by J. T. Toman
“That’s Professor to you, you whippersnapper. And I think our time is up. I have to teach class.” With this, Charles went and held open the door, and the two men, needing to rethink their strategy of dealing with Charles, left meekly. Charles, who did not teach class that day, eased himself back into his desk chair to think. What was the best thing to do?
*****
While C.J. did not teach class on Fridays, Jose was in charge of the recitation sections for her undergraduate class, and she was concerned he might not show. So she decided to pop in on the nine a.m. class that morning. Despite having their cell phones surgically attached to their bodies, her students seemed to have terrible trouble telling time. At nine o’clock, C.J. and a very quiet Jose had little more than half the recitation section sitting before them in the room. C.J. just smiled at those who were on time and said, “Actions speak much louder than words, don’t ya’ll think?”
The students arriving later were surprised to find the door to the room locked and a note placed up. “Hope you can join us next class. It begins at nine.”
Having just re-enacted the shaking of the door handle, the bemused faces peering in the little glass square in the door, and the terrified faces of those inside the room for the benefit of Betsy over their morning coffee, C.J. paused for breath. “If I’m perfectly honest, I prefer a smaller class size. Can I start locking the door earlier and earlier?”
Betsy, her entire girth shaking with laughter, just shook her head. “Oh Lord. Only you would lock them out.” Today, Betsy was knitting a pink and purple striped scarf and hat for her ten year old granddaughter. Once the laughter settled down, the sound of the needles clicking resumed.
“Why not? I hate having them walk in after class has started. But I tell you, it is easier to get the cows to come in for milking than get those students into a lecture hall on time. Do their parents know how they behave?”
“I hope not. Because then they would stop paying, and you and I would be out of a job.”
“Depressing. But I did talk to that one student. That girl I thought I recognized on the first day. Her economics knowledge is far superior to the rest of the class. So I complimented her after class today, and she said ‘Well, I guess I am my father’s daughter,’ like that would mean something. But I looked up her last name, and it’s Wilson. I don’t know any famous Wilson economists, do you? I thought they were tennis racquet makers.”
Betsy shook her head. “No. I can’t think of any. But you know the Eaton students. They all think they are much more famous than they are.”
“Isn’t that the truth? Hey, did I tell you I talked to Stephen?” C.J. took a long sip of her large hazelnut latte, extra cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. Since she had started teaching the extra class, her coffee orders had become even more extravagant as a reward. Just like giving a dog a biscuit for good behavior.
“How is that poor boy doing?”
“Well, I don’t think you bounce back from being falsely accused of being a murderer. He’s spending some time with his girlfriend at Berkeley.”
“Stephen has a girlfriend?” Betsy’s knitting stopped as she looked up in surprise.
“Right. I didn’t know either. But apparently, yes. A grad student in chemistry.”
“Huh.” Betsy started knitting again in earnest. Her lap was a pink and purple sea of fluffy wool.
“So, I’ve been thinking about Stephen getting released. Of course, it is good news for Stephen, but unfortunately, it is rather bad news for the rest of us.”
“How do you figure? I thought you liked Stephen.”
“No, no. That’s not it. What I mean is that, well, because Stephen didn’t kill Edmund, and I never thought he did, there is still a murderer working alongside us every day. And now the murderer knows that we know he’s still out there.”
“Oh, yes. I see, I think. Well, if this was Law and Order, the murderer would do something really soon to give himself away. Like try and go back to the scene of the crime, or kill someone else.”
“Comforting, Betsy. Very comforting.”
*****
At a little after eleven-thirty, Betsy left Wallaby’s and walked right by Walter Scovill. She lowered her head and gave a respectful nod. Walter was, after all, her boss.
Walter groaned inwardly. She knew! That cowhand they had somehow hired had told. He could tell. Betsy Williams, of all people, was looking down at him. It was intolerable. He, Walter, hadn’t done anything wrong. It was a fair market exchange. Labor for education. It was not to be stood for. He would take care of C.J. Whitmore. Now.
