by J. T. Toman
She set about hacking his Google account. She entered his email address and then experimented with passwords.
Choi1
Too short. What was the minimum length? C.J. guessed six or eight characters.
Choi12
Nope again.
Choi1234
Bingo!
Ah. It was great to have colleagues with no lives outside the office. No chance for passwords named after much-loved pets, Star Trek characters or motorcycles ridden in a misspent youth. Of course, it takes one to know one. C.J.’s own password, from Amazon to Netflix to Wells Fargo, was CJWhit12. A hackers dream.
Successful with Choi1234, C.J. was in, looking at all of Stephen’s documents, email, and calendar. She was sure that access should have been frozen by the police but she was guessing that they were still thinking of computers as items with a hard drive. Not shells used to access the cloud.
She went straight to the calendar. Monday, 1 p.m.–– 2 p.m: G.A. Not much help. C.J. couldn’t think of anyone on the faculty with those initials. C.J. racked her brains. G.A.: Grade Academic papers. (Unlikely on the first day of semester.); Golf with Adam. (Did Stephen even play golf? C.J. didn’t think so.); Give Alms. (Unlikely. Any economist knows you donate to the poor on December 31st.) But at least it didn’t say “Murder Edmund” she thought ironically.
C.J. started to look through Stephen’s emails, his documents, his playlist and his recent book purchases. She had never realized he liked funk-fusion jazz. Or, embarrassingly, that the man was Korean, not Chinese. As C.J. read Stephen’s email, she was amazed to discover he had a girlfriend who was a graduate student at the University of California at Berkeley. What else didn’t she know about him?
C.J. spent some time clicking her way through his documents, not finding much of anything. Some uninspiring research papers, a few rather boring Powerpoint slides for teaching and a rather mysterious, half-written letter of apology addressed to herself. But then, C.J. clicked on an innocuous-looking document buried deep in a research folder, labeled “Statistics.”
Sadly, as a statistician herself, C.J. understood what she was looking at. She clicked around Stephen’s folders, looking for more evidence. Now the apology letter made sense. And she was certain she knew who G.A. was and why Stephen wasn’t saying anything.
*****
Many people thought the Triunity Church, located on the north edge of the large sloping lawn of the Elm Grove Town Square, was spectacular. To be sure, the church was a striking example of the gothic architecture that littered the streets of Elm Grove. The outside of the church was somber, heavy-set grey stone, but the inside was where it shone. Cathedral ceilings gleamed with polished wood and graceful arches. Stained glass windows cast rainbows of lights throughout. Rows of traditional wooden pews lined a protracted center aisle, making the church an ideal choice for the Elm Grove bride looking for a lengthy walk to Pachelbel’s Canon.
By seven o’clock on Wednesday night, the storm had moved over Elm Grove in earnest. Unrelenting, heavy rain fell, and strong winds rattled windows and doors. Edmund’s casket, covered with pale blue forget-me-nots (“As if we ever could,” whispered C.J. to Betsy when she saw the choice of flower.), was set at the front of the Triunity Church. As C.J. and Betsy entered the church, they could see the church was filling with Eaton University dignitaries (“Oh look,” said Betsy, “that’s the President of Eaton University himself over there.”), the faculty and staff of the economics department, plus many others from colleges and universities around the country. (“How many economists does it take to change a light bulb?” C.J. joked to Betsy. Betsy shook her head in disbelief and made shushing noises. “Two. One to assume the existence of the ladder, and one to change the light bulb.”) Some of the hungrier graduate students were also in attendance, looking for free food. And of course, the police were quietly hovering in the background. (“See? They don’t think it’s Stephen, either,” whispered Betsy with delight. “They’re here to spot the killer.”)
C.J. wondered how Edmund would have felt about a Wednesday night funeral. To realize that, in death, he was an inconvenience to be slotted in between two busy days in the opening week of the semester, days filled with teaching, faculty meetings and committee obligations that no one wanted to reschedule. Perhaps more to the point, the Eaton Media Machine had decided that it was best to bury him and the story of his murder as quickly as possible. But, she thought somewhat wistfully, looking around the church filled with the who’s who of Eaton University, even on this miserable night, Edmund can still pull a crowd. He would have liked that.
