by Donn Taylor
His eyebrows climbed another notch. It was an irritating habit of his. “And what reason might that be?”
“Didn’t Professor Thorn tell you? We were trying to find Laila Sloan’s murderer before Captain Staggart could pin it on us. We must have gotten close, because someone planted false evidence on both of us, and we both received threatening notes. I got knocked in the head in my own house, and whoever killed Marcus Fischbach put his body in Professor Thorn’s car and left Wiccan symbols there to implicate her.”
His eyebrows descended into a frown. “What Mara told me is privileged information between counsel and client. Please confine your comments to your own case.”
His first-naming Mara rankled me, but I had no logical basis for complaining about it. “All right,” I said. “The police mentioned something about my tools being used to force the trunk on Mara’s . . . uh . . . Professor Thorn’s car. The cops checked my tools once before to see if I burglarized Laila Sloan’s house. They decided I didn’t, so they gave me back the tools. I put them away and haven’t seen them since.”
“So you’re saying someone took your tools, too.” Funderburk’s eyebrows ascended again. I wondered how many calories it took for that exercise. It looked easier than jogging.
“If they were used on Professor Thorn’s car,” I said, “I’m not the one who used them. Are you representing me or the prosecuting attorney?”
He smiled the bland smile of a man who has nothing to lose. “We are exploring the possibility of my representing you. There are a number of possible defenses against a charge of murder—”
“Only one of them interests me: I didn’t do it.” I made my voice sarcastic. “Now, my sagacious counselor, which of the two murders do they suspect I committed?”
Funderburk contemplated his fingertips. “I don’t think they’ve decided. I should think it depends upon whose blood was on the blackjack. Would you have any ideas about that?”
“If I’ve never seen the blackjack, how do I know whose blood is on it?”
He stood and raised his eyebrows again. “That would seem a reasonable proposition in logic. If the premise were to prove true, your inference from it would also be true.” He cleared his throat. “I will see what I can do for you. In the meantime, you won’t want to be going anywhere.” He moved toward the door.
“On the contrary,” I said, “I very much want to go anywhere but here. I presume a good lawyer can arrange that.”
He sniffed and said nothing.
“One other thing,” I said before he could escape. “Last Tuesday, Professor Brenda Kirsch had a blackjack in her desk. I don’t know if it had blood on it.”
“How do you know that?” he asked. “You said you’d never seen a blackjack.”
“I said I didn’t think I’d ever seen one, and that I hadn’t seen the one they claim was in my desk. As to the one in Professor Kirsch’s desk, someone else saw it there and told me.”
His jaw tightened. “Who was this person?”
I met his gaze. “I’m not at liberty to say. Not until he or she gives me permission.”
He said nothing, but stalked out and closed the door behind him. I sat there alone and wondered what the penalty was for murdering one’s lawyer. Maybe I could get off for justifiable homicide. In his case, maybe we could call it justifiable insecticide.
I didn’t sit there long. The policeman who’d brought me escorted me back to the holding cell. The youngest was asleep on the bench. The other four sat sprawled against a wall, staring into space. I assumed the same position against the opposite wall.
The elder spokesman’s eyes probed mine. “I’ve been thinkin’ you didn’t talk straight on that story about the chief’s wife. Is she blonde or brunette?”
“That depends on how she feels when she gets up in the morning,” I said and dropped my head to my chest, pretending sleep. It was an old joke, but it ended the conversation.
I must have slept then, for the next thing I heard was a bored voice calling my cell mates by name. It was daylight. Pairs of policemen escorted each man to “see the judge,” as they put it. None of them returned, and I was left alone. The police had taken my watch along with my other possessions, so I had no idea what time it was. After a while, a policeman brought me a cold breakfast whose only virtue was that I didn’t have to pay for it.
I spent the morning reviewing all the information we’d turned up on Laila’s murder. It still added up to the same thing: nothing. When I got tired of sitting, I got up and exercised—running in place, sit-ups and push-ups, other exercises I hadn’t thought of in years. I’d be sore the next day, but right then all I wanted was to get through the morning. My internal musicians alternated between soothing me with lullabies and bugging me with atonal nonsense.
Finally, two cops I hadn’t seen before told me to come with them. They led me to the room where I’d met with Funderburk, and I found him sitting there again. This time he looked smug instead of impatient.
He said nothing until the cops left. Then he made me wait a few minutes more while he cleaned his glasses. He put them on, slowly and deliberately, and gave me a condescending glance. “You’re free to go, Professor Barclay. I have convinced them of your innocence. At least for now.”
“That’s good news,” I said, “but not good enough. How did you convince them?”
He showed a self-satisfied smile. “The blood on your blackjack was type A. Laila and Marcus Fischbach both had type O.”
“You ran the lab tests yourself, I take it?”
My comment did not appear to ruffle him. “If I had, they would have thought the test was biased. But their lab provided objective results. Beyond that, I convinced them I had witnesses who would place you in the western part of the state when Fischbach was killed.”
“Staggart already knew that, so why did they arrest me?”
