FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “We went through this years ago, Daniel. You wanted to find him and I explained to you that your father did not want him found. David doesn’t want to be found. You’re the only one who seems to care where he is. Why would you bring this up now?”

  “Because Father has a right to see David before he dies.” Daniel rose and slammed his palms on his desk. Vickers strode around the office, speaking as if he were addressing a jury.

  “Right? What right? He doesn’t care; he’s not interested. You’re the only one who’s ever been at all concerned about what happened to David. David has shown no interest in contacting you. Maybe he’s not even alive. Have you ever thought of that?”

  “Yes, which makes it even more important that I find him. They call it closure, Harold. My father needs to know and he needs to know soon.” Daniel remained standing at the desk, staring at the attorney.

  “I think you’re totally misreading what will and what will not make your father’s death easier for him.”

  “I’m his son. I ought to know.” Vickers crossed to Daniel and put his hands of the young man’s shoulders. “Yes, but I’m his lawyer; I’ve known him longer than you have. Charles Bridgewater is not sentimental—with the exception, of course, for Elinore. That I never did figure out. As far as business goes, he’s as ruthless as they come. He will die peacefully because he knows he’s leaving the company in good hands—your hands. That’s all you need to worry about. Take care of the company and you’ll make your father’s last days happy. Don’t try to pull some crazy stunt that will just lead to heartbreak for him—and probably for you.” He walked back to the green leather chair in front of Daniel’s desk and sat.

  “It’s not a crazy stunt. Listen, Harold. I’m determined to do this whether you like it or not,” said Daniel, walking around his desk and sitting on the edge, where he spoke to Vickers in close face-to-face contact. “Knowles says Father doesn’t have long. I’d leave now and go out on my own to track him down, but I really feel I need to stay here and be close to Dad. I know you know people who can help me with this—who can investigate this discreetly. I’d appreciate you putting me in contact with one of them. Will you? Or will I have to go track down some fly-by-night PI on my own from the Yellow Pages?” He leaned over Vickers and stared until Vickers literally blinked.

  “Okay, okay, Daniel,” replied Vickers, breaking eye contact and forcing Daniel to stand and return to his desk chair. “If you are determined to pursue this little project, I’ll find you someone responsible and reliable.” He rubbed his palms together, shaking his head, “but I think this is extremely unwise. I want to go on the record.”

  “Consider it recorded, Harold,” replied Daniel, sitting in his desk chair. “Just send me an investigator I can trust. Now, have you seen Father today?

  “I have. I just came from the house.”

  “And?”

  “I agree with the doctor,” replied Vickers, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair. “He seemed in the worst shape I’ve seen him in ages.” His voice softened and he was noticeably pained to say this last item.

  “That bad?” Daniel slumped in his chair as he fixed his eyes on the man across from him.

  “Yes. I think he’s presenting you his best face.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “Consider it one of the obligations of parenthood.” Vickers set his jaw. Daniel was like a son.

  Daniel bent over his desk, head in hands. “What can I do to get him to relax?”

  “Daniel, I think if he relaxes, he’s gone. Let him have this—this desire to impress you. It’s keeping him alive. Oh, and a plan to get you married off to Margaret Millwood’s daughter.” He crossed his arms and gave Daniel a sideways smirk.

  Daniel looked over his shoulder. “Oh, no, not that again.” Then, looking directly at Vickers and then sideways at the album, he said, “Forget that. Just get me that investigator and quick.”

  Vickers started to say something, then nodded, and exited without a word. Daniel remained seated, head in hands. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and brought out his iPhone. Quickly he tapped in a number.

  “Hi, Sweet, how are you?” He listened for the answer which caused him to smile warmly. “He seemed better to me, but the doctor said he’s worse. Knowles says he doesn’t have much time left…. I don’t know….Father? He was very talkative … giving orders…running my life—just like normal. He’s planning to marry me off to some society woman’s daughter he knows. No? I thought you’d laugh at that.”

