Voice Mail Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Croft. “You know, like when someone sounds familiar but you can’t quite place them.”

  “Exactly,” said Pamela, coming closer to the wife and kneeling beside her. “You know, Mrs. Croft . . .”

  “Please, Dr. Barnes,” said the woman, “call me Sheila.”

  “Sheila,” said Pamela, “it’s one of the problems in my type of research. Officials often assume that if you recognize a voice, you can identify it—and that’s just not the case. For example, you may recognize the voice of a salesperson who called you the other night, but that doesn’t mean you can identify the person. The only way you could do that would be if someone were to present you with a recording of several sample voices and asked you to select that particular salesperson from those voices.”

  “I understand,” said Sheila. “If you asked me if the voices of any of these women on this recording belonged to my friend Elaine, for instance—“

  “Do they?” interjected Shoop.

  “No,“ she answered smiling. Pamela noticed that when she smiled she was a striking woman and could see where her two beautiful daughters got their good looks. “None of them are Elaine. I’m sure.” She gave Emily a little hug and the young girl glanced up at her mother and returned the smile.

  “Do you recognize any of these women, girls?” Mrs. Croft asked her daughters, looking plaintively from Elizabeth to Emily. She held their eyes pleading. Emily bit her lip and tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head.

  “Of course, I don’t,” replied Elizabeth, running to her mother and kneeling beside her legs. “Oh, Mother, how could Daddy do this? How could he?” She clasped onto her mother’s legs. Pamela, realizing that the poor invalid woman had enough people clutching at her, rose to give the small family some breathing room. As the three women comforted each other, Pamela moved over to Shoop, turning her back on the Croft family to give them a moment of privacy.

  “I don’t think any of them recognize any of the voices,” she whispered to the detective. Shoop continued to stare at the tableau of misery arranged on the couch—both daughters tearfully entwined in the arms of their mother.

  “You’re sure?” he mused. “Is this that special vocal lie detector technology you’re using here, Doctor?”

  “No,” she answered, “nothing’s foolproof as far as lie detection is concerned, Detective. You know that as well as I do. Otherwise, they’d allow lie detectors in court.”

  “It would certainly help my line of work if you people could invent something that could do that.”

  “That could detect lies?” she asked, laughing softly. “We do have profiles of vocal behaviors that are consistent with lying.” She gave him her best scientific answer.

  “Which probably would take six months to implement, or cost a thousand bucks a pop for some expert witness like you, or be dangerous—or something.”

  “Or something,” she agreed. They turned back to the three women on the couch. The trio resembled three black crows in their mourning attire, perched and waiting for Shoop’s next move.

  “So,” he began, “none of you thinks you’ve heard any of these voices before? I could play the recording again if it would help . . .”

  “Truly, Detective,” said Sheila Croft, “they only sound vaguely familiar. I’ll think about where I might have possibly heard them speak—and if I ever did, it would only have been briefly—and infrequently.“

  “Yes,” he nodded. “That would be helpful. And you too, girls!” He pointed at the two younger Crofts. Pamela cringed at his terminology. “If you remember ever hearing any of these women, you need to get in touch with my office as soon as possible.”

  “Why do you need to know the names of Wade’s . . . of these women? Do you think one of these women killed Wade?

  “We don’t know. It’s possible that one of them killed your husband . . .”

  “Do you think there was some sort of jealous feud over him, Detective?” she continued, now allowing her total humiliation to be seen. “Did one of these women find out about the others and demand to be Wade’s only . . . paramour?” She covered her youngest daughter’s ears, but the girl was not paying attention, so lost in her sadness.

  “Again, Mrs. Croft,” said Shoop, “we don’t know. That’s one possible scenario. Or a totally different person could have discovered them in the motel and confronted Coach Croft. But these three women are certainly suspects and it’s imperative that we find them. And at the present time, no one knows who they are or has any inkling how to find them.”

