Majoring In Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  He looked annoyed. “Whose side are you on?”

  “At the risk of being irritating, I’m on the side of the truth. I want to know what really happened.”

  “What about the carbon?”

  “What about the carbon? You haven’t told me.”

  He used the pointer to indicate the crack in the exposed skull. “The bone samples we took from there showed tiny particles of rust and carbon. What does that tell you?”

  “It tells me that whatever made that wound is metal, either iron or steel. That supports the filing cabinet argument. But we need to see if the cabinet is rusting, and even more important, if it has any blood along its corner, although, frankly, I can’t see how a loaded file cabinet would tip over on its comer anyway. Plus, if a corner hit him, the wound would be triangular, not flat on the bottom, which is what I see.” My mind was racing. I wonder if I can get into Kammerer House to examine that cabinet before the demolition starts. Do we have enough to convince the police to preserve the scene? Maybe I can bring my camera to record any evidence before it’s destroyed.

  “Ahem.” Dr. Zelinsky cleared his throat, impatient with my silence. “The filing cabinet doesn’t account for the carbon, unless someone ran a pencil up and down the side. To my way of thinking, the carbon rules out the filing cabinet.”

  “Do you know the composition of the carbon?” I asked. “What it might have come from?”

  He shook his head, covered up the corpse, and closed the drawer. “Those are the tests that haven’t come back yet,” he said unhappily.

  “We’re talking about the aftermath of a tornado. Isn’t it possible the wind could have blown carbon into the wound?”

  “Anything’s possible,” he said, locking up the morgue, “but I don’t think so.”

  “Have you notified the police yet?” I asked.

  “I’m planning to give Bill Parish a call this afternoon.”

  We walked back to his office, my mind occupied with what I’d seen and what he’d discovered.

  “I thought you’d be delighted,” he said. “Why such a long face?”

  “I suspected Wes Newmark was murdered, but the truth of it doesn’t make me happy. We have a job ahead of us to convince the authorities that what you’ve found is significant. Not just the police, but the college administration. And there’s one thing that worries me more than all the others.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Now we know there’s a killer on campus.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The yellow police tape surrounding Kammerer House rippled in the breeze as I approached. Keep Out signs every fifteen feet discouraged the curious from trespassing. I stood in front of the damaged building and studied its facade. From this angle, I couldn’t see the extent of the destruction that the tornado had wreaked. Behind the building was quite a different picture. There, an observer could see where the twister had torn down three walls of the top floor, and breached the ceiling of the one below.

  In the back, it was obvious where rescuers had removed part of a wall below a window to get to Wes Newmark’s body. But from the front it looked as if I could just climb the stairs to the door and walk right in. Of course, if I tried, it would be in full sight of people lingering on the quadrangle; most afternoon classes had let out.

  I had been warned away once. Lieutenant Parish had let me off with only a scolding. He might not be so tolerant this time. Did I dare cross the police line again?

  I walked to where the ribbon dipped low to the ground, gingerly stepped over it, and hurried up the walkway to the stairs. How embarrassing it would be if the door were locked and I had to retrace my steps. It wasn’t. The doorknob turned easily and I stepped into Kammerer House’s vestibule.

  It was an eerie sight to walk into the front hall, where everything was as it had always been, except for the layer of fine white dust coating the walls, the tops of the furniture, and the floor. I closed the door gently and stood still, absorbing the atmosphere of the old house. The sour smell of dust and mildew assaulted my nose. It hadn’t taken long for mold to set in where the remains of the building were not protected from the elements. I could feel a chilly draft coming from the stairs leading to the now-open second floor. I looked down at my feet. I was not the first to enter this way. Several sets of footprints had trodden across the Oriental rugs, disturbing the even layer of dust.

  The door to the parlor was open. I walked carefully, trying not to disturb things as I passed. I could see from the threshold the mass of rubble that had poured through a break in the ceiling, almost filling the room. The supports the firemen had put in place to hold up the wreckage while they pulled Newmark’s body free were still there. I took out my digital camera and began to snap pictures. I particularly wanted a shot of the rug where the corpse had lain.

