The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) (4 page)

Mrs. Marshall’s eyes widened, and she gave Randy an interested look. Good for him, I thought, keeping Jenn’s parents busy and also singing their daughter’s praises. Mr. Marshall leaned in closer, cupping his ear. The Marshalls—both on the short side, like Jenn—were wearing what I was sure were their best coats, the ones they’d worn to the last Parents’ Day event. Their narrow shoulders seemed even less able to support the heavy garments today. My guess was that they’d just arrived after a long drive from Fitchburg, made even worse during rush hour.

Randy appeared pleased to have captured their attention, and though the grieving parents said nothing, he continued in his sure basso tones.

“You see, the keyboard and bells are in different parts of the tower. The keys—they’re called ‘batons’ and they’re much bigger than piano keys—they’re linked to the bells’ clappers by an elaborate network of wires and ropes. Yes, that’s right. And your petite daughter makes the keyboard sing.” He made firm balls with his hands. “Carillonists have to use closed fists as well as their feet.” Randy made pounding motions with his arms and fists, which, to me, looked too much like he was beating someone. He might have realized it himself, since he stopped abruptly and said, “I’ll arrange for you to hear Jenn’s practice concert as soon as we’re all back to normal.”

He sat back and took a deep breath, as if exhausted by a performance, and the Marshalls followed suit.

I admired Randy’s attempts to keep the Marshalls distracted, and, even more, his confidence in Jenn’s future. I wanted eventually to talk to her parents, but I didn’t want to break Randy’s rhythm. If he had them thinking of something other than their daughter’s comatose state, even for a few moments, I could wait my turn. I had a feeling there would be plenty of time later.

I nodded to Randy and gave him a sort of thumbs-up as Bruce, Virgil, and I took seats at the far end of the table, where the pale yellow wall faded into a light blue. The effect was not aesthetically pleasing, but rather looked like the painters had run out of yellow. The cafeteria color scheme was probably thought up by the same guy who painted the stripes on the hallway tiles.

Andrew Davies left his table and squatted beside me. His eyes were ringed in red, his jet black hair disheveled in a way that suggested he’d been running his hands through it.

“What can we do, Dr. Knowles?” he asked.

As strange as it sounded in the circumstances, the question fit Andrew’s personality. A problem solver. I’d always known that he’d make a good engineer, his professional goal.

After a minute, I thought of something we could do. We could gather information and pool our intel to help the police find Jenn’s attacker.

“Andrew, do you know the guys who interrupted the attack and called nine-one-one?”

“Yeah, I know who they are. Three guys from the Commuter Council. They’d had a meeting in Clara Barton this morning and were on their way to lunch at the Coffee Filter.”

It made sense. The Coffee Filter was a shop across Main Street from the Clara Barton dorm. Had Jenn been on her way there? Unlikely. First, that would not have been the shortest route for her from Franklin Hall. Second, for Henley College resident students like Jenn, the Coffee Filter was much more expensive than the Mortarboard, the café on campus, which gave residents a package deal with a discount. I couldn’t imagine Jenn spending half her hourly wage on coffee and a scone at the upscale Coffee Filter.

I looked around the cafeteria. “Are they here? The commuters?”

Andrew shook his head. “The cops talked to all the guys right there on the spot. Now they’re down at the police station.”

“Probably to sign statements.”

“Yeah, I think so. Hey, Dr. Knowles, do you think you could come over and talk to us?” Andrew gestured toward a table two down from where Randy was still talking to the Marshalls. At my table, Bruce and Virgil were head-to-head about something I couldn’t hear. “We’re all a little freaked out,” Andrew continued. “It would be nice to, you know, just talk or something.”

I could hardly wait. Without attracting anyone’s attention, I stood and followed Andrew to the students’ table. I was eager to learn what they had heard. Perhaps one or two of them had been close to the scene, albeit too late to protect Jenn. I envisioned myself in a conference with Virgil later, where we’d each have something to contribute to the investigation into who attacked my major and why.

