FM for Murder (10 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Jax, with a sigh of resignation as he picked up the folder and returned to what was obviously a list inside. “I merely thought that if he wanted me to track down David that he would wish to speak to me directly to…”

“Mr. Jax,” said Daniel, leaning over the desk and whispering, “My father did not initiate this investigation—I did. He has no idea I am even conducting it. Truth be told, if he did know—he would probably not approve. He might even….” Daniel stopped himself before he finished the sentence, turned and looked out his bay window.

“Mr. Bridgewater,” said Jax, after a moment, as Daniel gazed silently out at the fountain in front of the building, “are you really certain that you want to pursue this investigation then? With your father so sick….”

“Mr. Jax,” replied Daniel, turning back to the man sitting in front of his desk, “I am even more determined to find David. My father may not have hired you or even wanted to hire you, but I believe in my heart that finding David is the best thing I can do for him. I have no way of convincing you of my sincerity…”

“It’s not your sincerity of which I need convincing, sir,” said Jax, in a calm but authoritative voice, “it’s your wisdom.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” said Daniel, chuckling. “All right, all right, I’m a fool, but I’m going to find David and if you won’t help me I’ll just find another investigator.

“Oh, I’ll help you, sir,” replied Jax. “I just wanted to be certain where you stood. I can see where that is. I don’t want to waste my time for a client who isn’t motivated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jax,” said Daniel, “I guarantee I am motivated. I’ve got to find David—and I’ve got to find him soon.”

“Yes,” replied Jax, staring intently into Daniel’s eyes. Then, suddenly, he opened the folder, ran his finger down his list and spoke officially, “So, let’s see, a few more questions. I understand from Mr. Vickers that you can supply a photograph…”

“Yes,“ replied Daniel as he opened the album and removed the photograph that he had been carrying with him for the last day. “This is David at his high school graduation in 1997.”

“Hmm, yes, I see,” replied Jax as he glanced back up at Daniel. “Have you received any correspondence from David since then? Any letters? E-mails? Packages? Anything?”

“No,” replied Daniel, shaking his head, his shoulders dropping, “nothing in twelve years. He just seemed to have vanished.”

“He might be—I’m sorry to suggest this—but, he might be dead,” said Jax.

“I realize that,” answered Daniel, “and if he is, I want to know that. It’s not what I’m hoping for, but at least it would be closure.”

“I understand, sir,” said Jax, “and I certainly hope that I will be able to provide you with a more agreeable outcome.” He replaced the folder into his briefcase and closed it. “I believe I have all the information I need to get started, sir. If I need any additional information, I assume you will not object to my contacting you directly?”

“Of course not,” said Daniel, rising as Jax rose, “Here’s my card, the bottom number reaches my office directly and let me give you my cell phone number,” he said as he quickly jotted an additional set of numbers at the bottom of the card and handed the card to Jax.

“Thank you, sir,” he said and turned to leave.

“Let me walk you out, Mr. Jax,” said Daniel as he escorted the little man to the door. The two men exited the building and around the fountain.

“Lovely fountain,” said Jax as they passed the massive structure, “totally unexpected, I might add.”

“Yes,” agreed Daniel, laughing, “Some people consider it an eyesore, but I have mixed feelings. My father built it in honor of my mother. It was modeled on a fountain she had fallen in love with in Italy on my parents’ honeymoon. David always loved it too. It was probably the only thing he did love about Bridgewater Carpets.”

Chapter 13

Present time—Monday, late afternoon, December 17

Willard had been gone for a while, and Pamela was still at her desk, listening to the disc of the murder at KRDN. She had not gotten any further. Indeed, she was now uncertain about her earlier conviction that the faint vowel sound overlapping Ted Ballard’s speech that she thought was spoken by the murderer really was. At least she was uncertain about the gender conclusion she had drawn; the more she listened, the more she thought the short sound might be female. If this were the case, Willard’s deduction about the speaker being from the south could also be suspect, although it was probably more likely that whoever the killer was, he or she was southern—just by a process of elimination. They did, after all, live in the South, and most people here were Southerners. Would a Northerner travel all the way down here to murder a local disc jockey?

