A Little Class on Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  He straightened his papers. “That meeting was early on the morning of Thursday, November third. I left my apartment about one-thirty and walked onto the campus. I was hoping to be in place before the letter writer arrived and perhaps be able to catch a glimpse of him. Or her. But it was a cloudy night and dark.” He gripped the sides of the lectern. “God, it was dark.” For the first time, his voice lost its rote tone, sounding instead young and awed. A titter of laughter swept the auditorium. “Anyway, I got there. I couldn’t see a thing. I had a flashlight in my jacket but I didn’t want to use it. I thought maybe I could surprise this guy and find out who was pulling the strings. So I sort of felt my way out there. See, you can follow the gravel path and reach the bridge. I did that and hung onto the railing and kind of crept over there. Then it’s just a couple of feet more and I was at the gazebo. I sat on the steps and listened. I didn’t hear anything but the sound of the wind in the trees, kind of an eerie, creepy sound and the plop of things in the water. I don’t know what. Too late in the year for snakes and turtles. I sat there and sat there. I didn’t know what time it was but I began to think that somebody’d jerked me around, played a joke on me, then all of a sudden there was a bright light and it stabbed right into my eyes and this high whispery voice told me not to move, if I made a single move, tried to get close or anything, it was all off. See, I was outmaneuvered. He had the flash and had me pinned in the light like a bug. Then he started talking, fast and high, and—” another swipe at the sweat beading his forehead now “—told me all this stuff about Professor Porter and how she’d taken money and they’d covered it up and then a lot more stuff about Burke and how he was going to outsmart the faculty that wouldn’t play ball—Garrison and Moss—and make them teach courses on practical stuff, whether they liked it or not. They had tenure, but he could set the course work. And then some stuff about Professor Crandall and”—he lifted his head and the skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones—“his girlfriend, a student. I couldn’t take notes but I was listening like crazy. Then, the voice said, ‘Get started on a series about the faculty. I’ll get back in touch with you with some more interesting information next week.’ When he said that, all of a sudden the light switched off and I could hear running footsteps. I yanked out my flashlight, but all I saw was some shrubbery kind of waving like it’d been brushed. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to try and catch him so—”

  “You keep saying ‘him,’ ” the AP reporter broke in. “Was it a man? How could you tell?”

  Kelly rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. It could have been a woman. Whoever it was kept whispering. I guess I thought it was a man because—because—”

  “Because?” Miss Dora prompted in her dry, crackly voice.

  Kelly looked defiantly around the auditorium. “All right. I’ll just come out and say it. The odds are it’s a man. There was only one other woman on the faculty besides Mrs. Porter and I didn’t think it was her. Ms. Tarrant wants the department to emphasize professionalism.”

  The questions erupted like rifle fire, but Kelly stood his ground. No, he didn’t know it was a faculty member. But who else knew the kind of thing he’d been told? Who else would try and expose the problems in the department?

  It was the CNN reporter who fastened on that. “You think this was part of the chairman’s campaign to restructure the department? Are you saying R.T. Burke spilled the beans?”

  “I don’t know who did it,” Kelly insisted. “I’m just telling you what I know.”

  UPI: “Did somebody stiff Burke because he set up this exposé?”

  Kelly ignored that and continued doggedly, “Mr. Burke told me Thursday morning he was determined to discover the identity of Deep Throat. That’s what he called him, after—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” came an impatient chorus. There was no need for Kelly to inform this audience about Deep Throat, that famous and still-unidentified player during Watergate.

  “So Burke was acting like he was furious over the whole deal. And he was mad at me, too. Said I hadn’t handled this right, that I should have contacted Porter, Garrison, and Moss. And him, too, I guess. I did call Mrs. Porter, but she wouldn’t talk to me. But there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. I’m elected to be editor, not appointed by the department. That keeps me independent. And I intend to stay that way.”

