Death by Dissertation

by Dean James

  Whitelock certainly had the nerve to brazen it out. The man’s upbringing had given him an aristocratic bearing and supercilious mannerisms. I could see him remaining coolly superior while Charlie just got more and more steamed.

  Rob kept talking. “Whitelock had the nerve to threaten not to approve Charlie’s dissertation and have him kicked out of school if Charlie persisted in such wild accusations.”

  “Geez,” I said, “no wonder Charlie was upset. I’d’ve been ready to start ripping the hair off his head at that point.”

  “Me, too,” Rob responded, “but Charlie had something else in mind. He realized that Whitelock was going to try to outbluff him, so he tried threatening him another way. I know he added some things to the paper he was working on recently, to contradict Whitelock and make him look like a fool. That was in between the time he talked to Whitelock and the time of our seminar.” He frowned. “After Charlie told me that much, he got real vague, but he hinted that he knew things about Whitelock that Whitelock didn’t want getting around to people in the history department or the university administration. I tried to get him to explain what he was talking about, but he wouldn’t. I finally gave up and left him there in the grad lounge a little after ten. When I looked back, before I went out the door, he was reaching for the phone. I don’t know who he was going to call.”

  Wearily, Rob rubbed his eyes. “I stayed up pretty late that night reading, well past midnight, and I never heard Charlie come home. And I thought yesterday morning, when I got up and didn’t see any sign of him in the apartment, that he had hidden in the library overnight. Sometimes he did, since he thought campus security was such a joke. I never imagined... well, you know.”

  I laid my hand lightly on his arm. “If Whitelock killed him over this, he’ll be found out and punished for what he did.”

  Rob raised his head to look at me. “I hope so,” he replied softly. “Heaven knows Charlie could be a colossal prick, but he didn’t deserve this.”

  “No, he didn’t,” I said quietly. “I wonder, though, what led Whitelock to steal the paper in the first place. He’s tenured, and it would take an earthquake or a major scandal to get rid of him. His position is about as secure as it can be. After all, he’s the big name in this country in Frankish history. Why would he want to steal Charlie’s work?”

  “Charlie said Whitelock hasn’t published anything but book reviews for nearly ten years now—no books or articles. He thought Whitelock was desperate to demonstrate to the rest of the history department that he was still capable of doing publishable work. Maybe he needed to boost his ego. ” Rob rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly. “Also, it wouldn’t hurt when it came time to talk about salary increases. Charlie found out somehow that Whitelock hasn’t had anything more than the lowest possible raise for five or six years. I guess he went through Whitelock’s drawers that time he was house-sitting for him. I wouldn’t have put it past him, frankly. I told you he had an insatiable curiosity about other people. I doubt Whitelock’s privacy meant very much to Charlie, given the evidence of those videotapes.” He expelled a heavy sigh. “I’m getting a little sidetracked. I suppose the simplest answer to your question would be money and respect.”

  I was quick to agree. In the rarified atmosphere of the academic world, where the monetary stakes were small, reputation counted for a lot. Someone as egocentric as Julian Whitelock might not balk at a little intellectual theft to bolster a stale or expiring reputation.

  Rob shook the copy of Charlie’s paper, which he had taken from my hand. “Now, with this, I can nail Whitelock’s ass to the wall, and he can’t squirm away from it.”

  “Are you ready to call the police?” I asked, moving toward the phone.

  “No!” He looked earnestly at me. “I think we should give Whitelock a chance to explain first, as much as I’d like to dump all this on the police right away.” He waved his right hand in the air. “Call it some atavistic notion of ‘fair play,’ but I don’t think I can turn over the tapes without talking to him first, even if... even if he did kill Charlie.”

  “We’ll probably get into a lot of trouble for interfering, but I agree with you.”

  “Good.” Rob stood up, looking at his watch. “It’s about ten minutes till one. Whitelock ought to be in his office this afternoon.” He moved toward the door.

  “Wait!” I said. “You’d better call Azalea first to make an appointment. You know how Whitelock is.”

