Voice Mail Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “That doesn’t always mean anything.”

  “I didn’t get the feeling from the messages that these relationships were just one-night stands. They seemed to be long-standing affairs.”

  “They’re probably just scared,” suggested Rocky. “Even if they didn’t kill him, they’re probably thinking that they’ll be under suspicion—and they’d be right!” The couple sighed and looked at each other quizzically.

  “But who could they be?”

  “That’s the question,” he replied.

  “And it’s one I’m trying to answer,” she said.

  “You?” Then, with a scowl he said, “How?”

  “All totally with data, my dear protector,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Shoop has asked me to create personality profiles of the three women.” She decided to refrain from telling her highly volatile spouse about the plan to accompany Shoop on his second round of suspect interrogations.

  “That’ll be fun.”

  “Sure,” she huffed. “A barrel of monkeys.”

  “Left-overs tonight, Babe,” said Rocky, after a beat. “We still have some of that enchilada casserole in the frig.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t it amazing how much longer our food lasts now that Angela is eating her meals at Kent’s apartment?”

  “I don’t like to think about it,” replied the overly protective father.

  “She has to grow up, you know.”

  “She could live here and visit that hoodlum like she used to,” he snorted.

  “Oh, come on, Rocky! Kent is not a hoodlum! I worked with him. He was my assistant for two years and he’s one of the most responsible, highly motivated young men I’ve ever . . .”

  “Highly motivated to seduce our daughter,” he interrupted.

  “They’re in love!” she chortled. The topic of Angela and Kent’s relationship always brought them to a major disagreement. Rocky only tolerated the young man, but Pamela, who had gotten to know Kent before he met Angie, considered the boy a fine person. Indeed, she considered him an exemplary person. She could see for herself how Kent’s influence had changed and matured Angie. Angie was more motivated. Since starting to date Kent, she’d found a major—Sociology, started a part-time job at a local charitable organization (which she loved), and the young couple seemed genuinely fond of each other and cheered each other’s successes. She could wish nothing more for her offspring. “Rocky, we’ve been over this before. We can’t live her life for her. If we—I mean you—try to interfere—we’re just asking for trouble.”

  “I know, but I don’t have to like it,” he moped.

  “What’s not to like?” she continued, shaking his shoulder. “Kent has a great job, a nice place. Angie is doing well in school. Good Lord, she’s going to graduate this year! Did you even think that was possible two years ago?”

  “No,” he replied, nodding. She squeezed him, nuzzling his soft flannel shirt next to her cheek. Even though they disagreed about Angela’s relationship with Kent, she couldn’t help but be touched with Rocky’s concern for his daughter’s honor—she guessed that’s what all this angst was.

  “I just don’t like that guy always pawing her,” he said, cringing. “You’d think he could keep his hands off of her for a minute or two once in a while.”

  “Could you keep your ‘paws’ off of me when you were his age?” she said, batting her eyelids at him.

  “Not the same.”

  “Absolutely the same,” she retorted.

  “You women think you have us all figured out,” he sighed.

  “There’s not that much to figure out,” she explained. “Kent is a genuinely nice guy who happens to be a bit further along in the maturation process. Angie just had to hop ahead a bit to keep up with him.”

  “Oh, really?” He eyed her.

  “Sort of like you and me?”

  “You being the much more mature one?” he queried.

  “Of course,” she noted, with a wiggle of her shoulders. “Angie was forced to grow up if she wanted to be Kent’s girlfriend. He’s really been a very good influence on her, if you ask me.”

  “If you ask me,” offered Rocky, “he saw a sweet young girl and took advantage of her.”

  “Like you took advantage of me?”

  “What?” he stuttered and turned his head towards her and then away. “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you take advantage of me?”

  “No!”

  “I guess my father probably thought that you did!”

  “He did?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied calmly, “because he never said, but don’t you think that’s the typical way that most fathers respond to any young man who courts their daughter . . .”

  “This Kent fellow is not ‘courting’ Angie,” he argued, his cheeks reddening, “you know what he’s doing—what they’re doing over there all the time at his apartment!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I don’t like it, Pammie, I’m telling you! I swear, if that kid hurts her—in any way. If she comes home crying or upset. If he does anything to her, I swear to you, I’ll kill him!”

  “Rocky,” she grabbed him, “Listen to yourself! You’ll kill him? What are you saying? You can’t talk like that. My God, I mean, consider what is going on in our lives—with this murder investigation. People get upset—they get angry at somebody and they kill somebody. And then you have—you have this—and then people like Shoop and even me get involved and even more lives are disrupted and ruined. You are not going to kill anyone!”

  “It was just an expression,” Rocky said pitifully to his furious wife, his shoulders drooping.

  “Don’t ever say that again,” she chastised him. “Don’t even think it. Please.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I know you’d never hurt a flea, anyway.”

