Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I only worked for the man.”

  “Yes, but for many years,” I said, surprised that she would hold herself back from helping the sister of the man she’d known for so long and, rumor had it, was in love with. “Nevertheless, I hope you’ll extend yourself to Lorraine.”

  “You really think she needs me?”

  “Of course she needs you. How is she to find anything? She won’t know where to go for help or information. She doesn’t even know where Professor Newmark’s will is. Harriet said you might be able to find it. I know she meant to ask you. It can only be that her other responsibilities distracted her.”

  “I know where most of his personal papers were kept.”

  “See? She was right. You’re the person to help Lorraine.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop by after work and see how she’s doing.”

  “That would be very kind of you,” I said.

  She looked at her watch. “I could probably run over there now and see if she’s free for lunch.”

  “Don’t run anywhere, Mrs. Tingwell,” Verne Foner said, rushing into the office and dropping a pile of papers on his desk. “I need you to have these copied for my afternoon class.”

  “That’s Edgar’s job,” Mrs. Tingwell said, returning to her desk.

  “Yes, but I don’t see Ed right now. Do you?” Foner called out. “And I need these for my one-o’clock class.” He turned to me. “Damned administration won’t let us put a copier in here, even if we could find one. Something about it being too hard on the carpeting. Can you believe it?”

  “These rugs do look to be quite old,” I said.

  “It’s just going to stand in one place. I’m not going to roll the copier around. It’s ridiculous. We’ve got a department to run.” He went next door and dropped a folder of papers on the corner of Mrs. Tingwell’s desk. “Ask the librarian downstairs to disconnect the coin operation so you can use that copier,” I heard him say. “She’ll do it for you. Wouldn’t do it for me, the witch.” He returned, threw himself in his chair, lifted the telephone receiver, and propped his feet on the edge of the desk, his expensive British-made shoes and the unusual diamond-shaped pattern of their soles staring me in the face. How rude, I thought, thinking of the hole in Adlai Stevenson’s shoe when he appeared on TV during his presidential campaign against Dwight Eisenhower. Foner dialed a number and proceeded to carry on a loud conversation with the person on the other end.

  I could see Mrs. Tingwell through the open door, her lips tight with disapproval, pick up the folder and leave the office.

  Foner cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “By the way, Rebecca, I heard that Midwest Literature Today accepted your paper. Congratulations! Although I thought you could do better than that. I forgot to tell you, I finished my next book. I’ve got a major publisher interested in it already. It’s going to be on the influence of George Meredith on Robert Louis Stevenson.”

  “Goody for you,” Rebecca said, gathering up her papers. “I’ll see you later, Jessica. I need peace and quiet for this.”

  Foner laughed. “She’s just jealous,” he said, returning to his conversation. “I’ve got to get off,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “I have a class this afternoon. Sure, I’ll let you read the manuscript. Anytime you want. Give me a call next week.”

  I sat at my desk, trying to ignore Vernon Foner. I jotted a note to Professor Rosenfeld about the memorial service arrangements, suggesting he ask Mrs. Tingwell to get involved, and tucked the pink message slips in my briefcase. I planned to stop for lunch in the cafeteria before trying Dr. Zelinsky again.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher, Foner, how is everyone today?” said Professor Larry Durbin, who’d just arrived. He stood at his desk across the room from mine and shrugged out of his windbreaker as he scanned his messages.

  “I’m well, thanks,” I said. “And how are you?”

  “Trying to get back into the swing of things,” he said, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair. He walked over to the mahogany desk and swung his briefcase at Foner’s ankles. “Have a little respect, Vernon. No one wants to see your six-hundred-dollar shoes up on this desk.”

  Foner dropped his feet to the floor. “What the hell did you do that for?” he said, leaning over and rubbing his ankle. “That hurt, Larry.”

  “I think you’ll live, Verne,” Durbin said. He cocked his head in my direction. “Putting one’s feet up when a lady is in the room doesn’t become our acting department chair, not to mention having so little consideration for this beautiful antique desk.” Durbin said to me, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Foner laughed. “Larry here can drop a Shakespearean line at the drop of a hat,” he said. “What’s that from, Larry, Hamlet?”

  “Actually, Verne, it’s from The Tempest, spoken by a court jester. Translation? Adversity sometimes causes us to have to deal with people we’d rather avoid.”

  Foner said nothing, but a pout had formed on his lips.

  “I’m driving over to the hospital to visit Phil Adler this afternoon and I need Edgar to take over my two-thirty office hours,” the corpulent Shakespeare expert said to Foner. “I don’t have any appointments, but I need him here in case any of my students show up.”

  “Ed’s supposed to help me with a class at that time,” Foner said, sounding like a petulant child.

  “You don’t really need him, and I do,” Durbin said. “This is the only time I can get over there without skipping a class. If you want my good opinion when it comes time to approve a new chairman, you’ll accommodate me today.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think about it, Verne. Just do it. I’m grabbing a bite at the caf and I’m off.” He pulled his jacket from the chair and walked out of the room. I gathered my things and hurried after Durbin.

