Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “We know all this, Mr. Gates,” said Joan.

  “Just a review,” replied Gates, “Miss . . . uh, Dr. Bentley.” He gave her a wide, infectious smile. “Anyway, last week, James was scheduled to speak at a rally in the park. This event occurred. Media covered the event. Incumbent mayor Brewster and his team arrived shortly after James spoke and hassled him in front of television reporter Ginger Cooper. Eventually, Ms. Cooper finished her post-speech interview of James and turned her attention to Hap Brewster, conducting an interview of him that lasted approximately fifteen minutes.”

  “Conrad,” interjected Dobbs, “tell them why this is important.”

  “Yep,” said Gates, pushing harder on the table with his hands for emphasis. He jabbed at his clipboard as he continued. “Television station WRER has a record of exactly when the interview between Ginger Cooper and Hap Brewster was conducted. And, unfortunately, it occurred at almost the exact same time that Stacy Grant called 911 and the police were dispersed to the Grant home where they found James kneeling over Stacy’s body.”

  “Meaning,” said Willard, “that it would be impossible for Hap Brewster to have killed Stacy Grant.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin.

  “The wonders of accurate date and time counters on video recordings,” said Gates with a shrug.

  “But not impossible for one or more of his cronies to do it,” noted Pamela.

  “That is correct,” said Gates. “The station’s video counter only tells us that Hap Brewster himself could not have committed the crime. We have no idea where his various cronies, such as Victor Baines and Kevin Sturges, were.”

  “But now that Pamela has received that threatening call,” added Joan, “who else would it be but a Brewster supporter?”

  “Listen,” said Gates, still standing, and slapping his hands on the table again. The effect was definitely gripping and each time he did it, it caused Pamela to jump uncontrollably in her seat. “Let’s get the rest of the evidence out first and see if we can find any discrepancies before we start wondering about the ‘who’ in the case.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dobbs. “Anything else that you have, Conrad?” He gathered the wrappings from the sandwiches and pushed them into a large paper bag.

  “I have done a thorough background check of James, Stacy, and Martin—sorry, buddy.” He glanced briefly at Dobbs with a sad hang-dog expression. “For all we know, Stacy may have been killed for reasons unrelated to the election. Unlikely, but possible. I’m looking into everything. But so far I haven’t found a connection. So, why don’t you academic folks tell me what you’ve got, okay?”

  “Go ahead, Pamela,” said Willard.

  “Yes, Pam,” agreed Joan. “Tell Mr. Gates what you’re thinking and what you found.” Joan gazed at Gates with a shy smile.

  “I haven’t really found anything specific,” Pamela said, sheepishly, “but I have some thoughts. Willard too. Right away, we were both curious about the 911 recording that Stacy sent. It seemed strange to both of us, although we’re not exactly certain why. At one point, I thought the voice on the tape might not be Stacy Grant. I asked Ginger Cooper at WRER to send me some audio samples of Stacy’s voice in other circumstances—which she did. I then compared the two samples—hoping to find that the 911 caller was someone other than Stacy—but it wasn’t.”

  “Yet, you still believe there’s something strange about the 911 call?” asked Gates.

  “Yes, I do,” said Pamela.

  “Dr. Barnes,” said Gates, bending over the table and giving her a penetrating stare with his dark eyes, “I want you to keep examining those recordings. You too, Dr. Swinton. If you see any discrepancy, no matter how small, let me know.”

  “We will,” agreed Willard, riveted to Gates and nodding with enthusiasm.

  “This case is a lot like one I worked a few years back,” continued Gates, “Poor schmuck was discovered with his wife’s dead body. This one happened outside. They’d been boating and he claimed his wife fell overboard and he jumped in to save her. He managed to drag her to shore and tried to resuscitate her but it was too late. Police hemmed and hawed. Couldn’t decide whether to charge him or not. I mean, the fact that he dragged her in and tried to save her looked good, but when they checked further, it turned out the couple had been fighting. In fact, the wife had contacted an attorney about filing for divorce. No one knows why they were out boating together. Neither one of them had any real interest in the sport. The police eventually arrested him, claiming that he set up the boating excursion to cover the murder attempt. No eye witnesses. He could have pushed her over and held her under water until she drowned and then dragged her to shore and pretended to try to revive her.”

  “Didn’t the coroner find any suspicious marks on the wife’s body?” asked Dobbs. “I mean, if the husband held her underwater, you’d think she’d try to fight him off.”

  “The coroner’s report was inconclusive,” replied Gates, in thought. “There were marks, but the coroner said they were also consistent with marks the husband might have made dragging her to shore.”

  “There’s nothing like that in James’s case,” said Joan. “I don’t see how hitting someone over the head with a candlestick from behind would give the victim a chance to leave any defensive marks.”

  “It wouldn’t,” replied Gates. “But the police can surmise a number of clues about the killer from the head wound.”

  “Such as?” asked Willard.

  “This is conjecture on my part,” noted Gates, “because they obviously believe they’ve got their man, but killing someone by hitting them on the head with a metal object supposes fairly good upper body strength.”

