Sounds of Murder Page 3

  “Did Dr. Marks remain in his office or did he also leave?”

  “As far as I know, he remained, although I don’t know for sure, because I started class almost immediately and when class was over, I went immediately to the lab when Kent called me.”

  “Yes,” said Shoop. “I see.” He jotted away in his small notebook.

  Now," said Shoop, his droopy eye lids crinkling, "back to your activities following your arrival at the building tonight. After you spoke to. . ." he trailed away, checking his notes, "Ottenback and overheard the conversation between Marks and Clark, then what did you do?"

  "Do?" she questioned. "As I told you, I went to my class, spent three hours teaching, and then a few minutes before nine I dismissed class. I asked Kent--he's my assistant, so he's used to running errands for me--I asked him to run down to the lab and make sure it was locked."

  "Why did you do that?" he queried. "Was there some reason you feared that it wouldn't be locked?"

  "No," Pamela hesitated, "but we’ve been warned lately from upper administration and from Dr. Marks to be ultra careful about lab security. The lab contains some extremely expensive equipment and it wouldn't take much for someone to steal it if the door was left unlocked."

  "Who, again, has keys?" Shoop asked.

  "Every faculty member has a key of their own. I assume Jane Marie, the departmental secretary, has a key--or at least access to one," she pondered. "A graduate student can check out a key when they’re conducting their own research or aiding a faculty member with research."

  "So, how many keys to the lab, would you say, are out there?" he asked directly.

  She thought, counting faculty, Jane Marie, and adding an extra few for graduate students. "I would guess that there are probably 15 or 20."

  "But you don't know for sure?"

  "No," she answered, "But Dr. Marks, the head of the department, could tell you that."

  "And I’ll be talking to him, you can be assured," noted Shoop. "Now, Ms. Barnes, please continue with your stor--your description of events."

  "I asked Kent to run down to check on the lab to be sure it was locked.," she said, "He did and as I was heading towards the exit, he came running toward me, horribly upset. I followed him to the lab and that's where we found Charlotte."

  Shoop bent forward on the sofa, looking at her pointedly.

  "Tell me precisely what you saw from the moment you entered the lab."

  "The door was open, as Kent told you. He went in and went straight to Computer Carrel #4 and I followed. As I rounded the first row of computers I could see a woman seated in the carrel, bent over the computer desk. I could see the glare from the computer screen so I assumed the person was working at the computer."

  "You say 'Computer Carrel #4,'" he stopped her. "Did you know the number of the carrel before you got there?"

  "Yes, actually. All the carrels in the first row are numbered. The computers in the first row have more technological features than those in the other rows. The department has subscriptions to several expensive online data bases, and faculty and graduate students can tap into those from any of the computers in the first row. Also, there are sophisticated recording capabilities in each of the first row computers--sensitive microphones and recording paraphernalia that don't exist on the other computers."

  "You mean," Shoop asked, "the computers in the first row can do things that the other computers can't?

  "Right," she said, smiling, now more in her area. "They can do things even our office computers can't do. That's why you’ll often find faculty working on the computers in the first row."

  "Did Charlotte Clark use these first row computers a lot?" he asked.

  "I’d assume she did; it was her lab," Pamela said, almost laughing.

  "Her lab?" he asked.

  "I mean, she shared it, but it was through her efforts and fame that we even had the lab," she said. "So, yes, Detective, in a way, it was her lab."

  "But, did you see her there, yourself, a lot?"

  "No," Pamela answered, "our schedules didn't cross much. I believe she tended to work at night. I usually do most of my lab work during the day."

  Shoop readjusted his position. He obviously was striving to become more comfortable. He pulled his large handkerchief from his pocket again and blew his nose, then rolled the cloth up tight and returned it to his pocket. Pamela sensed she was in for a much longer grilling.

  "Now, Ms. Barnes," he continued, "You say, Dr. Clark considered the lab her lab. Did anyone to your knowledge resent this?"

