Voice Mail Murder Page 8

  “Had you ever met Coach Croft, Dr. Goodman?” asked Jane Marie, looking up from her work.

  “No,” said Bob Goodman, “I’d never met the man . . . but I have met the young fellow who is apparently taking his place—this Jeff Dooley.”

  “The assistant coach?” asked Pamela.

  “Yes,” he continued. “We served together on the Academic Probation Committee for several years. A nice young man. Looks like he’ll take over officially for the Coach, doesn’t it?”

  “He did win the game,” said Pamela. “That seems like a good first step in becoming the Coach’s replacement.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Jane Marie.

  “Did this Dooley ever say anything about the Coach?” Pamela directed this question to Bob.

  “Oh, you mean, about . . . women?” Bob queried cautiously. “I’m trying to think. He was certainly very open and chatty about things going on in Athletics. Maybe a disparaging remark or two about the Coach from time to time, but nothing mean-spirited or on a regular basis. I don’t recall him ever suggesting that there was any hanky-panky going on.”

  “But now with the Coach out of the picture,” said Pamela, “he suddenly becomes Head Coach. One might consider that a motive for murder.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Bob, “but the Administration could bring in someone from the outside. Just because the Coach is gone doesn’t mean Dooley automatically gets the job.”

  “But his chances are greater now,” she said, “don’t you think?”

  “Pamela,” sighed Bob, “I think all your work for the local police has colored your outlook of the world.”

  “Probably,” she confirmed, wishing he weren’t so right in his observation.

  “I’ve got to get back to Bailey,” he said abruptly, turning to go. “You can’t leave that monkey alone for more than a few minutes or she gets as angry as a hornet!” He waved briefly at the women as he walked out at a fast clip.

  When the two women were alone, Pamela sat back down next to Jane Marie and scooted closer.

  “Jane Marie,” she whispered. “Mitchell says that the Coach’s oldest daughter is a student at Grace.”

  “I believe he did,” responded the secretary, also whispering. “What are you thinking?”

  “I guess I’m thinking of suspects,” said Pamela.

  “Suspects?”

  “You know, anybody who knew the Coach—anybody who the police are questioning. Who might those people be?“

  Jane Marie’s eyes widened. She obviously enjoyed helping Pamela with her various criminal investigations.

  “There would be the wife—first of all,” noted Jane Marie, “but Mrs. Croft is handicapped, remember! Dr. Marks said she’s in a wheel -chair.”

  “So he says,” agreed Pamela. “Or is that what she wants people to think?”

  “Surely, Dr. Barnes,” exclaimed the woman, “you don’t suspect his wife! She has multiple sclerosis!”

  “I know. I know,” agreed Pamela. “I’m just trying to consider all possibilities. The wife, the secretary, the assistant coach, the daughters.”

  “Dr. Barnes,” interrupted Jane Marie, “the Coach’s daughters are young. One is still in high school.”

  “And teenagers never commit murder?” asked Pamela.

  “No, but I can’t imagine either of his daughters would follow their father to a motel and stab him in the back.”

  “If he was cheating on their invalid mother?”

  “I don’t know . . .” she whined, bending over her monitor, green eyes flashing. “It doesn’t seem possible . . .”

  “Maybe not,” agreed Pamela, “but I’m going to look into it anyway. Can you check on the oldest daughter?”

  “You mean in the student records?” asked Jane Marie. Pamela nodded. All administrative assistants in all departments were able to access student records from their desktop computers. This way they could easily track students majoring in their area and make adjustments to their schedules when necessary. Jane Marie clicked a few buttons on her keyboard and soon the University’s mainframe computer database was displayed. A few more clicks, and Pamela saw on screen the data for student “Elizabeth Croft—senior in Nursing.”

  “She’s a nursing major,” noted Pamela.

  “Yes,” agreed Jane Marie. “She’s graduating this year. Wow, she’s got a 3.922 GPA. That’s really good for Nursing. That’s a stiff program.”

