Murder at the Library of Congress

by Margaret Truman

  But the pleasure was fleeting. He quickly returned to the apartment, prepared a cheese-and-cracker platter for himself, and settled down to watch Lucianne Huston’s all-news network, NCN, hoping Annabel would call, and soon.

  38

  Annabel was immersed in what was on her computer screen when Consuela Martinez entered her space on the upper gallery. It was six-thirty.

  “I think we’re ready,” Consuela said.

  “Running late.”

  “For some reason it took longer than I thought for Dolores to copy and print all the discs.”

  Annabel removed her disc of selected files, slipped it into her blazer pocket, and turned off the laptop.

  “Put this in your locker,” Consuela said, handing Annabel an envelope.

  “What is it?”

  “The duplicate discs. The safe in my office isn’t working. I’ve been after Maintenance for a week to fix it, but they never seem to get around to it.”

  Annabel took the envelope from Consuela, placed it in her locker, added her laptop and some files, and locked it, the key going into the other pocket of her blazer. She followed Consuela down to the reading room, where Dolores Marwede waited.

  “You can go home,” Consuela told Dolores. “Thanks for staying late and doing such a great job.”

  “I didn’t mind,” Dolores said. “But I’ll be here for a while. I dropped a project to dupe the discs. I’d better finish it up before I leave.”

  “Sorry,” Consuela said.

  “Not a problem.”

  As Dolores walked away, Sue Gomara arrived.

  “How’s things in the main reading room?” Annabel asked.

  “The same. I saw a guy I thought looked like he could be my stalker—‘telephone harasser,’ the cops call it—but I asked him something and listened to his voice. Not him.”

  “Is that still going on?” Consuela asked with a sigh.

  “Yeah. Well, time to change back into my grunt clothes and get to work here.”

  “Go home,” Consuela said.

  “Boyfriend’s out of town again, so I might as well stay instead of going home to my dark, cold apartment, eat leftovers, take another call from that creep and go to sleep crying my eyes out.” Her dramatic delivery, hand over her heart, eyes rolled up into her head, caused Annabel and Consuela to laugh.

  “You laugh,” Sue said, joining them, “but wait’ll the creep starts calling you. Actually, I’m staying for the continuing ed lecture.”

  “What’s that?” asked Annabel.

  “Weekly programs to keep people up to date on what’s going on around the library,” Consuela said. “We’re too compartmentalized these days, left hands not knowing what right hands are doing. Cale Broadhurst initiated the series, people from different divisions telling others what’s going on in their areas. It’s been useful.”

  “Dr. Vogler from Manuscripts is speaking tonight,” Sue said.

  “Should be good sport,” Annabel said, visualizing Vogler sharing his knowledge with others. “Have fun.”

  Consuela and Annabel walked to the stairs leading down to the walkway linking

  the Library of Congress’s three buildings. Consuela carried the envelope containing the

  original discs; Annabel held the pages Dolores had printed.

  “The more I read what’s on those discs, Consuela, the more convinced I am that John Bitteman was the author,” Annabel said as they walked, “and that Michele Paul had something to do with Bitteman’s disappearance eight years ago. At least they provide a motive.”

  “Let’s say you’re right,” Consuela said as they reached the Madison Building and headed for the elevators. “Let’s say Michele killed Bitteman. The bigger, more timely question is, who killed Michele Paul?”

  Annabel was surprised to see that a group had been assembled in Broadhurst’s office when she and Consuela arrived. She’d met General Counsel Mullin and security director Andre Lapin before, and was introduced to the four others. Broadhurst welcomed them, announced they represented the final two arrivals for the meeting, closed his door, and got to the point.

  “As most of you know, I called this meeting in anticipation of receiving computer discs and a printout of what’s on them. These discs contain, according to an informal report I received from Mrs. Reed-Smith, information that could have a bearing upon Michele Paul’s murder. The discs will be turned over to the proper authorities once we’ve had the opportunity to examine and evaluate their contents.

  “Ms. Martinez took it upon herself to have a duplicate set of discs made so that we could preserve whatever research was on them that might benefit the library. A photocopy of the printout was also produced. Much of what’s on the discs deals with the elusive Las Casas diaries. I see you and Annabel have those things with you.”

  “Actually, these are the original discs found in the Aaronsen collection, Dr. Broadhurst,” Consuela said. “We felt it was more appropriate to give you originals rather than duplicates.”

  “I’m sure the police will appreciate that, Consuela.”

  Annabel handed the printout to Consuela, and she gave it to Broadhurst, along with the envelope containing the discs. The Librarian pulled the discs from the envelope, held them up like cards in a poker game, and said, “Perhaps you’d be good enough, Annabel, to give us the benefit of your knowledge of what’s on these.”

  Annabel put her law training to good use, speaking slowly and deliberately and establishing eye contact with each person in the room. She spoke for ten minutes before getting to what she considered the most important material, the final portion of disc number five. She briefly mentioned her suspicion that Michele Paul might have been involved with John Bitteman’s disappearance eight years ago. That comment raised eyebrows, and questions, but before Annabel could elaborate, Broadhurst was told he had an important call, and the meeting was temporarily put on hold.

