by Crider, Bill
"So what does that tell you?" Burns asked.
Elaine joined in the conversation. "Don't you see? The window ledges are low, about the level of a person's knees. Someone must have hit Tom with enough force to drive him backward and through the window."
"Is that right?" Burns asked Napier. Napier nodded. "Do you have any proof?"
Napier admitted that he didn't. "The autopsy showed that Henderson had bruises on his face that occurred before death. And not very long before. Of course his head hitting the sidewalk is what killed him. But someone probably knocked him through the window."
Burns thought about the way the back of Henderson's head had sounded when it hit. It wasn't any more pleasant thinking about it now than it had been when Tomlin mentioned it earlier.
"Is there anything else?" he asked.
"Sure," Napier said. "If you were going to kill yourself, would you jump from the second floor? Why not go up to the third? Why not go up on the roof, for that matter? I know the second floor's pretty high, but if he hadn't hit the sidewalk with the back of his head like that he'd probably still be alive."
"Unless whoever hit him had already killed him," Burns said.
"Yeah," Napier agreed. "There's that."
"Who have you talked to so far?" Burns asked.
"Just Elaine—Miss Tanner," Napier said. He had the grace to look sheepish. "I just got here, so I thought I'd get her feelings on the murder."
Burns knew very well why Napier had talked to Elaine first, and it had nothing to do with getting her feelings on the murder. He thought Napier was guilty of very unprofessional behavior. Maybe there was some kind of police board that Burns could report him to.
"Who were you planning to talk to?" Burns asked.
"You," Napier said. "I know by now that you've nosed around and gotten mixed up in things like you always do." He tried a smile, not a pretty sight. "You can't help yourself, can you? I guess I don't blame you. It's just your character."
Without admitting anything, Burns said, "I might have heard a few things."
"I knew it. All right, Burns. Give."
"All I've heard is rumors," Burns said. He wasn't going to put Walt Melling in Napier's hands just on the basis of what had happened in Fox's office. As far as Burns knew, Melling had never gone to Henderson's office.
"I'll listen to rumors," Napier said. "Sometimes I get my best information from rumors."
"Later, maybe. What you should do is talk to Dean Partridge. She's responsible for the faculty members here."
Napier got to his feet. "Good idea. I was hoping you'd say that. For some reason she wasn't able to meet with me last night. I'm supposed to see her in her office." He looked at his watch. "In about two minutes. Want to come along?"
It was an offer Burns couldn't refuse.
Dean Partridge's office was on the second floor of the library. The outer office was manned, or personed, Burns thought, trying to be politically correct, by Norma Tunnage, the dean's secretary.
"Hello, Dr. Burns," Norma said. "Did you want to see the dean?"
Burns said that he did, and Norma announced him on the intercom. She made no mention of Napier, who wasn't, after all, college personnel.
Burns opened the door to the inner office. Dean Partridge's desk was directly opposite the door, and there was a tall bookshelf behind it filled with old textbooks and spiral-bound notebooks. The desk was oak, and the dean's chair was red leather. The room's other furniture consisted of a leather couch, a low coffee table, and a leather chair.
Dean Partridge looked much as always, or maybe a little more severe than usual because her long hair was pulled straight back and coiled into a bun on the back of her head. She got up from behind her desk when they walked into the room.
"Good morning, Dr. Burns," she said. "What can I do for you this morning?"
"It's not me you can do something for," Burns said. "This is Bo—Chief Napier of the Pecan City Police. He's here to talk to you about Tom Henderson."
Partridge walked around her desk and shook hands briskly with Napier. "Of course. Poor Tom. His death was quite a shock to all of us. He was an asset to the college. Why don't you two have a seat so we can talk. I'll have Norma bring in some coffee."
Burns didn't like coffee after seven in the morning, but he didn't protest. If the dean wanted coffee, he'd drink it. He and Napier sat on the couch, and Partridge sat behind her desk to call Norma.
The coffee arrived, and Norma served everyone. Burns wondered if it would have been politically correct for a male dean to ask Norma for coffee. Maybe it didn't matter.
Burns sipped his coffee slowly and carefully. It was too hot to drink. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Napier broached the subject of Tom Henderson's death, explaining that it wasn't a suicide and going through much the same explanation that he had just gone over with Burns and Elaine.
Dean Partridge set her coffee cup down on the saucer with a clink. "Murder," she said after a few seconds. "Do you have any suspects, Chief Napier?"
Napier shook his head. "Not a one. We're just beginning our investigation. I hope we'll have your full cooperation."
"Of course you will. Just exactly how do you think I can help?"
"Well, you can start by telling me if you know of anyone on the faculty who might want Henderson out of the way."
"Oh, no. Of course not. I've been here only a few months, but I can say that the mutual respect the members of this faculty have for one another is unparalleled in my experience."
Napier looked puzzled.
"That means no one here has any enemies," Burns said.
Napier wasn't impressed. "I know what she means, Burns. But I also know what goes on around this place, what with that dean getting knocked off not so long ago, and then that writer who used to teach here. I just don't believe all that 'respect' stuff."
Dean Partridge sat up rigidly. "Are you implying that I might not be telling the truth about this faculty?"
