by Crider, Bill
Holt nodded, frowning. "I'm sure there has been some resentment against me in the department about my teaching only three classes. I'm sorry about that. I didn't ask for the reduced load; Dr. Partridge made the offer, and I accepted. I didn't know that it would cause hard feelings."
Burns didn't say anything for a few seconds in hopes that Holt might give him some clue about why Dr. Partridge had made the offer, but it seemed that no such clue was forthcoming.
"I don't think there's been any resentment," Burns said finally. "Well, not exactly."
"People feel that they're being treated unfairly," Holt said. "And I don't really blame them. They've been very nice about it, however."
That was the first thing Holt had said that Burns knew wasn't true. Even Miss Darling had held herself aloof from Holt, and Miss Darling was never intentionally aloof from anyone. Burns had done the same thing. Under normal circumstances, he would never have let three weeks of the semester go by without having a conversation with a new faculty member. He would have to have a talk with the other instructors, ask them to try being a little friendlier.
The two men talked a while longer, and then Burns left the office to get ready for his evening class. He was convinced that Holt had no ulterior motives and that there was no sinister connection between Holt and Dr. Partridge.
For a while after that day, things went more smoothly. The other members of the English Department, with a little prodding from Burns, gradually got to know Holt somewhat better. They began speaking to him in the hall, having a cup of coffee with him now and then, and discussing their classes with him. Even Larry, Darryl, and Darryl would stop by his office to say hello on their way in or out of the building.
All of that was fine.
What wasn't so good was the style sheet that was delivered to everyone through the faculty mail. It contained a list of the desirable ways to refer to various groups, and it was accompanied by a list of "isms" that led to oppression. An introduction at the top of the page stated that the sheet was a product of the combined efforts of Dean Partridge and Eric Holt. Their efforts, to put it mildly, were not appreciated by the faculty.
"That kind of thing might go all right at some big atheistic state university," Mal Tomlin said. "But not here at HGC."
Burns didn't think the idea should go well anywhere. He was of the opinion that you either had freedom of speech or you didn't. While he didn't feel it was necessary to refer to any particular group by an unflattering or offensive name, to use "hate speech" as it was now being called, he still thought he should have the freedom to do so.
He thought of an old paperback that was sitting on his shelves at home. It was by James Hadley Chase, and it was called 12 Chinks and a Woman. Burns also had a later printing, titled 12 Chinamen and a Woman. He supposed that if the book were to be reprinted now, it would be called 12 Asians and a Woman. Of course, it would never be reprinted. There was no chance of that.
Another thing that disappointed Burns about the list was the noticeable (to him) absence of such terms as redneck and coonass and white trash. Did that mean those terms were OK? In fact, there were no terms on the list that referred to white males. Maybe it was nice to know that at least one minority group was still fair game for any gibes someone might want to throw.
While the list made Burns very uncomfortable, some of Holt's ideas weren't going well with the parents of his students, either, and Burns, as he had expected, got a number of calls. He explained that HGC was simply being innovative and trying new approaches, that a college was a forum for ideas, and that all sides were being presented so that students could judge for themselves. He hated himself for being secretly cynical about what he was saying. The list created by Dr. Partridge and Eric Holt seemed to undermine much of it, but his little speech was effective. The complaints grew less frequent.
There was no trouble about the dean's goats.
The campus seemed to be calming down and adjusting well until just after spring break, when Tom Henderson came flying out his office window, falling to his death on the sidewalk.
Chapter Five
It was a mild late afternoon near the end of March. There was a slight breeze that stirred the branches of the pecan trees, and there were already a few stars visible in the dusky sky.
Burns had been home for a while and had just returned to the campus for his Tuesday evening class in twentieth-century American fiction. He was walking from the street toward the east entrance to Main, his mind on the list of the characteristics of post-World-War-II fiction that he was going to go over with his students. He hardly noticed that the pecan trees were leafing out or that the grass was so green that it would soon need mowing or that the birds were rustling around in the trees, choosing places to roost.
He was thinking about number eight on his list, "Fear of nuclear annihilation," when he heard the noise.
It was quite a noise, sticks of old, dry wood popping like pistol shots, followed by the peculiarly musical sound of shattering glass.
The windows in the offices of Main were tall, eight or ten feet. They were divided into two halves, top and bottom, and either half once could have been raised or lowered. That was no longer the case; the windows had been nailed shut when the building was air-conditioned in the early 1970s. Permanently shut windows did not make for good fire safety, but they did prevent students and faculty from opening the windows and thus increasing the heating and air-conditioning bills. The long panes were all in need of new putty, and the wind rattled them in the window frames whenever it blew more than five miles an hour.
The noise Burns had heard was caused by an office window that seemed to explode outward. Shattered glass and splintered wood showered down on Burns, who had been reared to have a healthy fear of nuclear annihilation, instinctively ducked and covered.
Above the sound of the falling glass, Burns heard Tom Henderson's scream, and before Burns even had time to look up, he heard the awful sounds of Henderson hitting the sidewalk. The sound his head made was the worst.
