Death by Dissertation

by Dean James

  “Well, if it’s not the gorgeous Miss Maggie McLendon, the feminist hope for medieval history!” Charlie sneered. “And, Mississippi’s answer to Charles Homer Haskins, Andrew Carpenter. Shouldn’t you two be somewhere memorizing Pollock and Maitland?”

  At first I thought it was leftover spite that he hadn’t been able to expend on poor Dan that afternoon. But no, I decided, this was his normal, endearing personality.

  While Maggie rummaged in her mailbox and did her best to ignore him, I stifled a yawn and replied languidly, “Oh, I expect I’ll have it memorized about the same time you finish plagiarizing Sir Samuel Dill for your dissertation.”

  Maggie looked up, grinning, from the mailboxes. I laid my books on a table and poked my hand in my own mail cubbyhole.

  Charlie stared back at me, momentarily bereft of speech, a peculiar expression on his face. He looked almost disconcerted. I smiled smugly, congratulating myself.

  “Oh, come on, guys,” Rob said. “Not tonight, Mama’s got a headache.”

  Looking at the two of them, I wondered—not for the first time—how Rob could stand sharing living space with Charlie. Both came from good ol’ Southern families, like me. In temperament, however, they were very different. Rob, russet haired and green eyed, sported a trendy Van Dyke. Tall and well-built, he had a genial disposition that masked a volatile temper. That had always worried me, because I never knew when he might erupt. When he did, you’d better get out of the way. Charlie, dark and glowering, reminded me of childhood imaginings of a demon, though he, too, had an attractive face. His short, neatly trimmed beard contributed to the slightly demonic appearance that his acerbic nature indicated.

  What did Rob see in Charlie that the rest of us couldn’t? How did Rob manage to room with him without smacking him over the head twelve times a day? I hadn’t the foggiest notion.

  The Rob I had known had had difficulties dealing with a gay male friend, and I just couldn’t figure out his relationship with Charlie. Maybe after what I had seen that afternoon, they were a lot closer than I had expected. But that would mean Rob wasn’t straight after all, and past experience had taught me otherwise. Or maybe he had gone in the bookstore to buy a present for a gay or lesbian friend. I was thoroughly confused, and I resented Rob for making me feel this way. I avoided looking directly at him, and he ignored me.

  Deflated by my comment for only a moment, Charlie turned his attention to Maggie. “Well, what did you think of your favorite loony’s lecture tonight?”

  “That’s not fair,” she retorted. “It was an excellent lecture—what I could hear of it over your rude remarks, that is!”

  “Well,” Charlie drawled, his South Carolina background more evident in his voice, “she does manage to sound compos mentis in public, I grant you, but any scholar who thinks that Queen Victoria wrote pornography in her spare time just isn’t all there. The sooner she’s retired, the better off this department will be.” I considered intervening, but this was a fossilized bone of contention between Maggie and Charlie. Anyway, Charlie did have truth on his side—up to a point. Dr. Farrar was obsessed by the idea that the epitome of nineteenth-century virtuous repression wrote pornographic novels in secret. The professor even claimed that a duke of her acquaintance had shown her several examples of the queen’s literary ventures. She rather cannily refused ever to say just which duke, however. Charlie smirked while he watched Maggie struggle to reply.

  Ready to leave, I tugged on Maggie’s arm, pulling her toward the door. I gave in to impulse as I went out into the hall. “You really have to stop taking those lemon-juice enemas, Charlie. They’ve soured your whole disposition.” Rob’s unrestrained laughter mixed with Maggie’s as she and I headed for the elevator.

  On the way out to the commuters’ parking lot, I listened to Maggie’s complaints about Charlie. I nodded vaguely from time to time and let the words flow right past me. I’d heard pretty much the same lecture from her at least twice in the past two months. Her litany ended by the time we reached the parking lot, and I watched her drive off before I unlocked the door of my aging Plymouth. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized I had left my books in the grad lounge. Damn!

