by Liz Bradbury
“She has two kids and Jake’s their father. He could have went away lots of times, but he stayed with her, then she left him.” Getty shook his head.
I tacked to, “Remember the drinks that Connie Robinson brought in to everybody?”
“Yeah?”
“What did you have?” I asked.
He hesitated. A wave of something passed over his face then he was back to Mr. Affable, “Me? I always have an ATreat. Any flavor. Cola, grape, orange. You thinking someone was drinking something hard?”
“A can?”
“Huh, oh, yeah, a can of ATreat, why?”
“Just trying to keep track of everything. Think about the room and the people getting their drinks. Do you remember anyone carrying more than one bottle?”
“Nope.” He paused frowning then looked up and laughed, “You think somebody swiped someone else’s drink?”
“What did you do after the meeting ended?”
“Right after? I...” he looked at the ceiling, scratching his head, “I asked Carvelle about some freshmen orientation event, and,” he screwed his face up with thinking effort, “oh yeah, I missed the elevator so I took the stairs. The alarm started when I was almost to the bottom. I got outside, then all hell broke loose.”
I nodded and made a note, “You mentioned you liked Carl Rasmus. How well did you know him?”
“Oh, I knew Carl for years,” said Getty tipping back in his chair, “When I was coach at St. Bonny’s, Carl’s family lived in our neighborhood. I knew him from a kid. My boys knew him in school...” Getty tossed his head at two photos on the wall near his framed Ph.D. diploma. The pictures were of average looking guys with wives. One had a little girl; the other had a boy about four and a baby.
“Yeah,” said Getty proudly, when he noticed me looking, “those are my boys, Leo Jr. and Arnie and their families.” He beamed, but I didn’t want him sidetracked by the excitement of having his DNA carried on to the next two generations.
“So you knew Carl’s family in Hadesville?”
“Went to the same church as us. That kind of thing. He was always blind, didn’t have a dad. He did music. It’s a shame what happened. He was very unhappy. He told me that several times...” said Getty trailing off, “but you know, a man needs to work things out, even a person who’s crippled like Carl. Well, I don’t know. I’m just a sports guy who wants to help kids get through college.”
“Carl seemed down to you?”
“Depressed. Unsure of himself. Unhappy maybe. Hey, I’m not very good at this, maybe a psychologist could explain better. You know, I don’t get a lot of this stuff about depression...” he laughed, “I mean, if somebody came to me and said they’re tired all the time and had no energy, I’d tell ’em, lay down and take a nap. Not go spend a year in therapy! I guess that’s politically incorrect to say. People can take charge of their own lives if they want to, people have free will... but they have to want to. Carl didn’t seem to want to. I think that kind of a college professor can be a bad influence on students. Students can be easily influenced.”
I nodded, “Yes they can. Uh... did you ever get the feeling Carl Rasmus would kill himself?”
“Between you and me, Carl always seemed unstable. I’d known him forever and he’d done some darn abnormal things... I mean even for a blind kid,” said Getty candidly.
“What?”
“Huh?”
“What? What did he do as a kid that was abnormal?”
“Oh,” Getty ran his fingers through his hair, thinking back. It took him awhile to start talking again.
“Yeah, well, OK, how can I say this... when Carl was a kid he did bad things and other kids would join in with him. He was always doing that. A what-a-ya-call-it... instigator. He got thrown out of school for it,” said Getty.
“Carl was thrown out of school? High school?” I said with surprise.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”
“Do you know what high school that was?”
“Uh... Hadesville High, I guess.”
“So then what happened to him? Did he go to another school?”
“Well, I kinda lost track and we moved here about that time...”
I made some notes to check into this.
Getty went on, “Irregardless of his past though, Carl made it into a good college and then, you know, did well in college. He got advanced degrees. He got the job here...”
“But then he killed himself...”
“Yeah, that was a shame,” said Getty unable to keep emotion out of the last words.
