Bart Bickford nodded. “That’s right. We walked across the hall to my office.” One beefy hand was fidgeting with the button of his jacket. Twice as big, and looked twice as haggard as anyone else. Suddenly Anne understood his problem. Or a big hunk of it, at least. She crossed the room toward him as Walensky asked, “Any special reason he went to your office?”
“I wanted some advice about a grant proposal I’m writing.” His hands were in his jacket pockets now, clenching and unclenching. Anne held out her pack of Gauloises. Too quickly, his fingers sprang from his pockets, twitched out a cigarette, snatched the lighter from her other hand. “Uh… thanks,” he said when it was kindled. Didn’t seem to taste flat to him.
“Did he mention anything that he was worried about?” Walensky asked.
“No,” said Bart, exhaling smoke slowly and ending with a little cough. “On the contrary, he was very upbeat. Patted me on the back, told me I’d get my grant if their committee had half a brain. Then he wanted to know if I’d seen Charlie, and I said yes, maybe twenty minutes before. He’d been rushing toward his office, said he was in a hurry.”
“Yes, I was late to meet Dr. Ryan,” said Charlie.
“So Tal said not to forget, noon at Plato’s, and zipped off. I figured he was going to talk to Charlie.”
“Now, about what time was this?” Walensky asked.
Bart frowned, but Anne noticed that his hands were moving more steadily now. “I can only guess. I’d say nine-forty.”
Walensky’s light eyes move to Charlie. “And did he find you, Professor Fielding?”
Anne inspected Charlie. A shy young fellow, no taller than Tal, earnest and eager to please. He looked sorrowful too, like Bart, but without suffering the added edge of nicotine withdrawal. Charlie said, “Yes, he came into the office while Dr. Ryan and I were discussing my research. I introduced them. We talked for a minute, he invited us to lunch, then off he went. To the library, he said.”
“Did he give any indication of his mood?”
“Like everyone says, he seemed very happy. The lunch was to be a celebration, he said.”
Walensky peered at Maggie Ryan. “Do you agree, Miss Ryan?”
“Oh, yes, he was full of enthusiasm.” Maggie had taken Anne’s place by the window. The lights played in her black hair, cool blue fluorescent glints from the room, and a bright warm edging of sunlight. “I don’t know what he’s like normally, but today he seemed very bubbly. He was jumping onto chairs, quoting Cyrano, bragging about how much better his wife could do it.”
Anne’s heart squeezed tight as a fist. What a ham Tal was. She could see him, swishing his imaginary sword, telling them she could do Cyrano better. She forced the image away and concentrated fiercely on Walensky’s questions.
“And what time was this?”
“Maybe a quarter to ten,” said Maggie.
“He was going to the library?”
“He said so. But when did he talk to Nora?” Maggie asked.
“Must have been around then,” Nora said.
Walensky was dutifully taking it all down. Probably none of it would help, Anne thought. They should be out questioning people about the trails, about strangers, about—but Hines was doing all that, she supposed. And of course it was true that they ought to make sure it wasn’t somehow connected with one of Tal’s projects, make sure it really was a mugger.
Nora added, “He brought me a cup of coffee.”
“That’s right!” Cindy exclaimed. “He popped back into the office for a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” Walensky asked, looking around.
“Right by the mail room door.” Bernie Reinalter, eager to be of help, indicated the big aluminum urn on a table by the door. Jars of instant coffee, whitener, sugar, and tea bags were arrayed next to the urn, and stacks of foam plastic cups.
Cindy said, “He asked me if I wanted any and I said I’d just had a cup. Well, he said, he’d save me some champagne instead. And off he went again.”
“Did he usually bring you coffee?” Walensky asked Nora.
“It was a sort of joke,” Nora replied. She spoke flatly, but a tiny flutter at the corner of her eyelid betrayed her tension. “I’d complained once after a departmental meeting that women made up forty percent of the department but they were asked to get the coffee eighty percent of the time. Tal overheard and told me Anne had made almost the same observation about her department, so he was going to bring me coffee eighty percent of the time. Reparations, he called it.”
