by Crider, Bill
"Right. No smoking, just like at the school. Now if that's not discrimination, what is it?"
Burns didn't have a satisfactory answer.
"Of course you don't," Tomlin said. "They can drive us smokers underground, just like they claim Holt was driven underground, but that's just fine. Their freedoms are important, but ours aren't. I say it's hypocritical."
Burns thought Tomlin should get together with Boss Napier for a discussion of cultural Nazism. He said, "You may be right, but that's sort of beside the point."
Tomlin agreed. "Yeah. Do you think Holt's really going to turn himself in?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"I guess he has to. If he doesn't, we will. Won't we?"
"Yes," Burns said. "We will."
Tomlin flicked ashes out the window. "The thing is, that won't get me off the hook with Napier, will it?"
"Probably not," Burns told him.
Tomlin sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."
Burns didn't sleep well at all that night.
Part of it was the pain in his tailbone, but that went away after he took a couple of aspirins. What wouldn't go away were his thoughts about Tom Henderson's murder.
Burns was convinced that Holt had nothing to do with it. His alibi was solid; Dean Partridge—Gwen—wasn't lying about her meeting with Holt in her office.
And Burns didn't really think that Kristi Albert would have killed Henderson because of the harassment she'd suffered. She was a typical student, more interested in her grade than anything else. There was nothing particularly admirable in her attitude; in fact, she had been ready to blackmail Henderson, which wasn't to say he didn't deserve it. But at the last moment she hadn't gone through with it. Or so she said, and Burns believed her.
That left Walt Melling. Burns was sure that Melling had lied about one thing. He'd denied hitting Henderson, but the bruises on Henderson's face indicated that someone had struck him before his death. And Burns believed that someone was Walt Melling. He had the temper for it, and the fists.
While Burns hated to believe that Melling was a killer, there wasn't anyone else left on his list of suspects. That might not be a good reason for confronting Melling, but Burns had to do something. President Miller expected results by Monday, and Napier was pushing hard on Mal Tomlin. If Burns didn't find the killer, both Tomlin and Miller were going to be very disappointed.
Burns finally went to sleep wondering how to approach Melling. He dreamed of being stiff-armed all night long.
Burns took Elaine to lunch on Sunday, not just because he wanted to see her but because he wanted to ask her advice. He went over the whole case with her, filling her in on everything he knew or guessed. She was fascinated by the story of Eric Holt.
"It's hard to believe that he could hide for so long," she said.
They were at the China Inn, and Elaine was daintily eating egg drop soup. Burns had won-ton, and while he wasn't as dainty as Elaine, he was trying not to slurp.
"It wasn't so hard," he said. "The beard really changed his appearance, covered the weak chin and changed the whole shape of his face. After he graduated, he avoided going to meetings where he might run into anyone who knew him as Henry Mitchum and spent all his time at a little backwater school where it was highly unlikely he'd meet any of his friends from the old days. Of course he couldn't resist sending out his articles, but as long as no one met him or circulated his picture, he didn't have much to worry about."
"Still, to be a fugitive all that time. . . ."
"He was tired of it, for sure. He's going to talk to Napier tomorrow and give himself up. It'll look good on Napier's record when he turns up someone who's been on the wanted lists for so long."
"But that still doesn't solve the murder, does it?" Elaine said.
Burns was about to agree when their waiter arrived with the main course, kung pao chicken for Burns, lemon chicken for Elaine. Better make that server rather than waiter, Burns thought, though he wasn't sure why server was any better than waiter unless it was the fact that there had never been a serveress.
The server was a young man who had taken one of Burns's English classes. It always seemed a little incongruous to Burns when a person who on Friday came to class wearing old jeans, worn boots, and a ten-gallon hat turned up on Sunday serving Chinese food. Stereotyping again, Burns told himself. He had to do better.
When the server was gone, Burns said, "No, it doesn't solve the murder. That's what I wanted to ask you about."
