FM for Murder (4 page)

Trudi Muldoon sat at her desk in the corner of the windowless room. Pamela noticed that Trudi had not decorated her office with much of anything except many bookshelves. There were several wooden chairs with arm rests stationed in front of Trudi’s desk. When she saw the couple in the door, Trudi immediately stood.

“Rocky, Pam, come in,” she said, coming from behind her desk and ushering them in. Trudi was a tall woman, flat-chested with a plain but friendly face. Her buck teeth were her most obvious feature along with a mop of flyaway brown hair. Her slightly oversized flowered dress did not coordinate at all well with her Oxford loafers.

Rocky and Pamela entered, removed their winter jackets, and sat in the chairs in front of the desk. Trudi returned to the desk. “I wish I had something to offer you to drink. This all happened so fast and I’ve been sitting here waiting for them to finish and come back. Oh my God, I’m just a wreck.”

“Where are they now?” asked Rocky, “The Police?”

“I guess down in Ted’s office. It’s on the fourth floor,” she said.

“Trudi,” began Pamela, “why did you get dragged down here anyway?”

“Didn’t Rocky tell you?” said Trudi, “Ted was my doctoral advisee. I was his supervisor too. Actually, I was here working on a project when they showed up. Dr. Marbury told them I’d probably be here. They asked me just a few questions—I guess to make sure I knew Ted and then they went off to examine his office. They told me to stay here and they’d be back to ask me more questions.”

“How long have you been waiting?” asked Pamela.

“I don’t know, maybe an hour or more,” replied the woman behind the desk. She drew her hands to her chin and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Pam, I know you went through this last year—when you found Charlotte in your lab. Rocky told me all about it. I figured you’d understand what I’m feeling. I didn’t find Ted or see his body—like you did. But Ted’s my student—so we were quite close. Doctoral students become so tied to us. Like children. I just can’t believe this has happened.” She put her hands to her head and rubbed her temples as if doing so would relieve her distress.

“Do you want me to go down there and see what’s happening?” asked Rocky.

“No,” Trudi responded. “Just wait with me, will you?”

“Of course, we will,” responded Pamela, as she reached over the desk and grabbed Trudi’s hand, the one she had just lowered from her face.

“Trudi,” began Rocky, “do you have any knowledge that you think will help the police find Ted’s killer? I mean, did he have any enemies?”

“Enemies?” asked Trudi, her eyes widening, her buck teeth protruding.

“Surely, this wasn’t just a random killing,” added Pamela, “I understand someone actually shot him while he was on the radio.”

“You’ve heard about it, then?” asked Trudi. She grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk and patted her eyes.

“Actually,” said Rocky, “our daughter and her boyfriend were listening to KRDN at the time it happened. They didn’t know if it was real or a hoax. Our daughter told us about it this morning and then we turned on the radio and KRDN was reporting about the shooting on their news report.”

“Oh, my God,” said Trudi, “It’s just awful. I can’t imagine why anyone would do this. I just can’t imagine.” She poked the tissue around the corner of each eye.

“So, he didn’t have any enemies?” asked Pamela.

“Pam, what enemies would he have? He was just a doctoral student in English. Really, he was kind of a loner—kind of kept to himself. But, a pleasant enough fellow. He was on assistantship.” One of Trudi’s large front teeth bit down over her lower lip.

“A teaching assistantship?” asked Pamela.

“That’s about the only kind we have in English,” Trudi replied. “He taught several sections of Freshman Comp—just like you Rocky.”

“Maybe an irate student did this. Maybe it was some student he failed,” suggested Pamela.

“Maybe,” said Trudi, nodding, her tousled hair flopping back and forth, “He spent most of his time working on his dissertation. He was ABD.”

“All but dissertation. So, he was about done then,” said Rocky.

“Well,” said Trudi, hesitating. “I wish that were true.” Her two large front teeth took turns gnawing on her lip.

“What do you mean?” asked Pamela.

“Oh, Pam, Rocky,” replied the tall woman, “I wish I could say he was close to finishing but he was struggling. I had high hopes for him originally. He breezed through his Master’s thesis with me. He’s a good writer and researcher. But somehow, he got started on this dissertation and it just wasn’t working out…”

“How so?” asked Rocky.

