Charlie grinned. “No doubt. I’d order chocolate-flavored if they made them. Here, we’ll see how you did.” He took the record of her answers from the printer and scanned it. “Good. Here’s a mistake. We’re interested in the mistakes.”
“Of course. I’ve worked with psychologists for years. A perfect score is a dud from your point of view. What did I miss?”
“Burgundies. You said yes, you’d seen the word.”
“But I did! In the paragraph about French wines!”
“Here’s the tape again.” He found the passage and froze it on the screen. Like the others, this sentence was in capital letters: AMONG THE BEST-LOVED WINES OF FRANCE ARE BURGLARIES, BOTH WHITE AND RED.
“God. You’re right. Plain old-fashioned proofreader’s error.”
“Right. We’re trying to find out what leads to those errors. Obviously context is one important variable. This sentence is matched with one that reads WHEN DRUG USE INCREASES IN A CITY, SERIOUS CRIMES SUCH AS RAPES AND BURGUNDIES INCREASE TOO.”
Maggie chuckled. “Must be really bad wine to count as a serious crime.”
Charlie grinned. “Yeah. Gary and I thought the departmental Christmas party served the worst wine we ever had. But we decided even that stuff was only a misdemeanor.”
Maggie’s attention had returned to the screen. “So I misread that word because of the context? But I remember noticing a few strange words as I read.”
“Right. One thing we’re checking is whether the location of the eye fixation is involved in misreading. Normally you’re seeing about ten letters on each side of your fixation point, plus some peripheral information on the general length of the words coming up next. Let’s say your fixation point was somewhere in the word France. Your clear span goes through BUR or BURG, and you know something about the length of the word and the shape of it from peripheral information.”
Maggie frowned. “When it’s all caps, the word shapes are pretty similar.”
“We also have conditions with upper and lower case, and later this summer I hope to run one with randomized upper and lower case. Anyway, back to what you were just reading. You see the BURG, plus the peripheral info, plus the meaningful context. And you may be convinced you’ve read the word BURGUNDIES instead of BURGLARIES. On the other hand, if you happen to fixate inside the word itself, the middle letters LAR will stand out clearly, and you’ll read BURGLARIES even if it’s not the kind of word you hypothesized.”
“I see. I’m zipping along through the paragraph, hypothesize that a word such as BURGUNDIES is coming up next, see some information that supports my hypothesis, and go on without double-checking.”
“That’s right. After all, most of the time, in most of the stuff you read, you’ll be right. No sense in double-checking. Just slows you down.”
“I see. So if I’m following instructions, reading rapidly, I’ll misread a few of your trick words.”
“Exactly. Now, the next question is, why? What are the general sources of misreadings? You just explained my own theory: that a reader has a hypothesis about what meaning is coming up next, and that hypothesis influences reading. That’s the theory I like to emphasize.”
“If I understand the differences between you and Tal, he’d explain it another way, right?”
“Yes. He’d stress the fact that the word shapes are similar when you have BURGLARIES and BURGUNDIES.”
“He’d predict fewer misreadings in the lower case, right? Let’s see. In burglaries the fourth letter is below the line and the fifth letter is above it. In Burgundies the, what, seventh letter is above the line. Plus a capital B to start.”
“That’s right. He’s much more interested in the physical layout, on what’s really down there on the page.”
“So in fact, both of you can explain the misreading I just did. Tal would say the physical clues were poor, and you’d say that I was expecting something about France and wines.”
“Right. Of course it’s really a matter of emphasis. Both things are going on at the same time, and we both know that. But I just find it more interesting to investigate higher mental processes instead of marks on a page.”
“I see.”
“Naturally we’ve got other conditions. Some people see the same sentences in lower case, so the word shapes aren’t so similar. Or the same capital-letter words in random order, so there’s not as much room for a hypothesis about meaning. We’re trying to tease it apart, to find out as much as we can about what’s going on when people read, how to help them read effectively.” He removed the tape, switched off the apparatus, and waved his hand at it. “Something as complicated as reading has to be investigated one bit at a time. I vowed to myself early on that I wasn’t interested in typography or lists of words. All my work involves paragraphs, texts. Even if I’m asking about individual words like BURGUNDIES, it’s to see what effect the context has on them.”
