by Crider, Bill
Burns went into his office and brought out the yearbook he had found in Henderson's office. He had spent part of the afternoon examining the picture of Henry Mitchum with a magnifying glass. He still couldn't make up his mind about it.
"I didn't know you went to San Diego State," Elaine said when she saw the cover of the yearbook. "Did you play baseball there?"
"No," Burns said. "That was somewhere else. This yearbook isn't mine. It belonged to Tom Henderson."
"How did you get it?"
"I don't think you want to know."
"Why not?"
"Never mind. I want you to look at some pictures."
Burns opened the book to the page with Mitchum's photo. He handed the book to Elaine.
"What am I supposed to be looking for?"
"I can't tell you that. Well, maybe I can. I want you to tell me if anyone on those two pages looks familiar."
Elaine set her Pepsi on the coffee table and took the yearbook. She held it in her lap and looked down at the photographs. Burns sat beside her, ignoring the pain in his backside, and waited patiently for her to say something.
"Maybe this one does," she said after several minutes.
She had her finger under the picture of Henry Mitchum.
"Why?" Burns asked.
"I'm not sure. Something about the eyes."
Burns decided to give her a hint. "Think about the HGC faculty."
Elaine thought. And thought.
"The English faculty," Burns said.
Elaine thought some more. Then she said, "Eric Holt?"
Bingo, Burns thought. "That's what I thought. But it's hard to say for sure."
"What difference does it make if two men happen to resemble one another."
Burns explained that Henderson thought he recognized Holt from somewhere and that the yearbook had been on Henderson's desk.
"I'm not sure I see what you're getting at," Elaine said.
"I was just wondering if Eric Holt is really who he says he is," Burns said.
He went on to explain that Holt was, after all, a somewhat mysterious character, a well-published scholar who never went to meetings and preferred to spend his life as far from the academic mainstream as he could get.
"But this probably isn't even him," Elaine said. It's only something about the eyes. The rest of the face isn't the same at all."
"Of course not. Holt has that thick beard. The eyes are the only thing we have to go on."
"It's not a lot."
Burns had to admit that it wasn't. "And even if it does mean something, it doesn't prove that Holt had anything to do with Henderson's death."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to see if I can find out anything about this Henry Mitchum. I'll call the school tomorrow." Burns took the yearbook from Elaine. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about this to Boss Napier. This is probably nothing at all, and I wouldn't want to get Holt into any unnecessary trouble."
"Do you think R. M. might do something to Eric?"
Burns didn't like to hear Elaine using Holt's first name any more than he liked hearing her refer to "R. M."
"No. Well, he might question him. I don't want to start anything like that until I have more to go on."
"What about your friends?"
"What friends?"
"You know very well. Mal and Earl. You heard what Mrs. Henderson said about them, and she said that she told R. M. the same thing."
Burns admitted that he was a little worried. "But I'm sure they didn't do anything to Henderson, because I'm sure their wives are completely innocent. If anything happened between them and Henderson, they dealt with it themselves, just like you did, and didn't tell anyone."
"Maybe they told each other."
Burns thought that was likely, but he was more interested in something else. "Just exactly what did Henderson say to you that day in the library, by the way?"
"He said something about my figure."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him that if he didn't get out of my office in two seconds I was going to stuff a bullriding trophy down his throat."
"And did he leave?"
"Of course he did. He could tell I wasn't kidding."
Burns thought about that. "I guess I shouldn't try making a pass at you then, should I."
Elaine looked around the room. "Oh, I don't know. I don't see any trophies handy."
Burns smiled. This was turning out to be quite a night.
Chapter Twelve
Burns was feeling awfully good the next day, better than he'd felt in a long time. Thanks to his mildly successful pass of the previous evening, he was beginning to think that maybe he was getting a little bit ahead of Boss Napier in the race for Elaine's affections.
He didn't want to think about murder at all, but now that he'd started investigating, he couldn't stop. There was something about digging into people's secrets and their pasts that he couldn't resist. Maybe he really did have a talent for investigation.
He could hardly wait to get to the boiler room and talk to Fox and Tomlin.
Fox and Tomlin, on the other hand, were not nearly so pleased with what was going on in their lives. It seemed that Boss Napier had already made his first move in their direction. Burns was actually somewhat grateful; Napier's machinations kept their minds off the fact that Burns hadn't showed up for the Mud Tug.
"I want to know what the hell's going on, Burns," Tomlin said, sucking on his Merit and then breathing out a cloud of smoke. "You've got an in with that cop. What's he questioning our wives about?"
"Hasn't your wife told you?" Burns asked, suddenly craving a cigarette himself. He controlled the impulse to ask for one, however.
"She hasn't talked to him yet. She's supposed to go in this morning."
"Rae's going in too," Fox said, lighting a Cost Cutter. Smoke spiraled lazily up toward the thirty foot ceiling of the boiler room. "I don't understand what's going on."
Burns enlightened them. "I talked to Samantha Henderson last night. She has this fantasy about your wives having been in love with her husband. And maybe one of you killed him in a rit of fealous jage."