“Do you remember where you were when you heard Carl had killed himself?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah... I spent the day at the football field. They were bringing a bunch of high school kids in for try-outs. I always sit up high in the bleachers and watch that. It’s great to see what the new kids can do... wait a minute... are you asking this... to see if I had some kind of alibi or something?” he said with agitation. “I think you’re off the track. Carl’s note... it was suicide. You know about that, right?”
I nodded. “Dr. Getty, I’m asking everybody where they were that day. It’s nothing personal. About the note, what do you think about it?”
“I just read it, yesterday... I guess when a person thinks that way, then they must be pretty depressed. I wish he would have talked to me... I could have talked him out of the whole thing, if he’d just listened.”
*******
Getty didn’t have much more to say. The wind and snow had picked up as I trekked the two blocks to The President’s Mansion, a freestanding 1890 Victorian with about twenty rooms that were mostly used for entertaining.
Through the window at the side of the door, I could see Max Bouchet coming past a grand staircase in stocking feet and padding over the polished oak floors to open the door himself. He ushered me into his office, which was to the right of the foyer. Logs were glowing in a fieldstone fireplace. I stood in front of it to counter the outdoor chill.
Over the fireplace was a very old portrait of one of Irwin’s first Presidents. According to a small bronze plaque, it was done by one of the Peale family. I was hoping for Angelica, but it turned out to be by the father, Charles Wilson Peale.
There was another guy in the room. Bouchet did introductions.
“This is Captain Harry Dearborne. Harry this is Maggie Gale, I’ve hired her to help investigate what is happening...” Bouchet gestured with his arm to indicate all that had happened over the last few weeks. Dearborne raised an eyebrow at my involvement. He shook my hand anyway.
“Harry is leading the State Investigation Team,” rumbled Bouchet formally. “Harry was sent by the Governor to talk over his findings with me and the local fire inspectors and police.” Max Bouchet was letting me know that the State’s fire expert was actually reporting to him first, not the local or even state police.
“Harry please tell Ms. Gale what you just told me,” Bouchet said in a polite yet demanding tone.
Dearborne, a big bear of a guy except for the shaved head, was not happy with the idea of talking to me. He wasn’t in uniform, but he might as well have been. He wore a nondescript dark suit, white shirt, and Government Issue shoes. He wasn’t used to dealing with civilians. I figured he didn’t even like talking to Bouchet, much less a private dick dyke, but his compulsion to follow orders and Bouchet’s command of the situation, won out.
“We have determined that the incendiary occurrence was precipitated by a small explosion related to a natural gas pocket of non-natural origin in or around the posterior wall of the effected area,” pontificated Dearborn in a higher than normal voice for a man of his size.
“How did you determine that the explosion came from a gas pocket and not something else triggering the pocket, like possibly one of the bottles exploding?” I asked. As my internal voice yelled, why are you ignoring the other facts?
Dearborne looked at Bouchet who nodded his head. Dearborne plainly didn’t want to tell me, but he had to. I had a barely controllable urge to say n
yah nyah, nya nyah nyah. Luckily, as a trained law enforcer of professional and natural origin, I was able to keep myself in check.
“Well Miss Gale, there are still one or two other theories pertaining to the origin of the fire. The team found pieces of plastic from a bottle-like-container, both melted and of a non-melted condition, strewn randomly around the area of concern. However, the consensus of the team is that the plastic bottle-like-container pieces, resulted from the wall exploding and propelling said bottles about the room. That is the official position at this time.”
“But was there any evidence of fire accelerant?” I already knew from Cohen that some of the fire guys had found pretty strong indicators the fire was set, but Dearborne seemed to be rewriting scientific history, he must have been a devotee of the far right approach of a certain Federal Administration. Was this guy stupid or just lazy?
“If we find any evidence that indicates there was accelerant in any of the bottles, it is possible that that could lead us to the conclusion that the incident may have been foul-play generated,” he said in a confident voice.
My inner voice was screaming, duh !!! “Well, surely there would be no other reason for fire accelerant to be in any beverage bottle,” I suggested evenly.