Burns looked up then, as much to avoid looking at Henderson as to see where Henderson had come from. He thought he saw someone move in the shadows just beyond the shattered window, but he couldn't be sure.
He looked back down at Henderson. There was something runny, something reddish gray oozing out of the back of Henderson's head. The psychology teacher's eyes were wide open, staring upward at the darkening sky, but Burns was sure they were not seeing it.
Burns looked away. He felt his stomach churn, and there was a warm, stinging sensation in his throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look at Henderson again.
Then he became aware that someone was shouting nearby and that someone else was screaming. Students who were on their way to evening classes were reacting to what had happened.
Only then did Burns realize that his hands were hurting and that he was bleeding from cuts on his hands and arms, cuts made by the falling glass. The sidewalk where he stood was covered with glass, and there was even a glass shard lying on Henderson's stomach.
Burns swallowed again. "All of you students go inside and wait on the first floor," he said, trying to keep his voice level. He looked around for a student he knew, and his eyes lighted on a senior Bible major named Harold Kay. "Harold, I want you to dial 911. Get an ambulance. And you'd better get the police. I'll wait here until they come."
"Shouldn't you be doing something, sir?" Harold said. Students at HCG still said "sir," or some of them did. "CPR or something?"
Burns looked down into Henderson's staring eyes. "I'll try," he said, knowing it would be of no use. "You go make the call. And get everyone inside."
"Yes, sir," Harold said, as Burns knelt down beside the body and brushed the fragment of glass on Henderson's stomach to the sidewalk. It tinkled when it hit and split into three pieces.
"Well, well, well," Chief R. M. "Boss" Napier said. "Well, well, well."
Napier was a burly man who liked leather bomber jackets and denim j
eans. He had dark blonde hair and a face that might be called ruggedly handsome by anyone but Burns, with a once-broken nose and ruddy cheeks.
There were all sorts of rumors around Pecan City about his personal life, rumors that said, for example, that he sometimes went deer hunting with only a Bowie knife and a bullwhip. Burns had never been able to verify the rumors, though he wouldn't have been surprised if they were true. The things that Burns knew for a certainty, however, were much less sensational, such as the fact that Napier collected and painted miniature action figures. And that he had an eye for Elaine Tanner.
The two men were in a vacant classroom on the first floor of Main. Burns had been treated by the paramedics who came with the ambulance, and both his hands had a number of plastic bandages stuck to them. None of the cuts was deep, and none had required stitches.
Burns had sent Harold Kay up to dismiss his class, and he was sitting in a student desk, looking at Napier, who was sitting on top of the metal-and-wood teacher's desk.
"You don't really look so bad, considering," Napier said. "You're just lucky that Anderson fella didn't fall right on top of you."
"Henderson," Burns said. Napier had problems with names. "His name is Henderson."
"Was," Napier said. "His name was Henderson. Past tense. An English teacher should know about stuff like that. The paramedics tell me you tried to bring him back, though. You should've known it wouldn't do any good. The back of his head was cracked like a soft-boiled egg. His brains were—"
"I know," Burns said, holding up a bandaged hand to stop Napier before he went into the gory details. He'd seen Henderson's head; he didn't need to have Napier describe it. "I just thought I ought to try."
"Yeah. Well, I guess that was a good idea. No use in taking any chances."
"Did anyone tell his wife?" Burns asked.
Samantha Henderson taught keyboarding at HGC on a part-time basis. She and her husband both taught on Tuesday evenings, but her class met in the tiny Business Building, actually nothing more than an old house converted to classroom use, that was down the street from Main.
"One of the students sent someone," Napier said. He slid to the edge of the desk and stood up. "You know, Burns, ever since I got to know you, there have been bad things happening around this college."
"Now wait just a minute," Burns said.
Napier walked around behind Burns, who turned to look at him.
"I'm not saying it's your fault," Napier said. "It just seems to me that Pecan City used to be such a nice, quiet little place. My job used to be a whole lot easier before you started mixing in things."
"I'm sorry you're having to work so hard," Burns said.
"Sarcasm." Napier walked back to the front of the room and sat back down on the desk. "I can recognize sarcasm. My English teachers always used to be sarcastic with me."
"You can't blame me for that, either," Burns said. He found himself wondering what kind of essay Napier could write, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.
"I don't blame you," Napier said. "But I was just wondering."
"Wondering what?" Burns said.
"Well, it seems like every time something goes wrong around here, you're right in the big middle of it. First it was that business with Dean Endore—"
"Elmore," Burns said.
"Right, Elmore. And then that mess with Skeet—"
"Street," Burns said. "His name was Street."
"Sure. Street. That was it. You were right in the middle of those, weren't you."
It wasn't a question, so Burns didn't try to answer.
"Anyway," Napier went on, "what I'm betting myself is that you're up to your neck in this one, too. Am I right?"
"I don't even know what happened," Burns said. "How could I be involved in it?"
"Well, now, I don't know what happened yet, either, not for sure. The boys are still going over that office up there. But what we can speculate on is that Mr. Sanderson—"
"Henderson."
