by Liz Bradbury
“A strong smell?” I asked with interest.
“No, just a whiff. Frankly, Jimmy Harmon was drinking a grape soda. I dislike that strong synthetic grape smell. There were other odors too that masked the petroleum smell, but it was there.”
“Other odors?” I tried to remember the other smells.
“The cookies, coffee brewing in the outer office, someone’s cologne, I would have sworn I noticed Kathryn Anthony’s perfume in the hallway...”
This woman was good, we never got a witnesses like her when I was a cop. Her opinions made sense too, I asked, “What did you think of Carl’s suicide note?”
“Quite simply, I do not believe he wrote it.”
“You seem quite sure.”
“The things said in the note were stupid. Carl was not a stupid man. The thirty-year-old myth about homosexuals being murdered by homosexuals. Carl was a scholar. He based his opinions on facts and research not antiquated rhetoric.”
“There are some people who do hate themselves because they’re gay.”
“Educated young people, who do not have religious pressures and overbearing parents, rarely develop these deep hatreds of themselves these days,” she said dismissively.
“So how do you explain how the suicide note got onto Carl’s computer when he had a closed system?”
“I cannot explain it, but its existence is a puzzle, not a fact. You must figure it out.”
I was a bit startled by her insistent tone. She was nodding at me. I went on, “May I ask, Dr. Knightbridge, where you were earlier today?”
“When you called to say you were not coming at 11:00 AM, I joined Kathryn Anthony’s morning seminar. We went from there to lunch at the Student Union, at about one o’clock. I sat with Kathryn and some students. I left to come back here at about 1:45.”
“Do you have a car?”
“Well, I suppose one could say I have. It’s a Volkswagen Beetle. Not the new kind, it’s many decades old. It’s in my garage, but I haven’t driven it for several years.”
The seminar was a good alibi, it also alibied Kathryn. If Dr. Amanda Knightbridge was telling the truth, and it would be easy to check, she seemed to be cleared. At least regarding Skylar Carvelle’s murder.
She leaned forward, “May I ask you some things?
“Yes, but I may not be able to answer.”
“Have you spoken with Kathryn Anthony?”
“You mean about the explosion and Carl’s death?”
“No, I mean in general.”
“Yes, I’ve spoken with her... in general.”
“Do you feel she is attractive?”
“Huh?” I said stunned.
“Are you attracted to her? Personally?”
“Why do you feel you need to know that, Dr. Knightbridge?”
“Ah, well... I think you would complement each other,” she said as though she had simply suggested a wine to have with dinner.
Chapter 16
As I walked down College Street, my mind wandered to Amanda Knightbridge’s suggestion that Kathryn and I would complement each other. Maybe I could spin control my unpunctual behavior by getting Dr. Knightbridge to call Kathryn and tell her that.
Instead, I called Jimmy Harmon’s office. His secretary told me Professor Harmon was in the recording studio and that he planned to be there all night. Good, I’d go to the Music History Building as soon as I made a few other calls.
The hospital told me that Bart Edgar had been discharged. Georgia Smith was still in very serious condition. She could have visitors if her family agreed, but only for very short periods.
I also called the dorm number for Mike Jacobsen the student who’d been recording music just before Carl died. He said I could come and see him anytime tonight.
First things first. I headed directly to the Music History Building. Instead of taking the elevator, I walked quietly up the stairs. I didn’t want Jimmy Harmon yelling at me when the elevator noise screwed up his recording session. When I got to the second floor, there were five musicians packing up their guitars, fiddles, and music and pulling on their coats.
Jimmy came out of the recording booth saying distractedly, “That was great everybody, I think we’re all done for today.” Harmon stared through me for a minute then turned his back and headed back to Jack in the booth.
“Jimmy, I’m not leaving until we talk,” I said sternly, “so turn off whatever part of your brain is concentrating on doing something else and listen to me.”
