“The man who found the body tried to read a wrist pulse, but otherwise nothing’s been touched, Doc. This is just as he was found.”
“Is this one of the college people?” Rice asked. He was opening Barrow’s shirt and examining the wound. “I think I recognize him.”
“His name is John Barrow, a professor of English. Any idea how long ago this happened?”
“He’s not cold yet, but definitely cooling. Let me get his temperature.”
The ME made a small incision and inserted a thermometer directly into the liver.
“His body temp is less than a degree under normal, so he probably died within the hour. That’s just preliminary, of course.”
“I understand.” Sally said. “While you’re rooting around the body, will you see if he has a wallet and any cash in his pockets?”
Rice reached into a back pocket and pulled out a well-worn wallet. There was over a hundred in cash and his credit cards in the wallet, plus a driver’s license from the U.K. The rest of his pockets were empty.
It was several hours before Sally was able to leave the scene and head to the station. A few reporters and one media truck had arrived, and they agreed to Sally’s request that they not release any name or identifying information until she had informed the next of kin. She knew it wouldn’t take long for them to get his name on their own, so she shared the information with them as long as they played by her rules. Beth had called with a number in suburban London for Barrow’s mother, and Sally would place the call soon. She needed to organize not only her team and the investigation, but her thoughts as well. She posted one of her men out front to keep kids and the curious away from the crime scene. Preliminary canvassing of the neighborhood by her officers had not produced any reported sighting of anyone approaching or leaving Barrow’s house, nor of anyone even hearing the gunshot. A preliminary search inside Barrow’s house came up equally empty of clues, though she still needed a full analysis of his files, his computer, and the contents of his office at the school. She also had in hand Barrow’s briefcase, which contained several files related to his tenure situation. Based on her conversation with Beth the evening before, she felt the tenure fight was as good a place as any to start her investigation. And given the probability that Barrow was the father of a student’s child, that angle needed to be explored as well. Sally made a note to confirm Jennifer Manos’s presence in San Francisco at the first opportunity.
The state scene of crime team had been thorough, but Sally was not hopeful they would find any useful fiber, hair, cigarette butt, or footprint evidence. It appeared to her that the victim had opened the door, probably to someone he knew, and was then shot in the chest at point-blank range. The presence of the wallet and cash made robbery an unlikely motive. The spent bullet casing was found lodged under a decorative rock to the right side of the front door, which would also support the theory that the shooter was facing the front door. But why was Barrow in his house in the dark? Even if he’d just arrived home, wasn’t turning on at least one light the first thing he’d do upon entering? Barrow wasn’t wearing pajamas and the beds were all made. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep on the sofa during daylight and woken up with the arrival of his killer at the door. Perhaps. And why had no one heard the shot?
It was only a few hours before dawn now, and Sally was wrung out. The adrenaline that had fired her up when she took the call at her parents’ house was now out of her system, and she knew she’d need to get some sleep if she hoped to be at all effective the next day. The call to the scene had reminded her of so many similar calls in Chicago, but the differences between a big-city investigation and this one were starting to sink in. Sally had taken a call from a state police lieutenant who wanted to know if she had the manpower she needed to get the job done, which she said she did. She didn’t need the state boys and their Smokey Bear hats trying to run her investigation. But she’d lied when she said she had the staff she needed. She really didn’t have adequate staff to properly serve the town when it was quiet, let alone when a murderer was on the loose. She would have to delegate what she could and get to work on the rest. First, though, she’d catch a couple hours of sleep on the cot in the back room of the station.
Sally let the overnight dispatcher know where she was and tried to settle down in the cot. By some miracle of bad design it was both lumpy and thin and her body felt exhausted and restless. She knew that the feeling didn’t come solely from the murder investigation. It took her back to the endless string of homicides she worked in Chicago, often around the clock in the frenzy of activity common for the early hours of an investigation. The physical exhaustion hadn’t driven her from the city she loved. It was the soul-numbing sameness of it. The awful sameness of it. Over and over she’d arrived at crime scenes where the victim was not an innocent but rather a participant in an explosion of violence brought about by an event of infinitesimal importance. Usually an argument over respect, a commodity so valued in the ravaged, gang-ruled neighborhoods that taking a life over the granting or withholding of it was considered honorable, at least by those doing the shooting. The real victims, the ones Sally cared about, were the families trapped in their homes, terrified for their children. When those children, those families, were shot in the cross fire of these disputes, she could barely compartmentalize her feelings sufficiently to do her job properly.
The spillover into her off-hours finally became unbearable. A visit home to her parents and an opportunity with the Mount Avery PD inspired her move, a life change so enormous that this murder in town felt like a shock to her too, as if she’d forgotten what people were capable of.
