The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles)

by Madison, Ada

  “I’ll get you a landline for the interview room,” Officer O’Toole said.

  “Isn’t it possible to get my charger?” I pleaded. “The number I need to call is in my phone.” Even if I knew Wendy’s number, I couldn’t imagine using a police department phone. I pictured Wendy seeing a call come in, the BPD caller ID in glowing letters on her screen. I doubted she’d pick up.

  Officer O’Toole smiled and took my arm. “Let’s go back to the room and I’ll have a phone in there for you in no time.”

  I could see why the clients in the main foyer were yelling. There was no arguing with the guy. He was like a younger, thinner Virgil, already trained not to answer any question directly, but to push whatever agenda he had. And this time it was to not let me use my phone. I wondered why he hadn’t taken it from me to begin with, if using it was the problem, but I wasn’t about to bring that up.

  I bit my lower lip and returned to my other “cell,” the one that was a little room with no windows.

  Officer O’Toole arrived at the door with a new bottle of water in one hand and an old-fashioned phone dripping wires in the other.

  “Is there a reason I can’t use my own cell phone?” I asked, not trying to hide my disappointment.

  “You’re going to find this will work fine,” he said, plugging the phone into a wall outlet. He gave me a nervous smile.

  He really was a mini Virgil, but I didn’t have to make it easy for him. I could work with a less-than-confident demeanor, uniformed or not. “The number I need to call is in my cell phone,” I said, waving the dark screen in front of him. I stopped short of singing “Hello?” with its new meaning of “Are you that dumb?”

  Officer O’Toole took a chair, pulled it close to me, and sat down. Uh-oh. “Listen, Dr. Knowles. I’m also going to need your laptop.”

  I gave him my “I’m a teacher and I’m cross” look. “What?”

  “Please don’t make this hard for me. I’ll have to take your phone and laptop.” He cleared his throat. “Procedure.”

  “Procedure? Since two minutes ago?”

  “I know. I should have done it already,” he said, his voice near a whisper.

  “What if I hadn’t told you my phone was dead?”

  “I . . . I . . .” By now Officer O’Toole was red-faced, and I thought I detected some twitching around his eyes.

  He was young, yes, and probably just graduated from the academy. All the more reason he should know every little detail of procedure. His training couldn’t have been more than a few weeks ago. In any case, I couldn’t badger him further, any more than I could keep up my end when one of my students turned on the waterworks.

  I handed over my equipment.

  Officer O’Toole uttered a sincere “thank you” and walked out with all my means of connecting with the world, leaving me with a phone my mother would have been happy with.

  I sat at the table, feeling helpless. I had only Wendy’s work number. I hadn’t thought to ask for her card when I gave her mine. Few people put personal numbers on their business cards, but she might have included her email address. In any case, I had nothing, since I’d been too preoccupied at the end of the meeting, not the most congenial part of our visit.

  Now I imagined Wendy trying to call me back and getting my voice mail. I’d have bet a lot of money that what she had to say wasn’t appropriate for a recording that anyone could eventually listen to. I could use the BPD phone to check for a message on my cell, now in police custody, but not if I was limited to only one call from the cops’ landline, like prisoners.

  My best option now was to call Virgil with the government-issue phone at my disposal. He should have a way to get Wendy’s cell phone number. His tech guys might already have picked it off one of those amazing databases that movie cops worked with. In that case, I’d have to wrestle the information out of him for my own use. I needed a police procedure manual for times like this. So, apparently, did Officer O’Toole.

  Not trusting my watch, I opened the door onto the hallway and located a clock on the wall. I shut the door quickly, in case Officer O’Toole was waiting to sneak in and claim more of my property. Either 1:28 or 1:31 in the morning, depending on which timepiece you trusted. If I had my phone or laptop, I’d know the exact time, I mused, still unhappy about being disconnected. It was a decent hour in Kigali, Rwanda; for revenge I could rack up long distance charges on the antique phone.

