Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “I do recall, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, with a nod, his eyes still focused on Pamela’s face. “Now, here you are . . . at the funeral of the wife of a high profile murder suspect. It makes me wonder what you know–or at least–what you are thinking and what sort of trouble you may be planning on getting into.”

  “It seems to me, Detective,” retorted Pamela, “that what you should be wondering is not what sort of trouble I might get into. It seems to me what you should be wondering–if you genuinely believe that my presence is portentous– is just what my thinking or my knowledge might be with regards to the guilt or innocence of the young candidate James Grant.”

  “Do you know something about Mr. Grant that impacts on his guilt in this case, Dr. Barnes?”

  “No, Detective,” she replied with a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that never wavered from Shoop’s penetrating stare. “I don’t know anything. But I do have my suspicions. And you know all about my suspicions, don’t you, Detective?” She gave him a sudden smile, complete with fluttering eye lashes, grabbed Rocky’s arm, and strolled past Shoop on up the hill towards the parking lot.

  “Home?” Rocky asked his wife.

  “Yes,” agreed Pamela, “I believe this has been a very productive funeral.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pamela was so glad that the next day was Saturday and she was able to sleep in late. The past few days filled with the drama of the political campaign, the murder, the arrest of James Grant, and then just yesterday, Stacy Grant’s funeral, had left her feeling saturated with intrigue and conspiracy. At one point, she felt she was living in the middle of a Tom Clancy thriller. And she was just a bystander. She never intended to get mixed up in any of this when she had agreed to join Joan in working on James Grant’s mayoral campaign. It had seemed totally innocuous then. And now, just days later, how things had changed.

  She pulled her flowered comforter up around her shoulders because the air conditioning in their house appeared to be running on all cylinders. She was freezing. Of course, not freezing enough to get up and change the thermostat. Just enough to wrap herself in as many covers as possible.

  “Hey!” cried her husband softly with annoyance, “you’re taking all my covers!”

  “I’m cold!” she retorted. Grumble, grumble, she heard, as Rocky rolled out of his side of the bed and lumbered out to the living room and lowered (or raised, she was never certain how to describe what one did to get a thermostat to work) the cooler. She drifted off and hadn’t realized where he’d gone, when he arrived back with a tray of scones and coffee just the way she liked it—with lots of cream and no sugar. Rocky flipped on the television and joined her back in bed while they nibbled and sipped and watched the morning news.

  First stop was local station WSTA which was airing a filmed mini-documentary of the life and times of James Grant and his wife. How television stations managed to produce these lengthy, well-researched, thoroughly documented videos so quickly after a major event never ceased to amaze Pamela. It was as if the studio expected James Grant to kill his wife and they had his life story on film and ready to air. Of course, she reasoned, James was a public figure—and a popular one, given his challenge of Hap Brewster. Even his wife, Stacy Grant, had received a fair amount of press in her short, young life as an assistant district attorney.

  “James Grant and Stacy Rollins met in college. Both were from out of state and James’s parents are now deceased. James is an only child.” Thank heaven for small favors, thought Pamela. It was agony enough for parents to experience the death of a child, but having a child arrested for murder, somehow seemed worse.

  The narrator continued, “While in college, both James and Stacy were exemplary students. Both received academic scholarships throughout their undergraduate years. James was the recipient of the prestigious Cleveland Scholarship which funded his entire three years of law school. Stacy, likewise, won the Marymount Law Prize For Women which paid for her entire legal education. Both graduated in the top five percent of their classes.”

  ”The couple married several years after their graduation from Grace University’s College of Law in 2008,” intoned the voice-over announcer as the screen showed stock footage of graduation portraits and wedding photos. “Both were 28. James immediately opened his own firm with his long-time college friend Martin Dobbs. Stacy Grant went to work for the local District Attorney’s office, rising rapidly to become an Assistant District Attorney just last year. The couple had no children.”

