Failure is Fatal

by Lesley A. Diehl

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  FAILURE IS FATAL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Biography

  Failure Is Fatal

  By Lesley A. Diehl

  Copyright 2016 by Lesley A. Diehl

  Cover Copyright 2016 by Lesley A. Diehl

  Cover Design by Karen Phillips

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. The author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Lesley A. Diehl

  A Deadly Draught

  Poisoned Pairings

  Dumpster Dying

  Grilled, Killed and Chilled

  Angel Sleuth

  A Secondhand Murder

  Dead in the Water

  A Sporting Murder

  Murder Is Academic

  www.lesleyadiehl.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the students who served as my undergraduate research assistants. Collaborating with you on the design, execution and publication of work on sexual harassment made the topic come alive for everyone involved and for all who read the work. Thank you for your ideas, time and laughter as we explored an important topic of concern on the college campus. Not everyone understood the significance of our research, but all of you did. And that’s enough for me. I hope you are proud of having added your voices to this body of social psychological endeavor.

  FAILURE IS FATAL

  Lesley A. Diehl

  Chapter 1

  “Aaargh!” yelled the young man. “Yes, sir, master.” He jumped out of his seat, grabbed the button placket on the front of his shirt with both hands, and ripped the material apart. Buttons flew in every direction, one bouncing off my plate and landing in my lap. I shrugged and placed it on the table in front of me. Flying objects couldn’t put me off a meal.

  He ran around the circular table where his friends were seated. He was barking like a dog, dropping onto all fours to complete the impression, and then popping back upright to stand at attention. He looked absurd, his head covered with a red kerchief, his torn shirt hanging from slender arms. Another young man clad in an army shirt, minus the idiotic head gear, lifted hooded eyes from his food, focusing them for a moment on the barking boy, then dismissed him with a flick of his hand. The half-naked dog-boy ran from the room into the cold night air.

  “What the hell?” Guy, my current and, I hoped, forever squeeze looked both surprised and annoyed at the behavior.

  “Fraternity stuff.” I picked up one of my fries and ignored the ruckus.

  The manager of the diner emerged from the kitchen and hurried toward the table filled with the fraternity men.

  “Out!” he said. “No funny business in my place.” He was a short, round-faced, chubby man, his accent Greek. I’d seen Dimitri eject rowdies before, and I was surprised that these guys would attempt to cross swords with the fiery little owner. Yep, the frat boys were in trouble now.

  Dimitri shook his head, his eyes following the young men’s retreat to the parking lot. He turned, picked up an overflowing sundae glass just placed on the counter by one of the waitresses, and approached our table.

  “Those boys, those boys, always causing trouble. Why don’t your college outlaw them?” He placed the glass in front of me.

  “That would be my choice,” I said. Distracted by the alluring smell of hot fudge, I slid the sundae toward me. Whoever invented the hot fudge sundae was truly a god.

  “How can you possibly find room for all that after a deluxe burger and fries?” said Guy.

  “Luckily she seems to have a high metabolism.” Derrick Pasquis was our friend and a detective on the local police force. At first glance he appeared to be overweight, his large body encompassing most of the side of the booth he occupied. But in motion, his movements told another story—he was several inches over six feet tall and carried his weight with the grace of a runner.

  Guy was shorter than Der, less broad, and highly muscled. He preferred to wear T-shirts year-round and, despite fall’s chilly arrival, he wore a black one this evening. He sat in the booth beside me, his arm around my shoulders, the black knit sleeves of the shirt straining over his biceps. There was something about chocolate and the caress of a good man that just went together.

  Guy leaned over as if to kiss me, instead dabbing a napkin at the corner of my mouth. “Chocolate,” he said.

  I smiled, then leaned back and sighed. “Hey, guys, isn’t it time we paid the bill and got out of here, so we can head home?”

  Once outside the diner, we stopped in the parking lot to take in the changes in the night air. Days in early October were still warm in this river valley in upstate New York, but the nights brought frost that carpeted the lawns and covered left-over summer plantings with a coat of white. The lights of our small mall across the street twinkled welcoming warmth.

  “I don’t know about you two, but I could use a stroll in the mall to walk off those French fries,” said Der.

  I looked at Guy, hoping he would say no, but I could tell he too felt the need to settle the contents of his stomach. Why was I the one who never felt full? I always seemed to have a gnawing feeling that my life was too settled, too predictable, too, too cerebral, somehow. Helping Der on one of his cases as I’d done in the past seemed to be the only time I felt satisfied. And I lost weight. Were the two somehow related?

  Maybe a stroll would take my mind off my stomach, or my head, or my hormones, whatever was creating these cravings.

