by Liz Bradbury
All these spectators made this cowardly bully think more rationally. It wasn’t just him against one small woman any more. He elbowed his way through the crowd, heading for the exit. We could hear his uneven footsteps echoing down the stairs.
I moved back into Bart’s office, closing the door behind me. Miranda was sitting behind her desk. She didn’t look up.
“Who was that?” I asked softly.
Miranda slowly raised her head, a portrait of deep chagrin. “My ex-husband. He... he comes around here sometimes. I have told him not to. He needs money. He has not been able to find a job, it is not his fault...”
My mouth fell open. I couldn’t believe this capable woman was sticking up for that asshole. Her self-esteem and assurance were gone, replaced by a part of her she normally hid.
“What’s his name?” He wasn’t Latino, so I figured Juarez might be Miranda’s birth name rather than her married name.
“Cedrick Sheldon Druckenmacher. He prefers to be called Shel,” she said it as though his preference was the priority.
“He comes around... frequently?”
Miranda just shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about this at all. She wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. She was straightening papers on her desk in an efficient way, doing her best to repress the last few minutes.
“Miranda, there are places that support women who are treated harshly by...” But Miranda shook her head again, and I realized that right then at least, there was no point in pushing Miranda about Druckenmacher. She was too desperate to act as though it hadn’t happened, too practiced at denial. So I said, “I’d like to speak to Connie Robinson about a few things that happened yesterday. Do you know where she is?”
“Connie went over to the President’s house to take him some papers. Then I think she was going to go home. Is there something I may help you with?” said Miranda crisply, desperately relieved that the subject had changed.
I’d wanted to ask Connie about the beverages but since she wasn’t there... “I need to take another look upstairs and I’ll need the key to the storage room, too.” Miranda handed over the keys.
It was even colder up there than before, and the high stink of decay was stronger. The power was still off, no electricity, no lights. Luckily not the entire bank of windows was covered by tarps, but the rapidly setting sun was creating deep shadows. Fortunately the storage room had a window, so I could see without a flashlight. It was relatively clean and neat in there. The fire and its aftermath hadn’t touched it.
I opened the refrigerator. The inside of it was warmer than the air in the room. No little refrigerator light came on. It was full of drink containers of every type. Every kind of soda, from cream to quinine. There were open twelve packs of diet and regular Cokes. There were juice boxes in all flavors, two unopened three-packs of Cafalatte, and a six-pack of Stewart’s Root Beer in bottles! I could have asked for one of those, who knew? There were bottles of water, both local and designer spring. Opened six-pack cartons of Lipton Iced Tea and Life Line Organic Juice were on a lower shelf. There was milk and half and half. There was even Grape Nehi. Were there actually people who drank that stuff?
No wonder Connie needed a list. On the counter top was the tray. I imagined her staring at the list then reaching into the fridge to get each bottle she needed.
It was so quiet in there. No electricity, no white noise. No buzz of fluorescent ceiling fixtures, no constant refrigerator hum. Two copy machines sat noiselessly in one corner. The hands on the electric wall clock by the window were frozen at 3:09.
Snowflakes were falling past the window outside. The President’s office and the big conference room faced south. The storage room was on the north side of the building, overlooking the campus quad.
I took a few steps closer to the window to watch the silent white flakes drift four stories to the ground below. I could see a few people scurrying along the sidewalks, wrapped in coats or jackets, heads down against the swirling wind. Coming from the far end of the quad were a man and a woman walking toward the Administration Building. They stopped at a sidewalk intersection and stood talking as the snowflakes floated around them.
The man’s flaming red hair identified him immediately as Jimmy Harmon. The woman was Dr. Kathryn Anthony. I felt the recognition of her physically. It was a curious feeling, pleasant and uncertain at the same time. Even from this distance I could feel how attractive she was. Her movements were graceful; fluid hand gestures, smooth nods of her head. I watched as she and Harmon spoke. He was waving his arms dramatically. She was shaking her head. They both laughed. As they did, she momentarily touched Harmon’s arm. They each turned. Harmon went to the right. Kathryn Anthony went to the left. I watched her as she disappeared into a building.