  Andre Lapin came to Annabel’s side. “What makes you think Paul had something to do with the Bitteman case, Mrs. Reed-Smith?”

  “Nothing you’d consider as evidence, Chief Lapin, nor would I if I was still practicing law. It’s more a matter of the apparent animosity between them. Bitteman was going to—”

  “Was this break planned?” a man she’d just met that evening asked, smiling.

  “Like a curtain falling on Act One? I can’t wait for Act Two.”

  Lapin and the man started talking, allowing Annabel to slip away and go to where the Librarian had placed the printout on the edge of his desk. She picked it up and riffled the pages. She went to a page near the end, which she read carefully. She went on to the next page, and the next. Consuela looked across the office and saw the quizzical expression on Annabel’s face. She came to her. “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Yes. These final pages don’t reflect what was on the end of the fifth disc.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Let me look again.”

  After another fast perusal, Annabel said, “That material isn’t here.”

  “Dolores must have forgotten in the rush to print that portion of it,” Consuela offered.

  “Probably,” Annabel said, “or didn’t include them with the other pages. I’ll go back and see if she knows what happened.”

  “Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. In fact, if she didn’t print those pages for some reason, I will from the duplicate discs we put in my locker.”

  Annabel was glad she’d worn flat, comfortable shoes as she almost ran through the tunnel leading to the Jefferson Building. She used her card to gain access to the stacks and stairway, went to her area next to what had been Michele Paul’s space, squinted in the dim light provided by her desk lamp and a couple of low-wattage bulbs, opened the locker, removed her laptop, printer, and the envelope containing the duplicate set of the five discs, booted up the computer, slipped disc number five into the slot, opened the final file on it, and waited for it to appear on the screen.

  What came
up puzzled her. It wasn’t the final file as she remembered it. Instead, what was on the screen was a long section preceding the final set of files. She sat back and bit her lip. The hard copy she and Consuela delivered to Broadhurst’s office had obviously been printed from this duplicate set of discs. The missing pages should be on the original set back at Broadhurst’s office, unless they’d been deleted from them, too.

  She was certain of one thing: The disc on which she’d made selected copies of material from the floppy discs found in the Aaronsen collection contained those pages. She took it from her blazer pocket, substituted it for the other disc, and scrolled to the end. The missing fifteen pages started to come to life on the screen.

  She connected her ink jet printer to the laptop and sent it into motion, each page slowly emerging like toothpaste squeezed from a broad tube. As the words were transformed from computer images to black-on-white, Annabel sat back and closed her eyes. This was no careless mistake, she silently, and unhappily, told herself. Those pages had deliberately been deleted.

  The printing stopped. Annabel opened her eyes, picked up the printout, and scanned the pages once again. This time, her attention was directed at the initials sprinkled throughout the text—“LC,” “BE,” “WA,” “DM.” They were all there, as she remembered them to be. But what appeared on the pages she held was different from what had been on the screen when she ran the fifth disc from the envelope. It took her

  a moment to realize what the difference was.

  A pervasive feeling of sadness gripped her as she again inserted the fifth of the five discs that had been copied from the original set and activated the Find and Replace function, instructing it to scan the disc for the initials “DM.” It found none. Annabel ran the search again. The same result.

  Until that moment, it had all been speculation, conjecture on Annabel’s part. At first, the initials “DM” meant nothing to her, nor did many others contained on the discs. But then she began to wonder—when that moment occurred she couldn’t remember—whether they referred to Dolores Marwede. It was plausible. Dolores had worked in the Hispanic-Portuguese division during John Bitteman and Michele Paul’s tenure there. She’d reacted strongly at the mention of Paul’s name, and had made disparaging remarks about Bitteman.

  “One more time,” Annabel said, distinctly recalling that those initials had come up at least six times on that disc when she first examined it.

  She swapped discs again, inserted the single one on which she’d duplicated selected sections, and ran Find and Replace. The initials “DM” were highlighted.

  “Damn,” she muttered as she popped in other discs from the duplicate set and searched for “DM.” Nothing. Those initials were gone, deleted, erased from the computer’s memory.

  Annabel sorted out what she’d just learned. The final fifteen pages on the fifth of five discs had been deleted when the duplicates were made, and the printout reflected that. Any mention of “DM” had been removed from the discs, which, by extension, meant it wasn’t on the printed hard copy. The same thing undoubtedly was true of the original set of discs, which would easily be determined by returning to Broadhurst’s office and using a computer there to view them.

  Annabel put the disc of selected portions into her blazer pocket, returned the duplicate set of five to the envelope, and placed it on top of the fifteen pages she’d just printed.

  She drew a deep breath in anticipation of leaving the area and returning to the meeting in the Librarian’s office, started to get up, then settled back in her chair and thumbed through an internal phone directory until she found Cale Broadhurst’s extension and dialed it. His secretary answered.

