No Stone Unturned

by James W. Ziskin

  I reread the letter I’d swiped, trying to find clues between the lines, but there was little to go on. The fellow who had written it was married with a son. And he wrote well. Probably an academic. But if Muriel Rosen was to be believed, Jordan’s French professors weren’t the cheating kind. I folded the letter and looked up at the passersby. Most of them probably wrote well, too. This was a university town, after all.

  Still, something about the letter nagged me. I was about to read it again when a young man in horn-rimmed glasses passed me and paused at the curb. He was waiting to cross College Avenue, not ten feet in front of me. I stood, stuffed the letter back into my purse, and approached him. He took notice and tried to edge away. I got a good look at him before he crossed the street. I’d seen him before, all right. Just to be sure, I fished the snapshot from my purse: two men with Jordan in a bazaar somewhere in India. I couldn’t believe the coincidence, but the waxy-skinned man in the photo had just dodged a speeding taxi in the middle of College Avenue and legged it up the stairs of the large building on the other side.

  I crossed the street and followed him into the building, Anderson Hall, and up to the fifth floor and the offices of the School of Engineering. There I found four young men leaning against the office mailboxes, discussing linear circuits as I might have talked about the weather with Bobby Thompson in the photo lab. An older gentleman—surely a professor—was stooped over a desk, giving instructions to the secretary, a thick woman in her forties. A dark young man with an Indian accent was engaged in conversation with another professor. No one seemed to take notice of my arrival. Finally, the secretary looked up from her desk and asked if she could help me. Her nameplate read Phyllis Gorman.

  “I’d like to see the chairman,” I said.

  She looked at me queerly. “Are you a student?”

  “No, I’m a reporter.” I showed her my card. “Is the chairman in?”

  “May I ask what this is in reference to?”

  “It’s in reference to a murder,” I said, and the chatter around me stopped. I could feel several sets of eyes on me, waiting. “Is he in?” I repeated.

  “One moment, Miss Stone,” she said, handing me back my press card. She disappeared through a door behind her desk.

  The four young men by the mailboxes resumed their discussion, but in low tones, and I knew they were talking about me. The foreign student and two professors just gaped at me, making no attempts to disguise their curiosity.

  The secretary emerged from the door a few moments later, motioning for me to follow her. She ushered me into a dark office that smelled of chalk and old books. A stout, bald man in a brown suit rose from behind the desk—almost buried under a mountain of papers—at the rear of the office.

  “Professor Benjamin; Miss Stone,” said the secretary by way of introduction, and she left us.

  “Have a seat, miss,” he said. “You seem awfully young to be a reporter. Are you sure you don’t work for the school paper?” He chuckled; I ignored.

  His smile faded, and he motioned to a dusty cane chair in front of his desk. I took the seat.

  “Now, what’s all this about a murder?” he asked.

  “Do you know a student named Jordan Shaw?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t know any student by that name. Who is this fellow?”

  “It’s a young lady,” I corrected. “French major.”

  “You realize that this is the School of Engineering?”

  “Yes, but I understood that she was interested in graduate work in engineering.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose,” he said. “I’m not aware of it, though. But tell me, what’s this all about?”

  “Jordan Shaw was murdered last Friday.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “And her roommate, too.”

  I gave him the details, and, after a suitable pause to reflect on the tragedy, he asked how he might be of assistance.

  “This is Jordan Shaw,” I said, showing him the India photograph. “Do you know either of the men with her?”

  “I know both of them,” he said, frowning. “Are you implying that these two men are involved?”

  “I don’t know who’s involved. I just want to talk to them. Who are they?”

  “Well, I . . .” he adjusted himself in his leather chair. “I’m not sure I should be speaking to you without their consent. Or without my lawyer present.”

  “Off the record, if you like,” I said. “I’m not a cop; you don’t need a lawyer. I’m just trying to find people who knew Jordan Shaw so I can piece together what happened.”

  “Very well,” he said, still hesitant, but broken. “The one on the left is an assistant professor here. His name is David Jerrold. He’s up for tenure next month. The other is a lecturer, ABD in mechanical engineering, leads recitations and supervises the other teaching assistants. His name is D. J. Nichols.”

  “So the sandy-haired man is Jerrold?” I asked, writing the name on the back of the print. “And the younger one is Nichols?”

  He nodded, watching my scribbling with interest. I chuckled to myself; Nichols was the one I’d seen outside, the one who’d refused to walk little Leon.

  “What’s ABD?” I asked.

  Benjamin cleared his throat. “All but dissertation. It means Mr. Nichols has nearly finished his PhD.”

  Given my father’s career in academia, I should have known that. Just another example of the gulf between us. I shook him from my mind and asked if Jerrold and Nichols had offices in the building, and Professor Benjamin told me they did.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about these two men?” I asked.

  “Certainly not, Miss Stone. I’m sure I’ve said too much already. I don’t know what makes you think someone from this department was involved in this murder, but I can vouch for the integrity of both men!”

  “Then you know them well?”