“I see. Well, thanks for the subject’s-eye view of this study.” She followed him into the hall. “Was Tal’s work similar to yours? I mean, the way he did experiments?”
“In some ways. Of course he didn’t have video techniques available. But a lot of his questions were similar. In fact, several years ago he did a study with pairs of sentences similar to the ones you just saw. But his subjects sat down at a table with a pencil. He told them they’d get a point for every correct answer on content questions at the end, plus a five-point bonus if they finished in under ten minutes. And by the way, he said, draw a line under any typos you happen to see. No reward for finding mistakes, though.”
“I see. And he tried to find out if meaningful context or word shapes made people miss typos?”
“Yes. Also, he had kind of an interesting condition where words were spelled with random upper and lower case letters. Like ‘New York’ would have, say capital E, Y, R instead of—”
He broke off as a door opened almost in his face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to ram into you,” muttered Bart Bickford, shepherding out a little girl who wore a too-large pink T-shirt. Next to Bart’s huge frame she looked tiny, a little stick figure.
“And you know who else I like?” she was saying to him. “Cher!” She gave a clumsy, innocent imitation of a wanton wriggle. Charlie smiled. Children still amazed him, their voracious hunger to learn. Look at this awkward sexless child playing vamp. Or little boys playing war, or cops, or hockey superstars. Or reading. It took a major effort to discourage a child from learning to read, not that adults didn’t succeed from time to time… Aunt Babs. But most kids struggled on with the letters, the words, the meanings, long after most adults would have quit in despair. As Charlie learned more about the complexities of the feat, he respected children more and more. That tenaciousness, that willingness to work hard. He couldn’t remember learning to read, just that he’d always loved it. But he remembered learning to play ice hockey. Just about the age of this girl. He’d spent hours and hours teaching his scrawny legs speed and turns, chasing the elusive puck in the bitter cold, distressing Aunt Babs with his constantly bruised knees and twisted ankles. Not that he’d ever gotten to be good. Only twice, in real games, had he reached that overheated glow, skating through a haze of red alone with the puck, the way past the goalie shining before him, his teammates screaming approval. But for the most part his rewards had been the tiny increments in his own performance and Coach Wilhelm’s enthusiastic praise. Dad hadn’t even come to the playoffs. Just as well, maybe. Kindly as he was, the coach had kept him on the sidelines most of the time. By high school Charlie had given up and concentrated on being a brain. But he still remembered those years of dogged practice.
“And, well, that’s all the people I like!” the girl finished enthusiastically.
“That’s great!” Bart seemed sincere. He smiled at Maggie and Charlie. “Shelley just told me some great stories. But we have to go now. Her mom’s waiting in the parking lot. Come on, Shelley.” They headed for the exit.
Maggie pulled open the door to the stairwell, th
en slowed. Behind her, Charlie almost bumped into her. Then he too heard the low, heated voices. “Look, Wayne, you must have known! Even Cindy Phelps knew! And she says the whole department knew!”
“It was a judgment call, right?” Walensky sounded exasperated. “No need for you to butt in. You’ve got to understand, Reggie, these academic types are different! Not your average skells that you see downtown. You’ve got to use a different kind of interrogation or you end up with the dean’s office on your back. To say nothing of the ACLU.”
“Look, I’m not talking about the third degree, I’m talking about getting the damn information! And if you already know something and decide not to embarrass your academic charges by asking them, at least drop me a hint, all right?” There was a deep sigh, as though Hines was pulling back, trying not to lash out. “Look, Wayne, it’s no big deal. They’ll have a report for me this afternoon. If the Phelps story seems relevant, I’ll have time to talk to everyone.”
“Easy for you to say no big deal! You don’t have the dean whispering in your ear. ‘You got it solved yet? No? Well, hurry up. But for heaven’s sake don’t ask anyone any questions!’”
“Yeah.” Hines chuckled humorlessly. “Downtown we’ve got a few politicians exactly like that. Well, tell your dean whatever you want, but I’m talking to them.”
“But take it easy.”