“I see.” Walensky wrote it down.
“He spilled it,” Nora blurted.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I opened the door for him. He came in past me and put it down on my desk, and was explaining something—the lunch at Plato’s, I guess. And he made a big gesture and knocked the cup over. He rushed around and mopped up the desk and even the drawers. He used the Kleenex I keep on the windowsill. Very thorough. He said he’d get me another cup, but I said not to bother. He promised solemnly to make it up to me at lunch. Then he picked up the bookbag and rushed out.”
“Was he sad?”
“No, no. I mean—he was sorry for spilling the coffee, but he was still cheery. Exclaiming about how lucky he’d been not to knock it on the stack of student papers I had sitting on the desk. Joking about what a clumsy old codger he was, about how he’d mop up every drop. It was a very upbeat kind of apology, if you see what I mean.”
“Did he tell you what he was celebrating?”
“No, just that—” She stopped abruptly and stepped back.
Anne had to step back too as Sergeant Hines strode into the room, followed closely by Officer Porter. The officer was carrying a large cardboard box and several sealed plastic bags. Evidence bags, Anne realized with a tightening of her stomach. She couldn’t see the contents clearly, even though she was near as he rested his burdens on Cindy’s desk. Little white plugs—cigarette butts. A little spiral-bound notebook. Something else—was it a pipe?
Hines said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d appreciate it if you could all go to your offices. There are some items here I’d like you to try to identify, and I’d rather have each person react individually.”
Maggie said, “I’m told my office isn’t ready yet. And Professor Chandler’s is in the French department across campus.”
Hines said, “I’ll be talking to Mrs. Chandler at home later. Is there an office Ms. Ryan can use?” Automatically, he looked at the right authority: Cindy, not Bernie Reinalter.
She said, “Dr. Ryan will be using the corner office in Professor Fielding’s wing. Room 104. It’s empty, it’s just that the floor hasn’t been waxed. Might as well use it.”
“Fine,” Hines agreed. “We’ll start with Ms. Ryan, then.”
Cindy selected one of the keys in her desk drawer and handed it to Maggie, making a note on a card. Anne was impressed that she had followed procedures even under this pressure. The ideal secretary for Bernie.
Cindy was eyeing Porter’s plastic-wrapped items on her desk, and Anne saw her lips curve a little as Porter picked them up carefully. Had she recognized something? Anne saw her gazing thoughtfully at the people by the hall door.
“Well, Charlie,” Cindy inquired mildly, “did you drop something?”
6
Damn Cindy!
An adrenaline sweat of rage, fear, and mystification flooded Charlie. In the murky swill of his memory childish horrors stirred: Dad’s rigid accusing shoulders, the fly on Aunt Babs’s dead staring face, Lorraine naked, holding a white sock, eyes boring into him like Cindy’s now. A Hitchcock moment, shocking ancient fears from sleep, even though he’d half expected it. He’d glimpsed the little spiral-bound memo book too, with its black-and-white Chaplin design glimmering inside the plastic bag. Surprised, he’d reached in his jacket for his own memo book. Not there. He’d slithered his fingers through his pockets in desperate hope. But it was gone. No one else had a book like that, not around here. But how could his book
be in an evidence bag? And then came Cindy with her insinuations, in front of the cops, Tal’s formidable wife, the department chairman! What the hell was going on?
Well, stay cool when attacked, Coach Wilhelm used to say. No need to feel defensive anyway. The explanation, whatever it turned out to be, couldn’t hurt him. He tried to keep his voice light as he said, “Maybe I did lose something. You’ve probably misplaced things yourself, Cindy, sometimes.”
The skin tensed around her pale blue eyes, but the little smile on her face didn’t change. He noticed that Maggie was studying both of them with unconcealed interest.
More to the point, so were Hines and Walensky.
Hines said, “There’s something here of yours, Mr. Fielding?”