Still, she recognized that the case was very different than the usual sort in Chicago, and would, in fact, require some real investigation—as opposed to the usual rousting of rival gang members and bargaining for confessions. She also recognized how much she had changed. Instead of a dreary rotation of three emotions—anger, frustration, and sorrow—she felt plenty of others. Contentment, amusement, engagement, enthusiasm, love, felt at appropriate times, not draped over her life like an impenetrable, low-lying cloud cover. If she had any frustration in Mount Avery it was that she hadn’t yet found someone to share this new life with. She wondered if Beth Ellis could be what she’d been waiting for.
Chapter Seven
When Beth arrived at her office to begin dealing with the consequences of the murder, she did not pretend to be grieving over the death of John Barrow. She didn’t know him well, and what she did know she didn’t like. She was not given to pretending sentiment that didn’t exist, but she understood that there would be plenty of people upset about a murder on campus, not the least being the parents of the students. The first thing she did was put a call in to Sally Sullivan to get an update on the investigation. She was patched through to her cell phone.
“Good morning, Chief. I hope you got some sleep last night,” Beth said.
“I managed a few hours. How about you?”
“The same. I’m afraid it’s hard to fall asleep after a faculty member gets murdered. Maybe you’re more used to it.”
“It’s not something we’re going to get used to in Mount Avery. I can guarantee you that,” Sally said.
“Chief—”
“Sally. You should call me Sally.”
“Well, you should call me Beth.”
“I’d like to. That’s how I think of you anyway.”
Beth thought this sounded mildly flirtatious and something fluttered inside her a bit.
“Are you driving right now?” Beth asked.
“Yeah. I’m on my way back from Center City.”
“Where are we in the investigation? I have to call the president when we hang up and I’d like to have as much information as possible to give him.”
“That won’t be much. We have no witnesses, no physical evidence at the scene that we can determine at this time, the autopsy was performed this morning, we’re still reviewing evidence from the victim’s home and office, and
we’re developing the lines of our investigation.”
“I’ll pass that along to the president.”
“I need to see you to go over a few things. Is eleven in your office convenient?” Sally asked.
Beth didn’t think Sally’s voice sounded flirtatious now, but that fluttering continued. With all hell breaking loose around her she found this distraction to be not only untimely, but also alarming. It felt suspiciously like the last and only time she’d fallen in love. The last time she’d placed her trust in someone else, her lover ran off with one of Beth’s best friends—fairly mundane in the grand scheme of things, but devastating to Beth. It seemed irrefutable that when someone claimed that they loved her they asserted some right, never granted by her, to not only say that they loved her but also to inflict terrible hurt through their actions, as if the two things went together.
“I’ll come to the station. You’ve got enough going on to worry about my convenience. Have you contacted John’s mother in England?” Beth asked.
“Yep, and put a call in to the media afterward with the bare-bones facts. I think you can expect a number of calls this morning from reporters.”
“Yes, they’re already coming in. Thanks, Chief. I’ll see you at eleven.” Beth hung up, unsettled.
Beth called in to her voicemail and took down five messages from various local and wire service reporters. Then she tried to summon the will to put a call in to Landscome. She wondered how long it would take him to accuse her of murdering John Barrow to avoid having him get tenure. She dialed his cell number, which she knew would be with him, because he’d made it a point of telling everyone that he could be “reached anywhere in the U.K. on my mobile.”
“Nigel Landscome here.”
“It’s Dean Ellis, sir. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“John Barrow was murdered at his home last night.”
“What? I must have misheard that.”
“I’m afraid not. It happened about eleven last night, we think. The police are investigating, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be the slightest clue as to who might have done it.” Beth filled in Landscome with the rest of the information given to her by Sally, and by the end she could hear him begin to sputter.
“And just so you know they are covering all possibilities,” Beth said, “I have told the chief of police about the tenure controversy. I think the fact that you were the only one in favor of John’s being granted tenure puts you the most in the clear at this time.”
“I don’t feel that this is the best time for you to be glib, Dean Ellis. Hopefully, you’ll have been dealing with the media and a grieving campus in a more professional manner.”
“Of course. The media has been given a statement by the chief, and I thought you and I would discuss how you’d like to handle our further dealings with them.”
“Hold them off until I can get back into town. Just say we are making plans for a memorial service, assisting in the investigation, etc. I want you to maintain as much of the status quo as possible until I get back. I’m not filled with confidence in your abilities at the moment, Dean. Not only did you fail in my absence to deliver the tenure vote I asked for, but the tenure candidate has been murdered.”
Beth looked at her watch. It had taken five minutes for him to blame her for the murder, about what she expected.
“As you wish. I take it that means you don’t want me to make any arrangements for increased campus security?”
“No, you should take care of that immediately, and put out an announcement to the entire campus that it’s being done. Christ, this is a bloody nightmare. Has the board been notified?”
“They haven’t. Should I wait on that as well?”
“I’ll take care of the board from here. You just do everything else that needs to be done, Dean. I’ll be on the next flight home.”