  Just inside the parlor door stood a wooden desk. Fingerprints on the dusty top showed where someone had braced himself on the corner—probably a policeman or fireman—in order to peer under the debris. I photographed the prints, and contemplated my next move. There was no way around it. If I wanted those pictures of the rug, I was going to have to crawl under the debris and trust that the supports were still solid. The only other alternative was to leave by the front door, walk around to the back where the firemen had dragged Newmark out, pry off the plywood the police had used to cover the hole, and hope a patrol car or security guard didn’t show up to chase me away.

  I drew a kerchief from the pocket of my running suit, folded it into a triangle, and tied it across my nose like an old-time bandit to avoid breathing in the dust. I looped the camera cord around my neck, took a small flashlight from my handbag, laid it on the floor, and knelt down to plot my course. Too bad I’d forgotten a hat, or better still, a hard hat. Too late for that now. Cautiously I crawled under the heap of broken building materials that had been Newmark’s tomb, being especially careful not to brush against the fragile-looking jacks that held up the closest end of the pile. I was surprised at how dark it was when my body blocked the meager light from the opening. I switched on the flashlight and sat back on my knees. Fortunately, the firemen had been taller than I am, and the space they’d cleared was high enough for me to sit up.

  I raised the camera and began shooting, starting from my left and taking a new picture every few feet, automatically triggering the flash. Here’s where one of those panoramic cameras would have come in handy, I thought. I moved on all fours toward where the body had been found, stopping to take shots of the rug. Ahead of me was the file cabinet, lying on its side atop another brace, its top drawer hanging open, the files dangerously close to spilling out. I shined the flashlight along its corner. There was no sign of rust and no hint of blood. But I had expected that. I’d just put down the flashlight and had picked up the camera for another shot when I felt a stiff breeze coming from the direction of the parlor door. That’s odd, I thought. I wonder if somebody just came in the front entrance. Even though I was out of the line of sight for anyone checking under the wreckage, I’d left my handbag by the desk, a sure sign of my presence. I held very still and listened for voices or other sounds of life. Nothing. Just let me get this picture and I’ll be on my way, I told myself. I straightened up and snapped a shot of the corner of the file cabinet, hoping the camera’s auto focus was working properly.

  A strange noise made me freeze. Were those footsteps upstairs? I heard a creak, and then a shower of dust rained down on me. Nuts! Someone is up there, I thought, brushing the dust off my jacket. Kids never can resist a place they’re forbidden to go.

  There wasn’t room for me to turn around, so I began slowly backing out the way I’d come. I paused to shine the flashlight across the narrow confines once more, and a black square behind a wooden joist caught my eye. What’s that? I started crawling forward again, the light in my hand flickering up to the square and away as I awkwardly made my way on hands and knees toward this new attraction. It was the hearth. I’d forgotten Kammerer House had a fireplace. And i
f it has a fireplace, what else would it have, Jessica?

  I reached the fallen rafter, which lay on an angle across the dark cavity. I poked my flashlight over and behind it, and stretched out on the floor so I could see underneath. Lying wedged between the wood and the stone side of the fireplace was a set of three wrought-iron tools, a shovel, a broom, and a poker, all of which had been dislodged from their stand by the avalanche of debris. I pointed the flashlight along the square handles. Could one of these be the murder weapon? It was hard to see if there was any rust, but surely there would be soot, and soot was carbon.

  I squinted at the poker. Two hairs caught in the rough edges of the metal three-quarters of the way up the shaft glistened in the beam from my flashlight. I maneuvered to shoot a photograph of the fireplace tools and the fallen stand behind them, but knew that what I really needed was the poker itself. Hopefully the forensic laboratory where the coroner had sent his samples could handle this item as well. He would need to send a sample of hair from the corpse for the lab to seek a match with the hairs on the poker, but that shouldn’t be a problem. And a simple spray of Luminol would show whether there was blood on the iron.