  It was Friday night, and Guy had arrived earlier from Gananoque, Ontario for one of our all-too-brief weekend get-togethers. The mall was filled with shoppers. Many of them were students whom I taught, others, colleagues of mine at the college. We exited the mall after buying nothing, unless, of course, you counted the gummy bears I purchased at the newspaper stand.

  As we were standing outside the mall, I heard someone call my name.

  “Dr. Murphy!”

  I turned my head in the direction of the voice and saw the smiling face of one of my research assistants, Karen Wright. Her arms were filled with packages. She joined the three of us on the walkway adjacent to the parking area.


  “Need some help with those?” I took several of the packages out of her hands.

  “Thanks. I guess I got a little carried away in there, wouldn’t you say?” she said.

  Before I could make introductions, Karen held out her hand to Guy.

  “You’ve got to be the infamous Guy LaFrance. I’m one of Dr. Murphy’s research assistants. My boss here,” she nodded her head in my direction,” rarely allows me out of the lab, so when I am freed from my shackles, I kind of go wild. Hence, the damage to my credit card, well, rather, I should say, my parents’ credit card.”

  Guy smiled and shook her hand. “So I’m infamous, am I? I guess I’d prefer that to being invisible.”

  “And, I am one of Dr. Murphy’s friends, Detective Pasquis. She sometimes asks me in to help her with criminal happenings. Usually, though, she does it all herself, and I get called in later to mop up.” Der’s eyes twinkled with good humor as he took Karen’s small hand in his large one.

  “Oh, I’d know you anywhere, Detective Pasquis. I see you on television and your picture in the newspaper when there’s a serious crime,” she said.

  I told Guy and Der that Karen and I were involved in a research investigation on campus and then added, assuming she was on her way to the parking lot, “I didn’t know you had a car, Karen.”

  “I came with a friend, really an acquaintance, who has a car. She sometimes drives a few of us down here to the mall from campus so we can do a bit of shopping. I did more than a bit, I guess.” Her eyes shown bright blue in the lights from the lot, and the cold gave her cheeks a healthy glow.

  “Guess I’d better get this loot into the car and then look for Marie and tell her I’m ready to leave,” she added.

  “I’ll help you carry these to the car.” I shifted the packages I held into one arm and grabbed another shopping bag. “Lead the way.”

  “Der and I will run over to the diner and get the cars. I’ll meet you back here with the chariot.” That was Guy’s term for my beat-up Toyota, which we had driven into town to meet Der for our dinner.

  Karen and I made our way down a long line of parked cars, looking for her friend’s automobile.

  “There it is.” She was pointing to an old blue Oldsmobile parked at the end of the line. We could just spy the top of a head leaning against the driver’s window. “I guess she beat me back to the car. I shopped longer than I intended.”

  The lights in the mall stores began to go out. I looked at my watch but couldn’t make out the hands in the dim light. “It’s got to be at least nine thirty. The mall’s closing.”

  “I didn’t realize the time. Marie must have been exhausted and fallen asleep. She pulled an all-nighter last night for an exam.”

  Karen opened the passenger side door, and called out to her friend as she tossed her bags into the back of the car. She leaned farther in and appeared to reach out to Marie and shake her, then backed slowly out of the car and turned to me, grabbing my sweater with her hands.

  “Help me, Dr. Murphy. Something’s wrong with Marie. I can’t get her to wake up, and I think she’s bleeding.” Karen’s legs wobbled and her knees gave way. She slumped to the asphalt pulling me down with her. I let go the packages to break the fall. With the car door open and the overhead light shining onto the ground where we fell, I could see that Karen’s hands were covered with blood.

  Her entire body was shaking, her teeth clacked together, and she began to sob.

  I pulled off my sweater and wrapped it around her. “You just stay right here, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Karen sat propped against the rear tire of the car, holding her face in her hands. Tears ran from between her fingers, and the sobs became moans.

  I ducked my head in the open door. The light revealed a young woman with dark hair sprawled across the seat of the car, her head propped up on the ledge of the driver’s side window. She looked surprised. I almost told her not to be scared, that I was there to help her, but the wound to her chest told me that she wouldn’t hear me. Her right hand rested on her left breast as if caressing the huge crimson flower that appeared to be blooming there. The white sweater and beige pants she wore were stained red. I backed out of the car, the coppery smell of so much blood nauseating me. I closed the car door, walked a few steps away from the vehicle, and left the gummy bears and my entire dinner on the asphalt of the lot.

  Chapter 2

  Der and I stood outside my office and stared at the door. We had been at this for several minutes and my patience was wearing thin.