“Look, I’ve got my problems too. Like getting this solved. Don’t worry, I know civil rights law, probably better than you. And I’ve been to college too, just like your dean. So I won’t ruffle any feathers that don’t need ruffling. Meanwhile, you know these folks, I’m counting on you for insider information, okay? The sooner we clear up this case, the sooner we’ll all be—”
Maggie pulled Charlie into the stairwell and let the door slam behind them as she started up the stairs. She said brightly, “Random upper and lower case letters. I see. That would destroy the familiar word shapes, wouldn’t it? Oh, hi, Sergeant Hines, Captain Walensky!”
The two policemen, faces impassive as masks, watched as Maggie and Charlie rounded the turn and climbed toward them. “Hello,” said Hines. “I was just on my way to look for you, Professor Fielding. Gary Kramer said you were downstairs. Just a couple of questions.”
“Yeah, sure.” Charlie stepped up to the landing and forced his shoulders to relax. The police were trying to find the killer, after all. Walensky had been around for years, and even this pushy newcomer Hines wanted to catch the murderer and bring this nightmare to an end. Still, it was a nightmare, knowing that the police were inspecting every word he said, every move he made. And he worried about the friction between them.
Hines opened his notebook civilly enough. “Professor Fielding, you’ve told me that you were not on the lower path yesterday until after Professor Chandler was shot.”
“That’s right.”
“You suggested that someone might have obtained your memo book, and dropped it nearby.” His voice was friendly, almost too hearty, and Charlie realized he was playing to the other policeman.
He nodded, hoping he looked relaxed and confident. “Had to be that way, unless I dropped it from the bridge earlier.”
“Now, how would this person be able to get your book?”
Charlie glanced at Maggie. “We were talking about that. I looked at the book at home. By the time I arrived here I was late, so I ran from my car to the office. The whole length of Van Brunt. We thought it might have fallen out of my pocket then. Anyone could have picked it up.”
“Anyone who happened to be around Van Brunt Hall,” Maggie said.
Hines glanced at her, then back at Charlie. “We’ll check into it. Can you think of anyone who might want to cause trouble for you?”
Charlie shook his head. Walensky was frowning now, and Hines seemed to be addressing him instead of Charlie as he explained, “I’m asking because if someone took the trouble to leave the memo book there, there may be animosity toward you.”
“Yeah, I know,” Charlie said. “My best guess is that it was lying on the floor and someone just took advantage because it was handy.”
Hines nodded. “Now, what time did you leave Van Brunt to walk to College Avenue?”
“About twenty of twelve. Maybe a few minutes earlier.”
“Did you pass the main office?”
Charlie saw interest kindle in Maggie’s expression. “Yes,” she said. “But the door was closed.”
“That’s right,” Charlie said. “I figured Cindy and Bernie were both off to lunch.”
“Why did you think that?” Walensky asked sharply.
“Because if either one is there, the outer office door is open.”
“Always?”
Why was Walensky asking about this point? Did he know something about Cindy? Possibly even Bernie? Charlie answered carefully, “Almost always. Occasionally Bernie will close the door to his inner office when he’s there, if he has the budget to get out and doesn’t want interruptions, or if he’s giving a graduate exam, that kind of thing. But usually when he’s there both doors are open. And if Cindy’s in the building anywhere, the outer door is open. So if it’s closed it means they’re both gone.”
“You didn’t see either of them leave?” Hines asked. His voice was strong, and his hard eyes warned Walensky. The campus policeman gave the smallest of grudging nods, acknowledging that the interview was Hines’s again.
Charlie felt like the rope stretched in a tug-of-war. “No, we didn’t see them. We were looking at coding sheets in my office.”
Maggie shifted her briefcase to her other hand. “I heard that Professor Reinalter was having lunch at the faculty club.”
“Mm,” said Hines without changing expression.
“At a quarter after. So if he was gone that early—”
“Mm,” said Hines again.
“And Cindy was gone too,” said Maggie.
Hines looked at Walensky. “Cindy Phelps says she left a few minutes after Professor Reinalter and walked toward the main quad for a brown bag lunch. Did you see her, Professor Fielding?”
“No,” said Charlie. Walensky seemed very interested in Hines’s question too. “But we were headed the other direction. No reason we’d see her.”
