Murder Is Academic

by P. M. Carlson

  As Jane approached her office door, she saw a knot of students huddled over a newspaper. She recognized a couple of her own students—Jackie Edwards and Terry Poole. And Maggie Ryan was there, the bag of alarm clocks on the floor beside her. “What’s happening?” Jane asked.

  “Did you see this about Christie James?” asked Jackie, her dark eyes perturbed.

  “Christie James?”

  “In the education school here,” said Maggie. “She’s the one the Triangle Murderer just killed.”

  “My God! One of our students? I haven’t read it yet!”

  “Yeah. It was only ten or fifteen miles from here. She was on her way back from Syracuse after a visit home.”

  “Professor Freeman, can’t we do anything?” Terry Poole was vivacious, black, intelligent, usually smiling but today very grim.

  “You mean for a memorial?”

  “Hell, no!” said Maggie. “We want to find out how to stop guys like that. Why do they do it? How can we fight back?”

  “Right!” agreed Terry. “This is just the last straw. Vietnam and assassinations and riots, maybe we can’t do anything about those. But why the hell can’t we stop just one flaky dude?”

  “Okay,” said Jane. The group was determined and angry and young, and something in her responded. One flaky dude. At least wrest control from him. “I don’t know what we can do either, but we can get together and find out.”

  “How?” asked Terry.

  “We’re smart, we’ll figure it out. Terry, you’re first lieutenant. I’ll use my so-called elite status as professor to enlist people to help—karate experts or policemen or whatever we decide we need. You take care of the details, okay?”

  “Terrific!”

  “For starts, run off some flyers. We’ll meet Saturday at two o’clock. Get my secretary to find us a room. And we’ll talk then about what we need to find out.”

  “Great!” said Terry. “What should I call it? Rape group?”

  “Only if you want to attract every lamebrained male humorist on campus,” said Maggie.

  “Women Against Rape,” said Jane, feeling militant. “WAR.”

  “Hey, right! Thanks, Professor Freeman!”

  “Glad to help,” said Jane. “Well, cheers.”

  She left the group chattering more hopefully and thought how resilient humans were—to live in such a world and still want to associate with each other. How resilient, and how stupid. Especially one named Jane Freeman, who had no time to spare now, who should be collecting and analyzing data, finishing the tenure dossier. If this current study came out well statistically, she could include it in the dossier, even if it was not yet accepted by a journal. And that’s what she should be working on, her book, her articles, not taking on another time-consuming project. You’re as bad as your dad was, she could hear her mother saying. Leap before you look. Wouldn’t she ever learn?

  But some impulses worked out well. And maybe, just maybe, this group would give someone an extra bit of knowledge to help in a crisis, enable her to come out of it alive instead of dead, like poor Christie James.

  Oh, sure. Jane Freeman, savior of the world. If she wanted to save human lives, she’d do better donating to the Red Cross.

  She sighed, checked her book again. Before meeting the babies today, she had quizzes to grade from her introductory course, and a new issue of Acoustics to read, and four goddamn letters of recommendation. She unlocked her office and glanced with maternal pride at the bookshelf with the eight neat stacks of offprints of her articles. Eight, soon to be nine. She propped the door open and sat down resolutely to work on the first of the letters.

  II

  10 Hunaapu (January 27, 1968)

  They’d met at the end of January, that terrible January. Mary Beth had been running. Leaden aching legs, gasping lungs seared by chilly air ripping in and out, stringy hair whipping her face, feet thudding, measuring her too-slow progress toward death. And then the little miracle happened. For the first time in weeks, it happened. She felt the pain and depression sliding away, her legs lightening, her lungs expanding. Once again she became Mary Beth Nelson, the Speeding Swede, letterwoman. Phi Beta Kappa. Once again she became the Mary Beth who had driven thousands of miles alone through Mexico and spent six months in a remote and primitive village. High above, in the pale cold northern sky, Hunaapu smiled down at her. Hunaapu, the Sun God, the twin, the hero who had overcome the Lords of Death. Today was his day.

