Murder at the Library of Congress

by Margaret Truman

  “That’s right.”

  “A most unpleasant experience.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Dr. Broadhurst tells me he considers the article you’re doing for Civilization to be important.”

  “That’s good to hear. It’ll be useful, I hope, if I get it done.”

  “Have you heard anything about the murder from the police?”

  “No, but I’m supposed to be interviewed by them later today. And they’ve asked Consuela to help them sort through Michele’s work papers at his apartment. She feels a little overwhelmed by the task, so she’s asked me to come along and lend a hand. Also, maybe I can find something useful for my article.”

  “Do they think his research papers have to do with his murder?”

  “I don’t know, but I suppose you don’t say no to the police. Besides, we’ll want to know what’s there. I assume they’ll let us bring everything back here to the library.”

  “After they’ve eliminated it as evidence. I understand Michele kept a great deal of his research at home.” Vogler sighed and rolled his eyes. “He was so paranoid.” Annabel started to respond but Vogler added, “Which is probably the kindest thing I can say about him.”

  Another Michele Paul detractor weighing in?

  “Could we go somewhere a little more private, Mrs. Reed-Smith? My office?”

  “All right.”

  He asked one of his reference librarians to remove the materials Annabel had

  been using until she returned, and led her to his office, a monument to clutter, a small

  room made more so by the amount of space his large frame consumed. He held out a green vinyl chair with wooden arms for her and sat in a matching chair close to her side. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, closed his eyes, opened them, looked at her and said, “I hope you don’t mind my imposing upon you, Mrs. Reed-Smith. It’s just that I—well, I prefer not to share too much with my professional colleagues. The staff, I mean.”

  “All right.”

  “I suppose you know how unpopular Michele was with our colleagues.”

  “I’ve heard bits and pieces.”

  “The police will probably make a big deal out of my confrontations with him.”

  Annabel said nothing.

  “We actually came to blows a few months ago. Library police had to break it up.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m sure it’s in the library police’s files and they’ll turn it over to the investigating officers. You have to realize, Mrs. Reed-Smith, that Michele could be insufferable at times, arrogant and insensitive. The fracas between us actually didn’t amount to much. What I mean is, it certainly shouldn’t be considered important enough to make me a suspect.”

  Annabel didn’t know what Vogler expected from her in return. Was he trying to reassure himself by telling her? That might be good for your psyche, she thought, but it won’t change the facts for the MPD detectives once they learn of it.

  “They’ll probably dismiss it once they know the circumstances,” he said to the room.

  Annabel didn’t confirm his wishful thinking. Instead, she asked, “Were you the—had anyone else in LC ever had a physical confrontation with him?”

  “I really wouldn’t know. He accused me of doctoring some of my research, actually accused me of that. I couldn’t let it pass.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’s always known my disdain for him, with his flamboyant ways and flippant approach to scholarship. He should have realized I would take only so much from him, especially after the mess with my wife.”

  Annabel was now sorry she’d accompanied him to the office. If this intelligent but off-center man wanted to unburden himself, he’d picked the wrong ear to fill. Her résumé might be rich in experience, but a role as priest or shrink wasn’t included in the credentials.

  Vogler evidently didn’t pick up on her discomfort. He continued: “My wife—she’s no longer Mrs. Vogler—we’ve been divorced for seven years. Michele and Candy—her name is Candy—they had an affair. Oh, the marriage was on the rocks when it happened, but still it was extremely hurtful. I didn’t mind losing her, but to have a colleague betray you like that was hard to take.”

  Annabel asked, “Dr. Vogler, why are you telling me this?”

  He looked at her strangely, narrowed his eyes, and sat back. “I just wanted you to know that despite things that happened in the past between Michele and me, I didn’t

  kill him.”

  “The detectives investigating the case are the ones who’ll want to hear that.”

  The smile he exhibited said to Annabel that smiling wasn’t a natural act.

  “I know that, of course,” he said, “and I know that they won’t consider me a suspect once they hear what I have to say. My attacking Michele was perfectly justified, as you can see. And I’m certain plenty of people saw me here working in Manuscripts last night and will testify I never went near Hispanic. I had no reason to go there—did I?”

  Annabel stood and straightened her skirt. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Dr. Vogler.”

  “Please call me John.”

  “And I’m Annabel. I’d better get back. I can see that having two months to write my article isn’t going to be nearly enough.”

  He escorted her to the reading desk, and the two books were again placed before her. Vogler lingered for a moment with his hand on her shoulder, then disappeared in the direction of his office.

  You physically attacked Michele Paul because he had an affair with your wife and he accused you of doctoring research? Better block out plenty of time for the police, John Vogler.

