn’t thinking like a professor now.
“I took the Fifth,” I said. “If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”
“I could use a fifth right now,” he said. “No kiddin’, though. What do they got against you?”
“They don’t like my decision to remain silent,” I said, “and that includes you. From now on, you’re talking to the wall.”
He looked hurt. “That’s no way to act. We’re in this thing together.”
I said nothing and watched his eyes.
“You ain’t even bein’ civil,” he said. “You act more like a cop than them guys in uniform.”
I said nothing and continued to watch. The little man dropped his gaze. Neither of us spoke. I suppose the two policemen were listening, for a few minutes later they burst into the room and dragged the little man out, protesting all the way. The door closed. Foot-scuffling, bumping, and more protests of innocence came from the hall and then the adjoining room. Sounds of fists striking something soft came through the wall, accompanied by the supposed victim’s pleas for them to stop beating him.
I have to give them credit. They put on a good show. I sat at the desk again, rested my head on my arms, and feigned sleep. The rumble next door climaxed with one tremendous bump, followed by silence. I didn’t move.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later, footsteps advanced in the hall, paused at the closed door, and moved on. This happened several more times—part of the war of nerves, I guess. But I never raised my head or gave any sign I’d heard.
Finally, the door opened and I heard two sets of footsteps. I still didn’t move.
Someone shook my shoulder, and a deep voice growled, “Wake up.”
I raised my head and saw two burly plainclothesmen who were new to me.
The taller one smirked. “It’s your turn now. You heard what your buddy got next door.” He stood several inches over six feet and had the build of a professional wrestler.
“Did you bring my phone?” I asked. I made a point of not getting up.
He asked, “Where did you get the blackjack?”
“I’ve already taken the Fifth,” I said. “I’m waiting for the phone call so I can get a lawyer.”
“We found the blackjack in your office desk,” the shorter one said. He had the build of a middleweight boxer. “What would a history professor be doing with a blackjack?”
“Fifth Amendment,” I said again. “How about that phone call?”
They exchanged contemptuous glances.
“He’s one of those,” the larger one said.
“Oh, yes indeed,” the smaller one echoed. “He does appear to be one of those.”
“Fifth Amendment and phone call,” I said, “and tell Staggart his amateur dramatic production didn’t work.” I lowered my head on my arms again.
The larger detective shook my shoulder. It felt like he was trying to yank it off.
“Look at me when I talk to you,” he said.
I looked at him and said nothing. I still made a point of not getting up.
“Whose blood was on the blackjack?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“The marks on your tools match the marks on the car trunk,” the other one said. “Why did you do it?”
I said nothing, making my silence as eloquent as I could. But my heart jackhammered in my chest.
The badgering continued for about fifteen minutes, and I met every question with silence.
Finally, the larger one said to the smaller, “Let’s let him think about it awhile.”
The smaller nodded and moved toward the door.
“Fifth Amendment and phone call,” I said.
They gave me a hard look and left, shutting the door behind them. I put my head back on my arms and tried to sleep, but they’d given me something to worry about. Had they really found a blackjack in my office desk, and had my tools really been used to jimmy the trunk of Mara’s car? Who was trying to frame me? Staggart or the murderer?
My thoughts whirled like I’d put my brain in a blender, and I slipped closer to despair. This seemed to go on for hours, though I later learned it was about thirty minutes. Then a single uniformed policeman came in.
“That way,” he ordered, pointing.
I moved in that direction and he followed. He didn’t seem too worried about me, and I took this as a good sign. He stopped me with a touch on the shoulder and pointed me into another office. This one had a phone.
“One call,” he said, and lounged against the doorframe.
Dr. Sheldon was a long time answering, so I gathered he’d been asleep. He should have been, for it was after midnight.
“I need a lawyer,” I said. “They’ve arrested me on suspicion of murder.”
“Horsefeathers,” he said. “First it’s Mara and now it’s you. Next thing you know, they’ll arrest the pope.”
“He’s out of Staggart’s jurisdiction,” I said. “I’m the one who needs the lawyer, and I need him before they figure out a way to hang me.”
“They don’t hang people now,” he said. “They use lethal injection. Besides, you’ll probably die of old age before the courts process all of your appeals.”
“That’s very comforting,” I said. “I’m glad to know they put the court before the hearse. But we may need neither one if I get a lawyer tonight.”
“That’s a terrible pun,” he said, “but I’ll see what I can do. Confound it, why can’t you young people stay out of trouble?” He hung up.
“Thanks,” I said to the supervising cop. “He says I didn’t win the lottery.”
“Very funny,” the cop said in a tone that said it wasn’t. “Now follow me to the place we reserve for court jesters.”
He ushered me into a cell with old-fashioned iron bars. I’d hoped for solitary, but I had five fellow boarders with ages from about twenty up past where you stop counting.
The eldest inspected me from head to toe and said, “I’m in for not payin’ at the gas pump.” He pointed to each of the others in turn. “Joe here stole a car, those two robbed a convenience store, and him . . .” He pointed to a well-kempt youngster with watery red eyes. “They picked him up for DUI, and then found he had a computer that didn’t belong to him. What’ve they got on you?”
They all stared at me, waiting.
“They caught me with the chief’s wife,” I said.
The oldster snorted. “He ain’t got no wife. She left him last year.”
I shrugged. “I imagine that’s why he was so upset about it.” I was acting less and less like a history professor.
All except the youngest laughed.
“They won’t keep you long,” the spokesman said. “They’ll just harass you awhile and let you go.”
“I hope so,”
I said. I took a seat beside the youngster on the cell’s one bench, leaned my head against the bars, and pretended sleep. That seemed the best way to avoid conversation. But my ears stayed wide awake. Going to sleep in this group of petty poachers wasn’t a good idea.
After a long time I heard a loud voice calling, “Preston Barclay, you have a visitor.” The voice belonged to the policeman who’d guided me to the cell. He escorted me to a small office where Brice Funderburk sat waiting. Funderburk still had a running back’s build and a movie star’s features, and to these he now added an impatient expression.
“It’s two thirty in the morning,” Funderburk said. “Don’t you professors ever get arrested at a decent hour?”
“I’ll try to arrange it next time,” I said.
He glared at me. “If there’s a next time, you can call someone else. What are you in for?”
“The charge is suspicion of murder. They’ve hassled me around some, but I don’t know the evidence, if there is any.”
“If I’m going to represent you, you have to tell me the complete truth,” he said. “You can begin by telling me why you kept a bloody blackjack in your desk drawer.”
CHAPTER 36
I’m afraid I showed Funderburk an unfriendly face. “If you knew about the blackjack, you already knew I was arrested for suspicion of murder. Why did you ask?”
Funderburk’s jaw rearranged itself into a superior smile. “I like to be thorough. Now tell me about the blackjack.”
“I have never had a blackjack in my desk, bloody or otherwise. I have never possessed a blackjack nor held one in my hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one. If there was one in my desk, someone planted it there.”
Funderburk raised his eyebrows. “Why would anyone do that?”
Now it was my turn to glare at him. “For the same reason someone stole a book from my office and planted it in Laila Sloan’s office. For the same reason someone sent Laila a bogus love note from my e-mail account. For the same reason someone left a lay-off-or-else note in my office and took it back again while I was in class.”