  It was seven miles around the golf course, hard frozen miles, a few patches of snow still on the north slopes. She checked her stopwatch at the seven-mile mark. Great. A good run. She jogged back to the gym for her shower with a sense of well-being she’d thought might never return, her body worn and delighted from the good workout. It was Hunaapu’s day.

  During semester break the gym was almost deserted, eerily vacant. She had her hand on the big gray door to the locker room stairs when she heard, faintly, the sound of a flute. She paused, puzzled. Mozart? Here? And proficiently played. She crossed the hall and opened the door to the basketball court. The sound was coming from high in the bleachers, echoing a bit in the vast hall. Mary Beth untied the sweatshirt from her waist, pulled it on, and climbed up the bleachers. Here the acoustics were better. The woman flutist glanced up and then gazed into space as she continued the piece. Nice tone. A blue sweatband held back her black curls. The music wound up and down, sweet and controlled, and came to its foreordained and perfect conclusion. Mary Beth watched her take the flute in one hand and lean forward a little to perch her elbows on the back of the seat in front of her. She returned Mary Beth’s look of good-natured appraisal.

  “Hey,” blurted Mary Beth, “you’re really very good.”

  “Thank you. Glad to meet a fellow spirit. Anima sana in corpore sano.”

  Mary Beth pushed a strand of blonde hair from her eyes. “Not so much healthy as thirsty, right now.”

  “In soul or in body?”

  “Maybe both.” Jesus, what am I saying, thought Mary Beth, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Me too.” The flutist stood up and added pragmatically, “Let’s go get a Coke. I’m Maggie Ryan.”

  “Mary Beth Nelson.”

  “What instrument do you play?”

  “Bassoon. Hey, listen, we have the start of a woodwind quintet. We need a flute. Also a clarinet.”

  Maggie was dismantling and cleaning the flute and placing it in its case. “Okay,” she said readily. “I’d like that. I hate violins.”

  “Good. I mean, good that you’ll work with us.”

  “It sounds like fun. Where are the Coke machines?”

  “Downstairs, outside the locker room door. Are you new here?”

  “Just arrived. What’s your sport, Mary Beth?”

  “Cross-country.”

  “I’m a gymnast.”

  “Oh.” Mary Beth noticed as they descended the bleachers that bars and beams had been set up on the floor around the basketball court. All the same, she was a little surprised. Maggie was even taller than she was, rangy—not the usual short compact gymnast’s build.

  “Recreational,” explained Maggie, reading her look. “They don’t let grads on the teams here anyway, do they?”

  “No. I’ve got the same problem.”

  “Keep it up anyway. Corpore sano.”

  “Right.” Mary Beth smiled. They bought Cokes and started toward the women’s lockers again. “You’d better give me your address and phone so I can call you when we get the quintet organized.”

  “I don’t know it yet myself. That’s one thing I’m doing today. Looking for a room.”

  Mary Beth hesitated only an instant. She didn’t know a thing about this musical gymnast, really. But it was Hunaapu, a favorable day. She said, “We’ve got one. Seventy-five a month.”

  “Complete with quintet?”

  Mary Beth laughed. “Sorry. Bassoon and horn only, so far. The oboe lives a block and a half from us.”

  “Is your place far from
campus?”

  “Fifteen-minute walk.”

  “How many people?”

  “You’d be the fourth. Your own room, share the rest of the house. Walton Street.”

  Their lockers were not very close together, and they had to raise their voices as they stripped and showered.

  “Does the non-quintet person play rock all night?”

  “Jackie? No. She’s quiet. Claims to be nonmusical, but she likes to listen. It’s quiet, really. A haven. I was there last year, and away this fall, and just got back. It’s nice.”

  “I’d like to have a look at your haven, Mary Beth.”

  “Great! Can you come over now? I’m going home for lunch.”

  “Okay.” And after a moment, “What are you studying?”

  “Linguistics.”

  “Any special language?”

  “Spanish to earn my keep. Ixil for love.”