  Rob’s nostrils flared in annoyance. “You’re right. If I just burst in on him, he’ll get huffy and not talk to me, unless I insist and make a scene.” He picked up the phone and punched in the number of the history department office. After a few seconds, he said, “Hello, Azalea, this is Rob Hayward. I was wondering, does Dr. Whitelock have any free time this afternoon? I need to talk to him. It’s important.” He waited a moment, glanced at his watch, then responded, “Thank you. One-thirty is fine.” He hung up.

  “Do you want me to go with you for moral support?” I offered. “He might find it more difficult to deny if there are two of us.”

  Rob hesitated, obviously tempted. “No,” he said. “If we’re wrong, and this has nothing to do with the murder, I don’t want him to have any reason to be vindictive toward you. No reason to drop both of us into the shit, if we can avoid it.”

  Reluctantly, I had to concede that this was true, and since Rob remained adamant, I decided to stay at home.

  “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he promised. He glanced at his watch again. “Got to hurry.” As he reached the front door, the doorbell rang. Rob, startled, swung open the door. “Lord, Maggie, I forgot,” he apologized as she stepped inside.

  “Forgot what?” I asked, coming up beside him and smiling a greeting to her.

  Rob turned to me, shaking his head. “I talked to Maggie earlier, and she said she wanted to help us. I asked her to come over this afternoon. You’ll fill her in while I’m gone, won’t you?" Without waiting for a response, he was out the door.

  I waved Maggie inside. “I guess I will, then.”

  She settled in the room’s one comfortable chair, a worn leather armchair in which I did most of my reading. Crossing her jean-clad legs, she eyed me warmly and said, “Before you launch into your explanation, I just wanted to tell you how happy I am to see you and Rob still talking today. I know this can’t be easy for you, but I admire you for putting old feelings aside and standing by him.”

  “Despite what Rob may have done in the past, I can’t believe he’s capable of killing Charlie,” I told her, suppressing my own doubts from earlier in the day. I still couldn’t decide whether to force the issue with Rob over his relationship with Charlie. Could they have been lovers, if not recently, at some point in the past?

  I also didn’t want to analyze all my motives for wanting to know the answer to that question. I refused to think that jealousy had any part in it. That would be too twisted, even for my sometimes tortured psyche.

  “Good,” Maggie said, then returned to more pressing matters. “Rob told me quite a bit this morning on the phone. What’s this about videotapes?”

  Grimacing, I made myself comfortable on the couch and began my recital. Throughout, Maggie listened with a look of intense concentration, her green eyes gleaming.

  As I wrapped up all that Rob and I knew or suspected, the phone rang, startling us. I got up to answer it, glancing at my watch. Maggie and I had been talking for about an hour; it was a couple minutes shy of two o’clock.

  Rob’s agitated voice rushed into my ear as I picked up the receiver. “Andy, it’s me. I’ll be there in a few minutes to explain, but I’ve already called Lieutenant Herrera and asked him to meet me at your place. We don’t have to look any further for the murderer.” He hung up abruptly, leaving me staring blankly at the receiver in my hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maggie jumped up from her chair when I turned toward her. “What is it?” she cried. “Is Rob okay?”

  No, I wanted to sa
y as I hung up the phone. I think he’s gone completely round the bend. Instead, I nodded. “I guess. He said we don’t have to look any further for the murderer. He also said he’s asked Lieutenant Herrera to meet him here.”

  She sank down into her chair, one hand twisting the hem of her floppy football jersey into a knot at her side. “What on earth does he mean? Surely you don’t think Julian Whitelock actually confessed to him?”

  I had to laugh as I resumed my own seat. “Do you really think Whitelock, suddenly stricken with remorse, would just confess to Rob? Even if he is the murderer?”

  When Maggie looked at me, I felt the icicles forming down my back. Then she relented. “You’re right, of course. Whitelock wouldn’t give in to even Attila the Hun that easily.”