  Just realizing how little sleep I’d had in the last two days sent waves of tiredness through me. I made a pillow with my arms on the table and put my head down, but I was too wired. Wendy might be out there, ready to flip on Ponytail or Einstein. Either that, or one of them, or their descendants, might have a gun aimed at her head. I dialed Virgil’s number. If he was sound asleep, I reasoned, he wouldn’t hear his phone, and no harm would have been done.

  “Hey,” Virgil said. Not even drowsy. “You safe?” he asked, though I was pretty sure he knew.

  “Protected and served in Boston, but my phone battery died, and—”

  “You’re kidding,” Virgil said. Snide. Maybe I had woken him up.

  “It happens.”

  “That’s why you’re using the BPD phone?”

  I whined out my story. “When I asked the teenaged officer to get my charger from my car, which, by the way, is also unavailable to me, he ended up taking my phone and my laptop. After the fact.”

  “He’s young, huh?”

  “Very.”

  “He probably isn’t sure which category you fall in. And you intimidated him.”

  “Apparently I didn’t intimidate him enough.” I woke up to the urgency of the situation, though by now, it was almost moot. “I need you to make a call ASAP.”

  I briefed Virgil on Wendy’s aborted call to me. “She’s trying to reach me. She might be in trouble.”

  “Thanks, Sophie. That’s good that she reached out to you. Let me see if the guys can work with that.”

  “You’ll get her number for me, so I can call her back?” I asked. I could only dream.

  “I’ll call you if there’s anything you need to know.”

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “It looks like the storm is fizzling already. Nothing like when Irene blew through here a couple of years ago, huh?”

  Should I be sorry that today’s storm hadn’t reached Hurricane Irene proportions?

  “I guess you’ll fill me in when I get home,” I said. Making a point.

  “Gotta go,” Virgil said.

  “Wait,” I said. “Can you call Bruce and tell him I no longer have a private phone? He’s probably not on the BPD family and friends calling plan. And, besides, I’m assuming these calls are all recorded for quality assurance.”

  Virgil chuckled—I thought I heard an “I’ll let Bruce know” in the laugh—and hung up.

  Too tired for any further thinking, I dropped the heavy telephone receiver on its cradle and put my head down. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of this as a night spent in police custody in what my well-informed young wardens told me was the twenty-first largest city in the country. Good to know.

  It wasn’t every day that I woke up to the sounds of dozens of armed men and women at a morning briefing. I hadn’t noticed that my little room was next to a sort of assembly hall, to which all patrol officers reported before hitting the streets.

  As I cleared my sleep-fogged head, I heard periodic eruptions of sounds, though it was hard to tell if they were cheers or groans.

  It was 7:10 AM by my watch. No wonder I hurt all over. I’d slept almost six hours with only my arms as a pillow. I hadn’t done that since my last cross-country flight a few years ago, when I’d used a tray table from the seat in front of me for support. I tried to remember how long it had taken for my back and neck to recover.

  I needed a shower, a briefing of my own on events at home, decent coffee, my phone and charger, my laptop, a word with Bruce, and my car. Any sequence would do. Within minutes of lifting my hea
d, Officer O’Toole, still on duty, entered the room, with as much sensitivity as he might use if he were infiltrating my private boudoir. He carried a cup of something that smelled vaguely like coffee, and a muffin wrapped in a napkin. The new face of the BPD. Where was Dunkin’ Donuts when you needed it?

  “Didn’t want to wake you,” Officer O’Toole said, in his now familiar near whisper. “I brought some breakfast.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.” I picked a walnut from the top of the muffin and ate it. Stale. Definitely not Dunkin’ Donuts. “What’s the weather like?” I asked. In other words, “Can we go now?”

  “Storm’s over. Gone east.” Officer O’Toole made a wavy motion toward the Atlantic, which I took to mean that the snowstorm had dumped most of its contents over the ocean. “Turned out to be pretty lame. We’re good to go. Well, not me. I’m going off shift. Officers Babcock and Galvan will be escorting you home.”

  I nearly growled. “Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine, driving by myself.”

  This time, Officer O’Toole was ready for me.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Our instructions are to escort you home and we’re prepared to do that.”

