“It does to me too,” agreed Pamela. She leaned her elbows against the top of Jane Marie’s desk, pondering the situation and rereading the front page story. “I wish I had more information. This newspaper story only provides the bare essentials.”
“I can’t help you there,” said the brunette, shrugging and continuing her typing. Pamela realized that she had probably intruded on Jane Marie’s work time and that she should get back to her own office in case students were piling up outside of her door. Although it was summer and she was only teaching two classes, she could never predict just when a student from one of her classes would show up asking for help. As it was technically during her posted office hours, she headed out of the departmental office and up to her office.
On her way down the second floor hallway, she noticed Willard Swinton’s office door open. As she walked by, she saw Willard sitting alone at his desk, uncharacteristically watching his small television set, instead of being hard at work on one of his research projects. As Willard and Pamela shared similar interests in language and vocal features, they often collaborated on research. She stopped at his door.
“Watching soap operas in the middle of the afternoon?” she questioned the large black professor with a suppressed giggle.
“Pamela,” he said to her, looking up from his small black and white screen that resided on top of one of his four, five-foot high filing cabinets. “I turned this on to see what the local news might be saying about James Grant’s arrest.”
“Did you know James?” she asked, stepping inside Willard’s office. This office was an exact replica of hers, although Willard hadn’t invested nearly as much time as she had in decorating his space. He did have a number of photographs of various groups to which he belonged. She knew, for instance, that in his youth, Willard had served in the Navy and was exceptionally proud of his accomplishments while he was enlisted.
“I didn’t know him well personally, my dear,” said Willard, motioning her to come further in and take a seat in the padded straight back chair in front of his desk. “But I had certainly heard about him and everything he’s been doing for Reardon. Amazing man! And, of course, I do know Martin.”
You mean, his campaign manager?”
“His campaign manager and long-time friend and law office partner. They are actually more like brothers—if such a thing can be said about a black man and a white man—but they are. Here, my dear! Look!” Willard directed Pamela’s attention to the television screen on which could be seen text appearing as a voice-over spoke. “It’s the 911 call from the wife.”
“Oh! From Stacy Grant?”
“Yes,” he said. “Listen.” He turned up the volume with a small remote on his desk. Pamela focused on the small screen. The picture quality was not good and the sound quality was even worse. Even so, the call from James Grant’s wife to 911—although short—was riveting.
“My husband . . . outside . . . trying to . . . break in. Please help!” That was all. Almost immediately, the call ended—or the caller hung up. She couldn’t tell. The audio recording continued with the voice of the 911 operator. “Ma’am . . . can you tell me your address? Ma’am, please don’t answer your door. Ma’am? Ma’am?” The operator continued to attempt to make contact with the caller but the line was dead.
The television reporter then pointed out how hysterical the caller sounded and how calm the operator sounded. The co-anchor responded with another comment about the conversation between Stacy Grant and the operator, if you could call it a conversation, and then they played the recording again. Pamela listened a second time, noting the elements of the recording in which her research made her an expert—the sound of the caller’s voice. As she glanced at Willard, she could tell that he had been doing the same thing and had probably listened to Stacy Grant’s 911 call more than once. Finally, after they had both heard the emergency call at least a dozen times, Willard switched off his television set with his remote.
“So, Pamela,” he said, looking at her with a questioning glance, “what do you make of that?”
“I’m not sure,” she said hesitantly. “There’s something strange about it though.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but I’m not sure just what it is either.” He sat quietly, looking down, obviously in thought. His round, compact body seemed to draw together like a turtle pulling inside its shell in contemplation of its next move.
“I wish I had a copy . . . .” she said, almost to herself.
“Ah, my dear!” he interrupted her with a start, as if she’d awakened him from a daydream, then leaned over to his computer’s hard drive and pressed a button which opened a drawer. Popping out a compact disk, he slid it into a paper sleeve and handed it to Pamela. “I thought you might say that, so I made you one.”
“Willard,” she chuckled, “you never cease to amaze me.” And it was true. Saying farewell to her colleague, saluting him with the new CD in hand, she headed out his door and a few steps down the hallway to her own office. However, she was relieved to note that, contrary to what she had feared, no students were lined up waiting to see her. She would be able to enter and think—about a very unusual 911 call.
Chapter Six
Several students did eventually show up and Pamela helped them develop their research paper ideas. Even so, the afternoon had that lazy summer day quality. With only two classes to teach, no committees meeting to attend, and all of her research projects on hold until the fall semester when her graduate assistants would again be providing her with help, the summer seemed very much like a vacation. Pamela was able to sip her tea and listen to the 911 call made by Stacy Grant only minutes before her death. She’d already heard the short but strange recording in Willard’s office earlier in the day, but now–later in the afternoon–she was not only able to listen to, but also look at, a visual display of Stacy Grant’s voice and the emergency operator’s voice on her computer screen as the terse conversation progressed through the use of her acoustics analysis software. Her experienced eye traced the sharp lines of the two voices—noting the fluctuations and pauses, the variations in intensity, pitch, and other vocal phenomena. She was lost in thought as she played and re-played the brief recording.