  “Whitelock probably made him angry, and now Rob’s convinced he’s the killer and is ready to turn the tapes over to the police.” I hoped that was all it was and that Rob hadn’t done something rash. His temper had gotten him into hot water on more than one occasion. I didn’t want to dwell on that at the moment, though.

  Barely ten minutes later, after Maggie and I had picked it over to the point that we were going to argue, the front door opened and Rob rushed in. He must have caught every light green to get there so fast.

  Before he could say a word, Maggie patted a place on the couch beside her and said, “Sit down and tell us what happened.”

  “Geez, that smarmy bastard!” he said. “I came close to smashing his face with that ridiculous ashtray he’s got on his desk.”

  Rob’s teeth clenched as he described the scene. I gave silent thanks that he had refrained from his impulse. The ashtray he was talking about was made of clear glass and was big enough for a duck to take a bath in.

  “Calm down a little, Rob,” Maggie said. “It’s a wonder the top of your head doesn’t come off. I can practically see steam coming out of your ears.”

  “All thanks to him.” Rob spat the words out.

  The doorbell rang, and he went still and pale. I got up and opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter,” Herrera said, stepping into the short hallway. As I nodded in welcome, my throat suddenly raw, he continued, “Is Rob Hayward here?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. We’re all right in here.” I led the way into the living room.

  Herrera pulled up short upon seeing Maggie. She stood and thrust out her hand, introducing herself. He seemed reluctant to turn her hand loose, but then he recalled himself to the business at hand. He was so obviously annoyed with Rob, he just plunged ahead.

  “Do you mind explaining, Mr. Hayward, what that phone call was about? And why you couldn’t talk to me on campus instead of here?” He looked over the room for somewhere to sit. Locating the rickety folding chair we kept around for extra company, he opened it up and sat down. The rest of us resumed our seats.

  Herrera’s lace seemed to darken by the second, as we all waited for Rob to reply. Maggie was watching the lieutenant with great fascination, but then her gaze shifted to Rob. She was about to say something, which I didn’t think would be a good idea, when Rob finally spoke.

  “I apologize for calling you like that, Lieutenant, but I believe we’ve uncovered some significant evidence that you should know about. And the evidence is here, not on campus.” Rob’s voice betrayed his nervousness.

  Herrera smiled at him, and Maggie and I shared an uneasy glance. How should we interpret that smile? Something about his air of barely controlled patience was disturbing.

  “That’s okay, Mr. Hayward,” the lieutenant said. “If what you have to say is as important to the case as you told me, then I don’t mind.” But get on with it, the tone of his voice seemed to be saying.

  Rob reached over to retrieve the videotape and my copy of Charlie’s paper from the table beside the couch, where he had left them earlier.

  “These,” he said, offering them to Herrera, “are proof that Julian Whitelock, Charlie’s major professor, had the motive to kill him.”

  “What are these supposed to mean?” Herrera asked in puzzled irritation.

  Rob scrunched back into the couch and looked at the lieutenant defiantly. “That videotape, and at least one other that I found, show Julian Whitelock having kinky sex with a woman. Or women—I couldn’t tell how many. Charlie had the tapes. He wrote that paper for a class, and Whitelock had it published under his own name in an academic journal.”

  The lieutenant’s response, logical as it might have been, was what I had dreaded. “Just where did the videotapes come from, and how did you know what was on them?”

  Rob seemed to shrink a little more into the couch, and I probably did the same in my chair. “Well,” he said, his voice rising, “the videotapes were Charlie’s. I didn’t know what was on them, but after looking at the labels, I realized there was something strange about them.”

  “What was that?” Herrera prompted.

  “Charlie was a movie buff, but he didn’t like much made past 1960. He loved the old screwball comedies—you know, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Irene Dunne movies, that kind of thing.” Rob leaned forward, gaining a little more confidence as he talked. “There were two tapes in his collection labeled with the names of movies I knew he’d never have: Conan the Barbarian and Predator. He hated Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. Someone who didn’t know Charlie as well as I did, though, wouldn’t see anything strange about them.”