  “Do you think you’ll stay alive?” a local television correspondent shouted. “Pretty deadly around that place. The chair dead. A student killed in an explosion in your office. Do you figure somebody’s after you?”

  Kelly hunched his thin shoulders and balled his fists. “I’m not going to be easy to take. Believe me. And I’m going to check any funny packages that show up.”

  “Too late for Emily Everett. How come she was in your office? Where were you?”

  Kelly yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, swabbed his face. “I think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time Look, here’s what happened. Emily came lumbering into the newsroom and she was breathing hard and kind of crying, said she didn’t know what to do, but she thought maybe she knew who had leaked the stuff and she wanted to see if she was right. See, she thought I knew who I’d got the stuff from. But I told her real quick I didn’t know.” He gnawed at his lip. “I made a mistake. I should’ve tried my damnedest to get her to tell me. I mean, that was a hell of a story, too. But I thought I was in a bind. That letter said it had to be confidential and it seemed to me that by showing up and listening, then using that stuff in a story, I’d pretty well made a bargain. And just a couple of months ago an appeals court held a newspaper liable for a couple of hundred thousand dollars because they’d spilled the name of a source after they’d promised to keep it confidential. So I didn’t want Emily to tell me. And she was goosey. She wasn’t sure, see. So, she kept sniffling and she was so damn upset. I told her I’d go get her a Coke and a candy bar. Make her feel better. Then I was going to decide what to do. I started down the hall and I stopped at the john. I didn’t hurry. I thought she could use the time to settle down. I was washing my hands when all hell broke loose. I mean, the goddamnedest explosion. I didn’t know it was my office, but I sure as hell knew it was close. I ran down the hall, then I met up with some people—a woman who’s teaching a mystery class—and there it was, the office blown to hell. We tried to get to Emily. But we couldn’t. Anyway, I think maybe it was just damn bad luck she was in there.” He took a deep breath. “And I don’t think anybody was out to get me. I don’t think so. I shouldn’t have been there either. I’d dropped in to do a little work after my eleven o’clock, but usually I don’t get to the office till around three.”

  Emily Everett. Short on luck. Very short.

  The oh-so-familiar husky voice surprised Annie, it carried so well. But Laurel always managed to be heard.

  “Mr. Kelly,” came the throaty call. It would make almost any man immediately envision a South Sea island, swaying palms, languorous music, and other idyllic images not easily described in the media.

  Annie studied her mother-in-law. For God’s sake, how did she do it?

  The magic touched Brad Kelly. He lost his haunted, tense look and managed a wan smile. “Yes?”

  “A young man such as yourself, so eager to play a role in determining public policy, so devoted to the pursuit of truth, I feel confident you are acutely observant.”

  Kelly tried hard to appear acutely observant.

  “Tell us more about Emily Everett. How was she dressed when she came to your office?”

  “Dressed?” Astonishment lifted his voice. Then, awkwardly, he tried to explain. “Emily didn’t—she wasn’t—she always wore the same kind of thing, great big dresses. Emily was—she was fat.”

  “Was she carrying a large bag?”

  Kelly’s brows drew together. “Yeah.” He spoke slowly.

  “Yeah. She was. This great big damn thing, kind of a striped canvas.”

  “Was it large enough, Mr. Kelly, to contain an explosive?”<
br />
  Annie had a skittery feeling down her spine. Like mother, like son.

  Kelly didn’t say anything for a long, long moment. Then he shook his head impatiently. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, even if she was bananas enough to blow away The Crier, she sure as hell wouldn’t have planned on being there!”

  “A curious thing about bombs, Mr. Kelly. I’ve been doing some research.” Annie heard Laurel’s soft, husky voice with a definite sense of unreality. It was like hearing Little Red Riding Hood discuss guerrilla warfare. “So often it’s the maker who gets blown away. A car bomb goes off and it turns out the driver and passenger hadn’t intended to still be in the vehicle. Bombs have an ugly habit of exploding unexpectedly. And you’re certain she had the bag?”

