The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) (9 page)

Virgil spoke again before the next segment. “By the way, we’ve already cut some of the footage that has no movement at all. We could have queued up the rest so this wouldn’t take so long, but I wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything. Remember, there might be someone at the edges who seems strange to you, or maybe you see someone who’s been hanging around lately but doesn’t belong. That’s what we want to know.”

I wondered if Virgil was telling us everything. Maybe he had a suspect in mind, a man he’d already identified, and we were here to confirm his suspicions. I looked left and right, at Ted and Andrew, and over my shoulder to Randy and several students whom I didn’t recognize. Was it one of them Virgil was targeting? Surely not someone who’d been to Henley General and to my home. Virgil often quoted the rules of interrogation, how you never directly confronted the person you thought was guilty until you had incontrovertible evidence. First, you brought him over to your side, asking for cooperation, getting him to a point where he wanted to confess. Maybe Virgil was courting someone in this room. I pulled my sweater around me and faced front again.

We held our collective breath at the most intense part of the footage, time-stamped during the hour Jenn was attacked, when the three commuters, all male, exited the dorm and walked west. I didn’t want to watch as the young men turned out of camera range, to where we all knew Jenn had been overpowered. I heard Andrew draw in his breath and hold it until the segment ended. I gave his shoulder a pat and was rewarded with a small smile and a thank-you nod.

Nothing useful came from the footage captured by the middle residence, Nathaniel Hawthorne Hall, which may or may not have meant that Jenn hadn’t passed by there after she left Franklin Hall. The inadequacy of our camera system was never more apparent as we realized there were more hidden zones than areas covered by the system.

We saw a long shot of the fountain that graced the center of the campus. In good weather, the bench surrounding the water sprays would have been crowded with sun worshippers; today we watched a couple of hardy construction workers head that way carrying what was most likely lunch. The men sat facing the back of the Administration Building as if they were keeping watch over their equipment. If they’d been facing the other way, they might have seen Jenn and the thug who had beaten her.

The last footage came from a recording set up on the top floor of Paul Revere, the dorm closest to the Administration Building and Henley Boulevard. This camera was trained on the pedestrian entrance to the campus, which also happened to be the direction of the construction activity.

We watched the men split up into twos and threes, some climbing into the cabs to eat, some walking toward the campus coffee shop.

I heard giggles from female students in the row behind me when one of the workers entered the screen from the left. He walked to a car parked off to the right side and removed his heavy jacket, his muscles apparent through a tight-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Cute,” said one coed, as Virgil would have labeled her.

“I don’t know, he looks pretty old,” another said.

“Not that old,” said the first.

“I’ll bet he’s forty,” said a new female voice.

“You have to admit he’s cute.” Back to coed number one.

When more than one student voiced the opinion that “Forty’s not cute,” I held my tongue. Except to ask under my breath “Who says?”

I straightened my shoulders and stretched my neck to minimize any wrinkles that might have formed lately. I watched the unsuspecting worker stuff his jacket in the trunk and pull out a different one, with the orange protector stripes across the back. He put on the second jacket as another man approached him and the two seemed to be arguing. Three other men, also in jackets with protector stripes, passed them indifferently and walked to the bottom of the screen, out of camera range.

“Wait a minute,” Lauren said from a row farther back. “Can you rewind that?”

“It’s not tape,” Andrew said, ever the accurate engineer.

“Whatever,” Lauren said, walking to the front for a better view. She hooked her wavy brown hair over her ears and steered her face to within a couple of inches of the screen. Virgil joined her and used the remote to go back in time. “There, see those guys?” she said to Virgil.

He stopped the DVD. The two combative men were now frozen in position, arms raised, necks straining toward each other. One of them was the jacket changer; the other man had an ordinary jacket and no hard hat. The image wasn’t clear and it was difficult to distinguish all the similarly built and nearly identically dressed men from one another.

The audience leaned forward, staring at the time-frozen men, and became silent, waiting for Lauren to tell us why she’d singled out the men.

Virgil took a pen from his pocket and held it in front of the men, both firmly planted next to the cherry picker. “These two look familiar to you?” he asked Lauren.

Lauren nodded. “This might be nothing, but I think I saw them in the campus coffee shop yesterday.” I swallowed. The day Jenn was attacked. “And they were fighting then, too.”

“These were the guys?”

“Uh-huh. I think so.”

“And they were fighting with each other? No one else involved?”

“Nuh-uh. I don’t think so.”

I noticed that Virgil’s expectant look had collapsed into a polite smile. So had mine. I’d gotten excited when Lauren called out, hoping for something that could be directly connected to Jenn’s attack.

“I think so” and “I don’t think so” are the kiss of death in a lineup, I mused, as if we were even at that point, and a couple of guys fighting on a construction site wasn’t exactly news.

Virgil started the video again. The men sprang to action, and this time one of them turned, face front. He looked familiar. Where had I seen him? Graying hair, clean shaven, older than most of the other workmen. I took a mental step back. Well, how about on the campus, working, carrying tools, carrying a lunch pail. That’s where.

The men continued the argument for another few seconds, until a third man approached and broke it up.

“That’s the foreman,” Virgil said. “He couldn’t make it today, but he’s coming in to give us some names and addresses.”