Maybe I could help give Jenn’s story a happier ending than Kirsten Packard’s, which still weighed on me, and about which I could do nothing.

As I took a seat between Andrew Davies and Patty Reynolds I felt my cell phone vibrate. I realized I hadn’t checked it for a couple of hours and saw that I had ten voice mail messages. I didn’t bother to click over to my email. I’d get to them all later.

For now, I checked the current caller ID. And LOL’d.

Of all the news I could have received, the offer of food was among the best.

Bruce had dialed me, cell to cell, from two tables over. I looked up and smiled at him.

“How about a turkey sandwich? Chips? Chocolate chip cookie?” he asked, cell phone to cell phone.

“It’s not necessary to—”

“Or, I can go to my car and get your crab Rangoon.”

“Funny. I’ll take the sandwich, thanks.”

My thoughtful boyfriend had figured out that all I’d eaten today was a piece of supermarket cake and two Thai shrimp. I nurtured a slim hope that the turkey sandwich wouldn’t come from the same kitchen as the food on the cart that had passed us in the hallway.

Nothing made me feel at home like sitting with a group of students, no matter what their majors. Even in a hospital cafeteria. Even with a less-than-gourmet sandwich and a stale cookie. It might as well be written on a poster that travels with every teacher: “When young people look to you for guidance, for comfort, for hope, you have no choice but to forget your own problems and tend to theirs.”

Bruce had delivered enough food for the whole table, six servings of everything. Then he’d whispered in my ear, “Do your thing, teach,” and returned to Virgil.

“They won’t tell us what’s going on,” Patty said.

I almost said, “Welcome to the club.” Instead, I tried to be a good facilitator. “Everyone has a job to do, and their first priority is getting Jenn back to health,” I said.

“I heard someone say they induced a coma. What does that even mean?” a striking young blond woman asked. She’d been introduced by Andrew as Willa Lansdale, a music major whose family had contributed to the new carillon program.

Willa’s question I could handle, thanks to pseudo medical training from Bruce’s pals. I’d often been entertained and educated by his flight nurses while visiting him at MAstar.

“They’ve given her an anesthetic to protect her brain. She must have had a lot of swelling and they need to reduce it by controlling the blood flow.” I stopped, realizing I’d come to the end of my knowledge, all anecdotal, of how the brain worked.

I saw a familiar look on the students’ faces. The look that said they could tell this wasn’t my area of expertise. Maybe I could work the conversation around to numerical simulation of a partial differential equation.

My turn to ask a question. I scanned their faces. “Did any of you have a chance to talk to the guys who came to Jenn’s rescue? Do you know if she said anything to them?”

“Like who her attacker was? You wish,” said freshman Brent Riggs, who’d been at Jenn’s seminar this morning.

“There’s all kinds of rumors going around campus,” Willa said.

“Yeah, like, I heard someone say the guy was wearing one of those bright yellow Henley College sweatshirts,” said a student I didn’t know, possibly attracted to the table by the wealth of food.

“No way,” said Brent, the loyal freshman. “Couldn’t have been one of ours. I’m tweeting about it. So everyone knows it was an unauthorized person.”

“You can’t be sure,” another said.

“My roommate heard that after the thug got away, one of the Henley commuter students was leaning over Jenn and he heard her say ‘money.’ Just the word ‘money,’” Willa offered. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, to the tips of her fingers, as if she were trying to protect herself from a fate similar to Jenn’s.

“Money? That would be the last thing anyone would mug Jenn for,” Patty said.

“He took her backpack,” Willa said.

“That doesn’t mean there was money in it,” Patty responded. “She just bought a brand new laptop, but she kept it in our room.”

“Whatever,” Willa said. Student speak for “I don’t really care enough to continue this conversation.”