Walter stormed back to the department and into the faculty lounge. Jefferson was sitting in an over-stuffed leather chair, sipping his smoothie. Opposite him sat Peter, drinking his coffee and eating a chocolate glazed. Charles, looking very distracted, was standing by the coffee machine, stirring his Styrofoam cup of coffee endlessly. A smattering of the 41 and 43 Knollwood crowd was chattering at the back of the room. Stephen Choi of course wasn’t there. Walter had reluctantly agreed he could take some time off work, but had agreed only because he had already denied Stephen tenure. And, of course, because the Dean had called and told him that it would be better if Stephen wasn’t around. But really, how soft was the man? So he spent a few days in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Buck up and get back to work.
Walter bounced into the room, red in the face. Startled, everyone looked up. Walter looked around, gradually realizing he wouldn’t find his target there. Of course. C.J. didn’t come to faculty coffee anymore. They hadn’t seen her there since the day she got tenure. God only knew what her problem was. Walter’s eyes eventually settled on Jefferson.
Jefferson gave the man an amused smile. “What’s up, Walter? Here to give me my forty acres and mule and send me on my way to Sante Fe?”
Jefferson chuckled at his little joke. A little black humor was always fun in a white department. He had been expecting the wrath of Walter since he announced his resignation, but not so publicly. But the effect on Walter was not what Jefferson expected.
“God! I will not stand for this. You understand me? Edmund tried the power play, and I crushed him like a bug. You don’t want to test me boy.”
With this startling statement, Walter flounced out of the faculty lounge, leaving his colleagues open-mouthed.
*****
Jefferson was pacing in C.J.’s office two hours later.
“Do you think we need to tell the police?”
C.J., sitting in her desk chair, watched the nervous energy that was Jefferson Daniels. No wonder the man published ten articles a year and ran a few marathons on the side. He clearly had an excess of fuel to burn. Was that a medical condition? Something with the thyroid? She couldn’t remember.
C.J. leaned back in her chair, pink cowboy boots slung up on the desk. “Tell me again. What exactly did he say?”
Jefferson paused his pacing and faced C.J. “He wasn’t going to stand for it. And I shouldn’t test him. And that Edmund had tried the power play and had been squashed like a bug.”
Jefferson resumed his figure eights of C.J.’s red and yellow kachina-doll-themed area rug.
C.J. pursed her lips, moving them from side to side. “What did you say right before that?”
Jefferson didn’t stop walking to answer C.J. this time. “Walter looked upset. I just joked about how upset he was looking.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jefferson stopped to think. He replayed the scene in the lounge in his mind and then looked at C.J. “I think I said something about him paying me my forty acres and a mule. I admit, it was not in great taste. But as the only African-American on the faculty, I like to draw attention to the fact from time to time. I admit it. You know what I am talking about, Miss-Only-Tenured-Female.”
C.J. suppressed a smile, but Jefferson saw it.
“What? What did I say?”
“Nothing important. Try not to worry too much about Walter.
I really don’t think he is going to kill you.” But as C.J. said this, she wondered. Walter had a temper, and it seemed to flare when he was provoked. Did Edmund provoke Walter as well?
*****
Jefferson had gone, and C.J. was left in the peace of her office. She was sifting through her email. Therese in accounting was organizing a cookie swap for the holidays. She knew it was early, but sign up now! C.J. hit delete. What an idea. Baking dozens of your favorite cookies, then giving them away, and taking home plates of cookies that you would only eat if trapped in your house for the fifth day without food. It made no sense at all to her as an economist. Trading something good for something crappy.
Norm from the safety department was alerting them to a fire drill on Friday at seven a.m. C.J. hit delete. Good job, Norm. There would be no one there Friday at seven. Perfect for convenience, a little less useful for safety.
Janet from payroll wanted everyone to know that Thursday was pay day. C.J. just rolled her eyes. Janet, darling, do you think people don’t know that? You could skip that email…we will flood your inbox if, for some reason, we don’t get paid. Trust me. Delete.