  “Something you have, Willard,” said Pamela to her companion with a chuckle.

  “Yes,” he replied. “It’s gratifying to know I could do in a poor defenseless woman.”

  “It also presupposes that the killer attacked from behind because the wound was on the back and side of her head. Which also suggests that Stacy knew the killer as she was apparently willing to turn her back on him—or her.”

  “Could it have been a her?” asked Pamela.

  “It would have to be a very strong woman,” said Gates, “if it was—and probably a tall one. Or Stacy would have had to be seated with her back to the killer.”

  “Any number of possibilities that could have occurred,” said Dobbs. “What about how the killer arrived? Or why? Is it possible that Stacy mistook the real killer for her husband when she called 911? She might have seen the killer outside.”

  “So she let him in and then turned her back on him so he could bash her over the head?” posited Gates. “Doesn’t sound likely.”

  “You are all aware that James says he received a call from Stacy urging him to come home at once,” said Pamela.

  “Yes,” agreed Martin. “He did, but unfortunately he didn’t save it. I’ve checked with the police and they do admit that there was a call made to James’ cell shortly before the 911 call from the Grant landline phone. But their belief is that it was Stacy trying to contact her husband when she saw him attempting to break into their home. Possibly they argued. But whatever occurred during that short call, the police believe that it was enough to frighten Stacy into then phoning 911.”

  “So without the actual content of the message from Stacy,” argued Gates, “it looks really bad for James. I wish there was some way we could get that message.”

  “He did tell me when I saw him,” continued Pamela, “that the call from Stacy was very short. In fact, she didn’t even let him ask her any questions or even respond. She just told him to come home and then she hung up.”

  “That doesn’t seem all that strange,” suggested Joan. “I mean, if she was scared that someone was trying to break in, she’d just tell him what she needed to say and then hang up.”

  “But, then why immediately call 911 and report James for trying to break in?” mused Willard.

  “There are a number of very strange things in this c
ase,” observed Pamela, “and if you notice, they all seem to concern phone calls.”

  “What do you mean, Pamela?” asked Dobbs.

  “The phone call from Stacy to James that we don’t have, the phone call from Stacy to 911 that we do have. If you think about it, these two calls cancel each other out. If the police had a copy of the first, they would suspect the validity of the second. But they only have the second, so they have no reason to believe the first even exists.”

  “Whereas, we, on the other hand,” said Gates, finger to mustache, “have both—or at least we believe in the existence of both—leaving us with the major discrepancy of this case. Which call really represented what Stacy Grant was trying to tell us? Or even, which of these calls did Stacy Grant actually make?”

  “Or,” said Pamela, “did she make either one of them?”

  “What?” said Dobbs. “I thought you verified Stacy’s voice on the 911 call, Dr. Barnes.”

  “I did,” she replied. “but consider the repercussions if Stacy Grant hadn’t made any phone calls at all.”

  “You mean, Pamela,” said Joan, “if someone faked her voice?”

  “Or something,” replied Pamela. She squinted at the center of the table at the pile of leftover food and wrappings in an attempt to focus in on the answer to the puzzle.

  “I don’t know how we’d go about proving that,” said Gates. “But if someone went to all that trouble, it indicates that someone was planning this murder for quite some time.”

  “I don’t know if that’s what happened,” said Pamela. “I just know that there is something strange about the recording.”

  “Pamela, my dear,” said Willard, nudging his colleague on the arm, “we must redouble our efforts and examine that recording with greater thoroughness.”

  “Yes,” agreed Pamela, “we must, and we will.” She smiled at Willard and then looked around the room at the three other faces looking towards them.

  “Everyone,” said Dobbs, eventually, “it looks like we have several new directions to try. Pamela and Willard will be checking out Stacy’s 911 call. Conrad will look into Stacy and James’s background to see who—if anyone—might have a reason to harm either of them. I, myself, will go see James in jail again and press him more about anything he can contribute to our efforts. And Joan, I’m sure you will help Willard and Pamela in any way possible.”

  “I certainly will,” replied Joan. With that, the group rose, assisting Martin Dobbs in clearing the trash from the table. Pamela and Willard headed out to her car. Joan remained behind and the last Pamela saw of her friend, she was chatting—or should we say, flirting—with the team’s investigator, Conrad Gates. Gates had apparently forgotten about his promise to follow her home.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pamela drove carefully down the main street of Reardon, chatting amiably with her passenger and colleague, Willard Swinton. Although she and Willard worked together closely on research studies on a fairly regular basis, their interactions were primarily professional. This car ride was a decided change in their mode of communication and Pamela was enjoying Willard’s companionship as she made her way towards the small suburban apartment complex where she knew he lived alone. As a handicapped faculty member, Willard relied on the University’s handicapped van for transportation to and from campus.

  “How exhilarating!” said Willard, practically beaming. “Doesn’t it feel grand to be able to use our research skills to help someone in such a personal way?”

  “Definitely,” she replied, sending him a quick short smile so that she could keep her eyes on the road.