I suddenly became aware that time was passing and I would be late if I didn’t tear myself away from the window and the view Kathryn Anthony was no longer in. I locked up, went back downstairs, and gave Miranda Juarez back the keys.
“Do you always give Connie a list of what drinks to bring everyone?” I asked quickly when Miranda looked up from her keyboard.
“Yes, that is the process. Actually, Tuesday was the first time we used the new drink policy.”
“When people were getting their drinks at the back table, did you notice any of them doing anything out of the ordinary?”
She thought a moment. “No, I can’t... Some people took longer than others, but I couldn’t say who did so.”
“Did you send out an email asking people what they liked to drink?”
“Yes, exactly, and we were surprised that almost everyone answered. Some people asked for odd things, others wanted just the regular: Coke, Pepsi, water, that type of thing. One person asked for chocolate milk. That struck me as very funny, I think it was Professor Harmon. When we had everyone’s preference, Connie went out and purchased a supply of each. It took her an entire day to do it.”
“Have you noticed anyone hanging around the storage room in the last few days, who didn’t belong here?” I watched her as she considered the question.
“No,” she answered after a moment’s thought.
“I’d like to get into Carl Rasmus’s office later this evening. Do you have the key?”
“No, the President had the room padlocked. He has the only key.”
“I’ll go over to the President’s house later, right now I need to know how to get to Fenton Hall.” As Miranda Juarez wrote down Bouchet’s private number on a card, I noticed the pile of Bart’s work in the corner was now completely gone. She gave me concise directions to Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann’s office in the Architecture Building, I said thanks and burned shoe rubber to get there just in time.
Chapter 8
Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann stood outside the Architectural Design Building smoking a cigarette. It was snowing, cold and getting dark. She had her too-large coat on and a fox fur hat that was more like a muff with her head in the middle. Her severely cut black bangs fringed the reddish fox, outlining her face. Her lipstick was a red slash against her powdered white skin. The cold made her draw in, shoulders hunched, arms folded like crab claws. She propped her elbow on her wrist to hold her cigarette just inches from her mouth.
“We will speak out here. The building is smoke free,” she said as though smoke free was an abomination.
“OK,” I said incredulously. I flipped up my parka hood. The dropping temperature threatened teeth chattering. I fought to relax my jaw. There’s no dignity in sounding like a wind-up plastic novelty.
“Though you have done successful work for the College before, I am not in favor of this investigation. It is the President’s money though, and does not come from our budgets. He has asked that I cooperate, so this I will do,” snapped Dr. Roth-Holtzmann.
“Carl Rasmus, let’s talk about him...” I asked not bothering to correct her statement that I’d worked for the College; I was on the police force then, not working for the College.
She said in her bes
t imitation of a female Eric Von Stroheim, “It is cold, I must go in.” She threw her cigarette butt on the ground, savagely grinding it with her heel into the snow alongside a dozen others that were equally smeared with red lipstick. It was OK to make a pile of disgusting garbage, but God forbid it would smolder a second in a puddle of slush. Geez, what a neurotic.
I followed Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann into the building. It was a magnificent example of 1930s period Bau Haus style, probably designed by one of the top German Bau Haus designers, Walter Gropius maybe. Every detail in the building was form following function, from the polished wood window handles to the geometric carpeting, even the lettering on the office doors displayed careful mechanical simplicity.
Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann bee-lined to her office. As she shook off her billowy coat and sat behind her desk, I noticed a leather couch designed by Eileen Gray against one wall and a small “Wiener Werkstatte” ceramic head of a young woman in the bookcase. Rows of large books lined one wall and a huge flat screen Mac computer sat on her desk. Beside the desk was the biggest color printer I’d ever seen. There was a very small original Leonora Fini composition of collage and watercolor on one wall. Well, at least she has good taste, I mused.
