Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  Leaving the acoustic segment from Stacy Grant’s courtroom presentation open on her computer software program’s visual output line, she dragged her cursor down her files until she came to the file of Stacy’s 911 call that Willard had given her the other day. She clicked on this file and pasted it into the second line of her software program, directly below the courtroom line. She then clicked on the 911 call line to refresh her mind about the sound of Stacy’s voice in that instance. Here again she heard, “My husband . . . outside . . . trying to . . . break in. Please help!” The two voices certainly sounded alike. She focused on the second line—the one from the 911 call first, only because she had fewer vowels to choose from in that line. She selected the “ai” sound in the second syllable of “outside.” Using her software to expand the vowel so she could see how Stacy produced all of the formants in that sound, she also selected a comparable vowel from the courtroom speech, in this case the “ai” sound in the second syllable of “denied.” After a few seconds of working her magic, she was able to visually superimpose one vowel sound over the other. There was no question—the vowels were the same. That is, they were produced by the same speaker. If Stacy Grant had given that courtroom speech—and there was no reason to believe she hadn’t—then it was clear that she had also been the one whose voice was on the 911 call made shortly before her murder.

  Pamela was relieved but also disappointed. A small part of her had hoped that possibly it was not Stacy Grant who had called 911. She didn’t know how that would have been possible, but apparently, the voice on the 911 tape was the genuine Stacy Grant. She must have called 911 because somehow she was scared that her husband—her husband who had admitted having a horrific fight with her just the night before—was trying to break into their house. Had she locked him out because of their fight? Was she that frightened? Had she told him not to come home? According to James, she had called him and begged him to come home. Or was James lying about that call? The second acoustic line on her computer screen indicated that Stacy Grant was frightened enough of her husband trying to get into their house that she called 911. What else could it possibly be?

  Pamela rushed out of her office and next door to Willard Swinton’s office. His door was open but Willard was not in. She knew that Willard would not leave his office unlocked (none of the faculty did) for long. She walked to the end of the second floor hallway and looked around. At that moment, Willard appeared from the men’s restroom at the far end, leaning on his cane, heading back in her direction. She stood smiling at him until he finally looked up and noticed her waiting for him at the end of the hall.

  “Pamela,” he greeted her, his round forehead gleaming, “a man can’t even zip to the bathroom without all the women chasing him down?”

  “Willard,” she said, shaking her head and laughing, “I need your input now! I’ve got a recording of Stacy Grant speaking in court and I’m trying to compare it to her 911 recording that you gave me the other day.”

  “Let’s take a look!” he said gleefully. They walked slowly because Willard’s movements were curtailed by his use of the cane. She understood that he had had hip surgery several years ago and had never quite recovered. Even with obvious pain when he walked, she had never heard him complain. When they got to Pamela’s office, she steered him to a chair beside her computer where he sat with some difficulty.

  “Listen,” she said to him, sliding into her desk chair, as she played the top line. “That’s the court speech. Now, here’s the 911 call.” She played that.

  “Very similar,” he said nodding.

  “I did a comparison of the “ai” vowel in both selections. You can see it here.” She pointed to two graphics of similar looking shaded squares.

  “Identical,” agreed Willard. “I don’t see any problem, my dear. It appears that the 911 call is truly from Stacy Grant. But did you think otherwise?”

  “I was hoping that maybe it was a setup,” she explained. “You know, maybe Stacy didn’t make the call and somebody else faked her voice.”

  “But why?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but it seems all too pat that James arrived and discovered her body just at almost the same moment the police arrived. And that wouldn’t have happened if not for the 911 call.”

  “I know,” he replied, “but this surely indicates that she called 911 because James was there. That 911 call seems to show that she was scared of him.”

  “That’s what it appears,” said Pamela. “But what if that wasn’t what happened?”

  “How?” asked Willard. “You just proved yourself that the voice on the 911 recording is the real Stacy Grant, so obviously she made the call which confirms that she was scared of her husband.”

  “Yes, Willard,” replied Pamela, looking to her friend. His eyebrows were squeezed together with an almost ferocious intensity. It was obvious that he was as mystified as she. “But when I visited James in jail the other day, he told me that his wife—Stacy—called him and begged him to come home. That would have been about the same time as this 911 call, maybe a bit before. He and Stacy had had a fight the night before, and James had spent the night in his office, so when she called him, sounding agitated, he rushed home right away.”

  “Do you have a recording of that call, Pamela?” asked Willard with sudden glee.

  “Unfortunately, no,” she replied, despondent. “He didn’t save it. He had no reason to. He was totally focused on getting home to her.”

  “So, of course,” noted Willard in his rational manner, “the police believe that he’s lying about this call.”

  “Yes,” replied Pamela, “but my instinct tells me he’s telling the truth. He seems as totally confused about everything that happened as we are.”

