Majoring In Murder (25 page)

I’d taken the stairs from the main level, which emptied into a corridor that ran the length of the stacks. Turning to recall which way I’d faced when I’d entered the stairwell, I got my bearings and set out in what I presumed was the direction of Kammerer House. At the end of the long corridor, a sign pointing to the right directed me to the copy center. I turned the corner; halfway down the hall I passed the room with the copy machines, two of them churning out pages in an uneven rhythm. Along the left-hand wall were several locked doors, none of them giving any hint of what lay beyond them. I tried twisting each doorknob, but in the crack between the jamb and the edge of the door I could see the bolt that spanned them.

Fifty yards down, I reached the next corner and paused. If I turned here, I would be going away from Kammerer House, not toward it. How had Eli found the tunnel? Was there another set of stairs leading to them? Maybe I should have let him show me where it was. Was there someone upstairs who could give me specific directions?

I walked back in the direction from which I’d come, trying each of the doors again, to no avail. I stopped at the entrance to the copy room. Could there be another exit from here?

The copy center consisted of two rooms filled with large gray machines, the functions of which were obscure except for the two copiers at the entrance. The front room was unoccupied, brightly lit, and noisy. The mechanical clunk and thud of the two machines was deafening in the uncarpeted room, while the only movement visible was the paper as it flew out of the maw of the copiers into twenty separate trays.

“Anyone here?” I called out.

No one answered. I walked through to the back room, which was similarly bright and empty, its machines idle. Metal shelving took up most of the walls. I scanned the room for any sign of a way out, and saw none, but then I spotted a faded sign. Ahead of me, above a shelving unit, painted over and faint, I could discern the old radiation symbol with its three flaring blades in a black circle. Underneath was an arrow pointing to one of the shelving units, which held reams of paper. I peered between the packages and saw the outline of a door. Wedging myself between the wall and the frame, I pushed with both hands and fell forward as the unit moved smoothly away.

Well, that wasn’t too hard,
I told myself. The door, which had been covered, was unlocked, and opened out into a dark hall, the brilliant interior of the copy room lighting only the first few yards. I fumbled on the wall for a light switch and was rewarded when two bare bulbs, ten feet apart, lit up the beginning of the tunnel. I closed the door and listened. Behind me, the pounding of the copiers was muffled but audible.

Cautiously I moved forward into the damp gray tunnel. Any paint that had covered the concrete walls had long since peeled off. Here and there, delicate flakes clung to a rough surface, the faded curls evidence of the color the walls had once been. The floor was rough and required watching, especially in the pumps I’d worn to the memorial service. Why hadn’t I gone home to change? That would have been smart. But my apartment was in the opposite direction from the auditorium and the library. I’d taken the path of least resistance, and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

My decision to explore the tunnel had been last-minute. I’d been curious about it ever since Eli told me he’d gained access to Kammerer House by using the underground passageway. But I hadn’t given it much further thought until halfway through the memorial service when it occurred to me that whoever murdered Newmark might well have used the tunnel as his—or her—method of entrance and, more important, as a way to escape in the midst of the storm. Would venturing into the tunnel reveal anything about who that might have been? Probably not. But like people who climb mountains simply because they’re there, I felt the tunnel beckon, and I found myself drawn to it like a moth to a summer candle.

By my calculation, the hallway before me stretched out in the direction of the three houses destroyed by the tornado. A short walk showed me that it also branched off into several side passages, none of them marked. I took the first right, twisting a timed light switch I found on the wall. Its rapid ticking reminded me that the light it controlled wouldn’t stay on very long. I dug out my new flashlight and forged ahead. The bulb in the wall fixture dimmed just as I came upon another inky hallway that seemed to angle back toward the library.

I know how Hansel and Gretel felt,
I thought.
I should have brought bread crumbs.
How had Eli known which passage led to Kammerer House?

Using my flashlight, I retraced my steps to the door of the copy center, the sound of the machines now a comforting beacon, and started out again. This time I decided to see how far the tunnel extended before choosing which side corridor to try.