  I tugged the kerchief from my face and wrapped it around my hand, hoping not to add my fingerprints to whoever’s might already be there. I was in an awkward position, lying on the floor, left hand over the lumber, holding the flashlight, my head wedged between the bottom of the wood and the flagstone fireplace floor, the camera under my chin, no room to reach my other hand in to grab the poker. I withdrew my hand, laid the flashlight on the floor, aiming its beam beneath the heavy timber, and wriggled backward, setting off another cascade of dust. Fearful of getting it in my eyes, I shielded my face with one hand and groped with the other, hoping the tool I touched first would be the correct one.

  A groan from above triggered another rain of dust, this time with chunks of wood and wallboard. I saw the file cabinet quiver. Someone upstairs was causing the debris to move.

  “Wait!” I yelled. “I’m down here.”

  My fist closed around one of the tools and I yanked it out from under the rafter just as the heavy timber shifted and fell on the floor with a thud. A second earlier and my hand would have been caught beneath its weight.

  While my hand had escaped, the rafter had landed on my flashlight, crushing it and leaving me in the dark. But I had my poker—at least I hoped I did. I couldn’t see to verify I’d gotten the right tool.

  The sound of more movement mobilized me. Suddenly alert to the possibility that the upstairs maneuvering was not just a student prank, I quickly retreated, praying I wouldn’t knock into one of the props that kept me from being buried alive. I would have to leave this cave rump first; there was no other choice. Near where I believed I had entered, I reached out my leg, probing with my foot to be sure I wasn’t going to hit the jack. All clear. I planted my knee, slid back, and reached out with the other foot.

  A hand grabbed my ankle!

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of there right now,” an angry male voice said.

  “That’s just what I’m doing,” I said, “if you’ll let go of me.” The hand released my leg and I backed out into the darkened parlor. The afternoon sun had slipped toward the horizon; its soft light cast a golden glow over the mound of rubble. I sat back on my heels, placed the poker on the floor under the desk to keep from getting more dust on it, and looked up into the furious face of a local uniformed cop.

  “I know you weren’t expecting anyone to be in the house,” I said, “but all your tramping around upstairs could have set off another landslide, Officer. It’s a delicate balance under there.”

  “What are you talking about, lady? I never went upstairs.”

  “Someone was upstairs,” I said, getting to my feet; he made no move to help me. I brushed dust off my jacket. “I heard them.”

  “There’s nobody else in the house, lady, except you, and you’re not supposed to be here. Come on. You’re under arrest.”

  “Under arrest? That’s preposterous.”

  “You going to give me a hard time, ma’am?”

  “Look, Officer, my name is Jessica Fletcher. I teach here at Schoolman. I realize I probably shouldn’t have entered the building, but I was looking for—”

  He grabbed my arm and led me outside.

  “This is all a mistake,” I said. “Please call Lieutenant Parish. I’m sure he’ll tell you that—”

  “I already did,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And—he told me to bring in anyone found trespassing in this building.”

  “But—”

  “Are you coming peacefully with me, or do I have to cause a scene out here?”

  “A scene? No, no scenes.”

  The small radio pinned to the shoulder of his uniform sounded.

  “Jenkins here,” he said into it. “Right. Says her name is ...” He looked at me.

  “Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “Is that Lieutenant Parish? If it is, I wish to speak with him.”

  Officer Jenkins removed the radio from his shoulder and held it up to my mouth, his thumb activating the TALK button.

  “Lieutenant Parish, this is Jessica Fletcher. I know your officer is doing his job, but there’s no need to arrest me. I have a perfectly logical explanation.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t care if you’re the queen of England. You’ve broken the law and that means you’re under arrest. I’m sure you have an explanation for it, but you can tell it to the judge. Over and out!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Really, Jessica. The last time I had to bail anyone out of jail was when some wags in the senior class hauled Professor Constantine’s MG up onto the roof of the Student Union. You can imagine how long ago that was. It’s been at least five years since Archie stopped driving, and his last vehicle was a far cry from a sports car.”

  “Schoolman must have an unusually well-behaved student body,” I said.