While they ate, he went over his list of suspects with Elaine. They agreed that Holt could be eliminated, and they both thought that Kristi Albert wasn't a likely candidate.
"So that leaves Walt Melling," Burns said. "He has a real temper, no doubt about it. I've seen it in action. I suppose I should talk to him next."
"He said he was in his office, working on expense sheets?"
"Yes, and Dawn said he brought them home to work on them afterward. That seems a little cold-blooded to me, but then he didn't like Henderson. And maybe he killed him."
"And you want me to go with you when you talk to him," Elaine said.
Burns pushed away the remains of his kung pao chicken. "That's right. There shouldn't be any danger. I don't think he'll try anything if you're along."
The waiter came to take their plates away, leaving the check and two fortune cookies on a saucer.
"Don't you think R. M. would be better?" Elaine asked.
"I don't want to bring him into it yet. Not until I'm sure I have something. I was thinking that maybe we could trick Walt into admitting something."
"What if he doesn't have anything to admit?"
"He has to have something," Burns said. "Who else is there?"
Elaine reached toward the saucer with the fortune cookies. "Maybe we'll find an answer in these."
She picked up a cookie and broke it open, then pulled out the fortune and read it. "'The wise man knows himself.' Is that Chinese?"
Burns didn't know. "Not specifically. It could be from any culture. The ancient Greeks believed it. So did Shakespeare. 'To thine own self be true.' Hamlet. And then there's Ralph Waldo Emerson. 'Trust thyself. Every heart vibrates to—'"
Elaine smiled. "I should have known not to ask an English teacher anything. What does yours say?"
Burns read it. "'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.'"
"Don't tell me," Elaine said. "I know that one. Alexander Pope?"
"Sort of," Burns said. "It's a misquotation, though. Pope said, 'A little learning is a dangerous thing. And he qualified it by saying—'"
Elaine held up her hand. "Never mind. I get the idea. Misquotations, Hamlet, you English teachers are always on the job."
"You sound a little like Boss Napier," Burns said.
"I wish you hadn't said that," Elaine told him.
"I won't say it again," Burns assured her, wondering why misquotations of Shakespeare and Hamlet were bouncing around in the back of his head as if they had something to do with the murder of Tom Henderson.
He thought about it as he paid the check, but he couldn't make any sense of it. Maybe it would come to him later. Now it was time to see if Walt Melling was at home.
Dawn Melling came to the door. She was wearing a baggy black sweatshirt and jeans that were neither black nor baggy. Burns tried not to stare.
"Hello Dr. Burns," Dawn said. "And Ms. Tanner. What can I do for you?"
"We wanted to talk to Walt," Burns said. "Is he home?"
"He's in the den, watching some old fishing show," Dawn said. "Come on in."
They followed her into the den, where Walt was sitting on a couch that had a yellow afghan thrown across the back. He didn't look at them when they entered the room. He kept his eyes on the television set, where a man in a gimme cap was standing in the bow of a boat and casting a lure into a lake full of rotting tree stumps.
"Walt," Dawn said. "It's Dr. Burns and Ms. Tanner."
Walt still didn't look at them. It was as if he were m
esmerized by the fishing show, where now a large bass was jumping out of the water on the end of the excited host's line.
"Walt," Dawn said. "Honey. There's someone here to see you."
Walt deigned to look away from the TV set as the fisherman knelt down, reached into the water and grabbed the bass by the lip.
"What do you want?" Walt asked.
"Just to talk," Burns said.
"I've talked to you all I'm going to talk." Melling turned back to his program.
"Walt!" Dawn said. "You know that's no way to behave."
"Why don't you and I go somewhere else and visit," Elaine said. "We'll let Carl talk to your husband."
"No," Burns said. "I think she should be here."
Melling reached for a remote control and turned off the television set. Then he stood up and turned to Burns.
"I think you should be leaving," he said. His face was getting red.
"Not until you talk to me," Burns said, hoping that Melling wasn't going to hit him.