So many questions. She was getting no where. She glanced at her watch and realized it was after five o’clock. She had become so engrossed in her analysis that she had completely blocked out the sounds of the students going in and out of the lecture hall next door. Now, she realized that it must be around five and students were starting to exit into the hallway.

She continued replaying the recording. The more she listened, the more she realized her difficulties. With the recording she had made last year that captured the murder of Charlotte Clark in the departmental computer lab, there was no speech—only weird sounds—scrapes, bumps, choking, clicks, and other strange noises--that ultimately turned out to be Charlotte’s efforts to keep from being strangled to death by the murderer—also a member of the department. Pamela’s analysis of the sounds on the recording had finally led her to one sound that the killer had made with a remote control device while strangling Charlotte and had ultimately resulted in his arrest. At the time last year, Pamela was actually annoyed that Charlotte had not said anything on the recording—not that a person can say much when they’re being strangled. But Pamela’s specialty was the acoustic analysis of voices—and she did this best when she had actual speech with which to work. She had none for Charlotte’s recording—and still had managed to identify the killer. Now, here she was with speech on the suspect recording, but unfortunately, it was speech of the victim—with the possible exception of that short gasp or grunt—just a vowel that might prove to be produced by the actual killer. It was more information than she had had with Charlotte. Would it be enough to identify the killer?

The students were now mostly gone from the lecture hall. She heard the footsteps coming down the hall of someone she knew well. Rising and going to the door, she called:

“Mitchell.”

“Pamela,” said Mitchell Marks, Chair of the Psychology Department at Grace University and Pamela’s immediate superior. Mitchell had taken over teaching introductory psychology lectures last year in addition to his duties as chair. Evidently, Mitchell enjoyed working with the mostly freshman students, as he had again scheduled himself for the two back-to-back classes on Monday. “You’re here late,” he said to Pamela as he passed her office door.

“Waiting for you,” she replied. “Can I walk with you to your office?”

“Absolutely,” said Marks, a fairly tall man, with wavy blond hair and grey-blue eyes. Pamela ejected the CD from her computer, shut down her hard drive, grabbed her purse, keys, and jacket and, after locking her door, followed Marks down the hallway.

“I’ve got to thank you, Pamela,” he said, as he held open the corner stairwell door for her. The twosome entered the stairwell. Their voices echoed against the concrete walls. “I never knew how much I would enjoy teaching that intro class. And that was your suggestion.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, “I can hear them from my office, you know. So I know how they’re responding to you.”

“It’s really just the perfect respite after a long day of administrative duties,” he sighed. “There’s just never an end to all the squabbling between administration and the rest of us, is there?”

“Luckily, Mitchell,” she said, smiling at him as his long strides swept them out onto the first floor and down the main hallway towards his office, “we have you to deal with administration for us.”

“Smart,” he responded, nodding, holding open the door to the main office of the Psychology Department. Pamela entered and followed Marks into his office which was through a small alcove where the departmental secretary maintained her desk.

“Jane Marie,” he announced to the pert brunette sitting at her computer, “I’m going to be talking to Pamela for a while. Please don’t let anyone disturb us.” He escorted Pamela in. Pamela turned back just in time to see Jane Marie give her a curious look and a shrug. Then Marks closed the door behind them and immediately strode to his large desk.

Pamela selected one of the four chairs in front of Mitchell’s desk. Mitchell’s office always intimidated her. It was one of the largest offices in the building—probably on campus—not necessarily because Mitchell was any more important than any other department head, but Blake Hall, home of the Psychology Department was one of the oldest buildings on campus, and many of the offices and classrooms had been reconfigured from an earlier time. Pamela guessed that Mitchell’s office had once been some sort of dining room or library in an old mansion. The ceilings were higher than other offices and certainly higher than any of the classrooms. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling—so high that Mitchell needed a traveling ladder to reach the top shelves. There was one long dining-room sized table on one side of the room and two desks on the other—the one at which Mitchell sat to greet faculty and students—and the other that held his computer and printer and related paraphernalia. All around the room—in the shelves, on window sills, and hanging from walls—were memorabilia. Many of these were academic—plaques, certificates, and awards from Mitchell’s many years of scholarship and research. However, there were also many natural trophies—stuffed animal heads, ducks, geese, and guns—everywhere. Mitchell was an antique gun aficionado and she had heard many tales of his hunting exploits at faculty meetings and dinners.

