by John J. Lamb
“And your patrol car would stick out like someone with a life at a Trekkie convention. You want me to drive?”
“Yes, please. Oh, and I’ve got some other news. I ran Adam Mumford’s name through the DMV computer.”
“The guy Ota sent the check to, right? I’ll bet it’s a fake name.”
“Nope. Mumford is real and he lives in Richmond, but his file is red-flagged. His wallet and driver’s license were stolen last August.”
“We only have his word for that.”
“I know, so I called him. He sounded about eight hundred years old and I almost gave him a heart attack when I told him that his name had come up in a murder investigation,” Tina said with a nervous chuckle. “Then I got his daughter on the phone. She told me her dad has cataracts and could no more drive to Shefford Gap than the moon.”
“Then our counterfeiter is using Mumford’s ID.”
“Yeah, and I’ve sent out a statewide bulletin to see if the name has come up in any other criminal investigations.”
“Excellent work. I’ll see you tomorrow morning around eight.”
“Better make it seven-thirty. These days, there’s some real gridlock getting into Charlottesville.”
I hung up and brought Ash up-to-date. Less than ten minutes later, just as we were sitting down to eat, the phone rang once more.
It was Tina and she sounded flustered. “Sorry to bother you again, Brad, but I just got off the phone with the medical examiner’s office. They told me Merrit’s autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning at nine-thirty and as the primary investigator, I have to be there.”
“And that’s in Roanoke?”
“Yeah, two hours from here.”
“Then go. I can handle the interview with Ingersoll.”
“Should I call and tell her that it will just be you there?”
“No, let’s not give her an opportunity to change her mind. I’ll touch base with you after I talk to her.”
I could hear the rustle of pages over the line as Tina consulted some notes. She said, “Okay, you’re going to meet her at Stoller Hall, room number two-oh-seven. If you go to the UVA website you can print out a map.”
“Sounds good. Oh, and have fun at the autopsy. Those MEs can be real cutups.”
“Good night, Brad.”
I hung up the phone and, between bites of wonderful guacamole-laden taco, told Ash about the change in plans.
She took a sip of her drink and said, “How would you like me to come with you?”
“To interview Ingersoll? I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Tell me, are women more perceptive than men about how other people are feeling?”
“Most women.”
“I agree. So, how long do you think it would take for Ingersoll to figure out you think she’s lower than pond scum? My guess is we’re only going to get one chance to question her and she’ll be more inclined to talk if she doesn’t feel as if she’s being judged.”
Ash smiled ruefully. “I guess I shouldn’t play poker, should I?”
I reached out to take her hand. “Just strip poker with me. Besides, we need you to examine those bears. It might turn out that they’re our only tangible lead.”
“You’re right. I thought I’d get started on that after dinner.”
“There’s no point in jumping into it tonight. It’s been a long two days and being tired only leads to mistakes. So, once we finish dinner, why don’t we go outside and watch the sunset and not talk about murder for the rest of the evening.”
Ash smiled. “I’d like that.”
“And you can tell me where you’re going to put our newest teddy bear.”
As I left town the following morning, I saw Sergei and Terry Richert standing near the minister’s mailbox by the road. Sergei was grinning and eagerly signaled me to stop. I pulled over and lowered the passenger window.
Sergei said, “I thought you might want to hear this. I was just giving Terry an after-action report on his sermon from yesterday morning. Some of his flock were still punch-drunk when they arrived at the restaurant after the service.”
Richert gave an embarrassed smile. “All I did was remind them that it was wrong to bear false witness against their neighbors.”
“In a voice audible from outside the church and forty yards away in my parking lot,” Sergei said gleefully. “Then he told the gossipers that they were tin-plated frauds and said that if they wanted to use a church as a place to gossip, they’d better find a different one because he wasn’t going to tolerate it any longer.”
“I wanted to get their attention.”
“Take my word for it, my friend, you did.” Sergei slapped Terry on the back.
I leaned over and extended my hand to the pastor. “Thanks, Terry. I wish I had time to talk, but I’ve got to get to Charlottesville.”
Terry shook my hand. “I heard you and Ashleigh were helping the sheriff. Is this connected with the tragedy at the museum on Saturday?”
“Yeah, unfortunately I’m the lucky stiff that discovered the unlucky stiff.”
“Did those Yakuza kill him?” Sergei asked.
“Unlikely, but it’s looking as if their visit to the museum might have somehow led to Merrit’s murder.” I glanced at my watch. “There’s more, but it’ll have to wait. I’ve got to interview someone in Charlottesville and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”
Shouting a final good-bye, I started down the road again. I drove eastward over the Blue Ridge Mountains through Swift Run Gap and then headed south along U.S. Route 29. The highway is known as Seminole Trail, but with all the new commercial construction lining the road, I think Strip Mall Trail might be a more accurate name. Charlottesville is an attractive and upscale university town, but it’s growing faster than the national debt.