"—that Mr. Henderson either fell through that window by accident, which doesn't seem very likely; jumped through that window; or was pushed through that window. "
Napier slid off the desk again and hulked over Burns. "Do you have any ideas you want to share with me about those three things, Burns? That's what you touchy-feely types like to say, isn't it? 'Share with me?' How about it, Burns?"
Burns thought about what he thought he'd seen, someone moving just out of sight beyond the broken window. But he wasn't certain he'd seen a thing. It could have been nothing at all. But he couldn't think of a reason why anyone would push Henderson through the window, much less think of a reason why Henderson would jump.
"I don't know any more than you do," Burns said.
"Well, that's just fine," Napier said. "That's just about what I expected you to say, Burns. And I hope it's the truth. I really do. I don't want to find myself stumbling over you while I'm investigating this case."
Burns didn't know exactly what to say to that. He could have said something like, "Who solved your last two murder cases for you?" but he didn't think that would be wise. He didn't think it would do any good to mention the shoplifting case he'd solved for Napier during the Christmas break, either, or the thefts he'd solved in the city's River Bend section during the same holiday season.
"Besides, Burns," Napier went on, "I find myself stumbling over you entirely too much these days, even when I'm not investigating a crime. Why do you think that is?"
Burns had something he could have said to that, too. He could have said, "If you'd stop following Elaine Tanner around, then you wouldn't be tripping over me all the time." But he didn't say it. Napier wasn't in a good mood, and mentioning Elaine wasn't likely to make him any happier.
"I know you've helped me out a little now and then," Napier said, relenting a little. "And I appreciate it."
He didn't sound as if he appreciated it to Burns, but Burns still said nothing. He just sat in his desk and kept his mouth shut.
"But I think it might be best if you didn't get involved in this, if you're not already. And you said you weren't involved, didn't you?"
Burns nodded. "That's what I said."
"Good. I just wanted to be sure that we understood one another. I'm going to be on the campus quite a bit investigating this death, but I don't think you and I need to run into each other at all. This Henderson wasn't in your department, and he doesn't have any connection with your department, right?"
"Right," Burns said. "Except. . . ."
Napier had turned to sit back on the desk, but he whirled around. "Except, Burns? Except what?" He looked like a man who might go deer hunting with a Bowie knife and a bullwhip. He looked as if he might enjoy hunting Burns with a Bowie knife and a bullwhip.
"Nothing," Burns said.
He decided that this was not the time to mention either his own earlier suspicions of Eric Holt and Dean Partridge or Henderson's statement that he thought he recognized Holt.
Napier wasn't buying it. "Don't give me that 'nothing' crap, Burns. You had something to say. Say it."
"All right," Burns said, trying to think of a way to tell the truth while at the same time not revealing anything. "I was just about to say that in a small community like this, there are bound to be connections that aren't so obvious at first. There might be things about Henderson that we don't know."
Napier wasn't fooled by Burns's evasiveness. "What things? You'd better not be holding out on me, Burns. When I said I didn't want to be tripping over you, I didn't mean that I wanted you to hold anything back."
"I'm not holding anything back," Burns said, looking down at the top of the desk. Someone had written "Miss Darling bites the big one" there in black ink.
Napier made a sound that might have been a groan. "I just know you're going to get in my way, Burns. I just know it."
"You're still mad because I went to that basketball game, aren't you?" Burns said. "But that was two months ago. And besides, Elaine invited me."
&n
bsp; Napier's face grew dangerously red, but then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nostrils. "I'm going to forget you said that, Burns, and we're going to start all over here. I may as well face the facts. If anything happens around this campus, you're going to be in on it, no matter whether I like it or not. So tell me about this Henderson. What kind of guy was he? Who'd push him out that window?"
Burns didn't like Napier's sudden change of attitude, but he supposed that Pecan City's police force wasn't large enough for a good cop/bad cop routine. That left Napier to play both parts. Burns wondered just how much he should tell Napier.
"You really should ask Earl Fox about him," Burns said finally. "I don't—" He stopped himself. Past tense. "I didn't know him very well."
"What about this new dean you've got, this Cartridge?" Napier said. "How well has she gotten to know the faculty?"
"Partridge," Burns said. "Dean Partridge. She really hasn't been here long enough to get to know everyone. I'm not sure how much help she'd be."
"I'll have to talk to her, though," Napier said. He looked at his watch, a Timex, Burns was sure. "In fact, I've got to meet her and Diller in about five minutes."
"Miller," Burns said.
"Yeah. Miller. I think he's really worried about this. He thinks there might be some bad publicity. Like I said, this used to be a nice, quiet little town. Now it's more like the murder capital of Texas."
"We don't know that he was murdered," Burns reminded him.
"No, we don't. And I hope it was all just an accident. I bet your president hopes so, too. I have to go talk to him now, but you let me know if you think of anything that could help me."
"You're sure you won't mind? I don't want you to feel that I'm interfering."
"Sarcasm again," Napier said. He walked down the aisle between the desks and out the door. Then he poked his head back in. "I'll see you around, Burns."
Burns nodded. "I'm sure you will," he said, trying a smile.
Napier looked at him for a second and then his head disappeared. He wasn't smiling.