I tended to agree with Jenn’s roommate. Jenn was one of the least likely students to be walking around with a wad of cash, but I tucked the information away to relate to Virgil. Maybe it would connect with something he knew.

Another student, with tight brown waves in her chestnut hair, spoke up. “I’m Lauren Hughes, Dr. Knowles. I’m not in your classes, but I know how great you are with my friends who are your majors”—she leaned into Andrew—“and I just want to say you’re cool, you know. I wish I had a head for math. I’d so major in it.”

Nothing wrong with accepting a compliment, I decided, and resisted the urge to tell her everyone’s head was pretty much the same and with effort and the right support, anyone could major in math, or physics, or music.

Except for me. I could never
get
music. Unlike many math and science people who seemed to drift toward music. Albert Einstein, for one, who was proficient with the violin, and Peter Knowles, my father, for another, an accomplished mathematician and pianist. He’d died when I was a toddler, and all through my childhood, I’d made several attempts to learn the piano, in an effort to get close to my absent father, but it never panned out. Maybe there was something to this wiring theory after all and I’d never be a musician. On the other hand, I’d never tried the carillon. I made a fist with my hand and studied it. A possibility.

“Do you think we’re all in danger?” Lauren asked. “I’ve always felt safe on campus, but maybe that’s not realistic. I mean, maybe we should all be worried now?”

“Or, maybe Jenn knew the guys from home or something,” Willa suggested.

Patty frowned. “You’re saying because Jenn doesn’t live in Henley she brought this on herself? Like she invited some lowlifes from her hometown to campus?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Willa said.

“Well, whatever you’re thinking, this is not Jenn’s fault,” Patty said.

“She didn’t say it was,” Lauren said, her voice soft, her words tentative.

“Not directly, she didn’t,” Patty countered.

“Not indirectly either,” Willa said, defending herself in a forceful tone.

Uh-oh.
Not that it was a surprise that today’s dramatic event would bring out underlying tensions and prejudices. No matter how much we tried to get past class distinctions at Henley, an undercurrent of strained relationships was always there. Scholarship students versus those fortunate enough to afford full tuition, commuters versus residents, town versus gown. And a mugging on campus was the perfect trigger to bring the hairline fractures to a breaking point.

In front of me was a cross section of Henley’s resident student population. Andrew often joked about his “extensive portfolio of loans” that his grandchildren would be paying off. Willa’s family was in a position to give generously to the school, including a donation to the carillon program, though Willa herself wasn’t interested in studying the instrument. Andrew had introduced her as strictly “a violin person.” From my tenure on the admissions committee I knew that Patty and Lauren were somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, with limited financial aid, like Brent.

I allowed one more round of “Yes, you did” and “No, I didn’t” before I stepped in.

“Let’s think about how to give Jenn the support she needs when she wakes up, and how we can help the police find out who did this to her,” I offered. “And Lauren’s question about safety is a good one. We should all be a little more cautious until this guy is caught. I’m sure there’ll be extra security on campus.” Not quite true; more like a hope than a certainty. So far there’d been no official memo on the incident. Unless it was buried in my untouched email collection.

I glanced around the table. Lauren’s eyes were cast down, almost hidden by her long, wavy brown hair. Brent and Andrew both had screwed up their mouths, their fingers tapping the table (Brent) or squeezing a drink cup (Andrew); Patty and Willa were in a face-off.

“No one is blaming Jenn for this,” I said. I hoped for an apology or at least confirmation from Willa, whose words had started this thread, but I heard nothing other than a few sniffles from Lauren.

“So what can we do?” Andrew asked.

I looked over to where Bruce and Virgil had been sitting, at the same long table as the Marshalls and Randy Stephens. The table was empty.

If a call had come from the doctors, it would have been directed to Jenn’s parents, or possibly to Virgil, who’d been hoping to talk to Jenn. I’d been left behind. And here I was the one with the big “money” clue. I blew out an annoyed breath.