  I growled for real. “Okay,” I said, dismayed at my retreat into wimpiness in the face of law enforcement.

  “How soon can you be ready?”

  All I needed was a trip to the ladies’ room. There was no packing to do—the cops had all my devices—except to shove the muffin in my purse for a hunger emergency. I’d be able to get rid of the coffee in the ladies’ room sink.

  “Five minutes,” I said, feeling as if I’d been granted parole, but with an ankle bracelet.

  Officer O’Toole gave a little bow and left. I frowned and saluted his back.

  • • •

  I was dismayed that I was using BPD resources for another convoy. Hard on the city’s budget, and hard on my need for privacy. I hoped I’d never experience full witness protection protocol. Officer Babcock softened the blow a little by sharing with me that she’d be staying in Wrentham, a town near Henley, on a short break to visit family. Nice of her to make it sound like I was doing her a favor.

  While Officer Galvan drove my car, I rode in the passenger seat of a patrol car with Officer Babcock, her brunette ponytail not as perky as last night. Or earlier this morning. I didn’t even bother to ask if I could drive my own car to my own home. I assumed I was technically still in police custody and they weren’t taking any chances on a malpractice suit if anything happened to me on I-95. Neither did I bother to ask for my phone and laptop. I’d seen Officer Galvan put them in my car. I’d have to carve out an hour later to check all emails, texts, and voice mails, as well as explain to Bruce why I hadn’t been in contact. Unless his BFF, Virgil, had had time to carry out my request to let him know.

  As expected, the highways were clear of snow, except for blackened mounds along the shoulders and medians. I resisted the urge to think of the storm as my personal nemesis, lasting just long enough to trap me in Boston while important things were happening at home—I was still hung up on Virgil’s admission that there had been a “development.”

  The trip was quiet. Apparently, I’d already been exposed to all the BPD history my young escorts knew. I put my head back and napped on and off. It was a study a painter might title, Sophie, Not on Coffee.

  I perked up when the Henley skyline, such as it was, came into view. Having just seen the real thing in Boston, the gold dome atop the Henley city hall looked second-rate. But it was my second-rate dome, and I was happy to see it.

  I was surprised at what good time we’d made. Had the sirens been on the whole time I slept? I doubted it. Cop cars didn’t need sirens to go fast, and my little Honda, especially when driven by a cop, could keep up with the best of them.

  I’d become so acquiescent, I didn’t even challenge Officer Babcock when she headed for the Henley PD instead of my lovely cottage, which had a shower and good coffee and real food. And my bed. But, I reminded myself, there was intel at Henley PD, and I could use a good dose of that, too.

  • • •

  Henley PD was significantly less chaotic than its Boston counterpart. I was sure it was partly due to the early hour. Who was ready for a fight or a crime before eight in the morning?

  Within minutes of the BPD officers’ signing me over to the HPD desk sergeant, and signing my property back to me, Virgil appeared, looking fresh, pressed, and ready to work. I assumed it was because his six hours of sleep had been in his own bed.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling as if glad to see me alive. “Let’s get your car and grab some breakfast.”

  Music to my ears. It had been a long time since my room service soup and salad, and it had taken a lot of energy to be handed off from one law enforcement unit to another. I gave Virgil the small claim ticket for my car. “I’m in E-4,” I said. “And that’s all I know about the last twenty hours.” Hint, hint.

  “Got it,” Virgil said, tapping the ticket on the palm of his hand.

  “Any luck contacting Wendy?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How about Bruce? Does he know I’m home? Maybe he can meet us?”

  “He’s, uh, busy this morning. We’ll catch up with him after breakfast.”

  Something was funny. “That sounds like a cover story, Virgil. What’s Bruce up to?”

  Virgil laughed as he grabbed his coat from behind the front desk. “Too much going on here right now.”

  I dropped it. I couldn’t be trusted to hear straight until I had coffee anyway.