  “Then why did you go postal on me?”

  “You just have to understand that Angie and Kent have to lead their own lives—and we have to lead ours. You have to let go. You have to.”

  “Let go?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Let go of Angie’s life and focus on ours. Come with me.”

  “Come with you?”

  “Yes.” She took his hand. “I’m glad you’re so cooperative.”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Someplace my father would never have approved.” She tugged on his hand and dragged him towards their bedroom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tuesday was her slow day, at least compared to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when she taught three classes in a row. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she only taught one class at 1:00 in the afternoon. Her mornings were devoted to office hours and this morning was typical. Several students had popped in at various intervals to discuss different issues—most concerning enrollment, advising, or their majors. It was far too early in the semester for the rush of students who would typically line up for help on the course research paper. She was always happy to assist them and devoted probably an inordinate amount of time with each one who came calling for assistance. She firmly believed that helping students become the best writers they could be was part of her job—maybe not the most exciting or noteworthy part, but easily one of the most personally rewarding. She was not so foolish or self-centered as to think that students actually cared that much about their research papers or that many, if any, of them would go on to careers that involved writing or science, let alone her specialty of acoustic linguistics. She simply believed that she had an opportunity to help each one who visited her improve their ability to write—and that any improvement could help that student in their future career, whether they realized it or not.

  She had sat at her desk, in full advisor mode, as students sat next to her and presented their cases. Some wanted in a class; some wanted out. Some wanted to change
majors. She listened—something she did rather well—and tried to advise them. In most instances, she believed that the students left her office with their problem at least partially solved.

  By around ten o’clock in the morning, the place had cleared out and she heard a familiar tapping coming down the hall. She moved to her doorway.

  “Willard,” she beckoned to the elderly Afro-American professor, leaning over his ivory-handled mahogany cane, as he ambled into his office next door. “Willard, can you spare me a minute?”

  The elderly gentleman beamed at her request, perked up his shoulders, and hustled towards her at a faster clip, his cane marking a faster beat.

  “Pamela.” He spoke with rich, robust tones, like an orator from an ancient Roman arena. “I can spare you as much time as you deem necessary.” She loved talking to Willard, which was much like talking to an open dictionary. They had collaborated on several research papers and it was very convenient having an office so close to this encyclopedia of information about topics so similar to hers. Willard’s specialty was cultural and geographical aspects of vocal behavior. Pamela often thought of him as Grace University’s very own Henry Higgins. He probably knew exactly which county in which state she was born.

  She guided him into her office, noting with some degree of despair, how much more tenuous his movement seemed despite his girth. She glanced down at his gnarled hand on the top of his cane and saw how he was struggling to hold it still. Even so, as her eyes rose to Willard’s face, she saw that his eyes still conveyed the bright, intense sparkle that she attributed to Willard’s joy of knowledge. She quietly shut her office door behind her and moved to her desk, motioning Willard to sit. Willard placed his cane on Pamela’s sofa and cautiously grasping the chair and the edge of Pamela’s desk, lowered his large body into the seat.

  “Willard,” she began, “I have to swear you to secrecy.” The old professor’s eyes lit up and he tugged at both ends of his bow tie, giving a little embarrassed laugh.

  “Oh my,” he exclaimed, “Pamela, are you engaged in another one of your investigations?”

  “I am,” she assured him, “and I need your help on this one.”

  “Do tell!” exclaimed Willard Swinton, a glow rushing into his chocolate cheeks. “The murder of the local soccer coach, is it?”

  “Uh, the football coach, yes,” she agreed.

  “How exciting!” he exclaimed. “What can I do to help?”

  “Could you listen to some voices and give me your reaction?”

  “Of course,” said Willard.

  She opened her acoustic program and brought up the slot for the first voice mail message. She clicked the “play” button and the sound of the woman speaking on the Coach’s voice mail emitted from her monitor speakers. The sentence finished.

  “She’s . . . I would say . . . over forty . . .”

  “Wait a minute, Willard. Why don’t you hear all of them first?”

  “There’s more?” he asked, his grey puffy eyebrows popping up dramatically.

  “Just listen.” She played the remaining messages—all seven. Then she asked him:

  “How many different women are speaking, Willard?”

  “You’ve probably figured this out, Pamela, I would guess. It sounds like you have three speakers here.“

  “You can tell that from one hearing?” she asked the older professor.

  “I’m not positive, of course,“ he assured her, “however, the first two messages are obviously spoken by the same person. The third, longer message is totally different. Then, you have that fourth and fifth message. Those two are quite different from the others, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the sixth message is very much the style and sound of the first two, of course.”

  “Of course.” She was beginning to feel superfluous. She should have just handed this whole project to Willard when Shoop first came to her.

  “And the final message is that same curt tone as the fourth and fifth.”