  “I know,” mused Pamela. She knew Nursing was a hard major and she’d seen many students drop out of the program due to the intense requirements of the field. A nurse—or a student majoring in nursing—would know about the workings of the human body and exactly where a person would have to be stabbed for a wound to be mortal. She wondered if this would be something that a daughter would—or could—ever contemplate about her own father. She resolved to find out more about the Coach’s family—particularly, his eldest daughter.

  Chapter Twelve

  As she rounded the corner of the second floor of Blake Hall, she peeked into Willard Swinton’s office next to hers. Willard was at his desk talking to a student. The professor and his protégé were intently involved and she doubted that Willard even saw her pass by. Even so, she gave him a quick wave. Across the hallway, Joan’s door was also open and she moved across the hall to see if Joan was also busy, advising a student or typing frantically on one of her many papers. Now that Charlotte Clark was gone and no longer the Department’s top researcher and grant-getter, Joan had assumed the position formerly held by the dead diva. Of course, Joan was not given to tooting her own horn as Charlotte had, and let her work speak for itself. But Pamela knew what a workhorse Joan Bentley was, churning out award-winning publications month after month, year after year. Today, however, Joan’s fingers were not flying over the keyboard. She sat leaning back in her desk chair, her eyes staring at a photograph on her desktop. Pamela knew the photograph well as it had held a position of honor there ever since Pamela had known Joan, which was almost fifteen years. The photo was a family picture of Joan, her deceased husband Neville, and their two sons, Charles and Jack.

  “Joan,” said Pamela softly, not wishing to disturb her reverie, “how are you?”

  “Oh, Pamela,” replied Joan, sitting up quickly and setting the framed picture back on her desk. “I’m having trouble getting motivated.”

  Pamela entered Joan’s office. The cheery room belied Joan’s present state. Joan had bedecked her small space with numerous live plants (or real plants as Pamela called them because she far preferred the artificial variety that required no tending). Although Joan had stacks of papers, articles, and computer print-outs from her various research studies piled around the room, there was a definite order to the chaos. Joan had sticky notes on the tops of each of the various piles, indicating their nature. Her office reflected her life—a cheery blend of disciplined work in progress.

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” chided Pamela gently.

  “No,” agreed Joan, “but it’s hard to function at work, when my life at home is in such disarray.”

  “You mean with Jack?”

  “Of course,” agreed Joan. “Oh, Pamela, why did I ever suggest to the boy that he should move back home? He’s just driving me crazy!”

  “Is this because he hasn’t found a job?”

  “Not hasn’t found—won’t look for one.”

  “I know how hard it is to . . .”

  “He’s not looking!” Joan exclaimed. “He could find something if he would just go out there and look. You know as well as I do, Pamela, that job hunting is a full-time job! Jack assumes that an employer is just going to call him with an offer if he’ll just wait long enough!”

  “And the two of you aren’t getting along?” Joan’s face bore the truth of her constant bouts with her youngest and most volatile son.

  “He’s an adult!” she screamed, then tempered her voice as she realized that students in the hallway might overhear her voice. “But he acts like a teenager. He expects
me to be his . . . mother!”

  “Ungrateful wretch,” said Pamela, smiling.

  “I mean he expects me to be his slave, his butler, his maid, his psychiatrist, his chef, his tailor, his personal shopper, his mechanic, his secretary, his matchmaker, his entertainment coordinator . . . you get the picture.”

  “I do,” agreed Pamela, sitting in Joan’s leather chair in front of her desk. “I, of course, have never had any similar experience . . .”

  “But, Pamela,” whispered Joan, leaning forward, “just imagine how much more awful it would be if Angela were out on her own and you thought your days of being a Mommy were through and then . . . she returned home to live!”

  “Horrible, I agree.”