  WSTA’s filmed history of the life and times of James and Stacy Grant concluded with the announcer’s statement that James was being held in the Reardon city jail pending his arraignment in the next few days. Police officials offered no speculation concerning Grant’s possible motive for his wife’s murder. When the background film on James and Stacy Grant concluded and a regularly scheduled Saturday morning cartoon program came on, Rocky roamed the channels searching for additional information about the recent murder.

  WRER was airing an interview that Ginger Cooper had conducted the previous day with Hap Brewster—no doubt the one he had persuaded her into doing when he caught her taping with James Grant in the park, Pamela thought. Rocky and Pamela watched the taped interview with special interest—comparing the presentation of the city’s long-time experienced mayor, Brewster, with the footage on the young upstart who was vying for his job—and who might very well have snatched it–had it not been for his recent arrest. In this footage, Brewster was making his typical complaints about his opponent, so obviously the interview had been taped before the murder. It seemed incongruous for Brewster to be discussing Grant as if he were still merely a candidate—and not a murder suspect. The camera cut back to the anchor in the studio.

  “In our studio today, we have Mayor Brewster’s Communications Director Kevin Sturges,” announced the morning newscaster, and the camera panned over to show the young man Pamela remembered who had accompanied Brewster in the park. “Kevin, the Mayor’s main opponent is now sitting in jail accused of murder. How does this impact the Mayor’s campaign?” The camera panned further back to show the anchor and Sturges in profile, sitting across from each other.

  “How do you think it impacts it, you ninny?” cried Rocky at the unresponding television. “It makes Brewster a shoo-in!”

  “Shh, Rocky,” whispered Pamela. “I want to hear what this guy says.” She scooted up against her headboard and pulled her comforter tight around her chin.

  “Of course, Mayor Brewster is shocked and horrified to learn of the arrest of Mr. Grant,” began the neatly dressed political operative, today wearing a navy blazer atop his typical yuppie outfit of chinos and blue shirt. “We would certainly prefer to win the election the old-fashioned way–by gathering the majority of the votes–not by default.”

  “But it does appear that Mayor Brewster will win the race come November, doesn’t it?” suggested the anchor. Pamela sipped her coffee. Rocky stuffed a scone into his mouth with annoyance. “I mean, assuming no other candidate decides to run,” she added, leaning in to Sturges.

  “I believe it’s too late to file,” suggested Sturges, with a shrug. “Of course, there are several other candidates running.”

  “But none making as strong a showing in the polls as James Grant was making, right?” She looked directly at the man seated across from her.

  “No,” agreed Sturges, “but you never know in politics.” He laughed and smiled flirtatiously at the attractive anchor.

  “It was actually fortuitous for the mayor that Grant was arrested when he was,” continued the dark-haired woman, crossing one shapely leg over the other.

  “I don’t know what do you mean by ‘fortuitous’,” said Sturges with a wide-eyed expression.

  “Of course you know what she means, you son of a bitch!” sneered Rocky at the television.

  “Only that Grant seemed to be pulling ahead in the polls when he was arrested,” explained the anchorwoman, slowly tapping her foot up and down provocatively.


  “Yes,” agreed the interviewee with a chuckle as he ran his hand through his hair, “but polls change.”

  “So they do,” she agreed. The repartee between the two was becoming sexual, it seemed to Pamela. Or maybe she was imagining it. The young female anchor was exceedingly attractive and she obviously knew how to use her feminine wiles to charm a subject into responding. The interview continued for a few more minutes during which time Pamela and Rocky had an opportunity to finish their breakfast.

  “Is there anything else on the other stations?” Pamela asked her husband and controller of the remote. Rocky pushed buttons, jumping from one local station to another. Reardon only had three local, network-affiliated stations and one public access station. The arrest of mayoral candidate James Grant was the hot topic on all of these. However, it didn’t garner as much as a mention on the stations in the larger towns miles away.