  “Of course, my dear,” noted Willard, his hand bracing himself against the dashboard, “I forget how involved you’ve been in helping others with your investigative powers.” He gripped the top of the dash as Pamela took a sharp curve. Noticing his firm grip, she wondered if Willard had been warned about her driving skills by someone.

  “It will feel especially wonderful,” she said to him over her shoulder, “if we can actually figure out who really killed Stacy—assuming, of course, that James didn’t.”

  “Oh, he didn’t,” said Willard, his chubby brown cheeks squishing together in emotion. “Believe me, Pamela, I have known Martin and James for years. They are both honorable men. I can’t imagine either of them hurting a fly, let alone a person.”

  “I trust your character judgment, Willard,” she assured him. “We will really both have to get busy and try to figure out what it is about that recording of Stacy that makes it unusual.”

  “And hope that whatever it is, it will exonerate James,” said Willard with agreement, tapping his cane on the floor of the passenger side of her car in confirmation.

  “Are we in agreement that it’s definitely Stacy’s voice on the 911 recording?” she asked him. She turned a second time, down a residential street where she knew Willard resided. Even though she’d never been here, she’d heard him mention his home and location and had registered where it was because it was so close to her own home.

  “I would say definitely,” he replied. “Oh, right here, my dear.” Willard tapped at the side passenger window at a two-story red brick apartment complex with individual outside entrances for each unit. “I’m the third door down.” She pulled into a space directly in front of the apartment. It was a homey, well-kept unit with a white wooden porch and a porch swing. She could see several potted plants in the front window. Willard was a bachelor but obviously took pride in his residence.

  “Let me help you,” she said, hopping out of the car and coming around to the passenger door so she could open it for him. Willard carefully stepped out, using his cane to assist him.

  “Would you care to come in, my dear?” he asked her.

  “Oh, Willard, thank you,” she said with unexpected embarrassment, “but it’s getting late and my husband gets fussy when I return home late. He expects me to be there to eat what he cooks for me. He seems to enjoy feeding me.”

  “How lucky for you!” exclaimed Willard. “It must be lovely to be able to share your evening meal with someone.” She felt terrible at that point and wondered if she should ask him to get back in the car and come over to her house for dinner. “Of course, I have Phoebe to share my dinner with me,” he added.

  “Phoebe?” she asked. Willard had never discussed his social life—if he had one. She knew he’d never been married, but he never insinuated that he was dating anyone. Who was Phoebe?

  “Yes,” he said, using his cane to head towards the front door of his small apartment. “She demands her kitty treats by a reasonable hour or she howls all night long in protest.”

  “Oh, you have a cat!” said Pamela, in realization. “We have a dog!”

  “They are like part of the family, aren’t they?”

  “Definitely!” she responded. At that, he had reached the door and opened it. Immediately a huge flash of fur zipped out and encircled his feet several times.

  “Phoebe!” he scolded the cat, who immediately stopped in front of him, looking up. “Say hello to Dr. Barnes.” Phoebe said “meow.”

  “My goodness, Phoebe,” said Pamela, bending over and speaking sweetly to the large feline. “You are quite the kitty! You must weigh forty pounds!”

  “Yes,” he said to her, “something like that. I’m afraid I’m too indulgent. I give her whatever she demands.”

  “I know how that happens,” she said. “They can be very persistent.”

  “Yes, they can,” he said, now standing in the doorway, facing out. Phoebe stood beside him, her giant tail flipping back and forth like a fluffy metronome.

  “Willard,” she said, turning to leave, “I’ll see you tomorrow. We can go over the recording some more then.”

  “Very good, my dear,” he said, with a slight wave, then gently closed the door, encasing himself and cat behind it.

  Pamela walked back to her car and got inside. She started her engine and drove down the short street that housed Willard’s apartment complex where
she stopped to turn onto the more trafficked roadway. Before she could enter the road, however, a large, black car–possibly the Lexus that had surveilled their home the night before–pulled directly in front of her and stopped sideways in the street, blocking her movement. Pamela was flabbergasted.

  A large man got out of the car and walked with conviction towards the driver’s side of her car. She immediately recognized him as Victor Baines, Hap Brewster’s campaign manager. He was wearing a dark suit, totally inappropriate for this hot summer day. His red, sweaty face indicated he was annoyed and she surmised that she was partially the cause of his fury.

  “Dr. Barnes,” he shouted, pounding on her window. She kept the window rolled up. The man had blocked her car’s movement on a public street and he seemed mad enough to harm her. She grabbed her cell phone, intent on calling the police. “I just want to talk to you, Dr. Barnes.” He knocked again on the window.

  “Move your car!” she shouted at him. “You’re blocking my way!”

  “Listen, lady,” he yelled through the closed window. “I’m trying to be polite.”

  “Polite people don’t block the street and keep drivers from moving!”

  “I don’t have anything against you, lady,” he continued, his large belly protruding from his tightly buttoned suit jacket. “I just want to warn you that you don’t know what you’re getting into.”