“So?” he asked, leaning back in his rolling, reclining leather arm chair. “What can I do for you?

“Guns,” she said.

“Guns?” he asked. “Don’t tell me, Pamela, that you’re taking up hunting?

“Not quite,” she responded. “But I need to pick your brain about weaponry.”

“Interesting,” he said, nodding. He grabbed a pencil between his palms and rolled it about, peering at her as he rocked back and forth.

“Mitchell, I’m afraid, I’ve gotten myself involved in another mystery,” she said, finally.

“Oh?” Mitchell rubbed his hand through his thick blond hair.

“Yes, and—I might add—not by my own choosing.”

“Your husband will be glad to hear that.”

“He doesn’t know—yet.”

“Hmm. And I’m to assume that you’re not going to tell him?

“No, I’ll tell him--eventually,” she said. “Detective Shoop came by my office today and asked for my help in their investigation of the murder of that local disc jockey that happened Saturday night. Did you hear about it?”

“Oh,” he said, stopping his chair from rocking and planting his feet on the ground. He leaned his elbows on his desk and bent forward towards her. “I believe I did. My students were talking about it today.”

“Yes,” she said, “they would. Anyway, the poor guy was shot while he was on air Saturday night—on KRDN. Shoop is the lead investigator. The station records all their programs so they obviously had the recording of the murder itself. Shoop brought me a copy of it to see if I might do an acoustic analysis—like I did with Charlotte’s murder—and maybe help them identify the killer.”

“So, they don’t know who the killer is,” said Mitchell.

“Not a clue,” she said, “I mean, KRDN is just a small, little isolated building out there on Highway 27. This Ballard—the disc jockey—was the only one there Saturday night—when the killer walked in, shot him dead, and left. No one evidently saw the person or has any idea who it is.”

“You said guns?” prompted Mitchell.

“Yes,” she replied, setting her jacket and other belongings on a nearby chair, and bringing the CD in its sleeve out from her purse. “I’ve been listening to this all during my office hours today. Willard is helping me too, but our expertise focuses on voices. There’s obviously Ballard’s voice and we think we might hear the killer’s voice superimposed over some of what Ballard says. I’m still working on that. What I wanted to ask you about is the gunshot. That’s something I know nothing about. Nothing at all. I thought you might play the CD and just give me your impressions.”

“Sure,” said Mitchell, reaching for the CD, “let’s crank ‘er up.” She handed him the CD. He removed it from its sleeve and inserted it into his hard drive. Then, he pressed “play.” The now familiar sound of Ted Ballard’s voice filled his office:

“Oh, hi! Come on in! I’m Theodore Ballard—Black Vulture to my fans. You a fan of alternative rock? What the? That’s a gun! What do you need a gun for? Why are you pointing it at me? Wha--? No! No!”

At that point, the gunshot exploded from Mitchell’s monitor and then the sound stopped.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” she answered.

Mitchell replayed the final moments of the recording several times so he could hear the gunshot.

“Obviously,” he said, finally, “it’s a hand gun—not a rifle. But beyond that, there’s not much I can say just from listening to the sound. To tell the truth, Pamela, if you asked me to identify this gun by looking at corresponding bullets or bullet holes in animal carcasses—or almost anything like that, I’d be able to do the job for you.”

“No, don’t apologize, Mitchell,” she said, “if you’re sure it’s a handgun and not a rifle, believe me, that’s more than I can determine from it. And, of course, Shoop will probably be able to pin it down more when he gets the autopsy results. I was just curious. It helps me try to picture what was happening. Now, I can envision the killer, maybe with a handgun in his pocket—which makes sense. It would be much harder to disguise or hide a rifle.”

“I wish I could tell you more about the gun,” said Mitchell, “but I can’t just with a few times through. Maybe if I could continue to listen to it and think about it…”