  “This is Annabel Reed-Smith, Pamela. I need to speak with Chief Lapin.”

  “He’s in a meeting with Dr. Broadhurst and—”

  “I know that. I just left that meeting. This is an emergency.”

  “I’ll get him for you.”

  Annabel’s right foot tapped out her impatience as she waited for Lapin to come on the line. She was so intensely focused on what she would say to him, that the building should be sealed off and Dolores Marwede found and detained, that she failed to realize someone had come up behind her. When she did, it wasn’t a sound that alerted her; it was more a sense that another person was there.

  “Hang up!”

  Annabel slowly swiveled in her chair and looked up at Dolores Marwede, whose expression was as frightening as the razor-sharp curved box cutter she held close to the

  back of Annabel’s neck. Her face was distorted, a twisted mask of both fright and fear,

  pleading and threatening at once.

  “Hang up!” Dolores repeated, grabbing the receiver from Annabel and slamming it down into its cradle just as Andre Lapin’s voice could be heard through the instrument: “Mrs. Reed-Smith?”

  “Give me that envelope,” Dolores said. When Annabel didn’t immediately comply, Dolores reached over her and swiped it from the desk.

  Annabel attempted to collect herself, to will her breathing to slow down. “Dolores, I’m not your enemy,” she said, knowing only too well that, at that moment, she was precisely that.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Dolores said. “Damn you!”

  “I didn’t do anything, Dolores, certainly nothing to hurt you. Put that knife down before you make another mistake. We can talk about this and—”

  The ringing of the phone was deafening, causing both of them to jump.

  “Don’t answer it.”

  “The security chief knows I tried to reach him. I told Dr. Broadhurst’s secretary it was an emergency. They’ll be here, Dolores, any minute.”

  The phone continued to ring. Dolores took a few steps back, away from Annabel, the envelope pressed tightly to her bosom with one hand, the box cutter in the other.

  “Dolores, listen to me,” Annabel said, her voice not sounding familiar to her. “There’s nothing to be gained by doing this, hurting me. I know it was you who deleted the material from those discs, those fifteen pages, your initials. But you can’t delete the truth. Don’t do something you’ll regret. We can talk about it. Maybe I can help you.”

  The ringing stopped, the silence as jarring as the sound had been.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Dolores said.

  “I can try.”

  Dolores looked uncertain of what to do next, whether to use the box cutter to attack Annabel and cut away the threat she posed, or to bolt, to run somewhere, anywhere in search of safe haven. Annabel extended a hand; instead of calming Dolores as intended, it caused her to stiffen and to thrust the box cutter at Annabel.

  “Please, Dolores, put that down. It’s over. What’s important now is for you to acknowledge the pain you’re in and to help others understand.”

  Annabel’s quiet, nonthreatening voice appeared to be having the desired effect. Dolores let out a sustained breath and seemed to sag before Annabel’s eyes. Annabel had so many questions but asked only one: “Why, Dolores? Why did you kill Michele?”

  Dolores spoke absently, matter-of-factly. “You didn’t know him. You don’t know how cruel he could be.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that,” Annabel said. “I knew his reputation.”

  “I wanted to be everything for him. He told me I was. He told me I was the only woman who deserved to be with him. He said I’d earned his love.”

  “ ‘Earned’ his love? How did you ‘earn’ his love, Dolores?”

  “When he killed John, I was there to help him.”

  “John Bitteman? Michele killed John Bitteman?”

  “I hated John because Michele hated him. Michele was right. I wouldn’t have

  killed John, and I didn’t. I didn’t know what Michele had done until he called me that

  night from John’s apartment. He needed my help and I … I wanted so much to be there for him.”

  Annabel looked away for a moment, then back at her. “You wanted to help him to earn his love?” she asked, trying wi
th only some success to keep the bathos from her tone.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do, Dolores, help him get rid of the body?”

  They both turned their heads at the sound of people entering the Hispanic reading room below. The fright, the confusion was again etched in Dolores’s face. Annabel slowly stood as someone opened the door at the foot of the narrow stairs. Dolores retreated as Annabel again offered her hand.

  “Give me the box cutter, Dolores, and—”

  Dolores’s response was to wield the box cutter in a wide arc, missing Annabel’s face by inches. With that, she ran from the area and disappeared into the stacks as Chief Lapin appeared at the top of the stairs. Consuela was behind him.

  “Mrs. Smith, are you all right?” Lapin asked, coming to where Annabel stood, trembling.

  “Annie, what happened?” Consuela asked.

  “Dolores killed Michele Paul,” Annabel said, suddenly feeling faint and having to sit.

  “Dolores?” Consuela said.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she?” Lapin asked as two uniformed LC police joined them.

  “Somewhere back there in the stacks. You’d better seal off the building.”

  Lapin spoke into his digital remote radio: “This is Lapin. Secure the building. No one leaves. We’re looking for a library employee, Dolores Marwede. She’s probably in the Hispanic stacks, but I can’t be sure. Once the building’s secured, send every available man to Hispanic.” To Annabel: “Is she armed?”