Then there was a selection of emails informing C.J. of exciting training opportunities using smartboards, clickers and other technologies in the classroom. About ten emails announced either has-beens or soon-to-be-someones speaking around campus. One email informed faculty where they could find the menu for various eateries on campus. Two promised thrilling upcoming Fall-fest events that should not be missed.
DELETE…DELETE…DELETE
When C.J. had first arrived at Eaton University, she had changed her email settings to direct all such emails into her spam folder. She had been enjoying the freedom from this daily update of the frivolous and mundane until the secretary from the Dean’s office called one day, sounding rather annoyed.
“The Dean has emailed you eleven times. He expects a response.”
“The Dean has emailed? I haven’t gotten an email from the Dean.”
After a few minutes of searching through her spam folder and a very long and sincere apology from C.J., the problem was solved. C.J. was told curtly by the Dean, who did not find the situation amusing, to change her spam filter.
Consequently, C.J. now spent fifteen minutes every day deleting requests to join the bowling team or attend pumpkin carving competitions. With this chore done for the day, C.J. remembered Jose, looking so awkward at the recitation. She didn’t want to leave things that way.
FROM: C.J. Whitmore
TO: Jose Grimaldo
SUBJECT: Touching base
Jose,
I wanted to have a quick chat. There is some grading coming up that you will need to do for the undergraduate class. Also, I wanted to check in, to see how things are. Can you stop by my office?
Professor Whitmore
Jose must have been sitting at his computer, not surprising for a graduate student, as C.J. got a response right back.
FROM: Jose Grimaldo
TO: C.J. Whitmore
SUBJECT: RE: Touching base
Professor Whitmore,
Of course. How about Monday after Econ 101? Grading for Econ 101…always fun.
As for checking in, everything is great with me. Thanks for asking.
Jose
C.J. read Jose’s email and thought wryly, ‘Everything is great.’ Really my friend? I just saw you on your knees, polishing the shoes of the Chair of the department. I’m not sure I would call that great. Whether you want to or not, you and I will chat today.
*****
C.J. was just pressing send on her reply to Jose when there was a knock on her office door. It was a timid knock. Not recognizable as any of her colleagues. C.J. often thought that professors had a mistaken reputation of being soft, gentle and kind, locked away in their ivory towers. C.J. had never met a more cut-throat group of professionals, scrabbling up the career ladder by eating the young of those below them. Such men did not knock softly.
However, a student, still awed by the environment, might be hesitant to disturb her. Damn. It wasn’t her office hours, and she didn’t want to deal with a student. An undergraduate was going to ask questions a hedgehog could answer, and graduate students always had other issues. They were stressed. They were in love. They needed to fly home to Yugoslavia to visit a dying grandmother. Did she look like a counselor?
C.J. scowled at the door. With all the extra faculty meetings, funerals and classes, C.J.’s social tolerance was maxed out. She did not want to speak to another person, help another person, or comfort another person. Period. “Come in,” C.J. called half-heartedly. If she was quiet enough, the student would go away, and her conscience would be satisfied that she hadn’t actually ignored him or her.
The door opened slightly. “Hello?” an old and shaky voice asked questioningly. “Hello? Professor Whitmore? Are you there?”
“Mildred?” C.J. called out questioningly. C.J. rarely saw Charles’s elderly wife in the department.
“Yes. It’s me. Mildred.” The relief in the old woman’s voice was palpable. “Can I come in Professor Whitmore?”
“For goodness sake, of course. Don’t be collecting dust out there in the hallway,” C.J. said with a cheer she did not feel. “Now, forget this Professor Whitmore business. The name’s C.J. Always has been.” C.J. looked closely at Mildred. The old lady, a virtual botanical garden in a pink and orange flowered dress complemented with a white hat banded in daisies, had stepped cautiously into her office and was trembling ever so slightly, her head bowed.