  While he listened in response to his call, Daniel leaned back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. He rocked the chair back and forth rhythmically as he responded with frequent “um’s” and “yes’s.” The intensity of the recent discussion with the lawyer had morphed into a gentle, chat.

  “Vickers was just here. He thinks Father is doing worse. I’m afraid I believe him. I have to believe what the doctor says. Anyway, I’m having Vickers get me an investigator—to find David. I know. It’s probably a hopeless cause, but I need to find him before Father dies.”

  Chapter 5

  Present --Sunday afternoon, December 16

  Silverton Hall was one of the tallest buildings on the Grace University campus, five stories. Rocky’s office was on the top floor. Just two buildings away from Pamela’s Blake Hall, home of the Psychology Department, Silverton housed the much larger English and Foreign Language Departments. As Pamela followed her husband in the side entrance, she found herself huffing to keep up with her mate.

  “Slow down, Rocky,” she panted.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, not missing a beat as he peered over his shoulder at her. “I thought you’d been working out at your gym. Weren’t you bragging the other day about the number of reps you could do or something?” He rounded the corner and entered the stairwell. The old building echoed. It was obviously quite deserted on a Sunday afternoon.

  “I am. I can,” she replied, following him as he easily took two steps at a time. “Jeez, Rocky! It’s not a contest.”

  “Okay, okay,” he answered, sighing and slowing noticeably as he backtracked and took her elbow in mock concern. “Do you need help, Grandma?” Pamela snatched her arm from him, annoyed. It was evident how Rocky stayed in shape even while eating his own marvelous cooking. If she had to trudge up and down five flights of stairs every day, she’d be in great form too.

  “Isn’t there an elevator in Silverton?” she asked, snarling and looking at him sideways.

  “Sure,” he responded, “at the other end of the building. I never use it.”

  “So I can tell.” She traipsed ever slower as they finally rounded the last landing before the final floor. She could see the hallway and the office doors ahead. She had been to Rocky’s office only a few times—as he had to hers. Their home was neutral ground, but she was well aware of much of what went on in the English Department as they enjoyed sharing tales of woe (and triumph) about their own academic areas.

  The couple walked about halfway down the main hallway and then turned down a long barren side hallway with a sign indicating “Faculty Offices, 520-530.” Rocky’s office was directly across the hall from Trudi Muldoon’s. Trudi was an Associate Professor and technically outranked Rocky, but the two were about the same age and had similar outlooks on life, so they frequently found themselves standing outside their office doors chatting.

  When Pamela and Rocky arrived at Trudi’s office, they could tell she was inside because her door was open and light spilled out into the hall. Rocky walked to the doorway and peeked inside. Pam remained behind him.

  Trudi Muldoon sat at her desk in the corner of the windowless room. Pamela noticed that Trudi had not decorated her office with much of anything except many bookshelves. There were several wooden chairs with arm rests stationed in front of Trudi’s desk. When she saw the couple in the door, Trudi immediately stood.

  “Rocky, Pam, come in,” she said, coming from behind her desk and ushering t
hem in. Trudi was a tall woman, flat-chested with a plain but friendly face. Her buck teeth were her most obvious feature along with a mop of flyaway brown hair. Her slightly oversized flowered dress did not coordinate at all well with her Oxford loafers.

  Rocky and Pamela entered, removed their winter jackets, and sat in the chairs in front of the desk. Trudi returned to the desk. “I wish I had something to offer you to drink. This all happened so fast and I’ve been sitting here waiting for them to finish and come back. Oh my God, I’m just a wreck.”

  “Where are they now?” asked Rocky, “The Police?”

  “I guess down in Ted’s office. It’s on the fourth floor,” she said.

  “Trudi,” began Pamela, “why did you get dragged down here anyway?”

  “Didn’t Rocky tell you?” said Trudi, “Ted was my doctoral advisee. I was his supervisor too. Actually, I was here working on a project when they showed up. Dr. Marbury told them I’d probably be here. They asked me just a few questions—I guess to make sure I knew Ted and then they went off to examine his office. They told me to stay here and they’d be back to ask me more questions.”