  “So what do you think?” I said to him. Positioned on my office door was the usual information: a posting of my classes and times when I would be in my office and available for meetings; my name and title, Dr. Laura Murphy, Professor of Psychology; and a few announcements for upcoming events on the campus. Der continued to stare at the door.

  “I think your name should be in bigger letters. You can hardly read it until you’re a foot from the door. What good is that if you’re a student and looking for someone? You practically have to walk up to the door to know if you’re in the right place.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tapped my foot.

  “That’s not the point. Besides, the door is open when I’m in.”

  Der seemed to consider this additional information. “Well, then, you should post your name in large letters on the bulletin board beside the door, that way…”

  “Der.” I could hardly contain myself. Sometimes he could be so aggravating. I clamped my teeth together to give myself time to control what I was saying. “I am not interested in your decorating tips on my door. The other stuff, the other stuff!”

  The other stuff to which I was referring were the words, “Bitch,” “Feminazi,” “Dyke,” and a few phrases such as “Go f… yourself,” “Leave this campus or else,” and finally, “You’re done here, Murphy.” These decorated the door in red magic marker, indelible, I was sure.

  A few students pushed by Der and me in the hallway, but the traffic was light on a Friday afternoon when students hated to schedule classes. They looked at Der and me curiously—one small, blonde, busty woman with venom in her eyes toe-to-toe with a large, dark-skinned man.

  One of the young men stopped and said, “Is everything all right?”

  Der looked at him and smiled. “No, I’m fine. We’re good friends and I can handle her when she gets like this.”

  The student hurried away, confusion written all over his face.

  “Has Campus Security seen this?” Finally he was showing some interest in the graffiti.

  “I called them first thing this morning and the guy in charge, Captain Rodgers, came over himself. He called the writing ‘the spirited pranks of college men who needed to get laid.’ He’s just worthless. He’s such a pig.”

  “My recommendation is that you clean it off, and soon. It’ll just encourage more if you leave it up there.”

  I shot him an annoyed look.

  “Well, what do you expect me to do? It’s not my jurisdiction. You’ve done all you can by calling the campus authorities.”

  “The campus authorities,” I pulled Der into the office with me, “are idiots. Anything that has to do with women is taken as a joke by our Captain Rodgers.” I closed the door behind us.

  “I can’t let this get around campus, but the Sexual Harassment Complaints Committee of which I am a member took a complaint from one of Rodgers’ women officers about having her breasts grabbed by one of the other officers. Rodgers laughed it off saying she wouldn’t have that problem if her boobs weren’t so big. He’s such a pig.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I know but he’s such a pig.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “But I assume you’re here to ask me to help you out with this coed’s murder, and there’s nothing you can do for me?”

  It was the week following the discovery of the body of the young woman identified as Marie Becca. Der’s men had found a la
rge hunting knife in one of the trash containers in the mall. Der said the handle was wiped clean of fingerprints. There was a crack running the length of the handle indicating it was old, not purchased recently.

  “I’m getting nowhere,” he said. There was little I could offer Der other than my support, any help he might require, and, of course, a cup of the dreadful coffee I brewed in my office. I handed him his cup of coffee, sat down in my desk chair and leaned it backwards, looking out my window across the campus to the hills beyond.

  The campus of Upstate College was perched on the top of a hill overlooking the town of Onondaga Falls. Looking out my second floor office window afforded me a view of the center of campus, a grassy area surrounded by large maple trees that turned a blazing red in the fall. Beyond the expanse of campus buildings I could gaze into the hills surrounding the college. I loved these hills and my home on nearby Mirror Lake. They gave me a peace and a sense of completeness I found no place else. Today the view was not quite so spectacular. The leaves were gone from the trees, and the surrounding hills and river valley had begun to take on the gray pallor of early winter.

  I sighed and tipped my chair forward. Maybe it was time for some horse trading with Der. I tilted my head to one side and gave him a beseeching smile.

  “All right, all right, I’ll have a talk with him, a kind of officer-to-officer, guy thing where I share his view of you as a pain in the butt, but let him know I know about this door thing and believe he will do all he can to handle it professionally.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, so what can I do to help you with Marie’s murder?” I leaned farther forward in my chair, shifting gear into my helpful, amateur-sleuthing mode.

  In the past, Der called me in to help with a case that involved the academic community because he found it difficult to get access to information on the campus. For an institution of higher learning, the college was surprisingly intolerant of outsiders knowing its business. That Der was of African and Native American descent was an additional impediment to investigation on this almost entirely lily-white campus.

  “What I want from you, Murphy, is a promise that you won’t go all crazy on me and try to insert yourself where you’re not wanted on this case. I can use your help, yes, but I want you to show a little restraint for once. Do what I ask of you and no more.”