Beth started to make a cursory to-do list, which was unlike any to-do list she’d ever written. She was numbering down the side of the paper when Delilah Humphries swept into her office, dressed entirely in fleece, her preferred Saturday look, though not a particularly good one. The fleece cape gave the ensemble the Delilah touch.
“I suppose you all think I murdered the man.” She sat in the seat in front of Beth’s desk and thrust her chin forward. “Which is ridiculous. I wouldn’t waste that amount of time on him.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Dee. It doesn’t take all that much time to kill someone, does it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I have to say that this does eliminate a few vexing problems.”
“Actually, Dee, you don’t have to say that. It’s in poor taste, don’t you think? I’d at least wait a little while before remarking on the positives.”
“How long do you think that should be, exactly? I’m wondering if I should postpone my party tomorrow.”
Every quarter, Delilah hosted a faculty party at her house, Sunday afternoon affairs that were among the best attended of the countless faculty parties given throughout the year. With a couple hundred very smart people set down on an isolated outpost, the social life with colleagues was of perhaps unnatural importance. While most employees in workplaces of all sorts enjoy some interaction with colleagues outside of office hours, in the world of the small campus, the social activity of a faculty member is almost exclusively with colleagues. The potential for drama and in-fighting is endless, the gossip mill constantly overworked, the mutation of cliques and alliances ongoing and unpredictable. Delilah’s parties were showcases for all of these things to play out, and it was a rare quarter that went by when there wasn’t some scene that was talked about for weeks.
“I’m not really prepared to make a call about your party,” Beth said. “I have a few dozen other things to sort out here.” She pointed at her list, hoping Delilah would leave. When she didn’t, she added, “And I have to leave in a minute for the police station.”
“Really? You have to go spend time with that good-looking chief of police? Poor you.”
“Please, don’t start. We’ve just had a murder on campus. Aren’t you concerned about that?”
Delilah stood and picked up her bag. “I think I’ll go ahead and have the party. Everyone’s going to want a place to talk to others about this. It might as well be my house. You should tell your police chief to come by. Maybe she can arrest Professor Mustard in the drawing room with the candlestick.”
The fact was that Delilah did have a drawing room. Hers was a large Victorian frame house that had three levels and a full basement. It was several times too large for her, but she’d managed to fill it with more stuff than most people could accumulate in five lifetimes. Most of the first floor rooms were kept fairly uncluttered, simply so she could host her parties. But those who ventured beyond these rooms were flabbergasted at the sight of towering piles of magazines, boxes and boxes of books, dishes, collectibles of every kind—the usual pack-rat collections that are the subject of TV pieces on how to organize the world’s most disorganized people. The thing the producers of these stories don’t seem to get is that the appalling mountain of stuff in the house of a pack rat has little to do with lack of organizational ability and everything to do with the inability to let go of things. Suggesting to Delilah that she simply get out the bin and start throwing things away would be like telling an alcoholic that all she had to do was limit herself to one lovely cocktail per evening and all would be well. Beth had tried once to talk to Delilah about possibly throwing out some of her stuff, and the mere suggestion sent Delilah on a binge of buying, clearing out the new item racks at three different Dollar Stores.
Before heading over to the police station, Beth spent some time coordinating extra security with both the police department and the private firm that contracted with the college. She wrote a press release for the media and a campus-wide release, which she worked on with Dean Taylor and the security chief. She made preliminary plans for a campus memorial and put a condolence
call in to John Barrow’s mother. She worked down her list and wished fervently that it would be enough to put her world back in order. Then she left for the station.
Chapter Eight
With an early morning autopsy already behind her, Sally drove to Katie Murphy’s house on Saturday morning. The tenure fight was the most obvious line of inquiry to follow and Katie the most obvious beneficiary of Barrow’s death.
Sally pulled up in front of the college-owned duplex rented by Katie, set among a row of similar units housing assistant professors and other adjuncts. Katie was locking her door as Sally approached and identified herself.
“This must be about John Barrow’s death,” Katie said. She was composed and casual, her young face serious but not frowning with concern or anxiety, clad in tailored slacks and a light turtleneck, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. “I just heard the news a little while ago.”
“I’d like to speak with you for a moment about it.”
“Sure. Let’s go back in.” Katie unlocked the front door, which opened directly on the front room of the small house. It was furnished a notch above student level—one end of the room held an oak veneer dining table covered with papers, files, and laptop, the other end a small TV and a love seat with canvas slipcover. They sat side by side on it.
“Dr. Murphy—”
“Please, it’s Katie.”
“Katie, I understand that you are an adjunct professor in the English department, where John Barrow was an assistant professor.”
“That’s correct.” Katie was sitting forward, slightly turned toward Sally.
“I also understand that he was recently placed in that position at the president’s request, thereby taking a tenure-track position that you were hopeful of securing yourself.”
“And you’re thinking that would provide a motive for me to murder John Barrow?”
“I’m a long way from forming any opinions,” Sally said. “I’m just gathering and confirming information at this point.”
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