The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 6)

by Mike Markel

  She paused, the frown lines coming down her jaw showing a hint of annoyance. “Science, technology, engineering, math. STEM. We’ve put a lot of resources into STEM the last few years, and we wanted to pay some attention to the social sciences, which haven’t received nearly the same funding.”

  “So, stirring the pot?”

  She waved her hand, as if she shouldn’t have to explain. “Bring in interesting speakers. Start student groups. Make up new courses. Write provocative pieces in the local paper and the student paper.” She paused. “Raise the visibility of the social sciences.”

  “And did she do that?”

  There was a hint of a smile on Audrey Miller’s face. “Indeed, she did.”

  I looked at her for a moment. “Could you give us an example?”

  “There are many. She was very active in raising our awareness of local and state policies on a number of issues, including income inequality, migrant-worker rights, LGBT issues. Refugees. The list goes on.”

  “Provost Miller, you didn’t care for Professor Rinaldi, did you?”

  She took a moment. “As provost, I’m the administrator in charge of the faculty. It is not my job to like the faculty—or be liked by them. My job is to encourage each member of the faculty to promote the legitimate interests of Central Montana State University.”

  I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “My chief, Robert Murtaugh, has promised your boss, President Billingham, that we’re gonna do everything we can to apprehend whoever killed Professor Rinaldi. We need you to help us.” I held her gaze. “Will you help us?”

  She didn’t say anything. Her expression was stony. “That is exactly what I have been trying to do.”

  “Let me come at this from another angle. Can you think of anyone on campus who might’ve wanted to hurt Virginia Rinaldi?”

  “No, I cannot. There were people on campus who disagreed with some of her positions—myself among them—but we are a civilized intellectual community. Our mission is to create and disseminate knowledge. That can be a messy process that involves constructive disagreement. But I cannot imagine anyone who might have wanted to hurt her.”

  Ryan shifted in his chair and put on his thoughtful expression. “Not Richard Albright?”

  I had no idea who the hell Richard Albright was. Ryan does this all the time. He reads up on the case without telling me about it. On the computer on his desk in the detective’s bullpen. On his tablet when we’re in the cruiser and he’s talking to me. At home. Then, when he gets a sense the person we’re interviewing is bullshitting us or stonewalling us—doesn’t matter the reason—he drops a name or a date or a place to let them know he’s getting impatient.

  Audrey Miller’s head pulled back, just a little. “You’re referring to the student?”

  “Yes, I am,” Ryan said.

  “Mr. Albright has made some immoderate comments about Professor Rinaldi, that is true. But we have no indication that he is a violent person—or even capable of violence, for that matter.”

  “You’ve looked into it?”

  She tilted her head, her expression puzzled. “No, we have not looked into it. I’m not sure what that would entail, or whether that would be appropriate or even permissible. I am saying simply that we have no reason to believe that Mr. Albright posed a threat to Professor Rinaldi or to anyone else.”

  Audrey Miller turned to face Ryan more directly. She held her gaze, as if inviting him to follow up if he could.

  “And Cletis Williams?” Ryan looked right back at the provost.

  Audrey Miller raised her eyebrows. “Yes? What about him?”

  “Same question,” Ryan said. “Any reason to think Cletis Williams might have posed a threat to Professor Rinaldi?”

  I turned to the provost, curious to hear her response. I was back in college, watching the professor and the smart kid talking about someone I’d never heard of. Except now I wasn’t hung over.

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  I didn’t believe her.

  Apparently, Ryan didn’t, either. “Last year? When Professor Rinaldi spoke up at the State Board of Education meeting, and Cletis Williams made those comments about lesbians, comments that made it into the paper?”

  She nodded, with a trace of a smile, but didn’t say anything.

  “And then Williams resigned from the State Board?” Ryan paused. “Do you know what happened there?”

  Audrey Miller’s face was a blank. “No, I don’t. That was a state personnel matter, which, by law, is confidential.”

  I guess it’s possible she was saying she didn’t know because nobody told her because it’s confidential. But I heard it the other way: She knew what happened, but since it’s confidential, she wasn’t going to tell us—unless we had a piece of paper saying she had to.

  Ryan turned to me to signal that he was done. Audrey Miller was looking at me, too. “All right, Provost Miller.” I stood, and the two others did, too. I reached into my bag for a card, which I extended to her. “We appreciate the time. Please get in touch if you can think of anything that will help us in our investigation.”

  She nodded, just enough to indicate she had heard me. But her expression said I’d need to improve my class participation if I wanted a decent grade from her.

  Ryan and I left her office and walked out into the hall. We wove our way through the students and the admins and left the building. Back in the Charger, I put the key in the ignition but stopped. “Were you planning to tell me about … what the hell were their names?”

  “Only if they turned out to be relevant.”

  “Okay, did they?”

  “Yes.” He put on his little-boy smile. “I think they might be.”

  “The first one. The student. What did he do?”

  “Richard Albright writes letters to the editor of the student paper, complaining about Virginia Rinaldi.”