  Benjamin stammered an ineffective protest. He hardly knew them at all. I figured he spent most of his time playing with a slide rule in his cavernous office; he had little time or desire to rub elbows with junior colleagues.

  I thanked him for his help and let myself out.

  “Professor Jerrold is not in today,” Phyllis Gorman, the secretary, informed me. “I haven’t seen him in over a week. If you’d like to make an appointment, he holds office hours on Tuesdays from three to five.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more urgent than that,” I said. “Perhaps you could give me his home number?”

  “I’m not allowed to do that, Miss Stone,” she said. “Department policy. We can’t release faculty members’ home phone numbers to students.”

  “But I’m not a student.” I smiled at her.

  “Now, Miss Stone . . .” she smiled back.

  “All right, Miss Gorman, let’s try another tack. Is Professor Nichols in?”

  “That’s Mister Nichols, please. We’re very careful about titles around here. And yes, I believe you’ll find him in the graduate lounge, just past the library. I saw him go in there a few minutes ago.”

  The graduate lounge was a large room with a couple of couches, some chairs, and a silver coffee percolator resting on a Ping-Pong table. The net had long since been torn away, and there were no paddles or balls to be found. Some tinny music buzzed from a transistor radio on an end table across the room—Ricky Nelson singing “Poor Little Fool.” A couple of students—Indian again, I think—relaxing on the institutional furniture along the wall, looked up at me expectantly, as if my arrival was an unwelcome interruption of their deep thoughts.

  “I’m looking for D. J. Nichols,” I said.

  “In the loo,” said one, and both students turned away and forgot I was there.

  I heard a toilet flush, and a moment later, the waxy-skinned young man from the Indian bazaar emerged through a door behind the Ping-Pong table.

  “Mr. Nichols?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “My name’s Ellie Stone, reporter for
the New Holland Republic.” I waited for a reaction. Nothing. “New Holland is a small town near Albany.”

  “And?” He was one of those arrogant wiseacres you’d like to slap silly.

  “I’ve come to ask you some questions about a girl you know.”

  “I know a lot of girls. Which one?”

  “Jordan Shaw.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s dead.”

  His impudence melted away on the spot. He seemed truly surprised and devastated.

  “How? Why?” he gasped, steadying himself on the Ping-Pong table, which wobbled under his weight.

  “Murdered last Friday night,” I said. “I’m investigating the story, and frankly I have very little to go on. That’s why I’ve come to you for help. I was hoping you could tell me about Jordan. About the people she knew.”

  “I can’t believe it,” he muttered to himself. “It can’t be true. No.”

  The two students across the room approached and helped Nichols into a chair. After they’d given him a glass of water and a few minutes to compose himself, I resumed my offensive. I thought it best—though not very kind—to pump him when he was most vulnerable.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Nichols was woozy, floored by the news. “What?”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Two weeks ago? Before the holiday.”

  “What was your relationship with her?”

  “Miss, please!” said one of the foreign students. “Can’t you see he’s had a shock? Give him a moment.”

  I ignored him. “How well did you know Jordan Shaw?”

  “She was a friend,” he said, holding his head. “I met her through her roommate, Ginny. She’s an old friend of mine.”

  “I don’t know of any other way to tell you this,” I said. “Ginny’s dead, too.”

  Nichols went limp and nearly slid off the chair. He began to hyperventilate, and the two students waved a notebook in his face to give him air.

  “Do you own a car?”

  He shook his head, struggling for air.

  “He does not own a car. Why don’t you clear off?” one of the students said to me. “Leave the poor man alone!”

  When I left the graduate lounge, I nearly knocked over three more students—two of whom were Indian—who had been listening at the door. They smiled sheepishly and confessed their curiosity.

  “We heard an undergraduate has been murdered,” said one of the Indians, a tall, stocky man in a beard and a black turban.

  “That’s right,” I said. “A pretty blonde girl named Jordan Shaw.” I showed them the photograph from India. “Did you know her?”

  “The name means nothing to me,” he said. “But I’ve seen her around here.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Not an engineering student, but the kind of girl one notices.”

  I nodded. “What about D. J. Nichols? He says he knew Jordan. Did anyone ever see them together?”

  The three students looked at each other. “Sure,” said the American. “They seemed to be friendly.”

  “But maybe she was friendlier with someone else?” I hinted. No reaction. “All right, tell me about Professor Jerrold. Did he know her?”

  Again they looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “Casually, perhaps.”

  “He’s in this photograph,” I said, waving the evidence before them. “They look mighty friendly to me.”

  All three kept quiet. I asked if they knew of anyone who knew Jordan Shaw well, and they said they didn’t, pointing out again that she was not an engineering student.

  Phyllis was more helpful.

  “You’ve caused quite a stir, Miss Stone,” she said. “As soon as you left this office, the entire department started buzzing.”

  “What about Professor Jerrold?” I asked. “Can’t you give me a hand?”

  Phyllis glanced around the room. “Not now. Come back at five. This place empties out at four thirty. It’ll be easier to talk then.”