  At noon, a reference librarian informed Annabel that the Book of Privileges wouldn’t be available until two, and she decided to head out for a fast lunch, dropping by the public affairs office on her way. An irate Lucianne Huston could be heard out in the hallway. Annabel paused for a moment, long enough for Lucianne to come steaming from the office, almost bumping into her. The outfit she wore was familiar to TV viewers—tan safari jacket over blue button-down blouse, brightly colored scarf around her neck, tight tan slacks, and highly polished brown boots.

  “Hi,” Annabel said.

  “How friendly are you with the gatekeepers in there?”

  “Friendly, I think.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you tell them to cut me some slack? They’ve got the press on a short leash, which I’m not used to. All the major players at the library have been put off limits for interviews. I’ve got a news director back in Miami burning up my beeper. And—”

  “Slow down,” Annabel said, holding up her hand and laughing. “I’m here researching a magazine article. I have nothing to do with—”

  A member of the public affairs staff emerged from the office.

  “You’re supposed to take care of the press, not stonewall us,” Lucianne said sharply to her.

  “And my priority, Ms. Huston, is to represent the Library of Congress and its interests. We’re being as cooperative as possible with you, with all the press, for that matter.”

  “You call this cooperation? I’ve had more cooperation from the goddamn CIA and the Kremlin.”

  “Excuse me.” Lucianne’s handler walked away.

  “I was just going out for a quick bite. Join me?” asked Annabel.

  “Sure. And a stiff drink. Then I’m coming back here and raise hell.”

  “Looks like you already have,” said Annabel as they walked toward the main entrance.

  “Just getting warmed up,” said Lucianne. “If I can get a rebel leader in the mountains of some godforsaken banana republic to talk to me, I’ll sure as hell get an interview with a librarian. Besides, I’m a taxpayer. I pay their salaries. So do you. How about a steak place? I need red meat.”

  “Librarians can be tough-minded, Lucianne—don’t go by the cartoons or caricatures.”

  As they left the building and d
ebated where to eat, Dolores Marwede burst through the doors and started past them.

  “Hi,” Annabel said. “This is Lucianne Huston.”

  Dolores hesitated, shoved out her hand to the journalist, said, “Nice meeting you. Sorry … I have to run.”

  “Lunch?” Annabel asked.

  “No, I have to—I have to be someplace and I’m late. Thanks anyway.”

  Annabel and Lucianne watched her almost break into a run.

  “Who’s she?” Lucianne asked.

  “She works in the Hispanic division.”

  “Did she kill Michele Paul?”

  “Did she what?”

  “When I don’t know who killed somebody, I figure everybody did.”

  “Including me?” Annabel asked.

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I’d hate to lose the only normal person I’ve met around here.”

  “Thanks. Steak you want? If we pass a cow you can shoot your lunch on the hoof.”

  “I’ve already done that. A pig in Somalia.”

  “Spare me the details. There’s a decent steak house a few blocks from here.”

  15

  Dolores Marwede’s apartment, on the top floor of a three-story row house on tree-lined G Street, in the Capitol Hill area, was the only home she’d known since moving from New York nine years ago to take the job at LC.

  She’d lived in it alone for the first two years until meeting, falling in love with, and marrying George Bibby, a staffer for a congressman from Illinois. At first, she found his drinking and enjoyment of nightlife to be exciting, and happily joined him on his nightly forays into Georgetown, where they hopped from bar to bar, making and

  meeting friends, and feeling very much a part of Washington’s active young

  professionals’ social scene.

  But Bibby’s drinking soon escalated from high-octane social to morose serious. They separated, then divorced, Bibby returning to Illinois to work in his father’s real estate office, Dolores throwing herself into her work at the library as a way of mitigating the bitterness and loneliness.

  “Home early,” the elderly woman who occupied the ground floor said as Dolores arrived, breathless.

  “Yes, but only for a few minutes, Mrs. Simone. I forgot something important.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” the older woman said, using the sleeve of her sweater to wipe imaginary dirt from a low black wrought-iron fence defining a narrow front patch of grass. “You’re always working, always running someplace.”

  Dolores forced a smile and disappeared through the front door, took the stairs two at a time, unlocked her door, threw it open, and stepped inside the apartment. Although it was a small one-bedroom, sun streaming through a row of windows at the front of the living room gave a feeling of openness. The furniture was pedestrian—she’d bought it all at once from a discount store in Virginia the week after moving in—but Mexican art and artifacts put her stamp on the space. She’d made multiple trips to Mexico for the library, and on vacations, too, and always brought something back to add to her collection, none of it expensive, but each piece and painting had personal relevance.

  She poured a glass of orange juice in the kitchen, whose walls and counter were covered with vividly colored tiles purchased in Mexico, then went to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She opened the door to the room’s only closet, got down on her hands and knees, rummaged beneath hanging clothing, and pulled out a shoe box and a manila envelope, which she placed on the bed. A rubber band secured the shoe box. She removed it, took off the top of the box, and peered at its contents. It was filled with small envelopes and a few photographs. She began removing the items one by one, slowly, deliberately, examining each picture, carefully slipping letters and notes from their envelopes and reading them.