  “Ee-sheel?”

  “Yes. Spelled I-X-I-L. A Mayan language.”

  “Mayan!” Dark curls dripping, Maggie appeared suddenly, wrapped in a towel, by Mary Beth’s shower. The quick blue eyes took in the red scab and the fading bruises on Mary Beth’s ribs and hips before she could hide. She turned abruptly away and shut off the water. But Maggie’s voice did not falter. “That’s wonderful. But I thought their culture was pretty much extinct.”

  “There are only fragments left. It’s sad,” said Mary Beth, grabbing her own towel and covering up. “The Spaniards wiped out all they could. You know, for religion. Gold and religion. But some Mayan religious traditions are still practiced quietly. And some languages are still around.”

  “Religious traditions? Aren’t they Catholic by now?”

  “Well, they avoid trouble by saying so. They put the Catholic names on Mayan gods. There’s Kubaal Qii, the Creator of Humanity, who was killed by his jealous brothers and rose on the third day. He’s also called Jesus. Kuchuch, the female deity, is also called Mary.”

  “I see.” Maggie was back at her own locker. “Keep the god but change the label.”

  “Yeah. The lesser gods have saints’ names too. The Ixil celebrate the saints’ days, but they also keep track of the Mayan year and the Mayan holy year, and celebrate those too. And that’s no small feat. The calendar is complicated.”

  “I’ve heard of the Mayan calendar. Also that they invented zero. Do the Ixil have that too?”

  “No. That was part of the ancient writing system. Wiped out. The Ixil today are mostly illiterate, so they can’t use zero. I think it’s even more amazing, because they keep the count in their heads.”

  “Impressive people.”

  “They have stories,” said Mary Beth, splashing on cologne. They were dressed now, shirts and jeans and jackets and bookbags, the indigenous costume of North American young adulthood. They pushed open the door. “There’s an elaborate underworld filled with gods of death and other horrible things. One story is about two miraculous boys, the Heroic Twins, Hunaapu and Xbelenque. They want to avenge their father and uncle, who were taken by the Lords of Death. So they go down to the underworld. The twins are clever.” Mary Beth stopped at the junction of the halls and said anxiously, “Let’s go out the front way.”

  Maggie was already halfway to the back exit, closer, a white metal door with a round steel knob. “Oh, I thought Walton Street was this direction.”

  “Yes, but ... ” In the back of Mary Beth’s mind, Hun-Came and Vucub-Came stirred, began to wake, grinning the grin of death. She turned away. “Please, let’s go this way.”

  Maggie, obeying, asked, “So what did these clever twins do?”

  “Well, knowing someone’s name gives you power over him. The twins gain the advantage early by learning the names of the Lords of Death, Hun-Came and Vucub-Came, and all their underlings. The twins are put through many trials. There’s a red-hot bench, and a cave full of vampire bats, and one of ice. There’s a river of blood, and ... ” Mary Beth felt herself growing cold. Oh Jesus. She clenched her hands and forced herself on. “And there’s a room full of sacrificial knives. Hun-Came and Vucub-Came overcome the twins eventually, but the boys come back to life and disguise themselves as sword dancers. The Lords of Death watch the twins dancing and chopping each other apart with swords, and then miraculously making themselves whole again.” The cold wave was retreating. “And the Lords of Death like the trick so much they want to do it too. So the twins oblige and chop them apart. But of course they don’t bring them back to life.”

  “Smart.”

  “Yes. They eventually take over the sun and moon, and light the world.”

  “Because they knew the names of the gods. Hun-Came?”

  “And Vucub-Came.”

  “I see.”

  “The old stories don’t die. Every day the Sun God makes the same journey the twins made. It’s swallowed by death in the west, and goes to the deepest level of the underworld, and then climbs out again, reborn in the east. Then it rises to the highest heaven and eventually sinks to death again. The days are gods too.”

  “Really?”

  “Today is Hunaapu’s day.”

  “One of the twins.”