"That's from one of those Pink Panther movies," Tomlin said. "And I don't think it's a damn bit funny. Joynell wouldn't have given that creep Henderson a second look, so I didn't have anything to be jealous of."
"And Rae thought he was a weirdo," Fox said, as if that settled everything.
"I didn't make a joke of it," Burns said. "Napier's convinced that Henderson was murdered, and he has to check every lead."
"He'd better not use that bullwhip on Joynell," Tomlin told them. "That's all I can say."
"Do you think we'll be questioned?" Fox asked.
It was clear that he viewed getting called to the police station as an evil even worse than getting caught smoking on campus. Or maybe it was the thought of the bullwhip that scared him.
"I don't see why," Burns said. "After Napier talks to your wives, he'll know you're in the clear."
"He'd better," Tomlin said. He dropped the butt of his Merit to the concrete floor and stepped on it, twisting his foot viciously.
Burns was holding the yearbook. After telling them where he had found it, he showed them the picture of Henry Mitchum.
"It's that damn Holt," Tomlin said almost at once. "I knew it! He's living under an assumed name because he did some crime back in California. He was Mitchum then, but he's Holt now, and he killed Henderson!"
"That's a pretty big logical leap," Burns said.
Tomlin clearly didn't think so. "The hell it is. Nobody changes his name for nothing."
"We don't know that Holt is Mitchum," Burns reminded him.
"Look at those eyes. I bet Holt knew that Henderson was checking up on him. Maybe he even knew about this yearbook. He was probably going after it when he killed Tom."
"It was on Tom's desk," Burns said. "No one took it."
"Panic," Earl Fox said, dropping one
Cost Cutter and getting another out of the pack. "He ran away without it after he knocked Tom through the window."
"Right," Tomlin said. "I knew it all along. Damn hippies. Tom saw him on America's Most Wanted, I'll bet you anything."
"He had the yearbook," Burns said. "He didn't need to see anyone on television."
Tomlin ignored him. "And what's more, there's some connection between Holt and Partridge. That's why he's here, and you can mark my words. The two of them probably offed Henderson."
"Offed?" Burns said. "Offed?"
"Right. They offed him. Now all we have to do is catch them together."
"What would that prove?" Burns asked.
"You're the detective," Tomlin said. "You figure it out."
Burns tried, but he didn't see the connection. He had, however, thought of a better way to get information on Henry Mitchum than by calling the school. He would get Napier to check to see if Mitchum had a criminal record. He told Fox and Tomlin his plan.
"Maybe you ought to talk to Holt first," Fox said. "Hear his side of this."
Tomlin snorted smoke through his nose. "Yeah. Right. If he has a side."
"No, Earl's right," Burns said. "I do have to talk to Eric."
But not about the photo, he thought. No need to make Holt any more suspicious than he was likely to be when Burns asked him about his whereabouts on Tuesday evening.
Besides, it was possible that Henderson had said something to Holt about the picture, and look where Henderson was now.
That thought reminded Burns of something. "Are you two going to the funeral tomorrow?"
"Sure," Tomlin said. "But only because I feel like I have to."
Burns knew what he meant.
"What about you, Earl?"
"Yes. That is, if Rae doesn't have other plans for us. It was thoughtful of Samantha to wait till Saturday for the burial, wasn't it? That way it won't interfere with classes."
"You could go without Rae," Tomlin said.
"I could, but I'm not."
Burns decided to head off what appeared to be an argument. "I have something else I need to know, Earl."
"What's that?"
"The name of that student who complained to you about Henderson."
"I told you I didn't think I could give you her name."
"It's a murder case now," Burns reminded him. "Would you rather me talk to the student, or Boss Napier?"
"Well, since you put it that way. . . ."
"I don't want to hear this," Tomlin said. "I'm not a detective." He threw his cigarette to the floor. "I'll see you guys later."
When Tomlin was out the door, Burns said, "Her name, Earl?"
"Kristi Albert. Kristi with a K. And with an i on the end."
"Thanks," Burns said. "I'll keep this confidential."
"Just get me off the hook with Napier. That's all I ask."
"I'll do what I can," Burns promised, though he wasn't sure he could do anything at all.
Next Burns wanted to talk to Walt Melling. He went to the recruiting office, hoping that Melling was in. When he had an especially long recruiting trip on the weekend, he sometimes left before noon on Friday.
The former football player was in his office, however, sitting at his desk when Burns walked in. Burns sat down, which was not so painful today, and made small talk for a few seconds and then reached inside his jacket for the recruiting brochure he had picked up in Henderson's office.
"What's that?" Melling asked.
Burns laid it on the desk. "You've seen a lot of them, I'm sure."
Everyone knew that Melling was never without a handful of the colorful blue and white pamphlets stuffed into his jacket pockets.
"Have I ever," Melling said. "What's so special about this one?"
"There's nothing special about the brochure," Burns said. "But there's something special about where I found it."
Melling was suddenly wary. "What's that to me?"
"It was found in Tom Henderson's office." Burns hoped the passive voice might imply that the police had found the brochure instead of him.
Melling leaned back in his chair. "Big deal. There are thousands of these things all over this campus."