  A frenzied thumping and Miss Dora’s voice rose in a determined screech. “Irrelevant. Immaterial. Young man, the crux of the matter: why did Emily Everett come to you? Why not to Mr. Burke?”

  Kelly gripped the lectern again. “Look, I don’t know why she did anything. All I know is what she told me, that she thought she knew who dumped on the faculty and she wanted to see if she was right. But since I didn’t know, I couldn’t help her.”

  “Perhaps it’s the age-old answer,” Laurel offered dreamily. “A handsome young man. A young woman attracted to him even though she lacks physical charm and grace. It isn’t only the beautiful who fall in love.” Her lovely Grecian profile reflected the essence of tragic love.

  “Oh, now wait a minute,” Kelly erupted. “I hardly knew her.”

  “Oh now, Mr. Kelly, you’re so modest about your kindnesses,” Laurel trilled. “I’ve heard from some of the girls who knew Emily that she thought you were quite wonderful, a knight in shining armor, a perfect example of journalism’s finest.”

  Kelly’s face flushed a bright crimson. “God, I just tried to be nice to her. Poor old thing. She wanted to be a reporter, but, my God, you can’t look like that and get a job. I told her to think about free-lancing. She could’ve done that. I mean, she might have had some problems with interviews but a lot of stuff can be done by phone or mail. Oh, hell, she was pathetic.”

  Laurel beamed, “Ah, but you were kind to her, Mr. Kelly. No doubt that is why she came to you—in addition, of course, to her hope that you could confirm or refute her identification of the individual responsible for leaking the information from those files.”

  Kelly shook his head vigorously and his ears continued to flame.

  Miss Dora’s white hair fairly flapped in indignation. “Irrelevant. Immaterial. What did the young woman know? That’s what we must determine. Mr. Kelly, did nothing she said give you any idea at all as to the person she suspected?”

  “No idea,” he said quickly, positively.

  Annie looked at him closely. That tone was so positive. He’d expected that question, been prepared for it, planned to sound forthright, conclusive, convincing.

  Was it a lie? Did he have some idea? But, if he did, he most certainly didn’t intend to share it. Why did she suddenly have a bone-deep sense that Brad Kelly had stage-managed beautifully today, that he had presented himself in the best possible light, and that he knew a good deal more than he planned to admit?

  He stood so stalwartly behind that lectern, his pale face composed and serious.

  A rustle at the far left of the auditorium and Henny stood up, gesturing for attention with a balaclava helmet. “Mr. Kelly, do you have any idea who may have killed Burke? Or who put the bomb in your office?”

  “None.” He slammed a balled fist against the lectern and his papers flew to the stage floor. “But I intend to find out. I’m going to ask questions and poke around and tell everybody what I discover. That’s what good reporters do. And I’m a good reporter.” He took a quick breath, then half turned to confront Moss with a jutting jaw. “And as a beginning, I think it’s time the Department of Journalism told some hard truths. What else is in those personnel files that rightfully should be made public? What kind of quarrels are tearing this department to pieces? Do we have faculty members who aren’t doing their jobs as they should? What’s in these files? I demand that they be made public! Now!”

  Moss stepped forward. “There is always in journalism a fine line, a very fine line, between the public’s right to know and the individual’s right to privacy. Men of good character differ strongly on this matter. Some would support the efforts of our young editor, others oppose him.” Those thick lips still curved in that half-smile. Did Moss see the world always with sardonic amusement, or was it a trick of musculature? Blandly, without the least appearance of discomfiture, he added, “In this present instance, the question turns out to be academic. Those files have disappeared.”