  Well, I wasn’t going back for them now. I’d retrieve them the next morning, though I hadn’t planned on spending much time on campus the following day. There went my schedule! I wouldn’t be able to stay at home and read. Since I lived close to campus, I was hoping I could get things done and not mess up my morning, after all.

  In about ten minutes I was home, parking my car in the driveway of a comfortable, if slightly shabby, duplex in the area of Houston known as Montrose. Situated roughly between the Rice University area, the ritzy River Oaks, and downtown Houston, Montrose was a convenient—and colorful—section to live in. Heavily populated by gay Houstonians, the area was much like any other residential section of Houston. In a city with deed restrictions but no zoning, you might see an adult bookstore or a topless bar across the street from your house. You might also find tree-shaded streets and plenty of attractively renovated houses. Apart from the fact that I didn’t feel like a minority in that part of town, I enjoyed living in Montrose, with its own character and eccentric charm.

  I shared one half of the duplex with another history graduate student, Larry Mitchell, straight and, thankfully, with no hang-ups about having a gay male roommate. He was off on a research trip to the Southern Historical Collection in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Rob and Charlie occupied the other half, a fact I tried to ignore. In the two months Rob had lived there, he stayed out of my way.

  Once inside the front door, I leafed through the mail and found the new issue of the Medieval Quarterly. I scanned the contents, noting with some surprise that Julian Whitelock had published an article, his first one in years. I was curious, especially in light of what had transpired in that afternoon’s seminar, but I decided I could wait until the next day to explore the delights of “The Role of the Bishop in Merovingian Gaul.”

  I dropped the journal on a table in the living room and sat on the ratty old couch. Most of the furniture was courtesy of the Salvation Army sale room—all a little worn, but still serviceable and sometimes comfortable.

  I wasn’t in the mood for serious historical prose, and besides, the books I needed were still on campus. I decided to devour a treat I had picked up earlier in the week at Murder by the Book, the specialty mystery bookstore in Houston. I had a date with a Margery Allingham novel I’d never read; Whitelock and his bishops weren’t going anywhere. Murder always seemed like a relaxing alternative to graduate school.

  Some hours later, tired but still laughing at Campion and Lugg, I put down my book and stumbled off to bed.

  ***

  The alarm went off at a disgustingly early hour, six-thirty. At the best of times, I was not a morning person, but I usually forced myself to get up and get going. If I stuck to my schedule, I got things done. I stumbled into the shower, luxuriated in the hot water for ten minutes, then reluctantly got out. Soon after, dry, wearing underwear, and nearly awake, I went downstairs for my breakfast, a can of Diet Coke and three prefab sausage biscuits.

  When the food was warmed by the microwave, I went back upstairs to my bedroom. I switched on the TV just in time to catch the opening sequence to “Bewitched.” I waited anxiously as the scenario unfolded. As soon as Marion Lome appeared, I relaxed. Any episode with Aunt Clara automatically meant a good one.

  I dressed quickly over the closing credits of the show. If I hustled, I could get to the library when it opened at 7:45, retrieve my books from the grad student lounge, and return in time for the next episode of “Bewitched” on another of the cable channels. Then, I could get to work and not be cranky all day.

  On campus in record time, I kept a close eye on my watch. I walked up to the front door of the library, and thankfully for my peace of mind, the person who opened the library was right on time. I scurried inside and to the elevator. The clock on the fifth floor read 7:48 as I step
ped out. I turned down the corridor toward the grad lounge, and as I approached, I could see the door ajar, but the light inside the room was off. Consuelo, the cleaning woman, seemed to be behind on her normal routine. The door was usually wide open and the light on by the time the building was unlocked.

  I pushed the door open and flipped the light switch. As my eyes adjusted to the bright light, I saw my books still on the table in the corner where I had left them. Straight ahead of me was another table which held a small statue and a thick book with a familiar symbol emblazoned on its spine. Could it be?