Right by the casket, alone, was a tall, striking woman, about thirty years old, who appeared to be completely at ease in her five inch Prada shoes and well-cut designer black dress. Her hair, a light strawberry-blonde, hung in waves of light curls down her back, and delicate curls framed her face. Most strikingly, her tearless, pale blue eyes scanned the crowd with intensity.
*****
“Who is that woman?” Trudy Scovill asked her husband, Walter, while shifting her rather hefty weight from foot to foot. Her feet were killing her. She hadn’t worn heels this high since her wedding day, and that was a good twenty-five years ago.
“Which woman?” asked Walter, without even looking at his wife. Not a patient man normally, Walter had no tolerance for his wife’s trifling queries tonight. He had tried every argument to persuade Trudy not to attend the festivities, appealing to Trudy’s need to be entertained (“You’ll be bored by the sermon.”), to her social snobbery (“The man didn’t have any family of significance.”) and to the usual stalwart, fashion (“You’ll ruin your new shoes in the rain.”). But Mrs. Trudy Scovill was not to be deterred. It’s not every day you get to go to the funeral of a murdered man. She was not going to be cheated out of such an event. Besides, she wanted to talk to the other faculty wives. She wanted to know what their husbands thought about Stephen being the killer and about Edmund’s will. All that money and he didn’t leave a penny of it to his wife. She had checked on Walter’s will as soon as she had heard.
Walter did not care about some lady his wife had spotted. Walter had already been stopped by the President of the college and the Provost, each wanting to reinforce that it was Walter’s responsibility to make sure this mess did not affect the Great State of Eaton. Walter knew it was only a matter of minutes before he ran into the Dean. “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. What a great idea, Sir,” Walter practiced saying bitterly in his mind.
“That one. The pretty one by the body,” persisted Trudy, pointing rather obviously to the woman with the strawberry-blonde hair.
Walter, relenting, looked in the direction Trudy was indicating. “Oh, her. That’s Edmund’s wife, of course. Linda. No. Lisle. No...um...wait...Lisa. Yes. That’s it. Lisa. You don’t see her much about the department. She does something with art, in New York City. I think she lives there most of the time.”
“Really?” cooed Trudy with interest. “She’s much younger than he is. Was. Edmund, I mean. You would never have thought he would have been the type.”
“And what type is that, dear?”
“You know. The type of older man who likes younger women…and can get them. I mean, all older men like younger women, but not all of them have the charisma to land them. Edmund didn’t strike me as having that much…charm.”
“Well, I suppose he could be nice if he wanted to.”
“Hmmm. How long where they married?”
Walter looked at his wife blankly. “I don’t know. Five years? Maybe ten? Who knows? What does it matter?”
“Well, I suppose it’s not that important. Do they have any kids?”
Walter snorted in exasperation. “What is this? Twenty Questions? How the hell am I supposed to know? I doubt it. I’ve never heard of any.”
Walter’s wife was unperturbed by his rudeness. After so many years together she was used to it. “Well, maybe it’s for the best that there aren’t any little ones. But for right now, she is c
learly standing there by the casket, waiting to be received, and no one is going over. She keeps looking around, to see if anyone will come by. I think, as Chair of the department you should start things off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Really, Walter. For someone who is supposed to be smart, I wonder about you sometimes. At a funeral, the widow stands by the deceased, and the people at the funeral go and say something to comfort her. Why every single academic in this room doesn’t know this, I can’t, for the life of me, figure out.”
“Well, I’m not sure how many know that Lisa is his wife,” excused Walter lamely.
Trudy pushed Walter in the direction of the lonely widow and then took it upon herself to round up a few more people to join the receiving line. After all, she was the wife of the Chair of the department. First Lady of the department as it were. This role did carry with it certain responsibilities.
She quickly spotted C.J. and Betsy and sent them along. Who could miss C.J.? she thought, looking at C.J.’s outfit. Pink cowboy boots? At a funeral? Really? Then old Charles Covington and his wife joined the line, delighted at the prospect of meeting the young Mrs. DeBeyer.