He stared at me for a few seconds and then said, “We have not determined that information at this time.” I told my internal voice to shut-up because it was giving me a headache.
“Captain Dearborne has to get back to Harrisburg. He’ll be leading the rest of the investigation from there and will be back in the area in the next few days. More lab information will be coming in soon, isn’t that correct Harry?” said Bouchet.
“Yes, we will access a formal report on Tuesday.”
Bouchet walked him to the door.
When Bouchet came back in the room I said sarcastically, “Incendiary occurrence?... Any other substance strewn thusly in that manner?”
Bouchet chuckled, “Yes well, all professions have their extremes.”
“You got the Governor to make that guy answer to you, Max?” Bouchet nodded, I said, “Just how much money did you give to the Governor’s campaign?”
Max laughed, “It’s good to be rich.”
“Uh huh... well anyway, if Dearborne is really telling you the truth about his investigation...” I began.
“I’m confident that’s the team’s conclusion,” nodded Bouchet.
“He’s wrong Max, I spoke with Daniel Cohen, the evidence points to a bomb in a bottle,” I filled Bouchet in on how Cohen figured the bottle bomb worked and our theory that it was probably someone in the meeting who set it.
Bouchet groaned, “Shit,” in a low thundering voice, then asked, “Who did it?”
“Well, seven people went to the back table of the conference room, but we can probably eliminate Bart who doesn’t have the wits or nerve to do it. So that leaves six. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, Jimmy Harmon, Skylar Carvelle, Amanda Knightbridge, Leo Getty, and Connie Robinson. But this is just a theory, Max, the whole thing could be completely wrong,” I insisted.
“What about me, am I a suspect?” asked Bouchet.
“You didn’t go to the back table, but you did arrange to hold the meeting, so I guess you’re not completely off the map.”
Bouchet nodded smiling, “I’m glad you’re not letting me off the hook, just because I’m paying you.”
“Look Max, this is very serious, we’re talking about a killer on campus. I think you should close the College down.”
“Maggie, that’s a huge decision based on a guess. Most of the students are already gone for the holidays and all of them will be off once Carl’s funeral is over, for now, we’ll stay open.” Bouchet had obviously already made up his mind and clearly he wasn’t going to change it. Not right now anyway.
I sighed, “I need the keys to Carl’s office. Was the note left on a laptop or desk computer?”
“Carl had both. The suicide note was on the desktop. It’s a huge system. The police only took the keyboard to check for fingerprints.”
“If the laptop is still there I’m going to take it with me,” I said, “I’m sure the police have already gone over it. Tomorrow or Friday I want to go speak to Carl’s parents in Hadesville.”
“His parents aren’t living. He was brought up by his mother, however, she died several years ago,” said Bouchet. “Carl has a sister and a brother in Hadesville. They’ve agreed to the memorial service for Carl here at the College. The coroner hasn’t released Carl’s body yet, but the brother and sister said we could bury him here in Fenchester when the time comes.”
“Will they inherit anything?”
“No, we’ve just found out Carl did have a will... most people don’t. It leaves everything to some kind of organization.” Bouchet lifted a note pad from a stack of papers. “It’s called Rainbow Youth Symphony of Washington. We’re researching it to find the address. The group won’t get much, but of course that depends on what you consider much. Carl didn’t have a good deal in the bank but there are some death benefits through the college. A year’s salary and I think another ten grand, plus a portion of what was in his TIAA CREF retirement and probably anything in his credit union account.”
“Well, that must be fairly significant,” I suggested a ballpark figure.
“A little more, but not much higher. Still, if you don’t have anything, it’s a considerable amount for a little not-for-profit. This organization must be very small. They don’t even have a web site.”
At 8:00 PM I promised Max Bouchet I’d keep him up to date on anything I found out, then took the keys to Carl Rasmus’s office and began the trudge through the deepening snow.