“Now Reggie,” said Walensky, “let’s go slow. He can’t tell you the answer to that until he sees the items, now, can he?”
“That’s right, Wayne,” said Hines, his jaw tight. “So let’s go let him have a look. Mrs. Chandler, I’ll see you right after. We’ll look at your husband’s office together. Professor Fielding, what’s your office number?”
“103,” said Charlie. “Around the corner, down the hall.”
“Fine. Porter, see these other people to their offices and get McConough to stay with Mrs. Chandler for a few minutes. Then bring the stuff to 103. Everybody else can go to their own offices and I’ll be along soon. Please stay in the building.”
Charlie glanced at Walensky. His mouth was tight, his bushy brows contracted. “I’ll be glad to interview them, Reggie. I know Peterson, Fielding, Bickford, Reinalter…” he said in a surprisingly mild voice.
“Thank you, Wayne. Go right ahead. But I’ll take Professor Fielding right now.” Sergeant Hines offered Walensky a hint of a smile, and Charlie’s tiny remaining hope faltered. Maggie had been right: the two policemen were engaged in combat, and losing the damn memo book had dropped him right in the middle. Well, nothing to do but cooperate. Find out the truth. For his own sake now, as well as Tal’s.
Hines accompanied him down the hall and around the corner to his office. Charlie, walking on unsteady legs, wished Walensky had come along. He knew Walensky, and maybe he wouldn’t have felt quite so friendless and threatened if the paunchy captain had been along. On the other hand, the last thing Charlie wanted was to be the football in this game the two cops were playing. Well, help them both. Find out the truth. He unlocked his door.
Hines scrutinized the office professionally as he followed Charlie in. Charlie felt revealed, almost violated, as the dark gaze hit each item, riffling through his life. The bookshelves, crammed with videotapes instead of books. The wood coatrack with his shabby plastic emergency raincoat and an old black umbrella. The file cabinet bearing the videotape machine, the television, the sixteen-millimeter projector. The screen rolled up in the corner. The vintage Wizard of Oz poster, half obscured by a stack of books that had been crowded out by the videotapes. He worked so hard to keep things orderly, but under Hines’s cool gaze it seemed a sty. On his desk, reference books. A mug containing pencils and his Donald Duck pen, a silly gift from Deanna. Student schedules. The grant proposal he’d been discussing with Maggie that morning was spread out in the center of the desk. Near the edge lay the ruler that Tal had been waving only a few hours ago. It seemed like years.
Porter appeared and placed his packages on the oak chair Tal had used as a soapbox, then closed the door and leaned against the jamb. Hines said, “Let’s sit down for a minute, Professor Fielding.” He waved a hand at Charlie’s desk chair, and Charlie sat down uneasily while Hines sank into the chair that faced the TV screen. He said, “You do educational TV?”
“No.” Charlie had to clear his throat. “It’s reading research. How people scan a page of print most efficiently. The letters are on the TV screen, and we measure their eye movements while they read.”
“Pretty complicated. But kids probably like the TV.”
“Maybe. We aren’t working with kids yet.”
“I thought this was an education department, like how to teach school.”
“Sure. But first we have to find out how adults do it. Then we can try to reconstruct how it’s learned. And then, finally, we can design a way to help kids who are having trouble learning.”
Hines nodded. “So the idea is to find the facts about how it’s done, before telling kids you think they’re doing it wrong?”
“That’s right.”
“Good idea. Facts before theories. Same thing we tell rookie cops. Porter, let’s see that book.”
Porter selected one of the bags and placed it on the desk.
Charlie nodded and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It’s mine,” he said unhappily.
“You’re sure?” Hines asked.
“As sure as I can be when it’s in a plastic bag. You see his ear?” He pointed at the Chaplin cartoon on the cover. “That little tear’s been there for months. Of course, I’ll have to look inside to be a hundred percent sure, but still—”
“Okay. Thank you. Now, when did you see it last?”
“Let me think. This morning, before I left home. I checked the time I was supposed to meet Dr. Ryan. Then I put it in my outside jacket pocket.”