Napier shrugged. "It's your faculty. You can think what you want to. I'm just talking about past history, and like you say, you haven't been here that long."
"Dr. Henderson's death has nothing to do with the past," Dean Partridge said, a little too quickly, Burns thought.
"How do you know?" Napier asked.
Partridge seemed slightly flustered, which surprised Burns. He wouldn't have thought anything could bother her.
"Well," she said, "it just couldn't."
Napier didn't press her. "You never know about murder. But what you're telling me is that you never had any problems with Henderson, and you don't know of anyone who did. Is that about right?"
Dean Partridge pushed at her bun with her right hand. "That is correct."
Burns wondered if the dean was telling the truth and decided that she was. Earl Fox must not have convinced Walt Melling to see the dean about his complaint. Whether Melling had gone on to see Henderson was another question.
"That's what Miller told me about Henderson last night," Napier said. "He was a wonderful professor, Miller said. Loved by one and all."
That sounded like Miller, all right, Burns thought, and Melling certainly wouldn't have gone to the president about his troubles. Miller didn't like people who did anything to upset the smooth operation of the college, and everyone knew it.
Napier talked to the dean for several more minutes, but Burns found his attention wandering. It was clear that the police chief wasn't going to get anything out of her. Either she didn't know anything or she was adept at lying.
After they had left the office and were walking down the stairs to the first floor, Napier said, "She knows something."
Burns stopped on the landing. "How can you tell?"
"You saw the way she looked when I said something about what's happened here in the past. There might be a connection."
"But she wasn't here in the past," Burns said.
"I know that. But it bothered her anyway. That's something you can check into."
/> "Me?" Burns was incredulous. "Me?"
Napier looked around the dimly lit landing. "I don't see anybody else standing here. Do you?"
"But you told me to stay out of things. You said—"
Napier put up a hand. "I know what I said, and so do you. I was a little upset at first, but after that I said you were going to get mixed up in this no matter whether I wanted you to or not. I said it was in your nature, that you just couldn't help it. Don't tell me you can't remember that."
"All right," Burns said. "I remember."
"And I practically told Elaine that you'd been a big help in the past. You remember that, too, don't you?"
Burns didn't remember that the conversation had gone exactly that way, but he said, "I remember."
"I thought so. What do you want me to do next? Beg you to help? Because I'm not going to do that. If you want to help, fine. If you don't, then just keep out of the way."
"I'll help if I can," Burns said.
"Good," Napier said.
They started on down the stairs. When they reached the lobby of the library, Napier said, "You don't need to question Elaine, though. I'll handle that part of it."
Burns thought Napier might be making a joke, and though he wasn't sure, he smiled anyway. "We'll see about that. What did you have in mind for me, then?"
"First, find out about your dean's past connections with people on this campus. After you do that, we've got a list of names you can look at, everyone that was in the building last night. I'll have my men check it out, but it won't do us any good."
"Why not?"
"Because you know as well as I do that whoever killed Henderson got out of there before their name was on any list."
Burns wondered again where Holt had been. "So you want me to find out who else was in the building?"
"That's right. And keep your ears open for any gossip about somebody who might've had it in for Henderson."
Burns wondered if this was the time to say something about Walt Melling, but he decided against it. He'd talk to Walt first and see if there was anything in the story. Maybe Earl had gotten him calmed down and he had never confronted Henderson at all.
"Anything else?" Burns asked.
"That ought to do it for now. Are you going back to your office?"
Burns had planned to go back by for a private visit with Elaine. "Maybe. Why?"
"I just thought I'd walk part of the way with you," Napier said. "Just to make sure you get there."
Oh well, Burns thought. If I don't get to see Elaine, he won't either.
They left the building together.
Chapter Eight
Napier didn't go all the way to Main with Burns. His car was parked on the street on the east side of the building, and he turned away down the sidewalk. Burns watched Napier get in the car and drive away, then almost went back to the library. But he thought he might as well go into the counselors' area and see how the grief counseling was going. And to talk to Dawn Melling if he got the chance.
He went into Main and narrowly avoided running into Rose, who was sweeping the hallway just inside the door.
"Look out, Doctah Burns," Rose said. "You gonna run somebody down if you don't be more careful."
"Sorry, Rose," Burns said. "I was thinking about something."
Rose nodded vigorously, causing her wig to slip a little to one side. It was a terrible wig, and Burns had never seen her without it. He had no idea why she wore it, however, and he wasn't going to ask.
"You thinkin' 'bout that murder last night, like all the rest of us. This place gettin' dangerous, Doctah Burns. Real dangerous."
"Murder?" Burns said. "What makes you think it was murder?"
"Evahbody know it's a murder," Rose said. She started sweeping down the hall, shaking her head as she went. "This a bad place. A bad place."
She had a point there, Burns thought. He wondered what the average mortality rate at small colleges was and decided that HGC was certainly doing nothing to help that average.
He walked on down to the counseling office and went inside. This time, Dawn Melling was not there to meet him. Instead there was a student secretary, a young woman who had been in one of Burns's classes.
"Hello, Stephanie," Burns said. "Is Ms. Melling in?"