  After fifteen minutes, she looked at her watch, hastily replaced everything in the box, put on the rubber band, and returned to the living room, where she stood in the middle of the room as though deciding where to put what she carried. If only I had a fireplace, she thought, dropping the box and envelope on a chair, retrieving the glass of juice from the bedroom and pouring its contents down the kitchen sink. She scooped up the box and envelope, locked the door behind her, and went down the stairs, relieved that Mrs. Simone had left.

  She walked down G Street, crossed Seventh, and continued in the direction of the Capitol Children’s Museum and Union Station carrying the shoe box and envelope as though they were valuable, holding them close to her chest. She fought against a confusion that gripped her, an inability to step aside and rationally view what she was doing. The confusion was unnecessary, she knew, but she was unable to dismiss it, emotions overriding cognition, running out of time but with all the time in the world at her disposal. Her mother had suffered what she called panic attacks: “Just stop it, Mom.

  What are you panicked about? It’s just a mall, nobody here to hurt you.” Stop it,

  Dolores. It’s just a city street. Nobody here to hurt you, nobody who even cares who you are or what you’re carrying. Her thoughts failed to soothe; the panic prevailed.

  She reached the splendidly renovated Union Station. Construction was still in progress on Second Street. She paused at the site, next to a large Dumpster. There were no workers, no one watching. She quickly pulled the rubber band from the shoe box, stood on tiptoe, pulled a few envelopes and a photo from the box, dropped these into the Dumpster. Two men in suits approached, talking to each other. Dolores cradled the box in her arms and turned her face from them as they passed, breathing hard, certain they’d noticed her and wondered why she was there, what she was doing standing next to a Dumpster. Had they seen her drop the items into the Dumpster? They might come back, retrieve them, read them.

  She got up on her toes again and peered down into the Dumpster. It was almost empty; the envelopes were at the bottom along with scraps of wood and cracked floor tile. The photo had landed on its back; the face in it stared up at her. She looked toward the station’s main entrance. People were gathered there waiting for cabs to pull up. Were they all looking at her, asking one another what that woman was doing?

  She walked away, back up Second Street, toward the Library of Congress, where tourists congregated on the sidewalk outside the Jefferson Building. She retraced her steps down Second Street until coming to three trash cans with lids in front of a row house. Curtains were drawn over the windows. No one looking out at her. A mother and child passed, laughing as they sang a children’s song. Dolores pretended to examine something on the manila envelope until they’d passed, then removed the lid from one of the cans and emptied the contents of the box into it, replaced the lid, realized she still held the empty shoe box, took off the lid again, placed the empty box in with the envelopes and photos and unknown person’s garbage, snapped the lid in place, and returned to Jefferson, sweating, certain her smile at the guard was recognized as forced and insincere, and went directly to her tiny office off the Hispanic reading room. She sat quietly for a few minutes collecting herself, then ventured out, carrying the envelope she’d brought from home. The yellow crime scene tape was gone; the stacks and upper gallery were open again. Dolores swiped her magnetic card in the door’s slot and entered the stacks. She paused and looked up the narrow stairway leading to the upper gallery, where Michele Paul’s body had been. She felt light-headed and grabbed a shelf for support. The wave of weakness passed as quickly as it had come. She walked deep into the stacks. She stopped in an area where file boxes containing donations to the collection rested on shelves. Crudely handwritten labels identified the source of the materials. Dolores knew that the contents of most of the boxes had been given a cursory examination upon their arrival, and would probably sit there for years before anyone found the time to give them a second look.

  She opened the top to a box marked AARONSEN COLLECTION, slid her manila envelope beneath the dusty, yellowed papers in it, replaced the top, and returned
to the reading room, where Consuela Martinez had just emerged from her office.

  “Back to some semblance of normality,” Consuela said, indicating where the crime scene tape had been.

  “What a relief,” Dolores said.

  “Dolores, the police have asked me to accompany them to Michele’s apartment to look at what library materials he might have had there. Annabel Reed-Smith is coming, too. I thought you might join us. You’re familiar with what Michele was working on.”

  “I couldn’t,” Dolores said. “It’s too … too spooky going there.”

  “I understand,” Consuela said. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine,” Dolores said. “I suppose this is just now hitting home for me. There’s a murderer around, probably in this building, Consuela.”

  The division chief’s mouth became a tight line. “I know,” she said. “I know it only too well.”

  16

  Andre Lapin, the Library of Congress’s director of security, had held four similar jobs at federal agencies over the past twenty-four years. Like other federal law enforcement officers, including the hundred-plus members of the library’s own police force, Lapin had trained for ten weeks early in his career at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia. He was a whippet of a man, compact, thin, active even when at ease. Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows formed perfect tents above his eyes.