Trudy also stumbled upon that terrible secretary, dressed like a slut as always. What was her name? Mary Something. Mary Ann? No. Mary Kate? Well, whatever. She looked liked she had forgotten half of her clothes at home today. It was disgraceful.
Trudy did not think Mary Beth was appropriate receiving line material, but Mary Beth, seeing a line beginning to form, was not to be discouraged.
“It’s Mrs. Walter, isn’t it?” she asked Trudy.
“Yes, dearie,” Trudy said, without a lot of enthusiasm.
“It looks like we can go and view the body now. How exciting. It was getting a little boring, just standing around. I’m going to hop right in line, so I don’t miss my chance.”
And before Trudy could say anything, Mary Beth toddled towards the front of the church in knee-high, black boots with well-toned butt cheeks peeking from the bottom of her black mini skirt in the most tantalizing manner.
As Trudy waddled toward the mourners, looking for sufficiently distinguished grievers for Mrs. DeBeyer, she noticed that nice Jose and a young woman she assumed was his girlfriend joining the line. Trudy liked Jose. He was always such a helpful young man and a very hard worker. Well, they weren’t exactly the caliber of people she had in mind for Mrs. DeBeyer, but Jose was always very clean and respectful. She would let him and his girlfriend stay in the receiving line.
*****
Closer to the casket, Walter was deep in conversation with Lisa. Speaking in low, consoling tones, no one else could hear what he was saying. But C.J. couldn’t help wondering what he was rambling on about, as Lisa had the searching look of woman about to fling herself through the first fire exit she found, alarm bells be damned.
In the receiving line, Betsy was telling Charles about how Freddie, one of the middle grandchildren, was starring as Willie Wonka in the fifth grade play. Charles, fresh drink in hand, was nodding amicably, though not hearing a word. But that was really all the encouragement Betsy needed, and she was launching into details about costumes, the number of lines, and how Freddie was chosen instead of Oliver, another young boy whom everyone thought was a certainty for the lead, given that he took acting lessons, and his mother was the head of the PTA.
C.J. herself was talking with Mildred, Charles’s much-loved and elderly wife. Mildred Covington was of the traditional values. She married at age twenty, had not worked outside the home a day in her life, and everything she did, she did to ensure the comfort of her husband.
Mildred did not understand a woman like C.J. The woman must be at least thirty years old and worked every day. No wonder she did not have a husband. C.J. seemed happy enough, but it wasn’t right. The Lord God intended for women to stay at home and look after their menfolk.
“And how are you dear?” Mildred asked C.J. with concern, patting her on the arm.
“Oh me? I’m like a cow in clover, Mildred. Doing just great.”
Mildred clucked. Keeping up such a brave face. But with no husband to comfort her...with all this violence ...how could she be alright? Tsk. Tsk.
“But it’s Charles here I’m worried about,” C.J. continued. “I think he’s overdoing things, bringing ladders into work. Do you know why he brought the ladder in on Monday?”
“Oh yes,” said Mildred, eager to be helpful. “The leaves were piling up in the gutters on the roof. Charles couldn’t bear for that to go on. It can damage the roof, so he tells me.”
“I see,” said C.J., nodding earnestly. “That is hard work for a man of eighty-seven. Two weeks ago I saw him emptying the trash cans. You know, we have a team of maintenance men who take care of these things.”
Mildred pursed her lips. She didn’t like to hear her Charles being criticized. But all the same, it sounded like the girl was concerned. “Well, if Charles enjoys these things…it sounds like he is doing the department a favor. Looking after it.”
“You are so right, Mildred,” said C.J. emphatically. “He is doing us a favor. But, we must think of Charles first. It was just this Monday, after bringing in the ladder, that he had to rest all afternoon at home with you. I don’t want him tiring himself unnecessarily.”
“Well, now. That’s not true. He didn’t stop at home on Monday afternoon. I had my crochet group over on Monday. Charles would never stick around for that. He popped in for lunch around noon after he cleaned the leaves off the roof in the morning…it is so handy that we live so close to the department…but then he went right back to work. So you see, I don’t think his little odd jobs are a problem.”