  “Detective,” said Sheila Croft, gathering herself and, reaching out her hand, “I wish you luck in your quest—and I will continue to contemplate who these women might be.“ She shook his hand gently. Pamela noticed the difficulty with which she lifted her arm. “Dr. Barnes,” she said to Pamela, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I typically don’t get to many school functions so I don’t get to meet many of Wade’s faculty colleagues. I’m sure I would enjoy getting to hear about your research.” Pamela reached her hand out and down so the woman would not have to exert herself to shake it. How sad, she thought, that she is still imagining her life with her husband in the present tense. She will probably do that for some time.

  Chapter Twenty

  They decided to try the same routine at the Coach’s office. It was past five o’clock and they weren’t sure that anyone would even be there, but when they arrived at the azalea-drenched front edifice of the Athletic Department Building, Pamela could see a light on in the office where Rosemary Ellis’s face had appeared the other day when she had stopped to investigate—or rather snoop—around the Coach’s home turf.

  Shoop led the way and Pamela followed him into the drafty old building. As he turned right, he was immediately confronted with the Athletic Department’s Main Office, or so the large sign above the door declared. The open door and inside lights belied anyone’s presence in the main office. Shoop walked into the outer lobby where a small foyer was surrounded with polished wooden benches. Above each bench, was a photograph of a group of men in various sporting regalia. The photographs went back years. On the left side, Pamela could see teams from the ‘30’s and ‘40’s and as she turned to the walls on the right, she noticed that the pictures continued around the entire waiting room in chronological order, ending on the near right wall with the present team. This photograph showed a group of young men dressed in red and white football jerseys. The front row of players knelt and the back row stood. In the center of the front row stood Coach Wade Croft, staring proudly at the cameraman. At the rear of the waiting room was a waist-high counter and some sort of registration book with an attached pen to sign in. There was no one behind the counter and no one in the lobby.

  Shoop continued towards the back of the room and moved behind the counter where a door led to a back room. A light shone through the upper glass portion of this door and voices could be heard. Shoop moved over to the door and gave it a sharp tap. Almost immediately, the door opened and Jeff Dooley, the Coach’s assistant, appeared at the opening.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Mr. Dooley,” said Shoop. Obviously, thought Pamela, he remembered the young coach from an earlier cross-examination session. “Glad we caught you still here.”

  “Detective,” said Dooley, “hello. Miss Ellis and I were going over some roster changes for this week. What can I do for you?”

  “If Miss Ellis is here too, we’d like to speak to both of you . . . .”

  “We?” He looked around and spied Pamela lagging behind. She gave Dooley a jaunty wave and a smile.

  “Dr. Barnes is assisting me with a project related to the investigation of Coach Croft’s murder.”

  “Oh,” said Dooley. He popped his head back inside, shutting the door, then immediately opened it up and waved for the two to come through the entrance to the secretary’s office.

  Pamela followed Shoop. She smiled sheepishly. It seemed only yesterday that Rosemary Ellis and Jeff Doole
y had found her on her hands and knees outside of the window immediately below the secretary’s desk. She looked around the office. It was small, but still larger than Jane Marie’s, she noted. Jane Marie always complained about how tiny her office was. Apparently, the Athletic Department rated a larger space for their executive assistant, but not by much. She’d have to report that fact to Jane Marie—if she didn’t know already.

  The three of them—Dooley, Shoop, and Pamela, gathered around Rosemary’s desk which fronted immediately below a large window. On the sill, a veritable jungle of plants sprung. Around the room, several large pots and canisters housed other unusual and beautiful plants—many of them flowering. Behind her desk, Pamela noticed Rosemary’s gardening basket with all of her supplies. It was obviously well used as all of the plants in the room looked well cared for and neatly pruned.

  “Detective,” said Rosemary from behind her desk. “You’re working very late, I see.”

  “No later than you, Miss Ellis,” responded Shoop. “We’re glad we caught you still here. Dr. Barnes and I have been working on a little project that we’re hoping you might assist us with.”