“Pamela,” called a soft voice at her door. She looked up to discover Willard standing there with another African-American man and Joan. “Pamela, I hate to disturb you.”
“Oh, Willard,” she replied, closing down her acoustic program and rising to greet her two colleagues and the unknown visitor. “You’re not interrupting. This has actually been a very slow day . . . very few students.” She smiled and chuckled and motioned for the three people to enter. Joan, uncharacteristically quiet, escorted the visitor in and then turned and carefully shut the door behind her.
“Pamela,” said Willard, “I’d like you to meet Martin Dobbs. Martin, my colleague Pamela Barnes.” Dobbs, a neat, slender black man, dressed in a navy blazer and grey trousers, immediately reached out to shake Pamela’s hand with both of his.
“Dr. Barnes,” he greeted her. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear that you are interested in helping James.”
Pamela looked at her two colleagues quizzically.
“Pamela,” said Joan, “remember, I told you about Martin. He’s James’s campaign manager.”
“Actually,” interjected the energetic Dobbs, “not only his campaign manager, but also his business partner—and long-time, best friend. James and I were roommates in college and we’ve been sort of tied at the hip ever since. It sort of seemed natural that we would open our own law firm together after we both graduated from law school at the same time.”
Pamela looked at the new man and finally began to place him from yesterday’s rally. She remembered him standing beside James Grant throughout the young politician’s speech and the television interview that followed.
“Mr. Dobbs,” she said to the newcomer, “yes, now I remember you. Actually, Joan took me to the rally in the park yesterday. I believe I
remember seeing you there. Would you like to sit down?” She gestured to the group and Dobbs and Willard immediately plopped onto Pamela’s comfortable sofa and Joan took up her typical post in the straight back chair near the door. Pamela returned to her desk chair.
“I was there all right,” Dobbs responded, laughing. “Wherever James goes, I go. If you must know, James was originally going to hire a campaign manager. Really! Well, I wasn’t going to have that. I told him, if he had the gumption to run against Brewster—then he was getting me for a campaign manager. And, believe it or not, I think I’ve done a pretty good job.” His cheerful, expressive face suddenly fell—in rhythm with his powerful shoulders. His eyes latched onto Pamela’s like a vise. “Well, at least I thought I was doing a pretty good job until yesterday. We were ahead of Brewster in the latest poll—not much, but a little. Then it all fell apart.”
“Pamela,” said Joan from across the room by the door, “Martin appealed to Willard and he to me for help. You said yesterday at the rally that you were going to work on James’s campaign . . . .”
“Oh, wonderful, Dr. Barnes!” interrupted Dobbs with a small bounce on the sofa cushion, “we can use all the help we can get. Of course, I didn’t expect things to get so bad . . . .”
“. . . and I know you’d never renege on a promise,” continued Joan, pointedly at Pamela. Pamela cringed. Joan would hold her to her unenthusiastic commitment from yesterday and somehow would now force her to help this man and embroil her in a criminal investigation.
“I was happy to help with Mr. Grant’s campaign,” said Pamela politely to the group, “but I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for him in these new circumstances . . . .”
“You mean, now that he’s been arrested for murder,” said Dobbs, shaking his head forlornly.
“Martin,” chastised Willard, turning to the young man next to him on Pamela’s couch. “You cannot give up.”
“I agree,” urged Joan, bending in towards the two men. “Surely this is all a mistake. I can’t help thinking that some horrible error has been made. I told you that, Pamela.”
“I wish you were right,” sighed Dobbs, “but if there is some horrible mistake, I don’t know what it is. Stacy was murdered—and for all intents and purposes—it certainly looks like James did it.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time that an innocent person was falsely accused,” argued Joan, clenching her fists in frustration.
“Unfortunately, the police are convinced that James did it,” said Dobbs, looking even more despondent.
“Stop it, Martin,” said Willard. “I’ve known you for years, and I’ve never known you to be a defeatist.”
“It’s hard not to be a defeatist, Willard,” responded the younger man to the older one sitting next to him, “when James has totally given up himself.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Pamela, seated at her desk and riveted by the discussion going on around her.
“I mean,” continued Dobbs, gathering the attention of his small audience with his expressive hands outstretched in an expansive gesture. Pamela was hard pressed to say which man was more inspiring, the James Grant she had heard yesterday at the rally, or Martin Dobbs, his campaign manager, sitting here on her couch, pleading his case. Dobbs continued, “I just spoke with James this morning. He’s so devastated about his wife’s death that that’s all he can think about. He seems totally oblivious to the fact that he’s been arrested for her murder. Yes, he claims he’s innocent, but he doesn’t know who did it—and worst of all—he says he doesn’t care!”
“What?” cried Joan. “I can understand how upset he’d be over his wife’s death, but he can’t just give up!”
“I know!” explained Dobbs, turning from Willard to face Joan. “And I do think he’ll come around eventually, Dr. Bentley, but I don’t know when. He’s just been dealt a terrible blow. His own welfare—and certainly his campaign–are his last concerns!”
“He needs a good lawyer!” suggested Willard.