  Pamela laughed out loud at this. "Detective," she said, shaking her head, "You have to understand academics. They resent everything--particularly their colleagues who are more successful. Charlotte is—was--absolutely the most successful faculty member in this department, in, I would venture to say, the college, maybe even the University. She’d been interviewed on Oprah and the Today show. Her research was well-funded; some famous pharmaceutical companies were backing her research on drug addiction. She was the authority on teenage drug addiction--addiction of any sort. She made this department what it is. So, yes, there was resentment, but what you have to understand, is that there was also gratitude, because without Charlotte Clark, we wouldn’t have this amazing laboratory, and Charlotte was nothing if she wasn’t generous in allowing--no--encouraging her colleagues to make use of it. She even discussed outfitting the lab with each of us before it was built. She asked us what sort of features we each wanted in the lab for our own research before it was funded. I couldn’t do the type of research I do in the way I do it if it weren’t for Charlotte."

  "Yes," he said. "A wonderful benefactress. But someone killed her, Ms. Barnes. And it appears--at least from a cursory observation--that nothing was stolen, so why would anyone go into the lab, kill Charlotte Clark, and not take one piece of all that expensive equipment?"

  "I don't know," answered Pamela. "I just don't know."

  "Is it possible," he prompted, "that someone wanted her dead?"

  "I ... I ...suppose," stammered Pamela.

  "Can you think of anyone who might want that, Ms. Barnes?" he asked, snorting up another sniffle.

  "I can think of many people who were annoyed with her or resented her, but ---wanted her dead----no," she said, "I simply don't believe that anyone..."

  "Anyone in your department at least," he filled in.

  "Why would it have to be someone in our department?" she asked. "I mean, maybe she went into the lab, left the door open, and someone came in and killed her."

  "Some stranger who didn't know her or have any relationship with her, just happens in, strangles her to death, and leaves without taking anything," he said, his shaggy eye brows punctuating his point.

  "It does sound unlikely," said Pamela, weakly.

  “Tell me, Ms. Barnes,” he mused suddenly, “would Charlotte Clark—or any faculty member, for that matter—be likely to work in this expensive lab alone late at night—with the door wide open? Given your security concerns, is that likely? Or would it be more likely that she would lock herself in?”

  “Hmm,” said Pamela, “It’s hard to say. Charlotte is no shrinking violet, but she is very protective of the lab. I’d say she’d keep it locked when she was working late.”

  “And yet,” he noted, “when your assistant discovered her body, he says the lab door was open and the lights were on. If Dr. Clark was working in a locked lab, as you imagine she was, the killer would have had to have a key to gain entrance, no?”

  “I guess,” responded Pamela, “I just can’t imagine Charlotte working alone in the lab that late with the door wide open. It would just be inviting trouble.”

  "I think I’ve got enough for now, Ms. Barnes," Shoop said, suddenly, closing his notebook and sticking it back in his shirt pocket. "Should I have one of the detectives drive you home?"

  "No," she answered, "I'd really rather drive myself. I'll need my car tomorrow."

  "Fine," he noted, rising, grabbing his overcoat,
and heading towards the door. "I'll be downstairs in the lab, probably for several more hours, while the Crime Scene folks collect evidence. If you change your mind, just come by. I’ll want to talk to you again, I'm sure." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything--or anybody--that you didn't mention, please give me a call." He turned and loped down the hall.

  Pamela stood and watched him go. Then she sank back into her desk chair, shaking her head. This did not look good for the department—not at all.

  Chapter 4

  Pamela left her office and exited the building as quickly as she could. The Blake Hall parking lot was lit up like an airport runway. Several police vehicles, the coroner’s van, and other cars were parked helter-skelter, with their various lights blazing and blinking. Pamela almost ran to her car, covering her panting sounds as she quickly unlocked her door and jumped inside. It was hard to shut the door because of the wind, but she finally managed to get inside and start the motor--her fingers trembling badly. She carefully maneuvered her Civic into reverse and out of the small lot, being careful not to speed—not something easy for her. Wanting to get home as fast as she could, she still didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize her safety or cause her to risk breaking a law--however minor. She already had a few moving violations and tonight was not the time to acquire another.