The tunnel went forward for about two hundred feet when the route angled off to the left, with another corridor to the right. At least there were no other branches on the left side, but I’d counted four on the right, plus assorted doors, none of which I remembered seeing on Archie’s map. As I walked, the sound of my footsteps echoed back to me. All else was quiet.

I searched for light switches, but the few I found were either inoperable, or the bulbs in the fixtures were broken or gone. Relying on my flashlight, I reached the end of the tunnel; the way ahead of me was blocked by rubble: slabs of concrete, fallen beams, and shards of metal. I estimated I was near the bursar’s office, which had already been razed.

I looked back. Behind me the tunnel was black, the angle of the hall completely obscuring the illumination from the bare bulbs near the copy center door. I shone my flashlight on the wreckage. Spiders skittered away from the light, and I heard a scuffling noise as well. I didn’t want to think of what other creatures might be making their home in this subterranean passageway. Casting the beam along the wall, I came across a broken door and stopped to examine the damage. The metal frame had been fractured on the top, possibly by the weight of debris hurled down by the tornado, which put too much pressure on the lintel. I ran my hand down the edge of the door and felt where the lock had previously engaged the frame. A tongue of brass, a short, ineffective appendage, had been wrenched from the faceplate. I pushed on the door and it opened into a room with a sharp squeal, the sound jarring in the surrounding silence. I poked my head through the opening and aimed the flashlight inside. The room was about eight feet by ten feet, small and secure. The ceiling was cement, the walls made of concrete blocks. No rubble had fallen through. I squeezed through the gap and took shallow breaths. There was an odd, acrid odor.

The chamber proved to be another of Professor Constantine’s fallout shelters, and was remarkable in that its remote location had kept it from being converted to a storeroom or other practical use. Once abandoned as a shelter, it had been left in its original state of readiness.

Fascinated, I inspected the contents of the room. None of the supplies laid in for a 1960s emergency had been removed. Shelves along the walls held a variety of green canisters and brown cartons with food staples and other provisions. There was a Geiger counter to check for radiation, a pile of folded blankets, a first-aid kit for injuries, a portable radio, and what looked like a well-thumbed civil defense pamphlet. A box marked MADE IN JAPAN held a sanitation unit, which was still sealed in its original packaging. A schematic drawing showed how to set up the commode and attach it to a water source.

Three cots with mattresses were stacked on top of each other, further attesting to plans to use the space as living quarters in the event of an attack. But the only living beings that had benefited from them were mice. In several places the ticking had been chewed through, and stuffing sprouted from the holes. I walked gingerly, trying to avoid the evidence of rodent infestation on the floor.

On the wall was a framed map similar to the one I had pored over with Professor Constantine. The evacuation route had been highlighted with red ink to indicate the safest way out.

Professor Constantine will be delighted with this find,
I thought. It was a forty-year-old time capsule. He could bring his students here to demonstrate America’s fears of an atomic bomb blast and the precautions some had taken to survive it. I wondered whether the elaborate preparations would have been effective, and was thankful we’d never had to find out.

At the back of the room, I aimed my flashlight at the large and small metal drums that had been stacked to save floor space. The light seemed not as strong as it had been. The batteries were fresh; at least the clerk in the hardware store had said they were. I gave the flashlight a shake and the light strengthened again. Just a loose connection. I focused on what had caught my eye.

One large drum had fallen over and the cover had been dislodged. The word WATER had been stenciled on the outside of the drum but it clearly hadn’t been used for that purpose. Spilling out of the crack where the top separated from the drum was the edge of a soiled cloth.
I wonder what they used that for?
I thought as I moved closer to take a better look. Shining my light on the cover of the drum, I put my foot on the edge of the rim and pressed, trying to pry it open more. The lid fell off with a loud clatter, and the cloth tumbled out. But it wasn’t just cloth. It was a sleeve. And inside the sleeve was the desiccated arm of a corpse.