Stephanie was a tall, thin blonde with an overbite. "She's doing grief counseling today, Dr. Burns."
Burns knew that. "I was wondering if I could see her. If she's not too busy, that is."
Stephanie looked serious. "She's not too busy. I don't think there's anyone with her at all. She's in her office if you want to talk to her."
The counselors' offices were down a narrow carpeted hallway from the main office. Burns walked down the hall and tapped on Dawn's door.
A muffled voice said, "Come in."
Burns opened the door. Dawn was sitting at her desk, reading a paperback book. Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. She put the book down. "Hello, Dr. Burns. Would you like to talk about Dr. Henderson's death?"
That wasn't why Burns had come in, but it was as good an excuse as any for staying a few minutes. "Yes, if you don't mind."
"That's what I'm here for. Please have a seat."
Burns sat in the chair by Dawn's desk and looked at her. She was wearing what Burns supposed was her mourning outfit, a tight black dress, black shoes with heels that seemed to Burns inappropriately high, and what looked like a tiny piece of black lace attached to her hair. Her fingernails and lips were as red as ever, and she looked even more like Elvira than usual.
"You know, Dr. Burns," she said, achieving eye contact, "death is a frightening thing to some people, but we all have to get our fears out in the open and talk about them. That's the first step."
First step to what? Burns wondered. "I'm sure that's true. But I'm not really experiencing any fear."
"Anxiety, then? When men get to be a certain age, they realize that they don't have many more years of life left and that they probably haven't achieved the dreams they had when they were young. That can be very depressing to some people."
It certainly could, Burns thought, though he hadn't considered himself as being at that age. Dawn really knew how to cheer a fellow up. She was a regular little Miss Pollyanna Sunshine. No wonder she'd been asked to do the grief counseling.
"I'm not depressed, Dawn," he said. "How about Walt?"
"Walt? What does Walt have to do with anything?"
"That's what I was wondering. I mean, a man who hasn't achieved his dreams might get frustrated and take out his frustrations on others. Do you think Walt might ever do anything like that?"
Dawn wasn't looking at Burns now. She toyed with the book on her desk, squaring it with the border of her desk calendar. Burns was impressed with her desk. There was no clutter. Just the calendar, a pen, and a pad for writing. And the book.
"Walt is a very secure person," Dawn said.
"I'm sure he is. But I've heard some disturbing things lately. . . ." Burns let his voice trail off.
"They're not true," Dawn said, her voice rising. "Whatever you've heard, it's just gossip."
"Then there's no need for you to get upset. And I'm sure none of it was your fault. You're a very attractive woman, and I'm not surprised that Tom Henderson made a pass at you."
"Oh!" Dawn's mouth was a soft red circle. "Who told you that? Did you tell Walt? I know you're a friend of that policeman, that Boss Napier. Did you tell him about Walt? Did you?"
"No," Burns said, almost overwhelmed by the rush of words. "I haven't told anyone, but I think you should let me know what happened. If Boss Napier does hear about Walt, maybe I can do something to help."
Dawn reached out and grabbed Burns's hand. "Oh, thank you, Dr. Burns. You don't know how much something like that means to a person. An offer to help, I mean. So many people these days just don't care any more than a gun about others."
Any more than a what? Burns wondered. But he didn't allow himself to be distracted. "So Walt isn't as quite as secure as y
ou said?"
"No. He's not. And I don't know why. He knows that I would never, ever look at another man."
As she spoke, Dawn was looking straight into Burns's eyes. She hadn't let go of his hand, either.
"I'm sure you wouldn't," Burns said, retrieving his hand. "But Walt might not know that."
"I've told him and told him. But he was a football player, you know. He has this idea that he has to prove himself."
Small-college All-American, as Burns recalled. Back in the glory days of HGC football. And that was the main reason Melling had been hired as the college's head of recruiting. He could speak with authority about the time when a tiny school in the heart of Texas had teed it up with the big boys and come out on top, if not every time, at least some of the time.
"He thought he had to prove himself to Tom Henderson?"
"I know, I know. It sounds ridiculous. Tom is so small, and Walt is so big. Walt should have known how foolish it was to let a little remark get him so upset. But he was determined to do something."
"What remark?" Burns asked.
"Oh, dear. Do I really have to tell you?"
She didn't, of course, but Burns's curiosity was aroused. "It might help," he said.
Dawn didn't need any further encouragement. "I was in the outer office alone one afternoon when Tom—Mr. Henderson—came by. He said something about my . . . figure."
"What did he say?"
"He said . . . he said, 'That's quite a set you've got there, Dawn.'"
Now there was political incorrectness for you, Burns thought. Or maybe it was just stupidity, since Henderson certainly should have known better. It wasn't as if every faculty member didn't get memos each semester about sexual harassment and exactly what constituted it. They did. And recent memos from Dean Partridge had expanded on that theme at length.
But Tom Henderson had been a throwback to a time when men thought women liked to hear that kind of thing, though Burns was no longer sure there had ever been such a time. He was beginning to believe that women might have tolerated such remarks in the past, but they had probably always held men like Henderson in contempt for making them.