“Right or left?”
“Right.”
“And you haven’t looked at it since?”
“No, there was no reason to. I’d saved the whole morning to talk to Dr. Ryan, and nothing else came up that I had to note down.”
“Not the lunch appointment?”
“I could remember that without writing it down.” Charlie’s glasses had migrated down his nose again. He pushed them into place, wishing Hines would show some reaction, some emotion, any emotion, instead of regarding him with that impassive gaze. Porter too was unmoving, leaning relaxed but attentive against the doorjamb.
“Well, now, Professor Fielding, we found that book on the lower trail. Can you tell us how it got there?”
Charlie’s mouth was bone-dry. “I don’t know. All I can think is that it fell out of my pocket.”
“You were on the lower trail?”
“No. Well, yes, when we all went to see… to see Tal. I told you before.”
“Yes, we have to keep going over things. Now we want to know exactly what happened.”
“Well, Maggie—Dr. Ryan—ran out of Plato’s. Then in a minute she came back in with the student, um…”
“Doris Keating.”
“Yes. Dr. Ryan said there had been an accident and to help Dorrie call the police, and she ran out again. So we got Dorrie to the phone, and she called you people and you told her to wait at Plato’s. But Bart thought we might be able to help, so he and I left Nora Peterson with Dorrie, and we ran down to the lower trail.”
“Which way? Across College Avenue from Plato’s?”
“That’s right. The steps that come up next to the College Avenue bridge. We ran down those steps and followed the trail down toward the creek. We crossed that little stone footbridge and went on—”
“You turned right or left after you crossed the stone bridge?”
“We turned right. We could see Maggie from the little bridge.”
“Okay. So you’re on the lower trail, right next to the creek now.”
“Yes. We ran along a little ways. We could see there was… something on the trail.” Charlie licked his parched lips. “But Maggie was waving at us, yelling to us to stop. So we did. She said to stay where we were and keep anyone from coming down the trail until the police arrived. We asked her what happened and she said Tal had been killed. I couldn’t believe it.” The shattering horror of her words, his own instant defense against them: No, not true, not possible. Charlie shuddered.
“That’s a natural reaction, Professor Fielding.” But there was no special glimmer of sympathy from either policeman. “Now, we’ll get back to Dr. Ryan in a minute. Right now I want you to focus on where you were on the lower trail when you stopped.”
“I was… well, it’s hard to remember.
Maybe I could show you.”
“Okay. Just for now, give me a rough idea if you can. Try to visualize yourself standing there, where Dr. Ryan told you to stop.”
“Okay.”
“Now, there are three bridges over the gorge in the area, three different heights. The lowest one is the little stone bridge you crossed.”
“Yes.”
“Next one up, to the north of the little stone bridge, is the metal footbridge you cross if you use the upper trail.”
“Yes. That’s the one I crossed on the way to Plato’s.”
“The highest one is the vehicular bridge, the College Avenue bridge. That’s south of both the other bridges. That’s where the steps go down to the lower trail.”
“Yes.”
“Now, you’re standing there looking at Dr. Ryan, right where she told you to stop. The stone footbridge is behind you.”
“Yes, and the College Ave. bridge is even farther behind me. You want to know if we’d passed under the metal bridge of the upper trail.”
“Just to get a rough idea of where you were standing.”
Charlie squeezed his eyes closed. It came back to him, the sense of horror, the rippling water nearby, Bart’s heavy breathing right behind him. He said, “Well, I can’t be certain, but I think the metal bridge was almost overhead. A little bit ahead of us, maybe. Check with Bart. Professor Bickford. He might remember.”
“We will.” A noncommittal nod of the dark head. Charlie, hungry for a reaction, couldn’t tell if the detective believed him or not. Porter, too, was listening without a flicker of emotion, as though this were some goddamn poker game. Where the hell had they found his memo book? Hines said, “So you didn’t pass under the metal footbridge?”
Murder Misread Page 6