  “Yes,” said Willard, nodding, and grabbing the mouse from Pamela so he could examine the acoustic output himself. “It doesn’t really make any sense for him to do what he did. He seemed to have everything going for him. And then to just throw it all away?”

  Willard clicked on the top line and played a short segment of the court room speech and then jumped to the 911 speech and replayed it. He reviewed segments of both of Stacy Grant’s vocal examples, listening to one—then the other. Pamela listened with him, trying to be observant of any small detail that she might have missed.

  “Hmm,” he said to himself, continuing to nod. Pamela wondered what he was thinking, but she remained quiet, allowing him to formulate whatever hypothesis he could. Eventually, he asked her, “Is it possible to get any more of the court sample, do you think?”

  “Can you tell me what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, my dear,” he replied. “There is something strange about the 911 recording and I know we can’t get any more of it—obviously. I was thinking that if we could get more samples of Stacy Grant’s voice—possibly in other contexts?”

  “I got this from WRER,” noted Pamela, “I’ll just call back and tell them I need more examples of Stacy Grant speaking. This is her speaking in court. I’m guessing if the station has this, they surely have her in other contexts. TV stations virtually never throw away b-roll. They never know when it’ll come in handy sometime in the future.”

  “Wonderful,” said Willard. “Let me know when you have it, my dear. In the mean time, I’m going to look into some ideas I have and I’ll get back to you.”

  “What are you thinking, Willard?”

  “I’d rather not say right now,” he replied. “It’s rather far-fetched.” With that, he lifted his large body with his ivory-handled cane and bid her adieu with a saucy salute and then headed out of her office and the few steps down the hallway to his own.

  “What could you be thinking, Willard?” she mused to herself. “I don’t know, but I’ve got enough to concentrate on.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  She listened to both recordings many more times before giving up and heading home for the day. She wondered what Willard thought he noticed in the rec
ordings that she evidently wasn’t picking up. The incontrovertible truth was that Stacy Grant appeared to be the speaker on both tapes. She had done as Willard had requested and called Ginger Cooper to ask for additional b-roll of Stacy Grant. The reporter had not been in her office, so Pamela had left a message and she didn’t anticipate receiving a reply until at least tomorrow.

  With a sigh, she gathered her belongings, locked her office door, and headed out into the hallway. She passed several students on their way to class and she greeted them. Both Joan and Willard were not in their offices. Stopping by the main office before heading out to her car in the parking lot (she had arrived early enough today to get a good spot), she looked in her cubby hole which was empty. Jane Marie was still stationed at her desk and the cheerful secretary waved her a greeting.

  “Have you been to visit the baby chinchillas, Dr. Barnes?” she asked. “They’re much cuter today than they were the other day.”

  “No, Jane Marie,” she replied. “I’ve unfortunately been much too busy to check on the Green Acres gang.” Jane Marie giggled. “Are you still trying to help James Grant get out of jail, Dr. Barnes?”

  “A number of us are,” she said. “Dr. Bentley was involved in his campaign and James’s law partner and lawyer, Martin Dobbs, asked us both to assist where we could. Dr. Swinton has his fingers in this too. So it’s not just me.”

  “Half the department seems to be rallying behind the guy,” she sighed. “I wish Dr. Marks wasn’t so beholden to Mrs. Brewster. He thinks the sun rises and sets on her. There’s no way he’d even consider supporting Mr. Grant.”

  “Does he know about your feelings, Jane Marie?” asked Pamela, looking pointedly at the young office worker. “I remember you saying how concerned your husband was that Hap Brewster would be re-elected if James wasn’t exonerated soon.”

  “I try to keep my political views to myself, Dr. Barnes,” whispered Jane Marie. “Dr. Marks is a very fair boss, but he’s totally one-track minded when it comes to Katherine Brewster. It’s not so much her husband, I think, but her. Hap Brewster is just part of the package.”

  “Mitchell doesn’t have to support James,” Pamela said. “It’s a free country.”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t strong-armed you to stay out of it,” whispered Jane Marie, bending over her desk and directing her comment at Pamela’s ear. “If he knew that you were involved in trying to clear Mr. Grant—or if he knew that Dr. Bentley and Dr. Swinton were involved–I’m afraid he’d be furious.”

  “Then, please don’t tell him,” she noted. “I certainly won’t.”

  “Don’t tell him what?” asked Marks, opening the door to his office just as Pamela spoke this last comment. “If it’s something you don’t want Jane Marie to tell ‘him,’ I’m guessing the ‘him’ is me. Right?” He stood inside the doorway, his arms pressed against the jamb.

  “Good lord, Mitchell,” Pamela inhaled. “You scared me to death!”

  “You two shouldn’t be gossiping if you don’t want me to listen in. The walls aren’t that thick, you know!”

  “Jane Marie was not gossiping,” said Pamela to her boss, who eyed her skeptically with his blue eyes glaring.

  “Out with it, JM,” he ordered, turning to his secretary and running a hand through his thick wavy blonde hair. “What’s the big secret about me?”