Chapter 10
Jack Leavitt scared the crap out of me when he emerged from a dark corner of the second floor recording studio in the Music History Building. This skinny guy in a sweat shirt and ratty jeans, with shoulder length dark hair, gold rimmed glasses and a pallor that was punctuated by a little acne, was either the Music Department Grad Student, or the ghost of music studio past.
Carl’s office was off the large recording studio. As I stood in front of the padlocked door, Jack Leavitt made it clear he’d admired Dr. Carl Rasmus. He also gave me some information I hadn’t heard. I asked him if everyone had gotten along with Carl, Leavitt said...
“Well the students did but, I did hear him yelling at someone on the phone, once and one time he got really angry at Jim Harmon. Right in front of a class.”
“Really... what did he say?” I asked him.
Leavitt thought about it and then said, “Um... that Jimmy was a cheat or something like that. Jimmy tried to reason with him. Carl shouted. Jimmy put his hand on Carl’s shoulder, Carl pushed Jimmy away. All of the sudden, Jimmy looked like he was going to hit Carl. I was sitting right there so I said, ‘Jim, stop it.’ Jimmy kind of shook his head and calmed down and then walked right out of the room.”
Leavitt had been there on the day Carl died. When I asked him to tell me exactly what happened he said: “I came in at noon, that’s my regular time. I brought all the control room panels back to default settings. About 20 minutes later, Mike Jacobsen and Caitlyn Zale came in. They’re students. Caitlyn was going to sing and Mike was going to do the tech. Mike’s homework really. Caitlyn was just helping him out... Caitlyn and Mike started to work. She was singing some pop ballad kind of thing, she has a great voice. After a while, maybe about 20 minutes later, Carl came in. He had his cane open. I could hear him tapping it. Caitlyn had to stop singing because Mike was picking up the tapping. Carl said he was sorry to Mike. Um... then... Carl asked if I was there and I called out to him. He said, ‘Hi.’ Then Carl went in his office.”
Leavitt told me that even though the doors to the offices were supposed to be soundproof, they were really only about 80%, which made Jimmy Harmon postal when he was trying to make a recording because sometimes sounds from Carl’s office got picked up. Also anytime Carl opened his door, it spoiled a recording session.
Leavitt told me that no one came in to see Carl, but he suddenly remembered...“Carl may have gotten a phone call.”
“Really?” I asked with interest, “you heard it ring?”
“I didn’t,” explained Leavitt, “but Mike stopped the recording because he heard ringing over the mics. They’re pretty sensitive. I’m not sure of the exact time, but Mike would know.”
I made a note to check this with Mike Jacobsen, especially because Leavitt told me that Carl left his office just after the call. Leavitt went on to describe the chaos that ensued after Carl’s fall from the balcony. He ended it with... “I keep remembering the last time I saw him, Carl got in the elevator and... waved... just by holding his hand up, like this.” Leavitt raised his hand, palm out, not moving it, “And the doors closed and... I didn’t say goodbye.” He became quiet.
I asked Jack Leavitt to stay while I took a preliminary gander at Carl’s office in case there was anything in there I needed him to explain. It was free of the typical paper clutter of most offices, since Carl had no use for hard copy files and written memos.
“You came in here on that day?” I asked as I took in the office space.
“Yeah, I brought him some CDs that students had dropped off, some completed projects... assignments,” he said.
“Was his computer on, did he have the screen turned on?”
“Uh huh.”
“What was up on it?
“Um, a blank text document.”
“A text screen ready to type on?” I suggested.
“Yeah, or one that he could talk the text onto, using the Voice Transcription System. His mic was set up.”
“Could it pick up someone else’s voice?”
“No, the program’s really amazing, it only recognized Carl’s voice. It took a long time to set up. Dr. Smith helped him.”
“Dr. Georgia Smith?”
“Yeah, she’d come in every few weeks and update it for him. It’s easier for a sighted person to do that, because they can read the words that are coming out on the screen to be sure they’re right.”
I made a note of that.