Maggie was frowning. “Did she meet someone there?”
Hines looked at her sharply. Despite his preoccupation with Walensky, he wasn’t missing anything. “We’re checking into it.”
“Cindy does like to have lunch alone sometimes,” Charlie pointed out. “She says with the kids at home and people in and out of the office all day, it’s a luxury to have a minute for herself.”
Hines flipped to a fresh page. “Okay. One last question. Do you know anything about guns, Professor Fielding?”
“God, no! Except for what I see in the movies.”
“You weren’t in the armed forces?”
“No. I had a student deferment for most of the sixties.”
Hines nodded and wrote it down. “How about others in the department?”
“In the armed forces? We don’t talk much about—wait, I do remember Bart Bickford said once that he’d been in Korea.”
“Korea.” Hines noted it down, then looked at Walensky, eyebrows arched.
Walensky said defensively, “Ancient history. Most guys have been in the service.”
“Anyone else, Professor Fielding?” Hines’s voice was steely.
“Well, Bernie Reinalter too, now that I think about it. He and Bart were talking about it once. At a party. Years ago, before… well—” He broke off at the black look that clouded Walensky’s face.
Hines said smoothly, “Before Professor Bickford decided that Professor Reinalter was trying to pressure him out of the department.”
“Uh… yes.” Did Hines already know everything about this department? Charlie glanced at Walensky and was suddenly depressed.
Hines’s pen was poised again. “Now, does Professor Reinalter own a gun? Or anyone else in the department?”
“Well,
Bernie goes quail hunting sometimes, he must have a rifle or something. Oh, and Nora! Nora Peterson has a gun. Little pistol, for self-defense.”
“Fine. Anyone else?” Hines stood stolidly, unmoving except for the brown hand holding the pen, but the glance that flashed briefly at Walensky seemed to speak triumph.
“No. No, that’s all I know about,” Charlie said uncomfortably. “But Captain Walensky is right, a lot of professors served in the armed forces. They wouldn’t necessarily discuss it around here.”
“Of course. Well, thank you, Professor Fielding, I may be talking to you again later.”
“Sure. Okay.”
Walensky’s mouth had a sour cast. “Is Bart Bickford still downstairs?”
“Yes, he just finished with one of his subjects,” Maggie told him.
“Well, thank you. I’ll be in touch. Let’s go, Captain Walensky.” Hines started down the stairs, then paused. “Be sure to let me know if you think of anyone who might want to cause trouble for you, Professor Fielding.”
“Okay.”
Relieved that it was over for a time, Charlie followed Maggie through the door to the ground floor hall. His graduate assistant Gary Kramer, plump and curly haired, popped out of the office next to Charlie’s. “Hi!” he exclaimed.
“Hi, Gary,” said Maggie.
“How’re you doing?” Charlie pulled out his keys.
“Okay.” Gary gestured with the plastic videotape container in his hand. “This is the last one with the lower-case paragraphs. I’m ready to start on the all-cap paragraphs now.”
“Great!” Charlie unlocked the door, turning to Maggie. “That means you can start on those data sheets too as soon as you’re ready.”
“Good. So we’ve got three of the studies ready to go, right? I’ll take them down to the computers right away. Unless the cops need something again.”
Cops. Damn. Charlie’s anger reawakened even as his rational side protested that it was pointless, that they had their job to do. Hines and Walensky seemed a constant presence now, popping in and out of Charlie’s life with questions, interrupting his thoughts even when physically they were away. And Walensky, who should be helping, or at least running interference to make sure the department wasn’t disrupted, was doing neither. Charlie wanted him to catch the killer quickly, but he was still kowtowing to the administrators, keeping NYSU’s reputation clean; that’s all he gave a damn about. Charlie remembered Tal’s anger two years ago when little Jonathan Hammond was hit by a car. Walensky had spent the precious first few moments after the accident getting in touch with university administrators rather than notifying police and state troopers. Well, he’d called the ambulance, even tried first aid himself. The newspapers couldn’t fault that, not even Tal could fault that. The kid had been badly hurt. But the driver, of course, had never been caught. Damn Walensky anyway. And Hines. And the killer, who might—
Murder Misread Page 12