  It was already after three; I could take a stroll on the campus, get a cup of coffee at the student union, or pick up my film. On my way out of the building, I heard a voice call my name. I recognized the tightly wound accent immediately: it was one of the students I’d caught eavesdropping, the tall Indian fellow with the turban.

  “Miss Stone,” he said, catching up to me. “May I have a word with you? Not here, though. Would you like to get some coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said, vaguely uneasy.

  “My name is Prakash Singh,” he said, once we were seated at a table in the student union, me with a cup of coffee, him with a cup of tea. “My American friends call me Roy.”

  “Okay, Roy. What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked.

  “About Miss Shaw, of course.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it was very awkward when you asked about her in front of the others. You see, Jordan was well known to everyone in the department. D. J. Nichols was not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Not the only one who knew her?”

  “D. J. and Jordan were quite friendly. Involved. Intimate, I should say, and everyone knew it.”

  Roy’s statement floored me. “Just a minute. You’re telling me she was . . . with D. J. Nichols? What about Professor Jerrold?”

  “Oh, no. The gossip was that D. J. and Jordan were seeing each other secretly. I’ve never heard a word about Professor Jerrold.”

  I rubbed my forehead, considering this news. “Jordan Shaw and D. J. Nichols?” I asked, as if challenging him to repeat his assertion. “Together? Excuse me, Roy, if I tell you that’s hard to believe.”

  “No worries, Miss Stone. Sometimes you cannot account for taste, as I’m sure you’ve heard before.”

  “Yes, that sounds familiar, thanks. But, why were you reluctant to tell me this up at the department?”

  “Though he is not a member of the faculty, Mr. Nichols is a very important man in the department. Very powerful. He is the graduate coordinator and, as such, wields great influence in deciding who receives fellowships and who does not. He’s senior to all of us. The teaching assistants defer to him, and he has Professor Benjamin’s ear.”

  “The man who nearly fainted away before my eyes is one of the most powerful men in the department?” I asked. “We are talking about the same D. J. Nichols, aren’t we? The one whose mother never lets him go out into the sun?”

  “The very one. Don’t be fooled by appearances and stereotypes, Miss Stone. At least not in the sciences. Some of the world’s most brilliant and strong-willed men have chosen science. What makes them great is their focused intelligence, and that can be found in the frailest of bodies.”

  “How long had Nichols and Jordan been seeing each other?”

  “Just since very recently. Perhaps since the start of the semester.”

  “And had she ever dated anyone else in the department?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Something you said before. About Nichols not being the only one.”

  Roy cleared his throat and diverted his eyes. “I cannot say for sure, but there was talk about Jordan and others.”

  “Who?”

  “It wouldn’t be right to say. I don’t like to spread gossip.”

  Where had this discretion been a moment before? “Just tell me what the rumors were. I won’t take it as an endorsement on your part.”

  “I cannot say. Ask someone else if you must know, but you won’t hear it from me.”

  “Two more questions, then,” I said, conceding on that point. He wagged his head from side to side in a peculiar, waving manner, distracting me for a moment. Then I remembered Stosh Barczak’s description of the Dew Drop Inn’s late-night visitor: Like one of those cat figurines with a wobbly head. “Do you own a car?” I asked, finding my bearings again.

  “I’m a modest student from a poor country. My pa
rents have sacrificed greatly to send me here, and I’m living on a fellowship only. I cannot afford a car.”

  “Fair enough. Last question: Why did Nichols and Jordan keep their relationship secret? He wasn’t her teacher, was he?”

  “Oh, no. They kept it secret because Mr. Nichols is married.”

  My film was ready, and I could hardly wait to get into my car to examine the photographs of Jordan’s letters. The first ones were from someone named Jeffrey, dated January 1959: greetings from Palo Alto, California. Well written and boringly platonic. A few months later he wrote to her from Ithaca, New York, where he was attending a symposium. No specifics. Then no letters for a year until September 1960. The tone now was completely different. While the first letters had been engaging, the last three read like a bad case of puppy love needing to be put down: endless professions of undying and unrequited love. The last letter was typical of the lot:

  My dearest Jordan, Boston, November 9, 1960

  Since my last letter, I have cursed my wretchedness. My words are inadequate, weak, lacking originality and spirit. The abstract is indescribable, except in trite, worn platitudes that are no more insightful today than when they were first coined. How can I communicate the exhilaration that swells my heart when I hear your name, your voice, or see your face? I realize that my words fall like stones as I try in vain to lay them gently on paper for you to read . . .

  You get the idea. Jeffrey’s letters were so dull, in fact, that I could hardly finish them. I certainly didn’t want to, but I thought there might be a reference to who Jeffrey was. In my haste in Jordan’s bedroom, I had neglected to photograph the envelopes, so I didn’t know Jeffrey’s last name or where he lived.

  At five, I returned to the Engineering Department. The fifth floor had indeed emptied out, and, as far as I could tell, Phyllis and I were alone. She locked the office door behind me and offered me the last cup of coffee from the communal urn.

  “So what can you tell me about Professor Jerrold?” I asked.