  Momentarily distracted from my goal, I stepped closer to examine the book. Yes, it was the one I had been looking for earlier in the week, Sir Frank Stenton’s Anglo-Saxon England. The library’s online catalog had informed me that the book was checked out, but not, of course, who had it. Maybe I could leave a note inside the book, and the current user would let me have it soon. Stenton’s book, otherwise known as the bible on Anglo-Saxon England, was at the top of my reading list.

  As I reached toward the book, my gaze skittered to the right, and I noticed a man, his back turned to me, asleep on the vinyl-upholstered couch. Hesitating over the book, I decided to turn off the light and grab up my books as quietly as I could, but something about the man’s position didn’t look quite right. His head was bent forward at a strange angle, so I stepped closer to investigate.

  When I stood over him, I saw what I hadn’t been able to see before. The back of the man’s head was matted with blood. The length and thickness of his hair had kept the blood from dripping off the couch onto the floor. Instead, the blood had collected in a small dark pool beneath his head. As I touched the body, which by now I realized was lifeless, I recognized him.

  Someone had bashed in Charlie Harper’s head.

  Chapter Four

  Just the day before, Charlie had joked that somebody would murder Julian Whitelock. Now Charlie was dead.

  Or was he? I had to make sure. I moved a little closer. Bent over him, I stood irresolute for a moment, then my stomach started doing somersaults. Yes, Charlie was dead—he wasn’t breathing. Eyes riveted upon the body, I took a step away from the couch, willing myself not to throw up all over the floor. I had to get out.

  I sensed a rush of movement behind me. Before I could turn, hands hit me hard in the lower back and I was pushed against the couch. Struggling to avoid falling on the body, I grabbed the couch with both hands, but my momentum was such that I couldn’t avoid bumping the side of my head against the wall. At least I didn’t break my glasses. They were knocked only slightly askew.

  As I tried to maintain my balance over Charlie’s body, I turned my ringing head to catch a glimpse of the person who had pushed me, but no one was there. Then I heard the click of a door—probably the door to the stairway across the hall.

  My head began to ache from the force of the impact. Who could have been hiding in the room? I backed away from the couch, noticing that the commotion had caused Charlie’s body to roll farther into the couch. Hearing a faint sound, I turned to find Consuelo right behind me. Small and plump, her hair an improbable shade of blonde, she stared in wide-eyed surprise at the congealed blood and the body on the couch, while I took several deep breaths to steady my jangled nerves.

  “Que has hecho, Andy?” Her English normally was good, but in times of stress, she turned to her native tongue. Now her face was pale, and she looked at me with suspicion. For a crazy moment, I felt like laughing. Charlie had pissed me off plenty of times, but I invariably chose verbal, not physical, retaliation.

  I answered Consuelo, without thinking, in Spanish. "No he hecho nada, Consuelo.” To reassure the woman, I asserted again in English, “I didn’t do anything. Someone else did this. Did you see anyone running out of this room just before you came in?” As I spoke, I herded her into the hall and pulled the door almost shut behind us. I wanted to get away from the horror on the couch.

  “No, but I think the stairway door slammed when I came around the corner,” she replied, her words slow and considered. “Was there somebody here when you came in?” She looked relieved at my claim to innocence.

  I nodded as I rubbed the small of my back. “While I was bending over to see who the... body was, someone came from behind and pushed me. By the time I turned around, whoever it was had gone—probably down the stairs. He’s out of the building by now, or else hiding somewhere in the stacks.” The whole incident puzzled me, now that I had the chance to think about it with a head that no longer rang. “I suppose it could have been the person who killed Charlie”—my stomach flip-flopped again at the thought—“but it looks to me like Charlie’s been... dead... for several hours at least. The, uh, body was cold.” I shuddered at the thought of having touched his body.

  “Charlie? Charlie Harper?” Consuelo asked sharply, then muttered something in Spanish which I didn’t completely catch. The word I did hear sounded like one of the vulgar ones that could have gotten my high school Spanish teacher into trouble for teaching us.

  “Why didn’t you find the body when you cleaned in there this morning?” I asked.