  15

  Moss led the way up the back stairs of the journalism building. Even these steps had a fine film of dust. “It’s safe enough. The building will be reopened Tuesday, but it has to be cleaned first and they want to do some bracing before students are permitted inside.” He unlocked his office door and waved them to seats in front of his desk. He took off his suit coat, tossed it carelessly over a coatrack, then settled at his desk. His short-sleeved shirt revealed heavily muscled forearms. It would take a tough customer, like Rob Kantner’s PI, Ben Perkins, to take him on. Moss leaned back at his ease in his oversize brown leather armchair. His office was all oversize leather: the couch, the chairs, even a dark brown footstool. The massive furniture emphasized his powerful physique. He was an intimidating man in a background intended to reinforce that image.

  Max, of course, Annie was pleased to note, wasn’t the least bit intimidated.

  Nor, she assured herself, was she, although she did find overlarge people discomfiting.

  But Moss was on his good behavior today. He even managed a genial smile as Max finished speaking.

  “I certainly will do everything in my power to be helpful to Miss Dora.” His tone was agreeable, but Annie realized she found him even less likable when he was attempting to charm than when he was openly contemptuous as he’d been at that faculty meeting held in response to the revelations in The Crier. Sensing her hostility, he fastened heavy-lidded blue eyes on her. His half-smile widened. “You look a little skeptical, Mrs. Darling. How can I convince you of my good intentions?” A rumble of deep laughter. “You are, I suppose, an ardent feminist, and I must assume you took umbrage at the meeting when I twitted dear Sue a bit.”

  Annie opened her mouth to attack, but twisted her lips into a polite smile at Max’s warning glance. After all, she wasn’t here to engage Moss in combat.

  “Actually, we’re hoping for a frank appraisal of your colleagues,” Max said encouragingly. “This isn’t the time for tactful responses.”

  “I’m not known for those.” Another rumble of laughter.

  “So you won’t mind if we take a hard look at your faculty—starting with you. Are you Deep Throat, Professor Moss?”

  He was still genial. “Funny you should ask. That’s the first thing Burke said to me when we talked Thursday. I’ll give you the same answer. No. But I wish I’d thought of it. I’ve never seen so much excitement generated about this department. As we say in advertising, any public notice—even critical—is better than none. And I would enjoy a public discussion of where this department should go. Burke meant well, but he was living in another age. He was a throwback to the era of Floyd Gibbons and Webb Miller. Those were the days of typewriters and Western Union and extras. Those days are gone. We need sophisticated approaches to marketing and to news gathering. But you young people aren’t interested in hearing about the philosophy of journalism education.”

  “Not unless it supplied the motive for murder,” Annie said sweetly.

  For an instant he stared at her with cold blue eyes, then he laughed robustly. “I can’t rule it out, but I’ll tell you now, I didn’t bash his head in. I might have enjoyed it, but I didn’t do it. As a matter of fact, Sue Tarrant can vouch that I left R.T. alive and on the warpath. She was coming in as I left.” A
feline smile lifted the corners of his full lips. “And I’d say she was looking for a fight.”

  “Burke was on the warpath? Trying to find out who leaked the information from the files?”

  “That’s what he said.” There was the faintest inflection on the last word.

  Annie pounced. “Do you have any reason to doubt his sincerity?”

  “Not altogether. But I will say that he is—was—the newcomer to this faculty. He was determined to change the direction of this department. He had no great affection for any of us. And although he did decide quickly to permit Charlotte to make restitution, I was never convinced that he cared about her personally. I felt, rather, that he saw the shortage as just one more problem but not a major one, not central to his task, and that he made his decision solely on the basis of what would be most helpful to him. A scandal would not have helped.”

  “Then why would he feed the information to Kelly?” Max asked.

  “Perhaps he’d changed his mind at this point. Perhaps he decided it would be more helpful to his campaign if he got rid of Charlotte, named her replacement, thereby picking up support within the faculty. Or perhaps he intended to reveal all the circumstances of her theft at the news conference which didn’t occur and thereby cast himself in a rather heroic stance, protector of a loyal faculty member who had committed a crime because of an intolerable personal tragedy. And, of course, he could continue feeding information to Kelly that would embarrass the rest of us.”