  “How long have you been waiting?” asked Pamela.

  “I don’t know, maybe an hour or more,” replied the woman behind the desk. She drew her hands to her chin and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Pam, I know you went through this last year—when you found Charlotte in your lab. Rocky told me all about it. I figured you’d understand what I’m feeling. I didn’t find Ted or see his body—like you did. But Ted’s my student—so we were quite close. Doctoral students become so tied to us. Like children. I just can’t believe this has happened.” She put her hands to her head and rubbed her temples as if doing so would relieve her distress.

  “Do you want me to go down there and see what’s happening?” asked Rocky.

  “No,” Trudi responded. “Just wait with me, will you?”

  “Of course, we will,” responded Pamela, as she reached over the desk and grabbed Trudi’s hand, the one she had just lowered from her face.

  “Trudi,” began Rocky, “do you have any knowledge that you think will help the police find Ted’s killer? I mean, did he have any enemies?”

  “Enemies?” asked Trudi, her eyes widening, her buck teeth protruding.

  “Surely, this wasn’t just a random killing,” added Pamela, “I understand someone actually shot him while he was on the radio.”

  “You’ve heard about it, then?” asked Trudi. She grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk and patted her eyes.

  “Actually,” said Rocky, “our daughter and her boyfriend were listening to KRDN at the time it happened. They didn’t know if it was real or a hoax. Our daughter told us about it this morning and then we turned on the radio and KRDN was reporting about the shooting on their news report.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Trudi, “It’s just awful. I can’t imagine why anyone would do this. I just can’t imagine.” She poked the tissue around the corner of each eye.

  “So, he didn’t have any enemies?” asked Pamela.

  “Pam, what enemies would he have? He was just a doctoral student in English. Really, he was kind of a loner—kind of kept to himself. But, a pleasant enough fellow. He was on assistantship.” One of Trudi’s large front teeth bit down over her lower lip.

  “A teaching assistantship?” asked Pamela.

  “That’s about the only kind we have in English,” Trudi replied. “He taught several sections of Freshman Comp—just like you Rocky.”

  “Maybe an irate student did this. Maybe it was some student he failed,” suggested Pamela.

  “Maybe,” said Trudi, nodding, her tousled hair flopping back and forth, “He spent most of his time working on his dissertation. He was ABD.”

  “All but dissertation. So, he was about done then,” said Rocky.

  “Well,” said Trudi, hesitating. “I wish that were true.” Her two large front teeth took turns gnawing on her lip.

  “What do you mean?” asked Pamela.

  “Oh, Pam, Rocky,” replied the tall woman, “I wish I could say he was close to finishing but he was struggling. I had high hopes for him originally. He breezed through his Master’s thesis with me. He’s a good writer and researcher. But somehow, he got started on this dissertation and it just wasn’t working out…”

  “How so?” asked Rocky.

  “He was doing an analytical study of the musicality in the poetry of Edgar Allen Poe—a very clever idea. It was a nice interdisciplinary effort. He had two committee members from the Music Department in addition to me and Dr. Allen and Dr. Hitchcock from our Department. Then, all of a sudden, a few months ago, he decided to trash this study that was—for all intents and purposes—finished, and start completely over with a creative dissertation.”

  “And by ‘creative’ you mean…” said Rocky.

  “I mean he intended to write his own creative work,” she replied, “a gothic novel in the style of Poe. Or more rightly, in the style of this modern ‘goth’ trend that seems to be everywhere—in the literature, music, dress—everywhere in modern culture.” She sighed and shook her head.

  “Did you approve of this change?” asked Pamela.