His shoulders slumped. “OK,” he said resignedly, “just let me tell Jack he can leave.” When Jimmy came back, we each took a chair in the empty circle.
Jimmy Harmon had opportunity: he was at the meeting and could have put the bottle on the table, he was in Skylar Carvelle’s office where he was able to overhear that I was on my way to Carvelle’s condo. He also had some level of motive: he had a hell of a temper and had almost hit both Carl and Bart. So I might be talking to the killer in a deserted building all by myself. I should have been more concerned, but the thing was, I liked him. He seemed like a nice guy. On the other hand, what do I know from guys? Kathryn Anthony’s voice rang in my mind... “Trust no one.”
“What did you want to see Skylar Carvelle about this morning?”
“Huh, oh God, um... he had some projections of next year’s enrollment...” Harmon’s voice trailed off.
“Jimmy, where did you go after Skylar’s office this morning?” I asked sharply.
“Oh geez. I drove home. My kids were in school. Linda was out. Skylar’s dead... I don’t have an alibi, go ahead, and type my name at the top of the list.”
I did.
“How about when Carl died?”
“I was in my office on the fourth floor of this building listening to a series of recordings with headphones. When I have the headphones on, I can’t hear a damn thing. Even though the police and rescue workers were swarming all over this building, I didn’t know Carl was dead until late in the day.”
I watched him carefully as he spoke, his red hair seemed limp and he sniffed, like he had the tail end of a cold. I asked, “What did you drink at the meeting in the conference room?”
“What?” he said looking up. He seemed disoriented.
“Your drink at the meeting, what was it?”
“OK, look,” he hesitated. “There’s... I...” He stopped and slapped his forehead, then started again, “See how my nose is running?” He pointed at his nose, in case I didn’t know where it was, then he took out a purple handkerchief and blew, making a honking noise that would have impressed Harpo Marx.
I nodded. I figured he was about to admit to cocaine.
But he said, “I have terrible allergies. My nose runs constantly even at this time of year. In the spring and fall I’m miserable. A few months ago, my allergy doctor gave me a new prescription medication for pollen, animal hair, dust, mold allergies... it was supposed to cover everything. I went along with her because I really needed some relief.” He sniffed, then blew his nose again. It looked red and sore.
“So?”
“It worked great but... serious side effects. Made me forget stuff and cranky. More than cranky. Edgy, quick to fly off the handle. You probably heard about me and Bart, I almost hit that asshole. How could anyone be as incompetent as that guy? But it was my fault too. I should have double-checked the invitations. The medication was making me forget everything. Hey, normally I would never have assigned an important task to Bart. Why take the risk when there are a dozen other people who would have done it right?”
I didn’t say anything. He was looking at the floor, talking more to himself than to me.
“The same kinda thing happened between me and Carl. He came in during a recording session. The noise ruined the take. I got so mad I almost... I almost hit a blind man just because he’d opened his door.” Jimmy Harmon was shaking his head. There were tears in his eyes.
“Didn’t you realize you were over the edge then?”
He looke
d up and nodded. “I finally told my wife what I’d done and she said I’d been acting strangely ever since the new allergy medication. So I called my doctor and she said she’d just gotten a bulletin that day cautioning physicians on the side effects of this medication. So I stopped taking it. My nose started running right away, but I felt in a fog for days, still do.”
“Who’s the doctor? I want to speak to her.”
“Call her now,” he said immediately. He looked at his watch. “She has evening appointments on Thursdays.”
He gave me the number from his cell and I called. The doctor named the meds and apologized to Jimmy again. She even gave me a web site to check all the information. It all sounded legit to me. Jimmy Harmon seemed remorseful about his behavior, but so what if it was the drugs that made him into an angry kook. Angry kooks may be more likely to be killers than average guys.
“So, back to the soda at the conference room, are you saying you don’t remember what you had?” I asked.