As Tina had predicted, the traffic was heavy. It wasn’t bad by California standards, but that’s like comparing a hot summer day to the temperature of hell. It was 8:40 A.M. when I turned on to Ivy Road and entered the campus. Time was growing short. I had only a general idea of where Stoller Hall was, and I didn’t know how far I was going to have to walk once I did find it. Still, I slowed down to admire the scenery. With Thomas Jefferson as an original architect and nestled at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the University of Virginia is one of the loveliest campuses in North America. I passed the white-domed, brick Rotunda and saw a road sign pointing in the direction of Stoller Hall, a three-story Romanesque building that was mostly concealed by tall maple trees.
Few summer students meant plenty of parking, and I easily found a handicapped space near the rear entrance of the hall. There were only a few other cars in the parking lot and the nearest was a cobalt blue Chrysler 300C. I automatically jotted down the license plate, just in case it belonged to Ingersoll. One of the things about working a homicide investigation is that you never have the luxury of knowing what might be a clue, so you have to collect all the information.
I got out of the truck and limped toward the building. It was already hot and muggy, so I was sweating by the time I made it inside. Fortunately, the air conditioning was on. A couple of minutes later, I tapped on a wooden door with a frosted glass window. It had old-fashioned black painted lettering that read, PROF. L. INGERSOLL.
Linda jerked the door open. Not having paid attention to her height on the driver’s license printout, I was surprised at how tiny she was. I mean, we’re talking the Munchkin Lullaby League here, because she couldn’t have been more than four-foot-eleven. The other thing I noticed immediately was that she was an emotional wreck. She wore a pink sweat suit that looked as if there were chocolate ice cream stains on the chest, her hair was unwashed and uncombed, and her eyes puffy and red.
She glared up at me and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Bradley Lyon and I handle special investigations for the Massanutten County Sheriff’s Office. Sheriff Barron sent me. She was called away.”
“I’m not talking to you.”
Something told me that offering words of comfort would be perceived as being patronizing, so I said, “Professor Ingersoll, I realize you’re very upset and with good reason. The man you loved is dead, but I’m going to need you to behave like a grown-up for a little while.”
Her jaw jutted out a little. “Who do you think you are?”
“I think I’m one of the people trying to figure out who killed Frank. Look, I know this sucks and the last thing you want to do is tell some stranger about your adulterous affair with a married man. But lady, we’re running out of leads and I need your help.”
Linda stood frozen for a moment and then swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. Pulling the door open, she said, “Come in.”
Fifteen
I went inside and pushed the door shut behind me. Looking around, I saw that Ingersoll had obviously spent the night in her office. A small black suitcase lay on the floor and there was a wadded-up jade-colored blanket on the armchair near the window. Despite the air conditioning, there was the faint yet wonderfully pungent scent of curry in the air. That, combined with the Indian restaurant carryout containers in the trashcan, told me what she’d had for dinner last night. The rubbish also contained an empty pint carton of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Swirl ice cream, which probably accounted for the stains on Linda’s sweatshirt.
Linda slumped into the chair behind a large cherrywood desk and, looking upward at the ceiling, sluggishly waved at a chair on the opposite side. “Sit down and let’s get this over with. I know you’re here because you found those letters. I’ll bet you and all the cops had a great big laugh. Look at me, the porn queen professor of UVA.”
“There’s a big difference between smut and genuine passion between a man and woman. What I saw wasn’t porn, and the only ones who read the letters besides me were my partner and the sheriff.” I eased myself into the chair.
“Does her indolent majesty know about them?”
“Marie Merrit? No, we didn’t tell her.”
“Why not?”
“At this point, there’s nothing to show they’re connected with the murder. Besides, Marie ended our interview kind of abruptly.” Ordinarily, I wouldn’t share information about another witness interview, but I decided to subtly exploit Linda’s contempt for Marie as a goad to induce her to speak further. Does that sound callous and manipulative? Welcome to Club Homicide. Check your compassion at the door.
Linda asked, “Tell me, how did she react when you told her that Frank was dead?”
“Surprised and upset, but not nearly as distraught as you are.”
“That’s because the only thing Marie will miss is being able to sit on her fat ass while Frank works two jobs.”
“But you’re going to miss him for a lot more than that, aren’t you?”
Linda turned to look at me and swallowed hard. “No one had ever loved him like I did. I was more of a wife to him than she ever was.”
“Marie didn’t say much about Frank. Could you tell me about him?”
“He was kind and intelligent and had a way of looking at things that made me laugh. And he was one of those rare scholars who could fire his students with a passion for history. Did you know he was a writer?”
“No. What sort of stuff did he write?”
“He’d had articles published in Civil War Times and he was about three-quarters finished writing a nonfiction book about Sheridan’s burning of the Shenandoah Valley.” Although I’m not a history fanatic, you can’t live in the Valley and not know about how the Union Army put most of the farms to the torch. It may have happened back in 1864, but there are local folks who are still angry about it.
I said, “I’m assuming you read it. Was it good?”