"This one has your fingerprints all over it," Burns said, a blatant lie, since Burns hadn't the least idea about how fingerprints were obtained. And if there had been any of Melling's fingerprints on the brochure, they were probably gone by now. Burns had been handling the thing himself for hours before even thinking about the possibility of fingerprints.
"So what? I've touched nearly all of those pamphlets at one time or another."
"The way we put it together," Burns said, using the royal we and hoping it would mislead Melling into thinking that Burns had already discussed things with the police, "you were in Tom's office on the afternoon he was killed. You probably dropped this brochure then."
Melling patted his jacket pockets, pulled out a recruiting pamphlet and showed it to Burns. "I carry these things everywhere. I could have dropped it anytime. And besides, I'm not the only one who carries recruiting brochures around, you know."
"I know," Burns said. "But the third floor isn't on any of the recruiting schedules that I've seen, and you're the only one who might have had a reason to be in Henderson's office." He held up his own pamphlet. "And this one has your fingerprints on it."
Melling put the pamphlet he was holding back in his pocket. Then he sat forward and leaned his forearms on his desk. "All right, Burns. So I was in Henderson's office. Big deal. What's the harm with going by and talking to someone?"
"You told me that you were here at your desk when Henderson fell."
"That's exactly where I was. I was working on some expense sheets."
"So you couldn't have killed him."
Melling moved his hands from the top of the desk and held them out of Burns's sight. Burns imagined them balling into hard fists.
"That's right," Melling said. "I didn't kill him. I wanted to smash his wormy little face in. He deserved it, but I didn't do that, either."
Melling was lying, and Burns knew it. He couldn't explain how he knew, but he was certain of it. Something in Melling's tone of voice gave him away, that and the rapid reddening of his face. Napier had told Burns and Elaine that Henderson had been struck in the face before his fall. Burns was sure that Melling was the one who had hit him.
"Why didn't you hit him?" Burns asked, deciding to take a chance on getting his own wormy face smashed in. "After all, he said something about your wife's breasts, didn't he? Let's see, how did he put it?"
Burns didn't get a chance to say how Henderson had put it because Melling stood up, reached for Burns, grabbed his jacket, and pulled him halfway across the desk.
"I told you," Melling said, his face purple. "People shouldn't say things like that. And you shouldn't repeat them, either."
He shoved Burns back into the chair, and this time Burns's tailbone gave a healthy twinge.
"You should have a checkup, Walt," Burns said. "Your color's bad. You probably have high blood pressure."
"Don't you talk about my blood pressure, you little . . . insect."
Burns didn't know whether being an insect was better than being a worm or not. "Walt, I think you should talk to me about what happened in Tom's office."
Melling was breathing hard. "I've told you all I have to tell. And you can go squealing to the cops if you want to. I don't give a damn. Now get out of here."
Burns thought about prolonging the conversation, but it would look bad if one of the suspects had a stroke before anything was proved against him. So Burns started to leave quietly.
Melling was still standing behind his desk, his fists resting on top. His face wasn't quite so purple now, and he was getting his breathing under control.
It was sad to see a former athlete go to seed like that, and Burns, the old second baseman, vowed not to let it happen to him.
"Wait a second," Melling said, just as Burns stepped through the door.
"There's one thing I forgot," Melling said.
Burns stood in the doorway, but he didn't re-enter the office. "What's that?"
"I saw somebody that afternoon. Just as I was leaving Henderson's office."
"Who?" Burns asked.
"I don't know her, but I'm sure she's a student. I've seen her on campus." Melling went on to describe a woman who seemed to look a lot like the one Burns had seen fleeing Henderson's office in tears. "She's the one you should be talking to," Melling concluded. "Not me."
"You could be right about that," Burns said.
But he wasn't convinced. Maybe Melling had actually seen someone, but he could have seen her before going to Henderson's office. Or maybe he hadn't seen her at all. Maybe he'd heard about Kristi Albert and decided to use her to his advantage. Nevertheless, it was one more thing Burns would have to check out as soon as he got a chance. There were a couple of other things he wanted to do first.
That afternoon Burns went around to talk to Eric Holt, hoping that he would have better luck than he'd had with Melling. It couldn't be any worse, that was for sure.
He was going to have to talk to Napier again soon, too. It was time to put the police chief in the picture about what was really going on before he wasted too much time questioning people like Joynell and Rae. Walt Melling was a much more likely suspect than Mal Tomlin or Earl Fox.
And then there was Holt. Things just weren't right there, though it was hard to say what was wrong. Burns remembered something that Dean Partridge had told him and Napier: "Dr. Henderson's death has nothing to do with the past." Burns wasn't sure that was true, but he still hadn't found out all he wanted to know about Holt's past.
The third floor of Main was practically deserted. On Friday afternoons, there was generally no one there except Holt. Burns, like the rest of the faculty, believed that Friday afternoons were not created for staying on campus, and he was there only to catch Holt alone.
Holt was in his office, watching an old Republic serial on the video monitor that he had on permanent loan from Student Services. Burns, on the other hand, was lucky if he could get a monitor to show snippets from the two film versions of The Great Gatsby to his classes, but Holt had Dean Partridge to go to bat for him. Therefore he got to have a VCR and monitor in his office.