A family picture of young Rowlina and her parents hung on the wall in one corner. There was no image of the illusive Mr. Holtzmann. Hmm, interesting.
“I did know Carl,” she resumed still sounding mechanical, “when he first came here he seemed a nice hard working young man, regardless of his lack of sight.”
Implying that lack of sight could make him a not-nice young man or not hard working? I wondered.
“It was recently that he began to act in a strange way,” she went on, “he sent emails that were ill-advised. When I asked him what he meant by one of them, he became angry. It required that I argue with him. It is all very hard to understand.” She said the last words in a softer voice, shaking her head.
“Do you remember where you were when you heard that Carl had died?” I tired to be casual. She seemed so edgy, I hoped she wouldn’t gather the implication.
“I received a call at home from Max Bouchet late in the day, he told me of Carl’s death. I had returned home from a conference the day before. I was tired so I worked at home that day rather than coming into the office.”
No alibi, I thought.
“What did you think of the suicide note?” I asked.
“He should not have blamed other people for his circumstances. It does no good.”
“And the rest of it?” I pried further.
“Strange... In all the time I knew Carl, I never once heard him mention God. Certainly he never mentioned sins. He did not seem to have any discomfort. He did not feel he had to...” She stopped, avoiding the next word.
“Hide?” I said simply.
She stared at me for a long moment, and then said, “Yes, he did not feel he had to hide. That must have been his undoing.”
“We’re talking about sexual orientation, right?” I said trying to clarify.
“Sexual orientation?” she repeated as though not understanding the term. Strange she didn’t know it, it’s in every anti-discrimination statement on every Irwin personnel document.
“Sexual orientation means whether a person is homosexual, heterosexual or bisexual. Everyone has a sexual orientation,” I explained.
“I am a married woman!” she said insistently, “I have no sexual orientation, I am married!”
Huh? Oh, I get it, I said to myself. Worried I might think she’s a lesbian. What I did next wasn’t really the best interview technique, but she was irritating me, so I goaded her internalized homophobia by saying, “How long have you been married Dr. Roth-Holtzmann?”
“One year,” she said looking away nervously. “My husband lives in Los Angeles.”
I wanted to shout, An unconvincing beard, living 3000 miles away! But that was her problem and I still had other questions, so I asked, “What beverage had you requested for the meeting?”
“I... Oh... I had Schweppes Ginger Ale, ten ounces, in a glass bottle, which I poured into a glass with ice.” She pulled the red shawl more tightly around her.
“When we were all in the meeting, do you remember getting up to get your drink?”
“Yes, my ten ounce Schweppes Ginger Ale,” she repeated nervously as though I might erroneously imagine she’s had a twelve ounce Schweppes.
“Do you remember anyone acting strangely when they got up to get their drink?” I asked.
She thought for a moment, “No, there was no one in front of me in the queue.” Then as an afterthought she said, “But... I do remember, that there was an odor... the smell of solvent. Slight, but I noticed it several times. Some type of cleaning fluid for the carpeting? Perhaps that is what made the fire spread? Why are you asking this?"
“When did you smell it?”
“I am not sure. I do not have the most successful sense of smell, due to allergies.”
Yeah, right. Couldn’t possibly be due to her smoking like a coal furnace.
She said nervously, “I was in the elevator with Leo Getty and Amanda Knightbridge. We heard the fire alarm. I was afraid the elevator would stop. I have a fear of small places. When we got outside, the fire trucks arrived. We saw the flames.” Clutching at her shawl, she asked fearfully, “What was this?” Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann was wound more tightly than a broken Baby Ben. No wonder she smoked like a chimney.
I asked, “Do you have any reason to be afraid for your own safety, Dr. Roth-Holtzmann?”
A look of pure terror flashed over her face, then it was gone. She drew herself up, “No, I have no more reason to be afraid than anyone else in these uncertain times.” She said it like something she’d rehearsed.