“No, I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to have. I thought I’d ordered Yoohoo. I could have sworn... but there wasn’t any Yoohoo on the table. My brain felt so fuzzy. Then I saw the Grape Nehi. Real Americana. You know... every GI from Gomer to Radar? So I chose it. Nobody said, ‘Hey, that’s my Nehi!’ So I took it back to my seat. Amanda said it was foul smelling and I thought so too. I didn’t drink much.”
“Before and after you were getting your drink, did you notice anyone acting strangely while they were getting theirs?”
“You mean other than me?” He laughed sardonically, wiping his nose on his handkerchief, “Um, honestly I was so hopped up, I wouldn’t even drive my car. I called my wife to come and get me. Let’s see, other people... no, I can’t think of anything. Oh, wait; Skylar had a funny look on his face. Rolina Roth took forever to pour hers... she’s always like that. Maybe that was my imagination.”
“Is there any other reason you had for fighting with Carl Rasmus?”
“Why?” said Harmon shortly.
“Why? Because he’s dead, that’s why! Did you?”
“No. Look, Carl accused me of all sorts of things. He sent me outrageous emails...” A look of anguish flickered over Harmon’s face.
“Do you have copies of any of them?”
“I delete things like that... I’m sorry, I have work to do. Is there anything else?”
“Yeah there is. Carl claimed people on the tenure committee had slandered his work. Why would he say that?”
“I can’t think why he would be so upset. Would you think a guy like that would kill himself just because he felt a little depressed or unhappy?”
“I didn’t know him. What do you think?”
“I think about him everyday. I’m so sorry he’s gone,” said Jimmy Harmon shaking his head miserably.
Chapter 17
Fenchester City Hospital was twenty blocks away. Too far to walk in the cold December darkness, but a quick drive.
The lobby was classic hospital modern: glass, neutral carpeting and phony plants that looked real. Bright colored framed prints dotted the walls. To the right was a gift shop laden with things people in hospitals didn’t want or need, at obscenely high prices. Where else can you buy an eighteen-dollar magazine?
I asked the woman at the desk where Georgia Smith’s room was.
“Name?” she chirped. She had beehive hair, tons of make up and cat-eye glasses. I looked around to see if there was a candid camera from some low budget reality show focused on my face to capture my dubious reaction. This desk lady had to be an actor. But no, she was just the hospital desk volunteer... from another decade; or maybe another planet.
“Georgia Smith,” I said slowly and clearly for the second time. She checked her list. Because Georgia’s condition was so serious, the desk woman had to call somebody to check on what to do with me. Georgia’s husband Adam said my visit was all right with him.
Hospitals used to be repositories of constant noise. Imagine an old movie or TV show about doctors saving lives at St. Something. Drama or comedy, there was always a non-stop soundtrack of public address system pages: Calling Doctor Howard, Doctor Fine, Doctor Howard.
That’s pretty much history these days. Doctors, nurses, even aides, all have pagers on silent. The glaring lights are gone. Hospital lighting is diffused. Sometimes the hallways are even carpeted. Although the surface harshness is mostly gone, there’s still the desperate battle between life and death. Death often wins. For many people, the worst moments of their lives are spent in a hospital, no matter how quiet or tastefully decorated it is.
On the third floor, Adam Smith, Georgia’s husband, met me at the nurse’s desk. Someone must have told him about my using the rug to smother Georgia’s burning clothes. Adam shook my hand, thanking me sincerely, and then he started crying and hugged me.
“Take deep breaths,” I told him.
In an average week, Adam Smith was probably a good-looking guy, but now he looked like hell. He obviously hadn’t slept for days, which was one reason he couldn’t control his tears. A tumble of emotions showed simultaneously in his red-rimmed eyes. His sandy blond hair was uncombed and oily, his clothes were a mass of wrinkles and he needed a shower, badly.
“She’s going to be OK,” I said consolingly.
He nodded and began to cry again, but stopped after two sobs and said, “Yes, she is. I... um... you want to talk to her? She’s under heavy sedation, she sometimes says things that make sense, but then other times...” he looked off into space vaguely.