  “Professor Durbin, I wonder if I might ask a favor of you,” I said, catching up to him.

  “You may ask me anything, Mrs. Fletcher, provided you address me as Larry. Only my students call me Professor.”

  “I’ll be happy to call you Larry if you’ll reciprocate and call me Jessica,” I said, jogging to keep up with his long stride. I was glad I’d kept up my running program since coming to Indiana.

  He noticed my gait and slowed down. “My pleasure, Jessica,” he said. “I’m on my way to lunch. Would you like to join me?”

  “Actually, I would,” I said. “And I’d like to hitch a ride to the hospital, too, if I may.”

  “How fortunate we’re both going in the same direction.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  We chatted idly over lunch, exchanging histories. Durbin and his wife, Melissa, were originally from Chicago, where he’d taught at a university. They’d moved to Schoolman after their children had finished college and were off on their own. At the time, they’d been contemplating cutting back on obligations and finding a simpler life in a small town. The offer of a post on the faculty at Schoolman had fit right in with their plans.

  I told him about my hometown, Cabot Cove, how I began writing for fun, and how, unbeknownst to me, my nephew sent my manuscript to a publisher, who accepted it, starting a whole new career for this former substitute teacher. I mentioned that I’d taught for a while at Manhattan University when I’d lived in New York, and that was where I’d met Harriet Schoolman Bennett.

  Durbin was a popular teacher, even though his specialty, Shakespeare, was not an easy one. Several students joined us at lunch to pepper him with questions about the Bard. “I’ve got an examination scheduled next week,” he said, laughing as two more young people sat down. “That’s why I’m so popular now.”

  I waited till we were on our way to the hospital in New Salem to pose the questions I really wanted to ask. I started with: “Are you a close friend of Phil Adler’s?”

  “Used to be closer than we are now.”

  “What happened with Phil and his wife, if you don’t mind my asking?”
>
  He fell silent.

  “If you’d rather not discuss it ...” I said.

  “Oh, no, it’s not a problem. Let’s see. You want to know about Kate Adler, dear Kate. When she was with him, the four of us spent considerable time together. Kate was from Chicago and knew some of the people we knew. But when she left him about a year ago, Phil became very morose. Wouldn’t step foot out of the house, except to go to work, rebuffed every overture we made to get together. Eventually we stopped asking.”

  “I understand his wife was unhappy with life at a small college.”

  “My goodness, how long are you here, and you already heard that? Schoolman is such a small town, isn’t it? We knew Kate wasn’t happy—she was pretty vocal about it. She missed Chicago—bright lights, big city kind of thing. Still, we were kind of hurt that she left without even saying good-bye. It must have been a heckuva fight they had.”

  “Is that what caused the breakup?”

  “According to Phil. He told me they’d been arguing all evening and he finally told her that if she hated it so much here, why didn’t she leave. Which is exactly what she did. Never suggest anything you don’t really want,” he said with a laugh that seemed forced. “At any rate, she packed up that night and was gone by the morning. Really broke him up, poor fella.”

  “Did you keep up your acquaintance with her?”

  “We tried. Melissa sent her a couple of notes, but they were returned with no forwarding address. I guess she really did want to shake the dust of this town off her shoes.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, thinking that the large man behind the wheel was not comfortable discussing what had happened between the Adlers.

  “How did you get to know Phil?” he asked as we drove through New Salem toward the hospital.

  “Actually, I don’t know him very well at all. We met when Harriet Bennett came to visit him the other day. I accompanied her.”

  “And you’re visiting him again?”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m hoping to see a doctor at the hospital.”

  His face turned pink. “I beg your pardon, Jessica. I just assumed. It’s none of my business. I didn’t mean to pry into personal matters.”

  “Not at all,” I said as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. “I’ve taken advantage of you under false pretenses. I don’t drive, you see. I have a bicycle, but the hospital is a bit too far to pedal over to. When I heard you say you were coming here, I jumped at the possibility of a ride.”

  “Of course. And you’re more than welcome. If you have to get to the hospital another time, I’d be happy to drive you again.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but I’m hoping I don’t need to come here too often,” I said, letting him think it was a medical problem that had brought me to New Salem Hospital.

  “An hour will do it for me,” he said as we entered the lobby. “Does that give you enough time?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  We stopped at the reception desk to get passes and agreed to meet back in the lobby.

  I took the elevator downstairs to the laboratory, hoping Dr. Zelinsky would be amenable to a visit rather than a phone call. He’d given me his card, but had been frankly skeptical that he would find anything to support my theory that the cause of death was not accidental. Since I hadn’t given him warning that I was on my way, I was concerned that if his call wasn’t about the autopsy, I would have made the trip for nothing.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I was hoping my call had enticed you,” Dr. Zelinsky said, standing as I entered his office. He reached across the desk to shake my hand. “Please, sit down.”

  “You’ve completed the autopsy, I take it.”

  “Did it right after you left. A number of tests I sent out won’t come back for a couple of weeks, but I doubt they’ll change the results.” He sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled above his chest, and smiled. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our conversation.”