  “How did you figure that out after just hearing it once?” she quizzed him. “It took me hours and I had to run several acoustic analyses.”

  “Of course, all of this is conjecture,” he cautioned. “I have no proof. You, however, can provide proof for the authorities with your acoustic print-outs. I’m sure they’ll want that. They’re all about evidence in law enforcement, aren’t they?”

  “This deflates my ego terribly, Willard. I thought I had figured it out rather quickly.”

  “But Pamela,” he said sweetly, “it’s not a contest; we are co-researchers. We work together. Just consider my observation as . . . a validation of your hypothesis!”

  “If you say so,” she scowled.

  “Is that all you needed from me? Just to verify that there were three women speaking? I do love to listen to female voices; they’re so much richer and more emotional than male voices—even the dull ones.”

  She suddenly realized that she had asked Willard into her office, not to verify her theory of the three speakers (which he had done), but to help her devise personality profiles of the three. She presented her plan to her cooperative co-worker.

  “By all means,” he agreed after she had explained what she wanted them to do. “Let’s get going. Why don’t you play the recordings again and we’ll try to determine everything we can about our three mystery ladies. Oh, Pamela, are these women suspects in the murder? Do the police think that they killed the master soccer gentleman?”

  “Let’s start with what’s behind door number one,” she laughed, “I mean, let’s start with Speaker Number One. We have three messages from this woman—one, two, and six. Apparently, the second message was sent shortly after the first as a sort of addendum. I’m assuming the two messages are close together time-wise too.”

  “Do we know? Or do the police know anything about the actual times when these messages were sent?” he asked her.

  “They have them back as far as January,” she responded. “They’re presented in chronological order—the order they were recorded on the Coach’s cell phone.”

  “On the Coach’s cell phone?” he asked incredulously. “You mean they found the fellow’s cell phone at the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes,” she told him, “near the body, under the bed. I’m assuming that the murderer wasn’t aware that there was a phone. ”

  “Yes, a cell phone could be incriminating for the murderer,” he offered, leaning in to her in a secretive fashion, “particularly if one of these three women is the actual murderer.”

  “True,” she agreed. They looked at each other, wide-eyed and returned abruptly to listening to the recording.

  “So,” he declared, “what do we know about Speaker Number One?” She pushed the button again and the voice of the woman known as ‘Speaker Number One’ filled the office. “One thing is clear.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “She’s local,” he said.

  “How local?”

  “This woman,” continued Willard, “has lived in this area—I’d say right here in Reardon—all of her life. She’s no recent transplant. Born and bred in Reardon.”

  “You’re sure?” Pamela asked, amazed at his ability to pinpoint the geography of the accent.

  “Absolutely,” he responded. “I could tire you with a lengthy lecture on the quality of her vowels and the roundness of her ‘r’s’ but suffice it to say that this woman is from Reardon.”

  “I don’t know if that will help as most people who live in Reardon are probably from Reardon.”

  “Not necessarily,” he added. “In the campus community, there is much greater mobility than in the general population. Professors move here and move away at an astounding frequency, depending on tenure committee decisions—as you well know—and on our campus you will hear a wide variety of accents. This fellow—Croft was his name?—probably had his pick of a variety of women from all over the globe if he was doing his choosing from the campus community.”
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  “So you’re saying our Speaker Number One is not from the campus?”

  “She could be on campus, but maybe not. Who knows how the Coach met her? I mean, he probably eats at restaurants . . .”

  “I guess I just assumed his mistresses would be women from the campus . . .”

  “You know what happens when you make assumptions . . .”

  “I know what happens in this case; we might end up arresting the wrong person.”

  “What about Speaker Number Two? Is she from Reardon?” They listened to the recording.

  “Oh, my, Pamela, surely you can hear it. That’s a high Bostonian accent. This woman is from the upper social register in Boston society. The dropped ‘r’s are a giveaway. The slight ‘eh’ before the open vowels. Other features too, but this woman is from the Boston area, if not Boston proper.“

  “What would some Bostonian socialite be doing having an affair with the Coach of our football team?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I didn’t say anything about her morals, only her accent.”

  “And the third speaker? Are you going to blow my mind with her background too?”

  More listening. Willard focused his eyes and pursed his lips in intense concentration.

  “No, another Reardon resident,” he noted. “But—much different than our Speaker Number One. Speaker Number Three is more sophisticated. I’d say she has a much more powerful position than Speaker Number One.“

  “What about age?”

  “Oh, they’re all over forty,” he quipped.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Easily,” he said. “The frequency range, the quality of the vowels. You can hear it, I’m sure.”

  Over forty, she thought. But who are these women, she wondered, these three different women—yet with one thing in common—Coach Croft.

  “Dr. Barnes,” said Willard, standing, “you know, if you would be so kind as to make me a copy of these three voices, I believe I can extract even more information for you—possibly geographical information.“