  “Is this research?” asked Dooley. “Or something to do with the Coach?” He leaned back against a table near the door.

  “Jeff,” reprimanded Rosemary, “whatever it is, I’m sure we can assist the detective.” She motioned for them to be seated. “Dr. Barnes, we met the other day, didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” replied Pamela, almost tripping as she grabbed a chair from the desk near the wall. “I was admiring your plants. You have quite a display in here too.”

  “Yup,” agreed Dooley, “Rosemary keeps us officially green!”

  “Actually,” continued Shoop, bringing out his CD player, “we have a recording of some voices we’d like you both to hear.”

  “What type of voices?” asked Dooley.

  “These are actually messages left on the cell phone that we found in the motel room where Coach Croft was murdered. We’ve—Dr. Barnes and I—tried to identify the speakers but so far we haven’t been able to. Now, we’re asking the Coach’s family and friends to see if they recognize any of these women . . .”

  “You mean you believe Coach Croft was having affairs with . . . .” Dooley interjected.

  “Three women,” answered Shoop. “Three women—at least we have three different women’s voices on the cell phone. There could be more.”

  “That idiot!” scowled Dooley. “He just threw it all away.”

  “No, Mr. Dooley,” said Shoop. “Somebody took it from him. Somebody killed him.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Dooley, “but to screw around on your wife—your invalid wife—with not one—but three women!”

  “Jeff,” said Rosemary to the young coach, through clenched teeth.

  “Anyway,” continued Shoop, “Let me play the recording. It’s short. If either of you recognize any of the voices, just let me know.”

  “Sure,” said Dooley. He sat back on the table top and crossed his legs. Pamela could see the intricate weaving on the bottom of his tennis shoes. Rosemary Ellis folded her hands neatly on the top of her desk.

  Shoop started the CD. As before, the sounds belted throughout the room. The three voices that Pamela now knew so well left their unchanging messages. When the recording ended, Shoop looked from the secretary to the coach and back again.

  “Do you recognize any of them?” he asked, looking pointedly at the man and the woman.

  “I don’t know,” said Dooley. “Nobody that comes to mind. I mean, Detective, I talk to lots of people every day. I hear lots of people talk every day. These three could be any of them and I wouldn’t know it. They’re surely not people I know really well, I guess.”

  “And you, Miss Ellis?” Shoop focused his gaze on the prim secretary clutching her hands together. Her face, however, was a sea of calm.

  “I don’t either, Detective—recognize them, that is,” replied the woman, with just a slight tilt upward of her chin. “Would you like me to call in any of the other staff members so they could hear the recording?”

  “Not right now,” said Shoop.

  “Detective,” said Rosemary, “you believe that these women were all engaged in relationships with Coach Croft?”

  “We do,” he replied. “There may be more, but these three are the only ones whose voices we have now.”

  “Detective,” continued the secretary, “I knew Coach Croft—and his schedule—better than anyone. I simply don’t see how he could have—had time—to become involved with all these women.”

  “He was obviously very discreet,” replied Shoop. “His wife didn’t know. It also looks as if none of the various women knew about the others—so we’re considering the fact that possibly one of them found out about the Coach’s, shall we say, multiple escapades, and became furious.”

  “I can imagine they would,” snapped Dooley from the table. “Hey, look, I liked the guy. He was my boss, and a really great man! We never talked about our personal lives—so, believe me, all this comes as quite a shock. But, I know the guy well enough to know he loved his wife. I can’t figure it.”

  “I certainly don’t want to make excuses for him,” said Shoop, “but since he’s not here to defend himself . . .”

  “Detective,” said Pamela, bursting in, “you’re surely not going to give us that bull about his wife being too incapacitated to satisfy him . . . are you?”

  “I’m guessing what the detective was going to say,” said Rosemary, smiling at the policeman and the young professor, “is that if the police don’t stand up for the victim, who will?”