  “Yes. It’s supposed to be a favorable day.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Imush, the Earth God. And then Iiq, the Wind God. And then ... ” Mary Beth covered her face with her hand. Oh God, oh God, what was to become of her? She couldn’t even carry on a normal conversation. Maggie was watching her, concerned. She forced herself to continue. “The day names repeat every twenty days. There’s also a cycle of thirteen day numbers. Numbers are gods too.”

  “Hell, I knew that already,” said Maggie, helping her out.

  “You did?”

  “I’m a statistician.”

  “Oh God. Why?”

  Maggie smiled. “Accident, partly. I’ve always liked math. For several reasons I wanted to clear out of my undergraduate college early, and a math major was the most efficient way. But a couple of months ago I found myself homesick for all the messy human things in the arts and social sciences, and I figured statistics would be a bridge. Math applied to human problems.”

  “I’ve never liked math,” said Mary Beth dubiously.

  “Yeah, a lot of people don’t. But I find it very aesthetic. Pure and formal, beautiful and divorced from reality. Except that it isn’t. Somehow it lets us describe the universe in nonsensical ways that are truer than the commonsense ways.”

  “I see. You would’ve made a good Maya.”

  Maggie’s delighted grin was very wide. “Hey, that’s my favorite compliment this month!”

  The house on Walton Street was post-World War I: massive square brick with a full-width porch with thick columns; capacious living room, dining room, and kitchen downstairs; four corner bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. They went in the front door. Sue, broad and freckled, was back in the kitchen fixing herself a tuna sandwich.

  “Greetings!” she bellowed enthusiastically. “Who’s this?”

  Mary Beth performed the introductions. “Maggie Ryan, Sue Snyder.”

  “Hi, Sue. You must be the French horn,” said Maggie.

  “Fat, loud, and essential,” agreed Sue. “That’s me. And you?”

  Maggie smiled. “Long and fond of heights.”

  Mary Beth laughed. Sue thought an instant, then beamed. “A flute! You found a flute, Mary Beth!”

  “She’s a gymnast too.”

  “Ha!” Sue’s laugh was like a bark. Mary Beth liked her, but just now she found herself wishing that she would be more restrained. Somehow already she desperately wanted Maggie to stay with them. Sue was a little rowdy for some tastes.

  Mary Beth said warningly, “Hey, listen. She also wants to look at the room.”

  Sue shut up abruptly and surveyed the rangy, dark-haired visitor more critically. “Hmm,” she said. “That requires thought. The flute is a plus, but we don’t really need a gymnast.”

  “I swim and bicycle and repair cars too,” said M
aggie. “My faults include forgetting to make my bed and an unfortunate interest in statistics.”

  “Dear me, numbers. That is a drawback,” said Sue reflectively. “Mary Beth is a calendar freak, of course. But Jackie’s in French literature and I’m in Russian. Would we be able to communicate?”

  “En français, peut-être. Mais je ne parle pas russe.”

  Sue, startled by the flawless accent, bounced right back. “D’accord. That will do. Also, we’re very studious here.”

  “I just finished twenty-one hours last term, mostly advanced math. And I promise to indulge in my noisier dissipations away from home.”

  “A dissipated statistician. God,” said Sue, pleased. “What’s your religion?”

  “Let’s say Pythagorean.”

  “Ah. Math and music, right? Celestial spheres. That’s okay: we’ll take anyone who doesn’t distribute leaflets. Finances?”

  “The usual monthly pittance. Teaching assistantship.”

  “Okay. One other thing. As for the opposite sex ... ”

  Even Sue couldn’t ignore the warning flash in Maggie’s eyes or the sudden icy edge in her voice. “Yes?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to say that guys are allowed for dinner if it’s okay with whoever’s cooking. But nothing rowdy. And nothing stronger than pot on the premises.”

  “Strict hours and chaste habits. It’s a goddamn nunnery,” said Maggie. But she and Sue were smiling at each other again.

  “Okay,” roared Sue enthusiastically. “Let’s take her, Mary Beth!”

  “Just a minute,” said Maggie.