I backed up to the door and waited for my heartbeat to slow before creeping forward, careful not to touch anything, and aiming the flashlight on the victim.

From the look of the clothing and considering the size of the drum, the person who had been stuffed inside was a small woman. The sleeve had a ruffled cuff. Stiff now, it might have been a gauzy material at one time. There were several silver rings on the skeletal hand. I leaned in to see what I could of the body. A skein of long blond hair was still attached to the skull. The fabric on the bent knees was denim.

I had a sinking suspicion I knew who it was. It was safe to assume that the woman in the drum hadn’t died a natural death, and it was highly unlikely that whoever placed her there had been following the deceased’s instructions to be interred and left for eternity in an abandoned bomb shelter. In this case, “eternity” had been interrupted by an act of nature, and by what my old friend Seth has been known to call my “unnatural” curiosity.

I couldn’t tell how long the body had been there, but the open lid of the drum had exposed it to the air and allowed it to decay. The location of the shelter, which I presumed to be beneath the building that had housed the bursar’s office, could not be a coincidence. No one had spoken to Kate Adler in a year. She hadn’t contacted anyone in her family, nor visited any of her friends. Mail sent to her had been returned. And much of her clothing still remained in the home she had shared with her husband, including a pair of high heels flung into a storage room.

Was it Phil who’d killed her—or someone else? Was Wes Newmark’s death connected to this one? Was the same person responsible for both murders?

Ignoring the squealing hinges, I pulled back the door and stepped out into the tunnel. Away from the decomposed body and the moldering mattresses, I took a deep breath. The moist air in the tunnel, which I’d barely noticed before, was beginning to become uncomfortable.

I shone my flashlight on the floor ahead of me. There were damp patches on the concrete. The light flickered slightly. I shook the flashlight again, but the beam seemed to be fading. Apparently the batteries I’d purchased were not as fresh as promised. If they failed while I was underground, it would be an unpleasant trip back to the library.

I walked down the corridor, taking care to avoid puddles forming on the floor.

I heard a door slam in the distance. Was it the door to the copy center, or one of the doors to the tunnel? I hurried forward, eager to end this adventure. Finding the access to Kammerer House could wait for another time.

I reached the place where I thought the hall angled back toward the library, but I couldn’t see the lights outside the copy center. Had I missed the turn? Perhaps the bulbs were weak, and the light from my flashlight blinded me to them. I pushed the switch to off and was plunged into blackness. I shut my eyes and waited. The air was getting chillier, and goose bumps rose on my arms, despite the warmth of the wool suit I was wearing. I concentrated on my hearing: the only sounds I could discern were the dripping of water and the rustle of my own clothing as I waited restlessly for my sight to adjust to the lack of light. I opened my eyes and squinted. The lights were definitely gone, and I chided myself for leaving the bulbs on while exploring the tunnel. If they were old, they may have burned out quickly.

I switched the flashlight back on, needing the comfort of light. The beam was thin and spasmodic. Should I go back and see if I missed a turn, or move forward and possibly lose my way in the maze of corridors?

Trusting that I hadn’t mistaken the turn, I walked swiftly down the hall, hoping the pace would warm me up. The tunnel seemed longer than it had been when I’d first walked its length. Had I gone this far on the way in? I couldn’t remember. The flashlight’s beam flickered. Shaking it no longer strengthened the light. When the light died completely—a situation that looked likely—I would have to keep one hand on the wall and make my way slowly to avoid stumbling.

The copiers were silent now. I listened for any hint of activity that might assure me I was on the right trail. And then it happened. A breeze caught me from the side, and a tunnel yawned on my right. There had been no tunnels to my left on the way in, and shouldn’t have been on my right on the way out.

You’ve always had a good sense of direction, Jessica,
I lectured myself.
Think this through. There has to be a logical way back.
I tried to envision Archie’s map, and where it defined the location of the shelters and tunnels. But his plan, he had told me, had been made early in the building process, and hadn’t shown the final layout.