  “You seem rather chipper today,” said Joan. Her usual calm had partially returned and she sat up straighter, turning down the corner of the collar of her crisp peplum blouse that had rolled up in an unsightly display of irregularity.

  “I’m happy to report that my off-spring is living in sin and out of my house and I couldn’t be happier!”

  “Bravo!” said Joan. “I’m all for living in sin.” She gave Pamela one of her customary rolling eyed glares.

  “There’s your problem,” said Pamela, pointing a finger in Joan’s direction.

  “What?”

  “Jack cramps your style,” she explained. “Your swinging single lifestyle. I assume it’s pretty hard to be the wild party woman that I know you to be when your twenty-eight-year old son is sleeping down the hallway from you.”

  “That too,” scowled Joan. “That three.”

  Joan had been a widow for many years. Although Neville had been the love of her life, Joan was not one to sit at home and knit. She enjoyed partying—and other things. She was discreet, of course—with carefully selected gentlemen from time to time.

  “I might suggest that you need a night on the town with the gals,” offered Pamela. “I realize that it wouldn’t be nearly as exciting as one of your outings to that local ballroom dancing place, but it would do you good to get out.”

  “Yes,” said Joan. “It would. Why don’t you check it out with Arliss, and let me know when we’re on.”

  “Will do,” said Pamela, standing and heading for the door. “And by the way, you might try a football game. They’re quite invigorating. And there are lots of men there.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I was at the home game Saturday,” Pamela tossed the remark Joan’s way as she strode out the door.

  Crossing the hallway, she could hear Joan gasp, but she laughed to herself. Let Joan figure out why her friend had attended her first ever football game after fifteen years as a non-athletic supporter. When she was situated at her desk and had her lunch secured in her small refrigerator, she pulled out her campus phone book from the top left-hand drawer of her desk. Quickly she located the number she sought and dialed a three-digit extension. It was picked up on the first ring.

  “Margaret Billings, Nursing,” said the voice.

  “Margaret, Pamela Barnes.”

  “Pamela,” exclaimed the woman, “it’s been years! How are you? We miss you on the Human Subjects’ Committee!” The friendly voice conveyed exactly what Pamela knew the woman to be—a cheerful, older woman who not only was a figure-head in the Nursing program, but who also had made a name for herself as long-time Chair of the Human Subjects’ Committee, a thankless but necessary job, Pamela always thought. Pamela had served a three-year stint on the committee several years ago and had come to respect and admire Margaret Billings as one of the few people on campus who was genuinely honest and thoughtful.

  “Margaret, are you still serving refreshments at the Human Subjects’ Committee meetings?”

  “Of course, my dear,” laughed Margaret, “no one would come to the meetings if I didn’t.”

  “Your refreshments were the main reason I always attended,” said Pamela, joining in with her laugh.

  “You were very regular in your attendance and always so punctual,” noted Margaret. Pamela thought that it was sweet that Margaret remembered probably the only contribution that Pamela had made throughout her three years on the Committee.

  “I tried to be,” stammered Pamela. “Margaret, I called because I have a quick question for you.”

  “What can I do for you, my dear?” asked Margaret, her warm personality beaming through the phone lines.

  “I was curious about the Coach’s daughter . . . I understand she’s a Nursing major.”

  “Oh, terrible tragedy. Terrible. The poor girl. She was just in my office last week, Pamela. We were doing her graduation check. She’s scheduled to graduate this spring, you know. Oh my, she’s an outstanding student! Outstanding! This is so horrible. I can’t imagine what’s she going through . . . but I haven’t seen her since . . .”

  “I know,” consoled Pamela, “It’s just terrible. I agree.”

  “Is she in one of your classes, Pamela?” The obvious question. Pamela beat around the proverbial and incredibly obvious bush.

  “I . . . had heard she was in Nursing . . . and a senior . . . and I was concerned if any of this would . . . affect her graduation. I know it’s probably the last thing to consider . . .”