“Extremely. It was our secret, but he already had an editor at the University of North Carolina Press interested in it.”
“Wow. So, how long had you known Frank?”
“Just since last November. We met at an academic conference at William and Mary. Do you believe in love at first sight, Mr. Lyon?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do.”
“It wasn’t as if he was this Greek god or something, but after we’d spent three hours together, I just knew he was the man I’d waited for my entire life.”
“Believe me, I understand. Did he feel the same way about you?”
“He used to tell me that he was in love with me before he ever met me, because I was the woman he’d always been looking for.”
“So, why didn’t you guys get divorces and start a new life together?”
Linda sighed. “I wanted to, but in the beginning Frank was incapable of it. He was like…How much do you know about World War Two?”
Uncertain of what direction the interview was now headed, I said, “The basics.”
“In the final days of the Third Reich, the SS guards abandoned the concentration camps, leaving the prisoners unsupervised. Most of the inmates were still in the camps when the Allied forces arrived. They made no attempt to escape, because they’d been conditioned to accept their captivity. That was Frank, at first.”
“Being sent to a concentration camp isn’t quite the same thing as an unfulfilling marriage.”
“Isn’t it, detective?” Linda fixed me with a challenging gaze. “Despite what was in those letters, Frank and I talked a lot more than we…did those other things. He’d been raised by an abusive and domineering mother and, like so many men, he married her spitting image.”
“Trying to earn the love he never got from mom.”
“Exactly. He’d been trained to be a servant and a victim for thirty-six years, but that was changing.”
“How so?”
“The longer he was with me, the more he saw and understood how wrong his life was with that bitch.”
“And he began to tell you he was planning to leave her, right?”
Linda’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re thinking: He was just saying that in order to keep our sexual relationship.”
I shrugged. “Sorry if that hurts, but it wouldn’t be the first time a guy did that.”
“That’s true, but you didn’t know Frank. He was going to leave her and soon.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I leaned back in the chair and folded my hands across my chest. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, who did you marry?”
“My control-freak father, squared.” Linda closed her eyes and shook her head. “Jeff is a miniature Darth Vader, but without the charm.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a real estate developer, one of the biggest in the mid-Atlantic.”
“Did he know about your relationship with Frank?”
“He suspected something.”
“And what would your husband have done if he knew you were going to drop him like the payload from the Enola Gay, once Frank got up the gumption to tell Marie hasta la vista?”
Linda put a hand to her forehead in such a way that it briefly and seemingly accidentally covered her eyes. “I don’t know.”
She was lying and I realized I might be on the verge of developing a new and strong lead. I said, “You just called him Darth Vader and yet you don’t know how he’d react to some other guy stealing his wife?” When she didn’t respond, I continued in a voice I hoped sounded like James Earl Jones as the cinema’s most identifiable villain, “Linda, your sudden lack of candor is disturbing.”
She dropped the hand and glared at me. “I’ll tell you this just once: Don’t badger me.”
“Then don’t lie to me, because you aren’t very good at it. I’ll ask the question a different way: Has Jeff ever shown the potential for violence?”
“Sometimes.”
“Has he ever assaulted you?”
“No, just…well, we had a cat once…but…he said it was an accident.” Her brow wrinkled as she recalled the incident.
“So, along with despoiling the countryside, he abuses anima
ls. Was he home on Saturday morning?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he was?”
There was a long pause before she answered, “He left at about eight and said he was going over to Waynesboro to look at some property for a housing development.”
“And as we both know, Waynesboro is in the Shenandoah Valley and less than thirty miles from the museum. Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered about that. Do you think Jeff might have killed Frank?”
“I don’t know.” She wiped at a tear in the corner of her eye.
“What time did he get home on Saturday?”
“Around one.”
“And when he got home, was there anything about his behavior or attitude that, in retrospect, strikes you as odd or suspicious?”
“No.”
“Which doesn’t change the fact that you think Jeff is capable of murder. It’s got to be scary as hell living with someone like that. Is that why you’re staying in your office?”
“Yes.”
“How does Jeff feel about that?”
“He alternates between begging me to come home and then yelling at me to pull my head out of my ass.”
“Well, isn’t he a silver-tongued devil? You did the right thing, but you need to find someplace to stay where he can’t find you.”
“I know. Please tell me something. How did Frank die?”
“All I can say is that it happened very fast and he probably didn’t feel any pain. Trust me, you don’t want to know any more.”
Linda pressed her lips together to stifle a sob. “Thank you. When is his funeral?”
“I don’t know yet. Would you like me to call you when I find out?”
“Please. I’ll give you my cell phone number. Is that all you needed?” Tears were running down her cheeks, but she kept a stoic face.
“No, unfortunately I have a few more questions. Did Frank ever mention any problems at the museum?”
“Just that he thought he was going to have to quit because of the budget cuts.”
“Did he ever talk about being physically abused at home?”
“By Marie?”
“Men are victims of domestic violence far more frequently than most people guess.”