  “Of course not,” replied Trudi. “I told him it was foolish but he was insistent. He even produced several drafts. I went over the first draft and immediately sent it back to him with major criticisms. I told him—begged him--to return to his previous research topic. I warned him that he was jeopardizing his assistantship by making such a huge change in his dissertation so late in the process. Did he consider his committee? Did he realize that his assistantship couldn’t continue forever? Did he realize that starting from scratch would mean adding months if not years to his completion time? I made all these arguments, believe me.”

  “And still he insisted on writing this creative project,” said Rocky, with a hint of disdain.

  “Yes,” she replied, “and it seemed to take over his life. He started to change the way he dressed, his hair, everything. I mean, before, he was just a normal looking graduate student--if such an animal exists—jeans, sneakers, t-shirt. Then he started this goth novel thing, and he began to morph into his characters I guess. Heavy boots, long black pants and shirts. He wore this long black trench coat everywhere. And weird, scary designs all over it—like dragons and bats. His hair was a mess; he never combed it and—oh my god—eye liner. I know I’ve seen some males do that, but, believe me when a male you know all of a sudden shows up wearing it—it’s a shock.”

  “I know,” said Pamela, “my graduate assistant dresses somewhat in that style. But he’s incredibly conscientious. It doesn’t seem to affect his work ethic.”

  Rocky gave his wife a sideways glance.

  “The ultimate question, though, I guess,” said Rocky, “is what was the likelihood that he would have finished this creative work and earned his dissertation?”

  “I’ll let you decide,” replied Trudi, opening a drawer in her desk, removing a folder, and selecting a small stapled typed manuscript from inside. “Here.” She handed the article to Rocky. Pamela leaned close to her husband and looked over his shoulder as he read a paragraph from the paper aloud:

  “Swirling,

  Whirling

  The bloody vortex pulls me down

  Down to the eternal abyss

  Overhead

  The black vultures of death circle

  Watching

  Waiting

  To pick the flesh from my dissipated body

  Only my soul remains

  And that you have killed

  With your loveless eyes”

  Rocky put the paper on Trudi’s desk and shook his head.

  “Is that good poetry?” asked Pamela.

  “Not by my standards,” answered Trudi, “and unfortunately not by the standards of members of his committee. I tried to tell him that. He said he’d improve it. He did do some rewrites. But, Rocky, Pam, nothing really improved. This is about the best of it. And i
t’s generally awful. Just garbage. Six years. Six years of this young man’s life and all he had to show for it was this.”

  “You couldn’t talk him into going back to the other project?” asked Pamela.

  “I tried, Pam, but he was adamant. I had about reached the end of my ideas. I was going to have to tell him that I couldn’t approve his new dissertation proposal and that we were going to drop his assistantship—and he knew it.”

  “No more funding,” said Pamela.

  “Right,” said Trudi, “and once that happened, all he’d have to live on, as far as I know, would be that deejay job which is only four hours on Saturday. He couldn’t make much money from that.”

  “So, in a way, his murder solves the problem of funding,” said Rocky, looking at both women.

  “What would he have done without his assistantship?” asked Pamela. “Did he have family that would support him?”

  “As far as I know, there was no one. He was a loner. He never spoke about a family. He was very closed mouthed about his private life. I guess though, that the police will find out about that. Won’t they?”

  At that moment, a large man wearing a grey overcoat appeared in the door, followed by a uniformed police officer.

  “The police will find out about what?” he asked the threesome sitting in the small office.

  “Oh, Detective,” said Trudi, standing, “we were just wondering about Ted’s family. I don’t know if he had any relatives. This is my colleague Rocky Barnes and his wife—Pamela. This is the detective in charge of the investigation of Ted’s murder. Detective Shoop.”

  “Dr. Barnes and I have met,” said the tall man, entering a few steps into the office, eyeing Pamela with a frown, “We spent quite a bit of time together following the death of Charlotte Clark in the Psychology Department last year. Didn’t we? I’m delighted to finally meet your husband, Doctor.” He turned to Rocky and shook his hand. “You have my sympathies, Mr. Barnes,” he whispered as he bent towards Rocky.