  She drove slowly down the winding campus streets she knew so well. The old brick buildings with white wood trim, the towering white columns and the enormous elms and oaks, interspersed with magnolia and cypress always made the campus feel like a page from Civil War history. Here and there the streets and the sidewalks were cracked from years of wear and the many hurricanes whose remnants had managed to blow far enough north to reach their small town of Reardon. She passed the library—closed now after 11:00 p.m.—the largest structure on campus, right in the center of campus, with sidewalks jutting out from it at all angles, going to all the various different buildings that surrounded it. Although much of the campus was in disrepair, it still maintained its old Southern charm, Pamela thought, sort of the Blanche DuBois of the academic world. It was a deceptive look, however, because Grace University was a renowned research university which offered doctorates in five areas—although not in Psychology, her field, which offered Masters’ degrees only.

  As she left the campus grounds and headed onto Jackson Drive, Reardon’s main street, she noticed at once that there was hardly any traffic--not unusual for this late on a Tuesday night. Very few cars were on the streets. The whole place had a ghostly appearance—unlike the Blake Hall parking lot she had just left. She was not accustomed to driving this late at night. Her night vision was not good and she just didn't like driving at night--and alone--this night especially. With clear roads ahead, however, she picked up speed.

  As she passed Reardon’s downtown area, neon signs from some businesses twinkled on either side of the street. One side street, she knew, wound around behind the city square where the famous Reardon Coffee Factory was located. The Coffee Factory was actually a misnomer, because Romulus Reardon, the town’s founder, had established the business during the Civil War to produce coffee substitutes for the Confederate troops when real coffee became impossible to import due to Union blockades. His efforts had been so successful that his line of alternative coffee products made from beets, sweet potatoes, and other local produce now brought tourists from around the globe to the charming factory/restaurant. However, at this time of night, the Reardon Coffee Factory would have few patrons.

  Other than a few cars on Jackson, she saw no signs of life. Life, she thought--the life that had been snuffed out tonight. The life of someone she knew. And she’d seen the results personally. She couldn't help but replay the events of the preceding hours in her mind as she drove. Her foot pressed harder on the gas pedal and she drove instinctively.

  She couldn't stop the picture from forming in her mind. The picture of Charlotte--her body slumped over in the computer carrel, head lying askance, arms hanging loosely, and that power cord from the headphones wrapped sinuously like a giant snake around her neck. It was so gruesome. Charlotte’s eyes open, her skin just starting to turn a color Pamela couldn't and wouldn't want to describe.

  Suddenly she arrived at—almost ran through one of the dozen or so stoplights on her route. Hitting her brakes hard, her car reverberated from the effort. Sitting all alone at the light made her more frightened, even though her car doors were locked. She had a nagging sense that someone--maybe the murderer—no, that was ridiculous--but someone might leap out and force her to open the car door. The light changed to green and she breathed audibly. She thought suddenly, "If I hadn’t sent Kent back to check on the lab being locked for the night, he wouldn't have found Charlotte and I wouldn't have discovered her and called the police. I'd be home now, in bed asleep. Someone else would have discovered her body--probably tomorrow."

  She drove past her dog’s veterinarian, a friendly man who always made her smile and whom her poodle Candide genuinely seemed to enjoy visiting. Not so, "visiting" with Detective Shoop. Now there was someone who was all business. He seemed to have little concern for the trauma that she and Kent were experiencing and was only interested in wrenching as much information as he could from her before he felt compelled to excuse her. She knew he’d be back tomorrow and more interrogation would occur. If only she hadn't found the body. That meant more questioning.