  “What’s he pissed off about?”

  “He thinks it’s inappropriate that she was an outspoken advocate for alternative lifestyles.”

  “You mean gay rights? Things like that?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “He threatened her?”

  Ryan put on a slightly pained expression. “Not in so many words.”

  “And the other guy? The one from the state board?”

  “Cletis Williams called her a dyke in a public meeting. It was on TV. He defended it for a week or so. Then, abruptly, he resigned.”

  “He felt bad about being an idiot?”

  “That’s always possible.” He shook his head. “But I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea.”

  “But you think Audrey Williams does.”

  “I’m quite sure she does.”

  I pulled my cell out of my bag and speed-dialed headquarters. “Margaret, this is Seagate. Can you try the chief?” I waited a couple of seconds. “Chief, the Virginia Rinaldi case. We need to understand what happened with this guy Cletis Williams. He was on the state education board. He mixed it up with the vic at a public meeting. Called her a dyke or something. Couple days later he resigned. The provost here won’t tell us what happened. You think Billingham might tell you?” I listened a moment. “Thanks a lot, Chief.” I ended the call.

  I turned to Ryan. “He’s gonna give it a try.”

  Ryan pulled his notebook out of his suit jacket pocket. “Let me make a note to dig a little deeper on Richard Albright.”

  “Before we talk to the sociology chair—”

  “Daryl Sorenson.”

  “Yeah, before we talk to the sociology chair, anything I ought to know about him?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Haven’t had a chance to look him up.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to do that now, before we interview him?” If Ryan was going to make me feel old and in the way by doing all this research without telling me about it, least I could do was
break his balls about it.

  He nodded and reached down to pull the tablet out of his leather briefcase. “I’ll see what I can do. While I do that, you take a short nap, Detective.” He raised an eyebrow to ask if he’d gone too far. Seeing me nod my approval, he gave me a grin.

  I’d like to dislike Ryan, but he has so many good ideas. I reclined my seat and closed my eyes.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up when Ryan cleared his throat. I put my seat back up and took a second to orient myself. I looked over at him. He was working the laptop in the Charger.

  “Time to interview Daryl Sorenson,” he said. “Sociology.”

  “On a scale of one to ten,” I said, “how hot a shit is he?”

  We got out of the Charger and started walking toward his office.

  “No zero?”

  “Really? What’s wrong with Daryl Sorenson?” I said.

  Ryan paused as a young woman pushing a cart with food and coffee rolled past us. The sun had just appeared over the top of the new Engineering Building, a six-story steel and glass structure that had opened last Fall. The air smelled clean and fresh, with a hint of the river just beyond the new building. I fished my sunglasses out of my big leather bag.

  “Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s just not a star.”

  “So how come he’s chair?”

  “Because he’s not a star. Professors like Virginia Rinaldi write books, deliver presentations at conferences in warm places in the winter, get Fulbright fellowships to teach in Europe.”

  “While he pushes papers?”

  “Not sure he’d appreciate that phrase, but yes.”

  “What do I need to know about him?”

  “Got his PhD in sociology from University of Colorado in 1983. Been here since 1991. Chair since 2008. Teaches mostly intro to sociology, some advanced courses in politics and sociology. Law, religion, the media, immigrant populations. That sort of thing.”

  “He in our system?”

  “Not even a parking ticket.”

  We reached the entrance to Social Sciences and walked past two students sucking on cigarettes in the shadow cast by the three-story brick building. Their shoulders were hunched in the morning chill. Neither one had a jacket. One was wearing shorts.

  We took the stairs to the second floor. “Let’s see if we can hold off telling him Virginia’s dead,” I said.

  “You see him as a suspect?”

  “No, not with a clean record. Plus, he’s gotta be sixty or more,” I said. “Past his prime killing years. But as soon as he learns she’s dead, he’s not gonna give us anything honest about her.”

  We walked up to the reception desk in the department office, where we were greeted by a forty-year old woman. She looked warily at the shield hanging around my neck.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Detective Karen Seagate. Detective Ryan Miner.” I looked toward his office. Light spilled out of the doorway. “Is Professor Sorenson in?”

  The woman said, “He’s here, but he just stepped out a moment.”

  “Did he say where he was going, when he was gonna be back?”

  “No,” she said slowly, like that was unusual. “He didn’t.”

  “Hmm.” I put on my concerned face. “What’s your name, please?”

  “Linda.”

  “Linda, let’s go in his office, okay?”

  She didn’t like that idea. “I don’t really feel comfortable—”

  “It’s all right. I’ll tell him I made you do it.” I gestured her inside Sorenson’s office, then Ryan and I followed her in. “Sit down, Linda.” She took one of the two upholstered office chairs in front of the big desk. I took the other. Ryan melted into one of the tall steel bookcases that ringed the office. The room smelled faintly of old paperbacks.

  “Linda, we’re working on a case involving Virginia Rinaldi. Can we talk to you a minute while we wait for Professor Sorenson to get back?”

  Linda looked a little flustered. “Yes, I guess so.”