"Look," Melling began. "I don't have any intention—"
"Wait," Elaine said. "There's no need for you to be defensive, Mr. Melling. All Carl wants to do is ask you a few questions."
"That's right, Walt. Why are you so upset?" Dawn asked.
"Because he thinks I killed that idiot Tom Henderson," Melling told her. "And he's going to try to trick me into saying that I did."
"But you didn't," Dawn said. "You told me that you didn't have anything to do with it."
"You hit him, though," Burns said. "Didn't you, Walt?"
Walt's head snapped around. "Damn right I hit him. And I'd do it again. But I didn't kill him."
Well, that trick had worked. Catch the guy off guard and ask him a quick question that he's not expecting. Maybe he'll spit out an answer.
"Why did you lie to me earlier?" Burns asked.
Melling slammed a fist into the afghan on the back of the couch. The crocheted coverlet bounced up and settled back down.
"Because you think I killed that little geek," Walt said. "And I didn't. I can prove it."
"How?" Burns asked.
"I told you the other day. Someone went into Henderson's office after I did."
"You didn't say who that was," Burns pointed out.
"Because I don't know. But we can find out if we have to. I can find her picture in the yearbook and then we can ask her."
"I've already found her and talked to her."
Melling looked a little surprised. "Well, then. Now you know the truth."
"She says she doesn't remember seeing you."
"Then she's lying."
"I don't think so."
"She has to be. No wonder. She's probably the one who killed him."
"I don't believe that, either," Burns said.
Melling's face was getting redder and redder. He was getting ready to hit something again, and Burns was afraid that it wouldn't be the afghan this time.
"Calm down, honey," Dawn said. "You look like you're going to have a heart infraction."
Burns didn't ask what that might be, and he agreed that Melling needed to calm down.
"She's right," Burns said. "If you're innocent, there's no need for you to act like this."
Melling took a deep, ragged breath and unclenched his fists. Then he sat down on the couch. Burns walked over and stood between him and the TV set.
"Look," Melling said. "If I killed Henderson, why did I tell you about that student? If I'd killed him, and if she'd gone into his office, she'd know what happened. She could convict me easily. If I'd killed anyone, I would never have mentioned her."
"That's a point in your favor," Burns said. "But she didn't go into his office."
"How do you know that?"
"She told me."
"Maybe she's lying. Like I said, she's probably the one who killed him."
It was possible, maybe, but Burns didn't believe it. Still, Melling had a point. If he had killed Henderson, he wouldn't have mentioned Kristi. He didn't seem to know that she hadn't gone into Henderson's office.
"I just don't understand this," Dawn said. "I just don't understand it at all."
Burns didn't understand it either. It was beginning to look as if none of his suspects was guilty. And that just wasn't possible. Someone had murdered Tom Henderson. At least that was what Boss Napier thought, and he had convinced Burns that was the case.
"Maybe I should put on some music," Dawn said. "That might present a better atmosphere."
Burns wasn't sure how music could present an atmosphere, but something clicked in his brain.
"Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," he said, though Dawn had said breasts when he'd talked to her earlier.
"That's so true," Dawn said, moving toward the CD player atop the TV set.
But Burns wasn't interested in the truth or falsity of the quotation. He was interested in the circumstances in which he'd last been reminded of it. A lot of connections were being made in his head.
"Wait a minute, Dawn," he said. "Do you remember that day in your office when we were talking about the time Tom Henderson said something . . . inappropriate to you?"
Dawn blushed glanced sideways at Walt. "Yes," she whispered. "I remember that."
"Good. When I said something about Walt's knowing what Henderson had done, you asked me a question. You said, 'Did you tell Walt?' Remember?"
Dawn screwed up her face in thought. "I guess I remember that. Why?"
"Because I thought you told him."
"Well, I didn't." Dawn looked more directly at her husband, who seemed to have no idea what was going on. "I know how he gets when he's mad. I would never tell him about a thing like that. There's just no telling what he might do."