  “I guess a hotly contested political campaign—all tied into a murder–doesn’t rate much more than a mention outside of our little community,” she noted, licking crumbs from her fingertips. As she “um’ed” out loud, Candide made his morning appearance from underneath their bed and leaped up onto the covers demanding the crumbs.

  “Yeah,” agreed Rocky. “It’s odd that the police haven’t even speculated on Grant’s motive. I mean, did you hear any of those reporters interviewing neighbors? I didn’t. You’d think they’d find somebody who’d claim to have heard that couple fighting or have seen something odd.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know,” he suggested, “when a couple is having marital troubles, it frequently—I’d say often—gets loud! The Grants have neighbors. Surely they must have heard something or suspected something if this James and his wife were fighting so much that it ultimately led to the guy whacking her.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” she mused, giving Candide a snuggle but no treat. A deep sigh as she finished her coffee. “And,” she added, “I met the man, and even though I only said a few words to him, he just didn’t seem like the violent type. I mean, I pegged him for the type who would be very civil if he had an insurmountable misunderstanding with his wife.”

  “I guess anybody can become violent if given the right motivation,” said Rocky, pondering and slurping from his cup. Candide attempted to cozy up to his master, but Rocky scooted him off the bed and the furry creature gave up his efforts and returned to his lazy, under-the-bed nap.

  “What could the right motivation possibly be in this case, Rocky?” she asked, turning to her husband who had a sad and mystified look on his face. “I met this man less than an hour before he supposedly committed this horrible crime—and I didn’t see any sign that he was capable of or about to commit murder.”

  “Now, Babe,” cautioned Rocky. “I hear the wheels turning in that devious little brain of yours. Don’t start getting ideas. You heard what Shoop said. Stay out of this.”

  “Of course, I’m going to stay out of it, Rocky,” she assured him with a hug. “Even if I wanted to get involved, it’s not as if there’s anything I can do. I mean, there’s no sound clue. The police have their suspect. They don’t need me to determine a suspect from the sound of some unknown voice as I did in the past.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, uncertainly. “I’m not sure that’s enough to prevent you from snooping around if you’re really determined.”

  “I’m not going to do any snooping,” she said, kissing her husband on his cheek. “You can rest assured.”

  Chapter Ten

  After a relatively quiet weekend, Pamela’s Monday started out with a bang. She had barely arrived in her pleasant, home-like office and had barely put her lunch sack with one of Rocky’s gourmet sandwiches inside in her mini-fridge, when Joan Bentley popped her head inside the door.

  “I know you don’t have class now!” began Joan, and barged in, slamming Pamela’s office door closed behind her. “We have to talk.”

  “I just got here,” moaned Pamela as she slid into the cushions of her comfy couch and began to unscrew the top of her thermos. Joan sat primly, as usual, on the straight back chair beside the door.

  “I just heard from Martin,” announced Joan.

  “Martin?” asked Pamela, “You mean James Grant’s law partner?”

  “And campaign manager,” corrected Joan. Her upright posture was noticeably more severe than usual–obviously, indicative that Joan was on a mission.

  “Yes,” continued Pamela. “You’re talking to him?”

  “Actually,” explained Joan with more animation than she usually exhibited, “Willard contacted me.”

  “You said Martin Dobbs contacted you,” said Pamela, grimacing. Joan was on a roll and much further along in her journey than Pamela, who still maintained a blissful Monday morning fog.

  “Martin contacted Willard and Willard called me.”

  “Willard’s not here?” asked Pamela. It was not like Willard to make phone calls to them. If he needed to discuss something, he would typically wait until he saw Pamela at work. After all, his office was next door and all he had to do was tap on the adjoining wall.

  “He called me from the jail,” continued Joan, becoming even more expressive.

  “Willard is at the jail?”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Joan, now apparently getting to the meat of her message. “Martin has been the only person to actually visit James in jail, except, of course, the police. He is his attorney—and of course his best friend.”