  Eyes narrowed in thought, Herrera nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “But what made you take such a close look at these tapes? Did you expect to find something like this?”

  Rob breathed deeply, and he didn’t sink farther into the couch, the way I expected. “I was kind of out of it last night, when my place was broken into. Did the Houston police report that to you?”

  Herrera nodded curtly.

  “I discovered this morning, while I was trying to clean up, that the intruder had gone through the tapes, among other things. And while I was replacing them on the shelves, I noticed the two. The more I thought about it, the more I realized something was fishy about them. Then I popped one into the VCR.”

  “Okay,” Herrera said, the clipped tone making me want to squirm. “I’d like to take a quick look at this tape. Do you mind?”

  Rob stood up quickly. “No, of course not, but why don’t you come over to my place and use that VCR? The rest of Charlie’s tapes are there.” He headed for the door, Herrera on his heels.

  Maggie and I sat there, neither of us eager to talk, for once.

  In ten minutes, Rob and the lieutenant returned. If anything, Herrera’s face appeared even darker with emotion than before. But what emotion was it? Anger? Or something more complicated? Was he going to relinquish Rob as his chief suspect? “These tapes are going to require some investigation, Mr. Hayward.”

  “They’re all yours, Lieutenant,” Rob said, relieved that Herrera was going to take the tapes seriously.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Herrera asked sardonically. From the look on his face, I knew Rob was tempted to make some smart remark to get a rise from the lieutenant, but he just shook his head and held his tongue.

  Herrera bade us good afternoon, lingering slightly when he looked at Maggie, and then he was gone. I closed the front door and returned to find Maggie and Rob, glum and silent, sitting on the couch.

  “Come on, you two,” I said, trying to sound jocular. “Lighten up. It could have been worse.”

  “Thank God that's over,” Rob replied, shooting me a sour look.

  “Amen,” I said, dropping into my chair.

  “I still want to know,” Maggie announced, “what Whitelock said to you.”

  “Oh, no,” I groaned, and the other two turned startled faces toward me. “Rob, you forgot to tell Herrera that you confronted Whitelock today.”

  “No, I didn’t, Andy. I told him just now, while we were over at my place. He wasn’t thrilled with what I had done, I can tell you. That’s why he asked if I had anything else to tell
him.”

  “Whew. That’s something, at least.” Having those tapes out of our hands was a great relief. I got comfortable in my chair and waved at Maggie. “Proceed.”

  She gave me one of her looks before turning to Rob. “What did Whitelock say this afternoon?” she repeated.

  “Not much.” Rob snorted, angry again. “He had the nerve to deny everything... until I mentioned that I just happened to have evidence of his various indiscretions. He squirmed a little then, but that man is cool. He gave me the same spiel he must have given Charlie and tried to brush me off like I was a pesky fly. He didn’t even deign to inquire what kind of evidence I had. And I figure I might as well drop his seminar tomorrow, because I have a snowball’s chance of making a decent grade now.”

  Turned sideways on the couch next to Rob, Maggie sagged, her mouth hanging open. “The man must have ice water in his veins. How could he just sit there like that when you practically accused him of murder?”

  Rob shrugged. “Maybe that’s the way it works when you can trace your family tree back to one of Charlemagne’s slutty daughters.”

  We all laughed. Whitelock liked to tell people that he was interested in Frankish history because his lineage could be traced to Charlemagne’s court. He took for granted the fact that most of his listeners didn’t know enough about Frankish history to know the stories about Charlemagne’s daughters.

  “He didn’t want to give an inch,” Rob continued, “but he let me know right quick that I’d better not try to blackmail him with this ‘preposterous taradiddle,’ or he’d see that I was asked to leave the graduate program. Obviously I had been ‘unhinged’ by the death of my ‘paramour’ and needed help.” Rob’s voice gave emphasis to the words which only Whitelock would have used in this situation. “Obviously he thought Charlie and I were lovers, simply because we were roommates and he knew Charlie was gay.”