  “Can your guys get anything from my phone?” I asked Virgil. I had the idea that IT whizzes were able to trace numbers from any phone, with or without its charger, even if the number had been blocked by the caller. Surely the police department had as many techies as Henley’s incoming freshman class.

  “Might as well give it to them and we’ll see,” Virgil said.

  I surrendered my phone to Virgil—grousing about how I’d just gotten it back, hadn’t even plugged it in yet—and sat on a hard bench across from the tall wooden counter-cum-desk while he disappeared down a hallway. I had no desire to follow him now that I was this close to the building’s exit sign. I nearly LOL’d when I opened my laptop and realized that, of course, my battery was dead.

  • • •

  The posters at the HPD weren’t that different from those at the BPD, and, by now, I was ready for the more colorful ads of the MBTA. Henley’s police station was the latest and last government facility to receive attention from the town council, with a planned relocation in the next year. The new building would finally join our new public library, courthouse, and city hall in a complex across town. For today, however, I was treated to the musty smell of the town’s oldest public building.

  I remembered Virgil’s excitement and pride when he boasted to Bruce and me that the new station would have a Plexiglas shield in front of the reception desk (Yikes, we needed that?) and a public lobby with comfortable seating for visitors (I could hardly wait).

  Virgil finally returned and we left the old building through the shabby lobby. When we reached my Honda in stall E-4, Virgil, who had the keys, of course, stepped into the driver’s side. I wondered if my car would remember me when I finally got to take the wheel and drive it home.

  I had to smile when I realized that I now had my phone charger, but not my phone.

  • • •

  Louie’s Dining Car was built like a black and chrome railroad car, with sleek lines and familiar art deco signage. On the inside, the red vinyl booths and the narrow black-and-white tile floor produced a dizzying effect, giving me the feeling that the waiter could shout an “all aboard” warning and drive us down the tracks at any moment.

  Before nine on a Sunday morning, the few patrons who had gathered for breakfast seemed to have poured out of the Henley PD station, as we had. Not the office crowd, who were off for the weekend. My assessment of Louie’s patrons might have been colored by the fact that I’d s
pent entirely too much time hanging out with cops this weekend and everyone looked like she or he was armed and dangerous.

  Virgil and I were seated in a corner booth with a small jukebox at one end. I thought about declaring a hunger strike if Virgil didn’t give me some answers soon. Luckily he didn’t force my hand, since the diner coffee smelled rich and satisfying and the menu was something my mother would have felt at home with.

  “They have blue-plate specials,” I said, surprised. My mother’s favorite restaurant fare—three courses that arrived on a dark blue plate with dividers, like those in foil-bottomed TV dinners. I thought the dish had gone the way of the green stamps and gas station tumblers my grandmother collected with each fill-up.

  Without asking, our waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and filled each of the two thick white mugs on the table. In honor of my ancestors, I ordered special number three—apple pancakes, scrambled eggs, and turkey sausage. Comfort food for a freezing cold day and an exhausted psyche.

  “Ditto,” Virgil told the gray-haired woman, who might have served my ancestors.

  “Alone at last,” I said to Virgil, my hands folded on the table, my head tilted, a “What have you got for me?” look on my face. I figured my tablemate already knew my questions.

  Virgil smiled. Pleased that he could finally satisfy my legitimate curiosity? He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. A folded copy of the mug shot I’d emailed him from Boston. Though I’d been the one to send the photo, I recoiled. Ponytail was not a pleasant-looking man. I imagined him with his friends, including Kirsten and Wendy, in a diner, maybe even here in Louie’s Dining Car, twenty-five years ago.

  “You have more info on him?” I asked.

  Virgil nodded, no longer smiling. “He’s my homicide victim.”

  What? I shook my head to clear it. “Ponytail was murdered?”

  I felt I was in a time warp, unable to keep track of the year I was living in. I checked my surroundings to confirm where I was. With a Henley cop, not a Boston cop. In a diner in my hometown, not in a hotel room searching the archives of bank robberies. Not snowed in. In fact, looking out the window at the streets of Henley, where you could hardly tell that an extra dump of snow had piled on top of the leftovers from two weeks ago.