  “I’m pleased that you gave my opinion some consideration.”

  “I have great respect for your opinion. That’s what convinced me that we could work well together.”

  “I’d be happy to cooperate with you in any manner I can, but I’m not certain how you think we can work together. But if my assistance will be helpful in any way, I’m happy to offer it.”

  He rolled forward in his chair. “Work! Work! What’s not to understand about working together? It’s easy. What kind of connections do you have in the publishing industry?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Publishing. You’ve had many books published. You certainly must know lots of people in the publishing industry.”

  “Of course, but I thought your call was about the autopsy.”

  “We can get to that later. I want to know what kinds of connections you would bring to the party.”

  “Is that what your call was about? You want to write a book?”

  “I believe I may. After all, other medical examiners have had books published. There’s Dr. Henry C. Lee, for instance. You know him?”

  “The famous forensic scientist? Of course I’ve heard of him. He consults in a lot of high-profile cases. He was a witness in the O. J. Simpson trial. I believe he was called to testify on blood patterns.”

  “That’s the man. Doesn’t he have a book out?”

  “Several.”

  “Precisely. Well, he had to start somewhere.”

  “And you intend to start now.”

  “Yes. I figured you’d be able to introduce me to some of your publishing contacts in New York. I could dictate my notes and you could clean them up for me. We might have a best-seller on our hands. Split the profits, eighty-twenty. That’s a pretty good payday. What do you say?”

  “The eighty would be for you, I assume, and the twenty for me.”

  “Well, of course. The ideas would be mine, after all. All you’d have to do is write it.”

  “Would this sudden interest in writing a book have to do with the postmortem on Wesley Newmark?”

  He leaned back in his chair again. “You know, after years as a pathologist and especially as county coroner, you get a feeling for a case. It’s not anything you can put your finger on. It’s more the accumulated wisdom of a man’s experience. I can just look at a body and know the cause of death.”

  “And the cause of death for Wesley Newmark?”

  “A blow to the head, of course.”

  “Yes, I think we knew that.”

  “Of course, I thought something was fishy when I first saw the body, but I didn’t want to say anything at the time.”

  “Really?”

  “No. Can’t be too careful with these kinds of things, you know. Don’t want to ruffle any feathers, upset the family, not until we have this case locked up, do we?”

  “Recognizing that the cause of death raises questions is not the same as solving the crime. It’s just step one.”

  “We leave that to the cops. My job is to enhance their awareness.”

  “You’ve obviously found something that leads you to believe Wes Newmark’s death was not an accident.”

  “You know, good science trumps a crime every time.”

  “I’m eager to hear what you’ve discovered.”

  “The body never lies. But it takes a careful pathologist to coax the information from the dead.” He sounded as if he were already dictating his book.

  “Dr. Zelinsky, I’m gratified that you kept an open mind to the possibility of foul play, but please tell me, what makes you think it may have occurred?”

  “Carbon.”

  “Carbon?”

  “Not where you would expect to see it.”

  “In the wound, you mean?”

  “Yes!” He grinned. “And that’s not all.”

  “What else?”

  “Would you like to see?”

  “All right.”

&n
bsp; “You don’t get queasy at the sight of a dead body, do you? Wouldn’t want you fainting on the morgue floor.”

  “I think I can control myself.”

  We left his office and walked down the hall to the hospital morgue, a tiny, chilly, antiseptic room. Built into the wall at waist height were four refrigerated drawers, their square ends facing out. Zelinsky turned on the overhead light and pushed a stainless-steel gurney out of the way. He grabbed latex gloves from a box on a shelf, drew them on, and unlatched one of the two drawers on the right, pulling it out only far enough to view the head and shoulders of the deceased. He folded back the white sheet and seated himself on a stool he rolled up next to the body. From his pocket, he took out a retractable pointer of the kind used by lecturers. Careful not to touch anything, he explained what the head wound revealed.

  “First, notice that the angle of the lesion is not straight. The blow did not come from directly above the victim. The direction of the strike that caused this mark is from lower right to upper left. See? The skin has been pushed to the side.”

  That would mean whoever hit him was right-handed, I said to myself, and whatever he was hit with was fairly narrow. I looked around for another stool, but since there was none, I bent down to see the wound, trying not to let my head block the light. “May I play devil’s advocate?” I asked.

  “Be my guest.” “What if he were sitting in a chair, leaning over something? Then whatever fell on him could conceivably have provided such a glancing blow.”

  “Maybe, but here’s the interesting part. When the ceiling fell in, a great deal of dust from the collapsing wallboard would have come with it. If the avalanche of debris coming from above had caused this wound, there should be a lot of that wallboard dust in it as well.”

  “And there isn’t?”

  “There’s some, of course, but it’s light and evenly distributed, as if the dust were in the air and settled on everything later.”

  “But the body was found beneath a file cabinet. Let’s say he was sitting at an oblique angle and the cabinet fell on top of him in such a way that the comer of it hit him in the head. Wouldn’t the cabinet have shielded the wound from the debris that fell in afterward?”