  Harriet and I walked out of the New Salem County Courthouse, where I had spent the last several hours waiting to see the judge. The night was clear and cold enough to prickle the inside of your nose. I still wore the running suit I’d had on earlier, dusty from my prohibited exploration, and not warm enough to shield me from the chilly night air. I looked up at the sky, at the millions of stars, and shivered. I was grateful that Harriet had dropped everything to come to my rescue. Nevertheless, at that moment I wished myself back in Cabot Cove, in my cozy home, warmed by familiar surroundings, with my cherished friends about me. Oh, dear, Seth would be wondering why I hadn’t returned his call, and I briefly debated whether or not to give him the full account. He was always sympathetic, but prone to worrying, too.

  “I tried to explain to Lieutenant Parish why I’d trespassed,” I said, “but he was not in the mood to listen.”

  “He was just doing his job,” Harriet said curtly, her pique evident in her tone.

  “Yes, I suppose he was.”

  Parish had given me the silent treatment from the moment Officer Jenkins delivered me to the town jail, and hours later on the way to the courthouse.

  “You’re lucky I’m even bringing you here,” he told me as he escorted me up the stairs. “I could have left you in jail overnight and been perfectly justified.”

  “Yes, you could have,” I said. “I’m grateful you didn’t.”

  He grunted. “It’s only because Judge Coffman’s court is open late tonight.”

  “I wish you’d let me explain,” I said. “There’s a logical justification for why I was in Kammerer House. Once you understand, I’m sure you’ll agree—”

  “If you’re talking about Brad Zelinsky,” he interrupted, “and his harebrained idea that someone murdered Wesley Newmark, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “But there’s good reason—”

  “Stop right now.” He pointed to a bench outside Courtroom B and I sat on it. “I don’t know who’s more addled,” he said, “Brad fo
r wanting to write a book about being ‘a brilliant coroner standing in the way of crime,’ or you for encouraging him.”

  Zelinsky’s having brought up his book idea when he’d called in the autopsy results to Parish wasn’t very prudent. It took away the impact of his report, and cast his findings in a questionable light. It had evidently led Parish to suspect Zelinsky of cooking up a possible murder because it would make for a juicy chapter in his book.

  While waiting to come before the judge, I’d considered telling Parish about Lorraine Newmark and the letter she’d received from her brother, but decided to save it for another time, when the news might be received with more interest. A closed mind is not the place to present new evidence.

  Frustrated at Parish’s refusal to even entertain the possibility of a crime, I was relieved I hadn’t shown Officer Jenkins the poker, nor mentioned it to Parish. Until it was tested, there was no proof it was the murder weapon. I’d managed to nudge it farther under the desk with my foot before being taken from Kammerer House. If someone came into the parlor, it would hopefully remain out of sight. The problem was, I realized, that retrieving it would require a return trip, and I was in enough trouble already for trespassing.

  “Judge Coffman was willing to release me on my own recognizance,” I said to Harriet as we crossed the courthouse parking lot, “but his hands were tied because I didn’t have any identification. That’s when they let me call you.”

  “What happened to your wallet?”

  “One of the officers at the New Salem jail confiscated my handbag, and forgot to return it when we left. Lieutenant Parish was so annoyed with me, he refused to go back and get it.”

  “You have it now.”

  “Another officer kindly brought it to me.” I climbed into Harriet’s car. “But it wasn’t until after you’d already left to come here.”

  I was thankful the New Salem County judge had been more patient and understanding than Lieutenant Bill Parish. He also turned out to be a mystery buff. After I’d furnished my identification, offered a slightly skewed explanation for having crossed the police line, called attention to the fact that I’d neither gotten hurt nor harmed the premises, and promised to send him some signed books, Judge Coffman dismissed the charges against me. Since I was the only accused appearing before him that night, he took the occasion to give me a long, convoluted description of the sort of cases he handled day after day, mostly speeding, shoplifting, malicious mischief, and the occasional grand theft auto. He was bored, he told me, and longed for a case that would challenge him, one he’d need to pull out his law books for, one that might even catch the attention of the television court channel. “Know anybody at Court TV?” he asked.