"Great, Dawn," Melling said. "Now Burns will be really convinced that I killed the little twerp."
"No," Burns said. "I'm not convinced of that at all. But I think I might know who did kill him. The person who told you about what he said to Dawn."
"And who would that be?" Elaine asked.
"I don't know," Dawn said. "But I know I didn't."
"And neither did I," Burns said. "So that means someone else told him. Tell us who it was, Walt."
And Walt did.
Chapter Nineteen
"I should have known," Burns said. "I can't believe I didn't figure it out."
"Don't blame yourself," Elaine said. "Besides, you could be wrong."
"I don't think so. I've been wrong all along, but this time I'm right."
Burns drove past the HGC library, turned into the drive, and pulled behind the building to the front of the boiler room. The door was open, and Burns could see Dirty Harry tipped back in his chair, his feet propped against the wall.
"I'm going to talk to him for a second," Burns said. "You wait here."
The old watchman was probably sound asleep, but that just made him all the more dangerous. If he were awakened suddenly, he might draw his pistol and pull the trigger before he knew what he was doing.
"Don't surprise him," Elaine said.
"I'll try not to," Burns told her, slamming the Plymouth door as hard as he could.
The noise echoed throughout the boiler room, and Dirty Harry sat upright, the legs of his chair banging on the floor. He looked around wildly, as if half-convinced that the boiler had exploded and sent him to heaven. Just in case it hadn't and that there was some other threat to his life, his hand scrabbled for the butt of his pistol.
"It's just me," Burns yelled. "Carl Burns."
Dirty Harry's eyes came to rest on Burns and he stopped fumbling for the sidearm.
"What do you want around here on a Sunday?" he asked. He laughed wheezily. "You come to smoke a cigarette?"
"I just wanted to talk," Burns said, entering the boiler room. "About the night Tom Henderson died."
Dirty Harry settled back into his chair. "Terrible thing. I've known Tom Henderson ever since he first came on this campus, nearly twenty years ago."
Burns a
greed that Henderson's death was a terrible thing.
"Where were you that night?" Burns asked.
"Wasn't night, exactly. Just gettin' on toward dark, is what it was."
"Right. But where were you?"
"Makin' my rounds," Dirty Harry said. "Same thing ever' day. 'Round about closin' time, I check all the buildin's, make sure what's supposed to be locked is locked and what's supposed to be open is open."
Burns had thought that was the case. He saw Dirty Harry nearly every Tuesday evening as the watchman went through Main on his rounds, shaking the door handles and peering into the locked offices.
"So you were in Main that night?"
"Wasn't night," Dirty Harry said. "It was evenin'."
"Evening. Right. Were you there?"
"Sure enough was. Always am, 'round that time."
Now came the part that Burns was guessing at. "And were you the one that some student sent to get Henderson's wife?"
"That's right. Sure hated to be the one to tell her. Known her long's I've known him."
"Did you tell her?"
Dirty Harry gave Burns a look. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, she teaches in the business building. Did you have any trouble finding her?"
Dirty Harry was getting suspicious. "How'd you know that?"
"I didn't know it for sure. I just thought that might be what happened."
"I don't see what difference it makes."
"No difference," Burns said. "I just wondered if she was in her office."
"Well, no. She wasn't there. But she came in right after I got there. Why?"
"It was just something I was wondering about," Burns said. "Was she carrying anything?"
"Just her book bag that I remember. She was real broke up when I told her about her husband."
"I'm not surprised. Well, that's all I wanted to know. Thanks for talking to me."
Burns turned to leave.
Dirty Harry called him. "Dr. Burns?"
Burns turned back. "What?"
"She's gonna catch y'all. You know that, don't you?"
"Who do you mean?"
"That new dean. She's gonna find out y'all are smokin' in here and there's gonna be hell to pay."
Burns thought it over. "You're not going to tell her are you?"