“He was doing an analytical study of the musicality in the poetry of Edgar Allen Poe—a very clever idea. It was a nice interdisciplinary effort. He had two committee members from the Music Department in addition to me and Dr. Allen and Dr. Hitchcock from our Department. Then, all of a sudden, a few months ago, he decided to trash this study that was—for all intents and purposes—finished, and start completely over with a creative dissertation.”

“And by ‘creative’ you mean…” said Rocky.

“I mean he intended to write his own creative work,” she replied, “a gothic novel in the style of Poe. Or more rightly, in the style of this modern ‘goth’ trend that seems to be everywhere—in the literature, music, dress—everywhere in modern culture.” She sighed and shook her head.

“Did you approve of this change?” asked Pamela.

“Of course not,” replied Trudi. “I told him it was foolish but he was insistent. He even produced several drafts. I went over the first draft and immediately sent it back to him with major criticisms. I told him—begged him--to return to his previous research topic. I warned him that he was jeopardizing his assistantship by making such a huge change in his dissertation so late in the process. Did he consider his committee? Did he realize that his assistantship couldn’t continue forever? Did he realize that starting from scratch would mean adding months if not years to his completion time? I made all these arguments, believe me.”

“And still he insisted on writing this creative project,” said Rocky, with a hint of disdain.

“Yes,” she replied, “and it seemed to take over his life. He started to change the way he dressed, his hair, everything. I mean, before, he was just a normal looking graduate student--if such an animal exists—jeans, sneakers, t-shirt. Then he started this goth novel thing, and he began to morph into his characters I guess. Heavy boots, long black pants and shirts. He wore this long black trench coat everywhere. And weird, scary designs all over it—like dragons and bats. His hair was a mess; he never combed it and—oh my god—eye liner. I know I’ve seen some males do that, but, believe me when a male you know all of a sudden shows up wearing it—it’s a shock.”

“I know,” said Pamela, “my graduate assistant dresses somewhat in that style. But he’s incredibly conscientious. It doesn’t seem to affect his work ethic.”

Rocky gave his wife a sideways glance.

“The ultimate question, though, I guess,” said Rocky, “is what was the likelihood that he would have finished this creative work and earned his dissertation?”

“I’ll let you decide,” replied Trudi, opening a drawer in her desk, removing a folder, and selecting a small stapled typed manuscript from inside. “Here.” She handed the article to Rocky. Pamela leaned close to her husband and looked over his shoulder as he read a paragraph from the paper aloud:

“Swirling,

Whirling

The bloody vortex pulls me down

Down to the eternal abyss

Overhead

The black vultures of death circle

Watching

Waiting

To pick the flesh from my dissipated body

Only my soul remains

And that you have killed

With your loveless eyes”

Rocky put the paper on Trudi’s desk and shook his head.

“Is that good poetry?” asked Pamela.

“Not by my standards,” answered Trudi, “and unfortunately not by the standards of members of his committee. I tried to tell him that. He said he’d improve it. He did do some rewrites. But, Rocky, Pam, nothing really improved. This is about the best of it. And it’s generally awful. Just garbage. Six years. Six years of this young man’s life and all he had to show for it was this.”

“You couldn’t talk him into going back to the other project?” asked Pamela.

“I tried, Pam, but he was adamant. I had about reached the end of my ideas. I was going to have to tell him that I couldn’t approve his new dissertation proposal and that we were going to drop his assistantship—and he knew it.”

“No more funding,” said Pamela.

“Right,” said Trudi, “and once that happened, all he’d have to live on, as far as I know, would be that deejay job which is only four hours on Saturday. He couldn’t make much money from that.”

“So, in a way, his murder solves the problem of funding,” said Rocky, looking at both women.

“What would he have done without his assistantship?” asked Pamela. “Did he have family that would support him?”

“As far as I know, there was no one. He was a loner. He never spoke about a family. He was very closed mouthed about his private life. I guess though, that the police will find out about that. Won’t they?”

At that moment, a large man wearing a grey overcoat appeared in the door, followed by a uniformed police officer.

“The police will find out about what?” he asked the threesome sitting in the small office.

“Oh, Detective,” said Trudi, standing, “we were just wondering about Ted’s family. I don’t know if he had any relatives. This is my colleague Rocky Barnes and his wife—Pamela. This is the detective in charge of the investigation of Ted’s murder. Detective Shoop.”