  “Oh, Mitchell,” continued Pamela, feeling incredibly guilty that she had possibly incriminated the young secretary with her boss. “It’s not about you. I was just asking Jane Marie, about Katherine Brewster. I was curious about her relationship with her husband.”

  “And Jane Marie is supposed to know about that?” he chuckled. “And that’s something you two have to keep quiet from me?”

  “You are wining and dining the woman for contributions, aren’t you?” asked Pamela.

  “Not really. She’s very generous without any persuasion on my part,” he said. “And, she says virtually nothing about her husband when she comes to visit.”

  “And what does your wife say about all these visits, Mitchell?” asked Pamela.

  “My wife? Oh, for god’s sake, Pamela!” he laughed. “Velma has known about Katherine Brewster’s contributions to our department for years. I guarantee you she has nothing to fear.”

  “I don’t know,” said Pamela, shaking her head. “Katherine Brewster is very attractive!”

  “You two!” he huffed. “You’re being ridiculous. Get back to work, both of you!” He grimaced and turned back into his office, shutting the door behind him.

  “Nicely deflected, Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie with a high-five to Pamela.

  “I just turned the tables. Given Mitchell’s proclivities . . . .”

  “You knew he would assume that we were gossiping about him and Katherine Brewster as a possible romantic item,” confided the secretary.

  “ Little does he know,” chuckled Pamela.

  “Dr. Barnes! I just thought. What if Katherine Brewster was having an affair and her husband found out? What if she was having an affair with James Grant?”

  “What?” exclaimed Pamela in astonishment. “I think that’s highly unlikely, Jane Marie.”

  “You said yourself how attractive she is—and really, Hap Brewster isn’t very attractive at all. Why would a woman as lovely as Katherine Brewster agree to marry someone so repugnant as Hap Brewster?”

  “Ummm, I’m thinking, for power and money,” replied Pamela. “He’s the mayor and he’s rich.”

  “Maybe Katherine Brewster killed Stacy Grant because she wanted her out of the way so she could get her husband.”

  “If that were true, then why would she set up James for the murder? Because if James is innocent, that’s what someone did. If Katherine Brewster loved James, she wouldn’t arrange things so that he’d be found with his wife’s dead body. Now would she?”

  “I guess not, Dr. Barnes,” replied Jane Marie, leaning against the top of her keyboard, arms crossed in a forlorn pose. “I wish I could figure these things out like you do.”

  “I wish I could figure these things out like I do too, Jane Marie.” She waved goodbye and headed out of the main office, down the hallway, and out the side entrance into the parking lot.

  She almost bumped into Joan who was entering from the lot.

  “Pamela,” Joan said, breathless, grabbing Pamela’s shoulder, “I’m glad I caught you before you headed home.”

  “You’re coming back to work this late?” asked Pamela.

  “It’s my night graduate class,” said Joan as a reminder. “How did your meeting go with James at the jail? Martin wants us all to meet—at his office.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow at four. Is that okay for you? I didn’t think you had class that late.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll see if Willard can come too. He’s been helping with some things and he has some ideas.”

  “Great,” replied Joan. “Do you know where their office is?”

  “On Crawford, isn’t it? I’ve driven by and seen all the banners for James.”

  “That’s the place,” agreed Joan. “Martin will bring sandwiches, so tell your beloved not to cook tomorrow night.”

  “Can do,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

  She hopped in her little blue Civic and headed home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sleep was elusive. Pamela tossed and turned as she mentally reviewed all of the various pieces of information she had collected that related—or more likely—didn’t relate to James Grant’s murder case. What was fact? What was supposition? She rolled over again, trying to find a more comfortable position, growling uncontrollably when she discovered that most of the covers were embedded under Rocky’s torso. She gave a polite tug in an attempt to secure her portion of the sheets.

  “What’s going on?” he grumbled, rolling over and facing her. “Can’t sleep?”

  “No,” she replied. She felt guilty for waking him. They had already discussed the case at supper and mo
re hashing it out would probably not help her figure things out. Also, she hadn’t informed her husband about the threatening phone call she had received that afternoon in her office, because she knew that if he knew that her life was potentially in jeopardy, he would envelope her like a butterfly in a cocoon and never let her out of his sight. Even so, she appreciated his insight and enjoyed using him as a sounding board to test her theories.

  “Okay,” he sighed, propping himself up on his elbow, “let’s have it.”

  “I don’t want to bother you; you need your sleep.”

  “Which I won’t get with Hurricane Pamela rolling through our bed at 50 miles an hour.”

  She gave him one of her skeptical looks and scooted up against the headboard, knees enfolded with her hands.

  “I’ve been going over the facts of the case,” she said simply. “And the facts indicate rather obviously that James Grant killed his wife.”

  “Case closed,” he huffed, and rolled over.

  “Rocky!” she cried.