  “Exactly,” replied Shoop. He gave Rosemary Ellis a thoughtful nod and she smiled and looked down at her hands, still folded neatly on her desk. “Dr. Barnes, I guess we’re done here.” He nodded towards Pamela and started towards the door.

  “Wait, Detective,” said a smiling Rosemary to Shoop. “I believe it’s difficult for anyone to identify anyone’s voice from just one listening, wouldn’t you say, Dr. Barnes?”

  Pamela stopped and turned as the secretary continued to speak.

  “Those voices went by so fast and I really didn’t have time to think about each one before the next one popped up and was gone. What might be more helpful, Detective, would be if you could play the recording for us a few more times—? Maybe stop it between speakers? Could you?”

  “I guess I could if you really think that might jog your memory?” He turned to Pamela and gave her a quizzical look.

  “I see no problem with repeating the recording for them,” she told him.

  Shoop played the recording several more times for Rosemary Ellis and Jeff Dooley. He even did as the secretary requested, stopping the recording at several points between speakers.

  Pamela leaned back in her chair. She had heard the recording more times than she could count and nothing new was showing itself to her. Shoop was starting again, at Rosemary’s request, for the fifth—or was it sixth—time. She wasn’t sure. The same youngish, energetic female voice leaped out of the player with the same exuberance:

  “I’m really excited to see you. I’m here, just like you said. Can you come over?”

  As the recording was playing, Pamela could hear footsteps walking into the main office. She remembered the main door was open when she and Shoop had entered and anyone could still come in. The footsteps were coming toward the secretary’s office. Just as the speaker said, “Can you come over?” the door to the secretary’s office opened and the head of a young male student popped in.

  “Hey, Miss Ellis,” said the student.

  “Hello, Ricky,” replied Rosemary, “Can I help you? We’re rather busy here.”

  “No, Miss Ellis,” replied the boy. “I just thought I heard my mom in here and I wondered what she was doing in your office. I was afraid I might be in trouble or something.”

  Shoop stood up immediately and Pamela jumped to attention.

  “Excuse me, son,” Shoop said to the bo
y, “Was this what sounded like your mother?” He played the recording of the first speaker again. The voice of the bubbly woman spoke, “I’m really excited to see you. I’m here, just like you said. Can you come over?” Shoop clicked off the CD player and looked at the young man.

  “That’s her all right,” said Ricky. “Why do you have a recording of my mom?”

  “Ricky,” said Dooley, rising to the occasion, and with a glance at Rosemary and the detective, “let’s you and me go have a chat down in my office.” He draped his arm around the young man’s shoulders and escorted him out of the office.

  “Ricky Terlinger,” said Rosemary to the detective. “He’s a member of the team. His mother is . . . just a minute.” She opened a drawer on the left side of her desk and removed a folder from a file. Running her finger down a list of names, she read, “Charlene Terlinger. She lives here in Reardon. I have her address and phone number.”

  “Of course,” said Shoop to Pamela, “Coach Croft would get to know all the parents of his players.”

  “You think all three of them are parents—mothers—of team members?” asked Pamela.

  “I don’t know,” said Shoop, “but, Miss Ellis, can you make me a copy of that roster of team parents? I’ll need to check it out. Oh, and also, Miss Ellis, can we get a copy of a team photo? Like the one in your lobby?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pamela was tired—and hungry. She hoped Rocky had cooked something that would keep. It was now after six o’clock and she and Shoop had returned to Shoop’s office to go over the copy of the team roster that Rosemary Ellis had made for them. Shoop seemed none the worse for wear, bent over his desk, the list before him. He rubbed his chin as he studied the names of the twenty-four young football players, their parents’ names, and home addresses.

  “It’s got to be this Prescott boy,” Pamela told him, pointing at a name far down the list. She sat in a straight back chair next to Shoop’s desk, her purse, jacket and other belongings strewn on Shoop’s small, green plastic couch behind her. “He’s the only one from Boston.”