I stood and addressed my impromptu class. “Why don’t we all go up to the waiting area and find out if Jenn’s awake. If we can’t see her we can at least say hello to her parents. I’m sure they’d love to know her friends are here and ready to support her.”

The students shuffled around, packing up and tossing lunch wrappers. Like typical resident students, they’d scarfed down every crumb; like a typical spoiled professor, I ate only the cookie and a bite of turkey and discarded the rest. We all headed to the elevator together, Patty and Willa, both tall and thin, keeping at arm’s length.

As for my two friends, Bruce and Virgil, who had neglected to advise me of a call or notification from above, I’d deal with them later.

• • •

Henley General’s ICU waiting room had been refurbished since my last visit several years ago, during my mother’s final days. I counted myself among the fortunate in that I’d had no reason to return, nor to cause others to return because of me.

Now, except for a small family gathering in one corner, the occupants of the newish mauve chairs with arms of polished dark wood (or shiny plastic) were members of the Henley community.

Randy Stephens was with a new group of student visitors, some of whom I recognized. Music majors who knew Jenn, I assumed. They talked in low voices or paced across the carpet, a lighter shade of mauve than the chairs and featuring a leafy pattern.

I spotted Ted Morrell, whose introductory physics class Jenn was enrolled in during the regular school year. He sat slightly removed from the others, flipping through an issue of a news magazine, several months old, unless the hospital had changed its ways.

“I’m glad you came,” I said to Ted.

He nodded and waved his hand in a gesture that said it was nothing. I knew he was here to offer support to a student he had in class, one he knew I was close to. I wondered if Ted was also thinking of another long-ago campus incident. More likely, I was the only one fixated on a cold case that wasn’t even a case.

On impulse, I approached Ted with a question.

“Just curious,” I said. “What was Kirsten Packard’s roommate’s name?”

Ted frowned and shook his head, clearly taken by surprise, which had been my plan. “I don’t remember.”

I laughed and pretended not to notice his perturbed response. “What? Come on, Ted. You know every physics major since the beginning of time.”

“It was twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember,” Ted said.

He turned the page of the magazine, shook it in place, adjusted his horn rims, and lowered his eyes to his reading. I didn’t for a minute believe Ted’s protestation. Henley’s Physics Department had always been small, its faculty and majors very close. Why wouldn’t he tell me Kirsten’s roommate’s name? I left him to his reasons.

Bruce, anticipating my pique about not being alerted to the call from the doctors, came up to me with a sheepish look. I’d considered saying something like “Why didn’t you take me with you?” But did I really want to sound like a grade school kid who wasn’t picked first for the infield?

He put his arm around me and led me to the chair he’d abandoned. “You looked so comfortable talking to your class, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“It’s not as if I was napping. But thanks,” I said, taking his seat.

“I knew you’d figure it out soon enough.” He checked his watch. “And you did. We just got here. The Marshalls and Virge are in with the doctors.”

The student contingent from the cafeteria took seats on the chairs that lined the wall. The row of framed photos above them were meant to give comfort, I supposed, with their innocuous renderings of trees and meadows and, for a change of pace, a close-up of a dandelion blossom. I wasn’t sure what kind of image it would take to ease my mind. Maybe a Rubik’s Cube. Or a wall-size crossword puzzle. If my friend Ariana were here, and not wisely in sunny Florida, she’d have handed me materials for a beading project. I had to settle for one of her deep-breathing exercises.

After a few minutes, during which only a low hum of voices and a rustling of dog-eared magazine pages broke the silence, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall came through double doors off the waiting area, Virgil following close behind. The Marshalls wore a forlorn look that suggested no change in Jenn’s status, rather than something better—or worse.

“There’s no significant change to report right now,” Virgil announced, as softly as he could while still encompassing the whole Henley crowd. “They’re recommending that we all go home. She’s in good hands and they know how to reach us.”

He couldn’t have done better if he’d read from a script.