“He’s got one!” announced Dobbs, arms outstretched to everyone in the office. “Me! He’s my top priority. And, although I don’t want to belittle the importance of the campaign—because James and I got involved in the campaign together and we both had high hopes about that—but the campaign has to take the back burner for a while because—well, face it—there is no campaign if James is convicted of Stacy’s murder.”
“Right,” agreed Joan. “On the other hand, if—when–James is exonerated, the police will be forced to look elsewhere for her killer—and that may lead them straight to the Brewster camp.”
“Don’t say that too loud,” noted Dobbs, waving his hands around like an old-fashioned Baptist preacher. “If it’s true that the Brewster campaign had anything to do with Stacy’s death, then you can never tell where they have spies.” His gestures and facial expression created an impression of skullduggery and dark deeds.
“I think you’re safe in my office,” suggested Pamela, looking around, suddenly fearful. “And, Mrs. Grant’s death may not be connected to Brewster and the election. There may be things going on that we know nothing about. But, I agree that the main concern has to be exonerating James. That may mean–as Joan implies–finding the real killer, if indeed, James is innocent.”
“Anyway,” continued Dobbs, “I’m going to fight for James and defend him for all I’m worth in court. I’ve hired an investigator too, and he’s looking into many of the obvious avenues. And, of course, where the election is concerned, time is of the essence. I—we—just can’t afford to let the legal system grind along at its typically slow pace. We have to find out who really killed Stacy—and we have to do it quickly. James needs everyone helping in every way possible. That’s why I asked to meet you, Dr. Barnes.”
“Me?” asked Pamela. Now she was curious. The eyes of everyone in her office were fixed upon her.
“I’ve known Willard,” continued Dobbs, “from our work together on our church Board of Directors for several years now. Joan, of course, I met a while ago when she started volunteering on James’ campaign. Both of them speak glowingly about your efforts in solving a number of local crimes that had puzzled the local authorities. All I’m asking, Dr. Barnes, is for your professional expertise in helping James—even if he doesn’t appear to want any help at the moment. I’m sure that eventually he will come to grips with Stacy’s death and will want to discover the person who is responsible.”
“Mr. Dobbs,” replied Pamela, leaning back in her desk chair and folding her arms. “I would certainly be willing to assist your candidate and friend in clearing his name if I could. I just don’t see how my particular expertise can help in Mr. Grant’s circumstances. I mean, it’s not as if the police have recordings of him—or anyone–committing the crime but don’t know the identity of the perpetrator. My expertise is basically in using acoustic technology to differentiate one human voice from another. I don’t see as to how Mr. Grant’s voice comes into play at all in this case.”
“That’s true,” agreed Dobbs, with a quick glance at Willard, “but Willard tells me that you have gone beyond your primary research areas from time to time in your crime fighting efforts.”
Pamela chuckled. “He did, did he?”
“No more than I would do, my dear,” said Willard sweetly to Pamela. “You are a champion of the down-trodden.” His cheeks puffed out and his dimples indented.
“Willard, flattery,” she said, “and all that. All right, Mr. Dobbs, what is it you want me to do?”
“Just be aware,” said Dobbs. His smile vanished and he bent towards her, leaning his long, expressive fingers dramatically on his kneecaps.
“That doesn’t sound too demanding,” responded Pamela.
“Just be aware of what’s going on in the investigation,” he continued, “and if you see—or hear—anything that seems even the slightest bit out of the ordinary, please let me know. And Willard and Joan, I would ask the same of the two of you. I’d like to count on y
ou three as my faculty contingent. You three are psychologists with expertise in different areas. I’m hoping that the three of you can put your educated heads together and ferret out a clue or two that might explain what happened. Why did James get arrested for a murder he didn’t commit?”
“I guess if we’re going to do any ferreting, we should include our animal psychologist—Arliss?” suggested Joan.
“By all means,” agreed Pamela, with a shrug. “The more, the merrier.” She would obviously need all the help she could get.
Chapter Seven
“. . . and as he is presently in jail without chance of bail, it is the contention of our campaign that Mr. Grant should remove his name from the ballot. After all,” continued incumbent Mayor Hap Brewster, a barrage of microphones vying for attention in front of his face, “if a candidate is incapable of serving, then he has no business running.” As the mayor looked directly into the nearest camera lens, several reporters peppered him with additional questions.
“He’s disgusting,” said Pamela to her husband as they nibbled on squares of meat and vegetables that were skewered to long pokers. A fondue pot bubbled away on a low table in the center of their living room and the couple lounged on pillows on the floor, dipping their food tidbits into the boiling liquid. They were each sipping a fruity Cabernet. “He’s really seeming to enjoy the fact that James has been arrested.” Candide remained a respectful but eager distance from the savory-smelling meat.
“It does leave him without an opponent,” noted Rocky, gnawing on a large chunk of beef and several small onion pieces. Candide moaned audibly.
The local news program returned to the studio anchor who noted almost the same thing—but in much less biased terms. With James Grant in jail, unable to get released on bail, and a trial probably weeks, if not months away, it appeared that Hap Brewster would easily be re-elected in November. Even with James’s recent upsurge in the polls, being arrested for murder would probably greatly reduce his chances of being elected.
Stump Speech Murder Page 4