  She looked at me with suspicion, as if my question contained some sort of trap. “I didn’t clean in there yet. I was running late this morning because my husband forgot to set the alarm clock.”

  “Then I guess Charlie has been here since last night.”

  “I’ll go call the campus police,” she offered.

  As Consuelo departed, I remembered something I had seen just before she startled me. I wanted to examine the room again before anyone else appeared. I opened the door carefully, trying to avoid smudging possible prints.

  What had to be the murder weapon stood on a table directly across the room from the door: a small but heavy brass statue of a slender young man, fashioned to commemorate a fund established by the family of a graduate student killed in a car accident several years before.

  Resisting the urge to throw up, I didn’t look at the dead thing that used to be Charlie. Instead, I stared down at the table and the statue upon it. I frowned; something didn’t seem right. What was I missing? I saw as I went closer to the statue that a few strands of brown hair were caught in the nameplate on its base. The plate was fastened with small brass nails, and it was around one of these that the hairs had caught. I stared at the hairs briefly before my feet started itching to get out. As my mother might have said, my head knew better but my feet couldn’t stand it. I backed out of the room, pulling the door, once again, almost shut. My natural nosiness had had enough of the scene of the crime.

  As I looked up from my uneasy guard post at the door, two campus security officers came hurrying down the hall toward me.

  “You the one found the body?” The short man, balding and fortyish, barked the words at me.

  The officer’s taller companion said, “I’m Porter, and this here’s Quigley. Where’s the body?”

  “In here.” Indicating the door, I stood aside to let them enter. Though I introduced myself, they didn’t appear interested in me. I trailed into the room behind them.

  The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the body. After a moment, Porter turned a stunned face toward me. “You know this guy?”

  I nodded. “Charlie Harper—one of the graduate students in the history department.”

  “The investigator who’ll handle this is on the way. As soon as he gets here, he’ll want to talk to you. I think it’d be better if you wait somewhere else. Someone will come and get you.”

  “Right,” I answered with some relief. “I’ll be in the history department office.” I left the two of them whispering in front of the door.

  Stopping short, I groaned. My books were still in the grad lounge! Who knew when I’d be able to get them? Well, there went part of my reading program for the semester. Not to mention my morning schedule.

  Then I was ashamed of myself. Charlie had been murdered, and I was worried about getting behind on my reading. But it just showed how self-
involved one could become in graduate school. Any number of professors in the department might think that the sun rose out of a certain part of their anatomy, but that was their delusion. A murder in their midst would shake things up a little, though I doubted some of them would even notice. After all, it was only a graduate student who had been killed.

  Charlie might have been a colossal pain in the neck when he was alive, but that didn’t mean we could shrug his death aside as if it didn’t affect us. He had probably been killed by someone we all knew, and that was frightening. And that thought ought to shake up even the most self-absorbed in our midst. Suddenly, I was very angry. Charlie had been irritating, and perhaps even malicious, but I couldn’t think that he had deserved murder.

  Still deep in thought, I collided with someone as I turned the corner of the hallway.

  “Andy, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where you were going,” Maggie growled as she backed away, holding an armful of books. Like me, Maggie was not a morning person. Her natural charm didn’t surface until at least 10:00 A.M. “Are you okay?” she asked in a tone that warned me I had better say yes.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” Then I spoke before I thought about it. “Especially considering I just discovered a dead body.”

  Whoosh! Maggie’s books hit the floor.

  “Sorry,” I said sheepishly as I stooped to help her gather them together.

  “Honestly, Andy, you and your sense of humor.” She glared at me. Uncomfortable now, I shook my head.

  “That wasn’t intended to be a joke. I wasn’t thinking too clearly when I told you that, but it’s the truth.”

  Her big eyes got bigger, and she leaned against the wall to steady herself. “Oh, no!” she said, the fear raw in her voice. “Who?”

  “Charlie.” I reached out, just in case, to catch the cascade of books I was anticipating, but Maggie kept a tight grip on them.