C.J. looked at Mildred for a moment. “This Monday that just past. The day that Edmund was murdered. Charles wasn’t at home all afternoon?”
Mildred wondered if the girl was as bright as they said she was. “No, honey. Charles doesn’t crochet. He went back to work.”
*****
Mary Beth was standing in line, back straight, buns tight, bosoms out. You never knew when you were going to meet your future husband. She had not seen Professor Daniels yet that evening, but, as her mother said, “It’s the money and the ring that matters, not the man providing them.”
Mary Beth was scanning the room, looking for other potential life-mates, when Peter Johansson walked by. Like a fly walking into a spider’s trap.
“Yoo hoo! Professor Johansson!” Mary Beth called out.
Professor Johansson looked up in surprise. He had little interaction with Mary Beth. He was instinctively afraid of her talon-like nails. Peter nervously ran a hand over his bald head.
“Um. Yes. Miss Sanders, I believe. Can I assist you with anything?”
Mary Beth gave Peter Johansson her most winning smile. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman. As a matter of fact, you can. I am standing in this line, waiting to see the body of Professor DeBeyer, and I am feeling a little faint with grief. I was wondering if you would stand with me a while.”
Peter Johansson looked at the closed casket, covered in forget-me-nots, and wondered how this girl thought she was going to see the strangled body of Edmund DeBeyer, but didn’t comment on this clear breakdown in logic.
“Well, um, of course, yes,” he said, coming to stand in the waiting line which hadn’t moved at all as Walter was still talking at Lisa. Peter wondered to himself what Walter could possibly say to Edmund’s widow. “I hated your husband with a passion” or “Your husband was almost as big a dick as I am.” Somehow, neither seemed appropriate just now.
Peter became aware that Mary Beth was talking to him. Actually, she probably hadn’t stopped. Guiltily, he tuned in.
“...so, the police made me aware of the very important role I have in, like, solving the crime. From my desk, I like see so much. I was the one who saw Professor Choi leaving the building when I was away at lunch, and then when I got back from lunch I saw him return. But he didn’t come back right when I did. He came back, li
ke, at about two. I also saw Professor Whitmore sitting outside at those silly parking meters doing her so-called research. And I was at my desk the whole time, except when I went to drop off Professor DeBeyer’s letters I had typed for him. And that’s when I heard the argument.”
“An argument, did you say?” asked Peter with interest. He hadn’t heard about the argument before.
“Yes. Well, I heard Professor DeBeyer yelling. But the other person must have been Professor Choi. Because that’s who they said did it.”
“Um, if you don’t mind me asking, what did Professor DeBeyer say?” asked Peter.
“Oh, I don’t mind you asking, Professor. Professor DeBeyer yelled something like ‘You’re finished. You’re finished.’ It was something like that. Anyway... I didn’t see you that afternoon. What were you doing while Professor DeBeyer was being killed?”
Peter was taken slightly aback, but realized the inappropriateness of her question, being asked only feet from the widow of the deceased, was not driven by insensitivity or rudeness, but ignorance. “Teaching,” he said gently, “I was teaching my undergraduate class.”
*****
A rush of rain-cooled night air swept over the mourners as the doors of the church opened swiftly. Jefferson Daniels, obviously running late, rushed into the room. Even now, two days into grieving for his friend and colleague, his face lined with sleepless nights and tears, Jefferson Daniels was by far the most handsome man in the room.
Peter Johansson was aware he had lost his audience. Mary Beth was standing straighter and directing her gaze in the direction of her first choice. “If you’ll excuse me,” said Peter.
“Huh?” said Mary Beth, not hearing.
Peter, not one to beg for someone’s company, bowed ever so slightly as a good-bye and walked away unnoticed by Mary Beth.
*****
Walter, feeling that Lisa had not been listening to him the entire time he had been consoling her with investment advice, saw Peter Johansson walking by and made his escape. “Well, remember, there is always a risk when starting a new business. Do your research before you set your heart on Santa Fe as the location for your new gallery. If you need more advice, come and see me anytime. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a colleague I must talk with.”