He gave his eyebrows another workout. “An attempt at misdirection, I’d guess. They probably hoped to confuse you with the Fischbach murder and then sweat something incriminating out of you about Laila Sloan. They’ve done a lot of that kind of thing lately. But if that’s what they intended, they came up empty.”
“So what do I do now?”
“You are completely free, though it wouldn’t be wise to leave Overton City.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“You will be billed. But I’ll be happy to drive you home at no extra charge.”
“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t relish his company, but it was the quickest way to get away from the police station.
He drove a Mercedes CL600 coupe with Capri Blue exterior and Exclusive Stone Leather interior. I wouldn’t have known all that, but he volunteered the information. He also made a point of demonstrating the hands-off phone system on some inconsequential call that made no sense to me.
He navigated the city traffic with casual competence and parked in front of my house. He cut the ignition, removed his glasses, and made a study of cleaning them with his handkerchief. Still focused on them, he cleared his throat and asked, “Tell me, Professor Barclay, what is your relationship with Mara Thorn?”
I turned and tried to look him in the eye, but he stayed focused on his glasses, which by now must have been the cleanest spectacles in the state. “We are professors on the same college faculty,” I said. “At least, we were until we got suspended.”
“Come, now.” He threw a quick glance at me, put on his glasses, and stared ahead down the street. “Everyone knows you’ve collaborated on various activities. Do you know why she kept a package of ammunition in her apartment when she had no weapon that would require it?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
“I did, and she said, ‘When the time comes for me to bite the bullet, it will be easier if I have one to bite.’ ”
“So ask her again. And say, ‘Pretty please.’ ”
He grimaced, still looking straight ahead. “This is getting us nowhere, Professor Barclay. What is your relationshi
p with Mara?”
“We are suspects in two murder cases,” I said to his right ear, which was all I had to talk to while he avoided eye contact. “And we’ve worked together to try to find who the real murderer or murderers might be.”
His eyes returned suddenly to mine with an accusatory gaze. “But you were suspended because she spent the night in your house.”
“Yes.” If he wanted to know more, he’d have to ask.
“And precisely what were you two doing there all night?”
I grinned at him. “You have a terribly suspicious mind. Why don’t you ask her?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m asking you. Do you have a romantic relationship with her?”
The grin left my face. “My only romantic relationship died three years ago. What happened to yours?”
That last was a shot in the dark, but it apparently hit home. I learned later that he’d been divorced three times.
“That’s none of your business,” he snapped. “And I will ask Mara. She’s having dinner with me tonight.” He sucked in an angry breath and turned on the ignition. “Get out.”
I complied. Funderburk gunned the Mercedes through a screeching U-turn that shed enough rubber to retread a full set of tires. For all his middle-aged air of superiority, Funderburk was acting like a jealous teenager about Mara. A grown man wouldn’t ask questions. He’d make his play with the woman he wanted, and if she turned him down he’d look for another.
Mara was far too good for that kind of man. But why did it matter to me? Was I jealous? I dismissed the thought. I’d come to think of Mara as a good friend. I wanted the best for her, but that was the end of it. If she wanted an officious snob like Funderburk, she was welcome to him.
Inside my house, I checked to see if anything besides the toolbox was missing. It wasn’t. The black warm-ups that might incriminate me for violating the crime scene at Laila’s house still lay in the washing machine where I’d left them more than a week before. I considered getting rid of them, but decided against it. If the police hadn’t found them yet, they probably wouldn’t.
My internal musicians suddenly went on strike, and the loneliness of the house seeped into my being like a case of the flu. To keep from sinking into the Slough of Despond, I called Dr. Sheldon.
“So you’re out of the hoosegow,” he said. “Did you break out or did my private shyster spring you?”
“Your vocabulary tells me you’ve been reading mid-twentieth-century crime stories,” I said. ”Your shyster did spring me, as you put it, but he’d rather send me to the electric chair.”
He snorted. “As I told you before, they use lethal injection now. It’s supposed to be painless.”
“That’s why Funderburk would prefer sending me to the chair,” I said. “Where did you find him?”
Dr. Sheldon chuckled. “Let’s just say I found him. He has the utility value of a good plumbing fixture. You don’t have to enjoy its company, but you keep it around as long as it flushes when you pull the chain.”
He’d apparently made an earlier acquaintance with plumbing fixtures than I, for the ones I learned on had handles instead of chains.
But he gave me no time for reflection. “Your friend Seagrave called me. When he couldn’t find you, Mara gave him my number. We’ve set up a meeting with him at my place tonight at seven. He says he’s found something interesting.”
CHAPTER 37
We’d be meeting with Seagrave at seven, but what would I do with the rest of the afternoon? I called Mara and got no answer. I didn’t call Seagrave because he’d have work to do before our meeting. I could stay home and mope, but that would bring back the despondency I needed so desperately to escape. More than ever, I felt unseen forces closing in on me. And I felt time stalking me like a tiger. If our investigation didn’t hit pay dirt before Wednesday noon brought Thanksgiving break, we might as well forget it.
So I headed for the campus. I might yet be able to jar something loose. The skeptic in me said the effort was futile. The gambler in me said go for it. I chose to gamble.