  Now she was past the inhabited part of Reardon and headed out into the "boonies" where her house was located. The speed limit here was 50 and Pamela increased hers several miles an hour over that. She thought back to when she had arrived at the building tonight. Why couldn’t she remember? Were any of her colleagues there? She’d told Shoop that she didn’t see any faculty members in their offices—other than talking to Phineas and hearing Mitchell and Charlotte argue in Mitchell’s office. Was she right about that? Obviously, Phineas was there because she’d spoken to him. Oh, my God, could Phineas have finished his class early and gone down to the lab and found Charlotte there and killed her? He seemed all concerned about the Tenure Committee when she’d spoken to him earlier and Charlotte was the Chair of that committee. Maybe Charlotte threatened to prevent him from getting tenure. Surely, that wasn’t possible.

  Or could Mitchell have chased Charlotte down the hall after their fight, followed her into the lab and killed her? Charlotte had certainly reamed him out during that argument. What could they have been fighting about? It might have been something that Mitchell simply couldn’t stand and he felt obligated to do something about it—something like kill Charlotte. Oh, that was ridiculous.

  Of course, the person who killed Charlotte could have been someone from outside--someone they didn't know, maybe someone who wanted to steal some of the equipment in the lab. After all, that's why Mitchell was so paranoid about lab security. He obviously felt that the equipment in it was threatened. Well, Pamela thought, maybe Mitchell was right. Maybe, someone waited for Charlotte to open the lab, went in, strangled her, and then...stole something? Stole what? If something major had been taken, Pamela hadn't noticed. She supposed the thief could have taken some small items, but, for God's sake, why murder someone for petty theft? It was driving her crazy.

  Driving. Yes, driving. Just concentrate on driving. She was whizzing past fields now going around 70. This was the quieter part of her drive; she preferred this segment usually, but not tonight. It was too dark, too quiet. What if her car broke down out here? She started pondering again the events of the night. What had she seen when she entered the lab? What exactly did Charlotte look like? Charlotte was seated in Carrel #4, Pamela remembered. Was the computer screen on? Yes, she was sure of it. That meant that Charlotte must have been working on the computer, probably using the subscriber databases. What was she researching? Why would Charlotte have this horrendous fight with Mitchell and then run to the lab to do research? Did her computer research have something to do with Mitchell and their fight? That’s ridiculous. She was probably just
working on her addiction research. Pamela tried to remember what Charlotte was working on—what was on the computer screen. She simply couldn’t picture it and it was too late now to find out because Charlotte’s body had probably been removed and the police had no doubt checked the computer for evidence and turned it off. Oh, Charlotte was probably just doing her addiction research. For Pamela, it was hard enough keeping track of her own research much less remember what studies all her colleagues were doing too. It was unlikely that Charlotte was collecting her own data. She was probably doing some sort of background research for one of her projects. That would be why she was in the lab and not working in her office; she needed information from the online subscription databases. She tried to remember what was on the screen when she had found Charlotte’s body.

  Now on Pamela’s right was All America gym--where her daughter had studied gymnastics for many years when she was younger. Those were easier, happier days when Angie was in grade school; there was so much more drama now that Angie was a teenager. A few more blocks and she’d be home. Rocky would be there waiting for her. What would she say to him? When she’d called him earlier, she'd only told him that someone had died and that she’d be late. He must be crazy with worry. Oh, God, please, give her strength to get through this.

  A rabbit--no, a squirrel--bounded across the narrow road onto which she’d just turned off Jackson Drive. Pamela slammed the brakes suddenly. Her car screeched to a halt and her body lurched forward, straining at her seat belt. She paused a moment to catch her breath, then carefully, ever so carefully, started back on her way. There was much less light on these narrow residential streets and the last thing she wanted to do was hit something--like a family pet or—worse--a person.

  She thought back to Charlotte, slumped over. That power cord, dangling. The computer screen was lit up brightly, she was sure. What else? What else was Charlotte doing? Surely she wasn't recording; that wasn't something Charlotte typically did even though she could have recorded from the carrel she was in. And what did it matter what she was doing, thought Pamela. Why does what she was doing necessarily have anything to do with her murder? If the killer was a thief, he could have followed her into the lab and Charlotte was just in the way.