  “No, of course not, my dear,” said Margaret gently, “if you have her in class, I certainly hope you’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I mean if she’s absent or late with an assignment, I’m sure she’ll pull herself together, but do give her a bit of slack. This is just a terrible thing to happen to her and it’s all so public . . . and her mother in a wheelchair!”

  “I heard, yes,” said Pamela, feeling guilty that Margaret had assumed that the student was one of Pamela’s and that Pamela had not corrected this misconception. “I’m sure she’ll need to be there for her mother now . . . and her little sister.”

  “Absolutely, she’ll need to be,” said Margaret, “and she will be. She’s very strong. That’s why she went into Nursing, you know—because of her mother’s illness. She’s a remarkable young woman. She would do anything for her mother. You can’t say that about every young person.”

  “No, you can’t,” agreed Pamela, wondering just how far Elizabeth Croft was willing to go to protect her invalid mother . . . and her sister. Would she go as far as murder?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The morning had progressed smoothly—for a Monday. After her classes and a relaxing lunch of sliced beef on Asiago cheese bread with a nice homemade vinaigrette sprinkled over the lettuce and tomato wedge, she tossed her lunch sack into her waste basket and sauntered over to her desk, still sipping her blackberry tea from her thermos. Her office hours had officially started and as no students were lined up at her door, she decided she might as well get started on the voice mail analysis.

  Repeating her actions of the previous week where she had studied the original recording, she opened the second CD container and placed it in her disk drive drawer. The original voice mail messages were already saved and numbered in her software program. As she brought up the second recording—the one Shoop had presented to her after the football game, the one of the sample segments from all of the suspects the police had interviewed regarding the Coach’s murder, she leaned back in her desk chair and reached for her earphones. She decided that she would listen to the entire recording first—to get a general overview of the number and type of voices—and to see if any of them jumped out at her as obvious matches to the three voice mail speakers.

  It took about two minutes to listen to the entire tape. Pamela noted that the police had done an efficient job of annotating the various speakers and selecting appropriate segments from each. At the beginning of each segment, a man’s voice announced the speaker’s number, and then the segment played. She soon realized that whoever had put the tape together understood how it would be used. The segments selected were innocuous and provided no indications as to each speaker’s identity. That is, she did not hear any of the speakers refer to themselves by name or by their rel
ationship to the deceased (wife, daughter, secretary, colleague, etc.). The segments were truly drawn from the least incriminating sections of the interviews. Although each segment was mundane in content, the person who had created this master recording had done a fairly good job in selecting segments that demonstrated each speaker’s vocal features. Some speakers used a lot of pitch variety—going from highs to lows in the course of a few words. Others were more monotone. Some spoke with a slow, lugubrious drawl; others whipped along like they were being chased by a train. All of these features and more were evident in the short samples she had before her—because as short as these samples were—they were somewhat longer than the snippets that had been provided to her for the voice mail speakers. She began to believe that she might actually be able to accomplish her task.

  However and it was a big however, after listening to the interview recording several times, she had no sense that she had heard any of these voices on the voice mail recording. Maybe she was wrong. She had promised Shoop that she would conduct a thorough analysis and see if any of the people interviewed were identical to the three women who had left messages on Coach’s voice mail. She had to get to it.

  Step one. A quick mental calculation made her realize that she was in for a long afternoon. Just as she had done when she compared the seven messages on the original voice mail recording to determine that there were actually three speakers who had produced those seven messages, now she would have to repeat this process, comparing what turned out to be eight speakers on the interview recording to each of the three speakers on the voice mail recording. That would mean twenty-four separate analyses. Each voice mail speaker would need to be compared and contrasted with each interviewed speaker.

  She brought up the first voice mail speaker who was already saved in her software program. The top line filled with a spectrograph line representing this woman’s voice as she said:

  “Hi, I’m really excited to see you. I’m here, just like you said. Can you come over?”