“Mildred, take a seat,” C.J. encouraged. A Texan lifetime of being polite to her elders kicked in and overrode her real desire to throw the old lady out her window. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
Mildred sat down obediently. “I hope it is alright I came to see you. I didn’t know who else to turn to. Certainly not that Professor Scovill.” Mildred almost spat out Walter’s name. C.J. guessed that Charles was very open about his thoughts on certain faculty members when at home.
“Of course it’s okay. I glad you did,” C.J. lied. “Is there something in particular that is worrying you Mildred?”
Mildred took a deep breath, dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief embroidered with roses, and then broke down into uncontrolled sobs. “It’s Charlie. And this stupid murder. Charlie has just gone and confessed that he murdered Edmund.”
*****
Walter Scovill sighed impatiently when Charles Covington III called from the Elm Grove Police Station.
“Ah, is that you, Walter?”
“Of course it’s me. You rang my office at three in the afternoon. Whom did you think would answer? Kermit the Frog? What do you want?”
“A frog? No. I can’t say I was expecting a frog. How strange you would think that. Are you feeling alright, Walter?”
Walter exhaled audibly. “What is it you want Charles?”
“Oh yes. Sorry. Silly me, getting distracted with all this amphibian nonsense. I just thought I should let you know that I, well, I just confessed to murdering Edmund.”
Walter was silent. He must have misheard the old boy. Did he just say he murdered Edmund? “Sorry, Charles, I couldn’t hear what you just said. Could you repeat it?”
“I said,” yelled Charles, thinking the connection must be bad, “I KILLED EDMUND!”
Walter sat back in his desk chair, silent. Not the person he would have picked. Walter had thought Stephen was a likely candidate. Being Asian and all. All that Samurai warrior crap and karate chop sui. Really, a very violent people the Orientals. And if not Stephen, then C.J. was surely a shoe-in. With those hormones and all. But Charles?
“Walter, are you still there?”
“Oh, yes, of course, Charles. Sorry to hear that. Thanks for letting me know.” And without further comment, Professor Walter Scovill hung up the phone.
*****
“Of course it’s your problem,” said Betsy, admonishing C.J. as she recounted her incident with Mildre
d over a rare, late afternoon coffee. But when C.J. had called Betsy with the news of Charles’s confession, the two women had decided they wanted to talk it over in person. “Really C.J., I think you have been spending too much time around Walter. Do you honestly think Charles Covington murdered Edmund DeBeyer?”
“Well, he says he did it. Charles walked into the Elm Grove Police Station with a very convincing story. How he left home after lunch. Mildred had been worried that the petition to remove Charles from the faculty would be successful, and Charles had been in a fury that Edmund had upset Mildred. He came back to the department to work off his bad mood by cleaning gutters. But, as he was climbing the ladder, he saw Edmund through the window. The two men got into an argument. Charles ended up in Edmund’s office, and the argument ended with Charles strangling Edmund. It wasn’t premeditated, but it was murder.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Well, I don’t know. People have murdered for less than a tenure job. But you’re right. It does seem very un-Charles-like. But why would an innocent man confess to murder?”
Betsy, who had been busy knitting tiny yellow booties for the upcoming seventeenth grandchild tilted her head to one side in thought. “Well,” she mused, “on the T.V. shows, when the innocent person confesses, they are generally protecting someone they love. But that would mean Mildred killed Edmund. And that seems even less likely. Or Charles was protecting a child, but Charles and Mildred never had any children.”
C.J. stared at Betsy.
“What?” asked Betsy, beginning to feel somewhat uncomfortable. She did not know what she had said to startle her friend.
“I’ll tell you what. You’re a complete genius. Poor Charles. What a fool.”
“So…he is the killer?” Betsy asked, not completely following.
“No. I don’t think so.” C.J. sat looking thoughtful. She sipped her coffee, wondering if a single human in the history of the planet Earth had ever behaved rationally. Certainly no one in the economics department at Eaton University ever had.