“Here’s my card in case you think of anything else,” I said standing.
On my way out, I noticed the metal sign next to her office door with her name on it said, “Dr. Rowlina Roth.” The hyphen Holtzmann had still not been added, even after a year. Bet that pissed her off. What’s the point of a beard marriage if you can’t even get a sign to advertise it?
Dr. Rowlina Roth - Holtzmann needed a hard-nosed shrink who’d kick her butt out of the closet, but there was something frightening her beyond Carl’s death and the explosion in the conference room. Something more personal. I wondered if she needed protection.
Chapter 9
Dr. Leo Getty was sitting behind his desk eating a huge roast beef sandwich with lettuce, onions, and tomato on a Kaiser roll, when I got there for our appointment at 5:00 PM.
“Maggie!” he called expansively, “come on in, sit down, sit down. Just grabbing supper, didn’t get much at lunch, meetings with parents all day.” He stood, still holding the sandwich in his left hand, brushing Kaiser crumbs off his shirt with his right. He wiped his hand on his pants before extending it to me. I shook it. He acted genuinely glad to see me.
“Want some of my sandwich? Chips? Hey listen, how are ya, OK? What’d they do to you in the hospital? It was something what you did. Were you a Brownie Scout or what?” he chuckled.
His office was much larger than Bart’s. Besides the standard file cabinets and desk, there were tables covered with computer equipment. Monitors, towers, scanners, a large workhorse laser printer, manuals, and a ton of electronic stuff I couldn’t identify. On the wall was a chart for a football pool and a Penn State Football poster with the schedule of this year’s games. On the floor in the corner were a pile of footballs, some deflated, some seemed smaller than regulation size, and a patch kit and mini bicycle pump.
Getty sat in he the middle of it all. Without the baseball cap he’d been wearing yesterday his straight gray hair was visible. Thick, silver and cut in the shape of a helmet. Hydrant hair with a touch of Moe Howard. To finish off the hydrant impersonation, his 5’7" stocky frame was sporting a bright yellow tracksuit with the college logo on it. He reeked of straight guy cologne. Old Spice? Aqua Velva?
“I’ll pass on the sandwich, but
thanks. Dr. Getty, I want to ask you about Carl Rasmus, but let’s just touch on what happened yesterday, first.”
“Shoot,” he said leaning back in his swivel chair while he took a huge bite of sandwich. Then he said around it, “Call me Leo. Really, it’s OK. Look, I’m concerned about all this...” He waved his arm, not able to think of what to call all this.
“You’re the Dean of Students, right? Are you also in the Athletic Department?” I asked as an icebreaker.
“No, no, I used to coach college football at St. Bonny’s in Hadesville, and I still coach Pop Warner in the fall.” He gestured to the mound of beat up footballs in the corner. “Gotta fix those up for the kids for next fall, but here I just do administration stuff. Love the game though,” he said enthusiastically.
I smiled, “Start with Bart Edgar...” I was booting up my laptop to enter his impressions.
“Excuse my French but Bart’s a screw-up... don’t get me wrong, I’m sorry he’s hurt... but Holy Mary, the guy can’t make a spreadsheet, remember data, compile stats... he was always coming in here asking me to help him get his computer working. Sometimes he just forgot to turn it on! Forget about loading software. And sometimes,” Getty was warming to his whine, “he’d screw something up so bad, it would take an hour to fix. Usually I helped, but I was beginning to tell him I was too busy. The thing is, he’d just wait until later and ask me again. Can’t figure why he still works here... nope, notta clue. Hey listen, have you heard anything about Georgia?”
“Well, she has serious burns on her legs, but I guess the doctors are cautiously optimistic that she’ll recover.”
“Oh, geez, well thank God for that, right? Georgia’s a nice gal, good with the kids, the students I mean. I knew her first husband, Jacob Elliot. Jake’s a good guy. Between you and me, I think she’d have been better off with Jake.”
“Why?”