I followed the walkway up to the campus, bypassed the liberal arts center, and climbed to the second floor of the science center. I found Bob Harkins in his lab, wearing a black lab apron and shooing a student toward a distant table. None of the students looked up as I entered.
Harkins greeted me with a scowl. “You’re not welcome here, Press. You’re suspended. You don’t have faculty status.”
I grinned at him. “You talk like a man with a bad conscience.”
His jaw flexed. “You’ve already tried to ruin my marriage. What dirty tricks are you up to now?”
“If trying to find out who killed Laila Sloan is a dirty trick, I plead guilty. Besides, you messed up your own marriage when you chose not to tell your wife what you did in high school. Speaking of which, I talked to Morris Wimberly a couple of days ago. I gather he shared Laila’s affections.”
“The past is buried, Press. Why dig it up again?”
“Because in the present we have an unsolved murder. The last time we talked, you got so angry you’d have hit me if you’d been close enough. Maybe Laila made you that angry when you were close enough.”
Bob’s eyes narrowed. “If you keep making wild accusations, Press, you’ll make someone angry enough to shut your mouth. Permanently.”
“Is that someone you, Bob?” I asked.
He stalked away and left me staring at his back. I felt pretty foolish. I’d further alienated a former friend and hadn’t turned up a single bit of new information.
I found Gifford Jessel behind the desk in his eagle’s nest. He was leaning back in the swivel chair, hands clasped behind his head as he gazed at the ceiling. I envied the philosopher’s prerogative of lounging and gazing.
But not for long. When he saw me, he sat bolt upright and stopped me in the doorway with a restraining hand, palm outward. For a moment I visualized him as Marshal Pétain issuing that famous order at the Battle of Verdun: “They shall not pass.” My internal orchestra dramatized the vision by playing “La Marseillaise.” Then Giff was again the balding philosophy professor, officious in performing some duty I hadn’t heard about.
He let me know in a hurry.
“Don’t come in, Press. The dean has appointed me chairman of your faculty hearing committee on Wednesday. We can’t talk privately, or it will prejudice the hearing.”
“I thought Dean-Dean had prejudiced it already,” I said, careful not to enter the office. “The committee members know which side their bread is buttered on.”
Jessel frowned. “That’s a cynical thing to say.”
“I didn’t come to talk about that,” I said. “I came to say I’m sorry about your mother and sorry I missed the funeral. I was out of town. She was a sweet lady, and I always enjoyed visiting her in the nursing home.”
He showed a guarded smile. “Visiting her was like breaking open a piñata. You never knew what would fall out.”
I moved to exploit the opening he’d given me. “Sometimes she made perfect sense. Sometimes she said more than she would have in days when she was more discreet.”
His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
I showed him the same grin I’d showed Bob Harkins. “As I said, she was a sweet lady. By the way, I’m still working on Laila’s murder. Would you like to tell me any more about that?”
He stood and leaned with both palms on the desk. “I told you before, Press. There’s a real murderer around here somewhere. If you keep provoking him, you’re likely to get hurt. You and that Wiccan . . . companion of yours.” He gave the word an unsavory meaning.
I raised an eyebrow. “Now who’s prejudicing the hearing?”
His hands slapped the desk. “Get out, Press. I’ll see you at the hearing Wednesday afternoon.”
So much for philosophical detachment.
My watch said three o’clock—still time enough to chase down one or two more suspects. I found Pappas, the janitor, in the basement. He greeted me
with a hostile gaze and leaned on the handle of a wax mop, his biceps rippling under a shirt two sizes too small.
His guttural voice almost swallowed his words. “What you want?”
In our previous conversation he’d volunteered information he didn’t have to. Now he’d turned belligerent. I wondered what had caused the difference.
I grinned at him as I had at Bob Harkins. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about saying you saw me someplace you didn’t.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Why should I change?”
I dropped the grin. “Because Staggart isn’t the only one who knows you served prison time for assault.”
He shrugged the other shoulder. “He don’t need my word now. Say he got enough on you without it.”
That stopped me for a moment. I didn’t know what to ask next, but I didn’t have to because Pappas had something else on his chest.
“Mr. Staggart say you make out that I kill Miz Sloan.”
“I am trying to find the murderer,” I said. That sounded too defensive, so I added, “If that’s not you, who is it?”
He sucked in his breath. “Someone already knock you in the head. You keep on, maybe you got no head for them to knock.”
He turned his back and mopped the floor, great muscles bulging with each stroke. That effectively closed the discussion, so I climbed back to the ground floor, taking each step slowly and wondering what to do next.
I didn’t wonder long, for I met Threnody Harkins at the main entrance. She gave me a look that made Pappas’s glower look like a smile.
“Hello, Threnody,” I said. “Been disposing of any more rivals lately?”
She broke eye contact. For a moment I thought she’d walk past without conceding my existence. But at the last moment she spoke in her best up-East accent. “You will be very fortunate, ex-Professor Barclay, if someone doesn’t dispose of you.”
So now I’d talked to four of my five suspects, and all I’d jarred loose were more hard feelings. One part of my mind said quit before I dug myself a deeper hole. The other part said keep digging with the faint hope I might find gold before the hole fell in on me.