  “You get along okay with Professor Rinaldi?”

  She took a deep breath. “I … I don’t really have that much to do with her. One of the other girls works with her on her special projects. You know, budgets for the speakers’ series, her travel. The arrangements, publicity. That sort of thing.”

  “We heard she can be kind of a handful.”

  Linda looked like she wanted to talk but knew she shouldn’t. “She likes things done her way, you know? She can get a little impatient when they’re not.” She scrunched up her face. “Which happens sometimes.”

  I nodded. “Professor Sorenson get along with her?”

  “Daryl tries real hard to get along with everyone. He’s really good that way.”

  “But there’s been some tension.”

  Her eyes darted toward the door. Then she turned back to me. “You’re talking about that department meeting.”

  I was now. “Yes. What really happened?”

  She exhaled. “I’ve been at the university a lot of years. Things get said. It’ll blow over. It’ll take some time.”

  Just then Daryl Sorenson appeared in this doorway. He pulled up short when he saw us sitting in his office.

  Linda and I stood up. I walked over to him, my hand extended. “Professor Sorenson, I’m Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department.” I introduced Ryan and put on a smile. “I forced Linda to let us in while you were gone. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Linda left the room, head down, glad to escape. Sorenson walked around his desk and lowered his tall frame into the chair. I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke as he passed me. He waved his hand dismissively to tell me he was fine with Linda being in his office. He gestured for us to sit, then raised his eyebrows to signal me to talk.

  “We want to talk to you about Virginia Rinaldi.”

  He ran his broad palm over his shaved head with some force, turning the scalp white for a moment. “The provost phoned me ten minutes ago.”

  Shit. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded, the loose skin at his neck giggling.

  “What did the provost tell you happened?”

  “She told me that Virginia was dead. That she had fallen down the stairs in her house.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But that wouldn’t explain why two detectives are sitting in my office.”

  “It’s routine.” I switched on my official smile. “When a person in apparently good health dies, we need to conduct an investigation. You know, to determine the cause.”

  “You suspect someone killed her?”

  “We have no reason to believe that yet, Professor.”

  His red-rimmed eyes were focused on me directly. “Can you tell me why you think it might be murder?”

  “We don’t. Like I said, it’s just a routine investigation.” I held his gaze. “But I’m curious. Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

  He paused a few seconds. “No, I don’t.”

  “Were you close?”

  “No.”

  “Was she close to anyone in the department?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Daryl Sorenson stroked his white goatee twice, hard.

  “Tell us about her. You hired her, right?”

  “Yes and no.” He looked down at his hands for an instant, then raised his eyes to meet mine. “I was the chair. I signed off on it. But the idea—and the money—came from the upper administration. They saw the named professorship as an opportunity to improve our brand.” He air-quoted that last word.

  “Your brand?”

  He raised his chin slightly. “That’s what we’re calling it these days. Our reputation. Our visibility. It’s part of our marketing strategy.”

  “What happened at the department meeting last week?”

  He looked surprised, then shook his head. “It was a little more dramatic than most of our meetings. That’s all.” He paused, then nodded, as if he hoped that would be enough.

  “What happened?�
��

  “It was one of those discussions about our mission. The direction of the department. Things got heated.”

  “Professor, we need you to be a little more specific. Who said what?”

  “Virginia was arguing for a sharper edge—”

  “Who said what?”

  He tugged at an earlobe and looked down at his desk, which was covered with papers and folders. He lifted his gaze, and the color rose in his cheeks and on his bald scalp. “She said I was deadwood. Not only me; all the old farts in the department. That was what she said. That was her phrase: old farts.”

  “And what did you say?”

  He let out a long breath. “I said that perhaps we saw the mission of the department differently. That we saw the purpose of teaching sociology as helping students understand the issues that separate people, helping them understand the complexity of human experience and see how to resolve conflicts peacefully and reasonably, to everyone’s benefit. That some of us were more interested in equipping students with the tools they need to live productively than in winning more and more grants and making names for ourselves.”

  “I have to tell you, Professor, if that’s the level of conflict in your department—”

  His voice was low but steady. “Which was when she called me pathetic. A pathetic loser.” His hands were trembling, almost imperceptibly.

  “She called you that in the meeting?”

  He just looked at me.

  “Did she ever contact you after the meeting? You know, to explain, to apologize?”

  Daryl Sorenson held my gaze but remained silent.

  I shifted in my seat. “We think the incident at Professor Rinaldi’s house happened last night, maybe around ten pm. There had been some sort of party there, or maybe it was a class.” I paused. I couldn’t tell whether he was going to answer me anymore.

  “It was her porn class.” He blinked rapidly a couple of times and tugged at his earlobe.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It was her topics course on sexuality.”

  “Why did you call it her porn class?”

  “That’s what it’s called on campus. It’s on the sociology of pornography.” He spoke slowly to maintain control of the words. “Officially, she titled it Pornography and the Masturbatory Industrial Complex.” He raised his eyebrows, then lowered them, to signal his disapproval.