  “I had heard on TV,” contributed Pamela, “that James Grant is an only child and that both of his parents are dead. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse, given his situation.”

  “I know what you mean,” agreed Joan, hands pushing through her neatly coifed silver hair. “The poor man could certainly use some family support right now. Thank God he has Martin.”

  “Yes,” said Pamela. “I can see that. But why is Willard there?”

  “Evidently, Martin asked him to visit James. Martin says that James has become so despondent that he can’t get him to even become involved in his own defense. James says he didn’t kill his wife, but he still says he’s guilty. Martin can’t get any more out of him. He’s stymied. Martin and Willard are close—so he asked Willard to talk to James. He thought that maybe James might be able to communicate more rationally with someone he didn’t know as well. And—the important part—he thought Willard might be able to pick up on something in James’s voice that might help him know how to defend him.”

  “Even if he’s guilty?” asked Pamela, sipping her warm orange blossom tea cautiously.

  “Especially if he’s guilty,” agreed Joan. “But he’s not! Of course, Martin simply doesn’t believe that he’s guilty, but he’s totally at a loss to figure out what did happen, because James won’t—or can’t—contribute to his own defense because he’s so depressed about his wife’s death.”

  “So?” asked Pamela, with a certain mounting excitement. “Did Willard detect anything unusual in James’s voice?”

  “According to Martin, Willard confirms that he believes that James is telling the truth about his innocence.” Joan dropped this statement and then leaned back in the chair and looked pointedly at Pamela.

  “Willard has done some work on vocal cues related to deception,” noted Pamela. “Although, most of that research suggests that there are precious few specific features that are mutually exclusive for truth and deception.”

  “I know that,” said Joan, nodding, and leaning forward again. “But Willard assured Martin that he was almost 100% certain that James was being truthful about not killing Stacy.”

  “Maybe James believes he didn’t kill his wife, but he really did,” said Pamela.

  “How could that be?” smirked Joan. She tapped her hair in an unnecessary attempt to correct any fly-away strands.

  “I don’t know,” said Pamela with a shrug. “Maybe he killed her in a rage then forgot about it because he was so traumatized.”


  “For God’s sake, Pamela!” cried Joan. “How can a scientific researcher come up with such fanciful ideas?”

  “It’s those fanciful ideas that allowed me to solve not one, but three murders, in the last few years!”

  “So, you’re telling me you don’t believe in Willard’s evaluation of James Grant?”

  “No,” said Pamela, “I do believe Willard. He’s always very cautious. He’d never make a pronouncement like that unless he was positive.”

  “Anyway,” continued Joan, “why I came in here, is because Willard—and Martin–want you to come down to the jail and talk to James.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “I don’t know the man. I mean, I just met him that one time. I doubt that my talking to him would add any more to his lawyer’s evaluation of his honesty than Willard’s.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Joan. “All I know is that both of them—Willard and Martin—asked specifically for you to come to the jail. Surely, you won’t refuse? I mean, a man’s life is in the balance. If you can contribute something—anything—don’t you feel a bit obligated to assist?”

  “Joan!” she cried, “I have class. I have papers to grade.”

  “Pamela,” responded Joan, “no one is asking you to spend the day in the city jail. Just go talk to the man for an hour or so.”

  “Why would he agree to talk to me anyway?” She stretched her legs out and leaned back in the sofa cushion with a sigh.

  “If Martin asks him to, he will, says Willard,” Joan explained. “He’s so defeated, he’s a shell of the James you–we–remember from the rally.”

  “And if I go talk to him,” she offered, “what is it that I’m supposed to be looking for? I haven’t done any deception research like Willard has. I don’t know what you would expect me to listen for.”

  “Just listen,” said Joan. “Just talk. Let him talk. You’re insightful. As you say, you’ve solved other murders, Pamela. What harm can it do for you just to talk to James?”