“Adam, you need to go home and get some sleep.”
“I can’t, I can’t. I have to be here in case she wakes up. I don’t want her to be alone.”
“Where are her sons?”
“They’re home now. They’ll be back at 7:00 PM.”
“Is there anyone else in the family who could be here...?”
He shook his head absently.
“If I could get someone here, would you go home and sleep?”
He just stared at me.
I said firmly, “You’ll be of no use to her if you make yourself sick with exhaustion.” He nodded slightly.
A nurse let me dial 9 on the hospital phone to get an outside line. I called Amanda Knightbridge and told her that Adam Smith hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. She suggested she come to the hospital immediately to sit with Georgia while Adam went home to rest. I told her I’d get Georgia’s sons to pick her up. Adam gave me their number. I got hold of them and told them to swing by Washington Mews to pick up Amanda Knightbridge.
Adam and I went into Georgia’s room. There were monitors and tons of equipment I couldn’t begin to identify, but everything was turned off. The lights were low. The room was quiet.
Georgia lay in a high hospital bed on her stomach. There was some kind of frame under the covers that held the sheets above her legs like a tent. There was a chair placed at the end of the bed so she could see and talk to someone without having to lift her head. I was glad I couldn’t see her legs. I didn’t need another mental image like that.
“Sit down, she can see you better. She’s on a constant painkiller drip,” Adam said inclining his head toward an IV bag, “they just told me the doctor wants to increase the pain dosage in the morning so she’ll be in, like, a semi-coma for a few days. It’s supposed to make it easier for her.” Tears were forming in his eyes again, “I want it to be easier for her.” He shook he head sadly, then pulled himself together and went on, “even now, she may not be able to say anything.”
I sat and waited, watching Georgia’s face for any sign of movement. Ten minutes went by. Suddenly Georgia blinked her eyes open. She’d been so still that the rapid change startled both Adam and me.
Adam said, “Georgia, honey, this is Maggie Gale. Do you remember her? She was in the conference room.” Georgia’s eyes focused on my face. The drugs had slackened her features. She tried to concentrate through the fog of meds.
“Oh,” she said very quietly. Her eyes became b
righter.
Adam said with mild surprise, “She knows who you are.”
Georgia moved her head to face me more directly. She opened her mouth to speak, but the breathy sound that came out was so slight I couldn’t hear her. She became agitated. She wanted to tell me something. I leaned very close so that her mouth was at my ear. She whispered each syllable slowly and separately, but what she said didn’t make any sense. It sounded like, “Carl’s macaroni’s can.” She stopped and nodded slightly. As if to encourage me. As if she was sure I knew what she meant. Then she closed her eyes and drifted off.
“Georgia?” I said in a low voice. She didn’t even move. After another few minutes I stood up and walked with Adam out of the room.
“What did she say?” Adam Smith asked brushing his hair from his eyes, wearily.
“It sounded like, Carl’s macaroni’s can. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, but it isn’t the first time she’s said something weird like that. She’s slurring her words from the drugs.” Adam yawned so widely that I imagined him dislocating his jaw and having to stay that way. His breath was rank. When he finally closed his mouth, he shook his head like a dog. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.
Just then two teenaged boys got off the elevator followed by Amanda Knightbridge. The boys were wearing jeans and big sweatshirts and were similar looking except one was a little taller and heavier than the other. Both looked tired and anxious, and as though this tragedy had aged their souls. They came immediately to Adam to ask how their mother was. I took Amanda Knightbridge aside.
She said, “I’m glad you called me Ms. Gale... oh dear, Adam looks dreadful.”
“He needs rest. Maybe one of the boys should go back with him too.”
“Send both of the boys back with him, they’re all very tired. I have several books, so I can easily be here all night.” She glanced at Georgia again, and then focused her bright eyes back on me. “Do you feel Georgia may be in danger?”