“Dr. Barnes and I have met,” said the tall man, entering a few steps into the office, eyeing Pamela with a frown, “We spent quite a bit of time together following the death of Charlotte Clark in the Psychology Department last year. Didn’t we? I’m delighted to finally meet your husband, Doctor.” He turned to Rocky and shook his hand. “You have my sympathies, Mr. Barnes,” he whispered as he bent towards Rocky.

Chapter 6

Previous week--Tuesday afternoon, December 11

Daniel Bridgewater sat in a back booth at Sam’s Diner, a small eatery on the highway near the entrance to his carpet factory. His coffee cup was half-full and he was gazing at the photo that he had removed earlier from the album in his office. He hardly noticed when one of the waitresses popped up beside him, coffee pot in hand.

“Refill, Mr. Bridgewater?”

“Sure, warm ‘er up,” he replied, smiling at the young woman whose name tag proclaimed her as “Amy.” “Then have a seat.”

“No can do, Mr. B,” replied the waitress, her pony tail flipping jauntily as she spoke. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

Daniel peeked around the corner of the booth. He was the only customer in the small restaurant. A cashier sat at the entrance, totally engrossed in filing her nails. “Doesn’t look all that busy to me,” he said, smiling as he grabbed her wrist and gently tried to pull her into the booth.

“Just a minute,” whispered Amy, and as quickly as she had appeared, she disappeared. Within another second, she had returned and slid into the booth across from Daniel. “Had to get rid of the coffee pot. Okay, I’m seated. What’s up?”

“I just like to see your beautiful face,” he said, taking her hands and pulling her across the booth where he planted a quick kiss on her lips.

“Dan,” said Amy, “please, someone may be watching.” She pulled away and slid far back into the bench of her side of the booth.

“So what?”

“If you remember, all this secrecy was your idea,” replied Amy, brushing some crumbs off of her otherwise spotless chiffon apron. Her eyes danced with a lively energy. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

“And I’m not ashamed of you!” he exclaimed. “I’m trying to figure out how to handle everything that’s going on.” He bent over the table and spoke confidentially. “A lot is going on, you know.”

“I know. I heard what you said on the phone.” Amy crossed her arms and glared at Daniel. “You really are in a pickle, aren’t you? What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the photo that Daniel was fingering.

“It’s David,” he replied, turning the picture around and holding it up for Amy to see. “High school graduation.”

“It’s him?” she asked, taking the picture from Daniel.

He nodded. “Yeah, he graduated from Dexter Military Academy. Blue and gold were their colors. Father sent him there hoping it would improve his behavior and his attitude—but it just made him more resentful.”

“I probably wouldn’t be able to tell….” She examined the photograph carefully.

“I know,” Daniel said, cutting her off.

“What’s with the photo?” she asked, handing it back to Daniel. “Did you show it to your father?”

“No,” said Daniel. “I wanted to, but, Amy, he just wasn’t open to the idea. And what’s worse…” Daniel sighed and shook his head.

“What’s worse?” she asked, her tiny mouth opening into a perfect “o,”

“As I said, he’s worse,” replied Daniel. “God, Amy, he seemed better. He was talking up a storm, arguing, being his old obstreperous self. Then I talked with his physician and he says Father is worse. He says he has only a few months—maybe only a few weeks.” Daniel stared at her and let his words sink in.

“No,” she said, her brow wrinkled in concern. “I just don’t understand how he can he seem better if he’s really getting worse.”

“The doctor says…hell….Vickers says it’s because he’s rallying for me. For my benefit. He would do that.” He continued to slowly shake his head.

“So…so…what are you going to do? How does this affect your plans regarding David?” she asked in a careful, slow voice.

“I think it makes it even more important that I proceed with my plan—and right away.” He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and peeked at her over the rim.

“And us?”

“I can’t tell him now. I told you about his plans for me and the neighborhood society belle, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and I don’t like it at all.” She pushed her nose in the air and stuck out her chin, arms crossed.

“Oh, Sweet,” he said, cajoling and grabbing her hand, which she removed from his grasp. “I have absolutely no interest in any other woman….” He let go of her when a man appeared at their table.