With nothing more to view, Virgil stepped to the center. He informed us that the footage from the Coffee Filter camera hadn’t been processed yet, but he hoped we’d be available when it was ready. He thanked us for our time and handed out his business cards. If something occurred to us, we were to call him, “day or night.”

I made a note of the offer, in case I needed to take him up on it.

Security Footage
, the movie, now over, students and faculty filed out of what had become an A/V room. I waited on the side, hoping to have a few minutes with Virgil before he left. A memory of our last conversation clicked in—the “money” thing, where he’d also heard that Jenn had purportedly uttered the word
money
as she drifted into unconsciousness.

I noticed for the first time the posters that lined the walls of the music room. Randy, or his staff, had mounted instructional photos of carillons, fully annotated, as if they were part of a music exhibit in a museum. I’d seen similar art on the walls of the hallway in this wing on my last visit, but at the time I hardly knew, or cared, how to spell
carillon
.

I studied a close-up of a bell labeled “the bourdon,” described in the accompanying text as the largest bell in a carillon system, sounding the lowest note. Further documentation told me that a series of notes produced by a bell was called a “prime.”

No way
, I said to myself. Everyone knew “prime” referred to a number greater than one that had no positive divisors other than itself and one. I resolved to start a new project—making a prime number poster for the math floor of Franklin Hall. I was sure I could get help from someone in the department who was a better artist than I was.

Several photos showed carillonists in action. A man wearing a headset pounding on an extended keyboard made of long dowels, also called “batons,” according to the caption. So many words for one item. I was glad math wasn’t so complicated. An older woman with thick glasses standing at a two-level set of keys/dowels/batons, a complex set of wires and weights upright in front of her, looking like she was trapped in one of Ted’s freshman physics labs. A duo—a man and a woman, side by side in a small glassed-in room, hitting the keys with four fists and four feet while visitors peered in from all sides.

“Do you play, Dr. Knowles?” Andrew’s voice came as a surprise from behind me. I thought he’d left with the other students.

“No, but I do enjoy hearing others play.”

From Andrew’s somber expression, I sensed that he had more to say.

“How are you doing with all that’s happened?” I asked him.

He held back tears. “I hope they get this guy. I know you’re sort of connected to the police. Will you tell me if there’s anything I can do to help?”

“Of course. I know what you’re feeling, Andrew. Right now, it seems the best we can do is wait.”

“I’m not good at that.”

“I’m worse,” I admitted, and got a smile from Andrew.

Andrew moved on and I turned to my own thoughts. I pictured Jenn, my petite student, sitting on the bench, overwhelmed by the size of the instrument. I thought of how her instructor, Randy Stephens, had praised her talent and abilities to her parents. Had that been a true assessment, or a way to lift their spirits at a depressing time? I hoped someday I’d be able to attend a concert featuring Jenn Marshall and find out for myself.

I fingered the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket. Surely not Jenn’s money, but—money that was part of the crime scene? Did Jenn simply see the hundred as she was crashing, and utter “money” in a battered fog? I thought it unlikely that she’d notice it, let alone feel it was important to mention to her rescuers.

While I waited for Virgil, I leaned against the wall and thumbed through my texts and emails. I had two more messages with “Delivery Status Notification” as subject. More rejections of my email to Kenny. Not that I needed them or cared. No longer a worry, the nonexistent Kenny was now just a nuisance until my service provider stopped trying to find him.

I switched to the list of notifications I was building, to stop automatic charges to my now-shredded credit card. It was taking more than one page of lines in my Notes app. I needed a secretary.

A booming voice broke into my concentration.

“Gaming?”

I looked up at Virgil. “Since when do you even know what that is?”

“I don’t. Sounds good, though, huh?”

“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked Virgil.

He pointed to chairs in the middle row and ushered me to a seat. Since we were going nonverbal for the moment, I pulled the hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to him.

“Need a ticket fixed?” he asked.

“Funny. You’re in a pretty good mood today. Hot date?”

“Uh, let’s get to business,” Virgil said.

Was that a flush on my friend’s face? After the (roughly) trillions of times Bruce and I teased Virgil about his weekends, could this be the one where he really did have a date?

I studied his face. “Virgil? Is there something you want to tell me?”

“I thought you wanted to tell me something,” he said, returning to his normal complexion.

Later, I told myself, and took out my phone. I queued up the shots I’d taken of the money-laden bush outside Clara Barton dorm. I handed the phone to Virgil.

“Sorry about the prints on the bill,” I said. “I didn’t have an evidence bag.”

I let Virgil study the gifts I’d bestowed. He looked back and forth between the phone and the bill. I was impressed that Virgil, a self-proclaimed Luddite, knew how to flick the photos across the screen. He wasn’t quite as adept at the motion as Fran’s seven-year-old grandson, but I was impressed nonetheless.

“Hmmm,” he said. It was never useful to try to interpret Virgil’s partially verbal reactions. They were seldom very telling. I’d probably imagined the girlfriend lined up for the weekend.

“I found the money wrapped around a twig in the bushes near where Jenn was attacked,” I explained.

“When?”

“This morning, on my way to class.”

“You park over there now?”

Virgil knew me too well. “I needed some exercise.”

“And I know all about gaming,” he said, smiling.

“Is the bill something that would have been picked up yesterday by the guys who searched the crime scene?”

“If it was there at the time, I would assume so.”

“So, it was probably dropped sometime last night,” I suggested. “Too late to be connected to the attack on Jenn. But it was windy yesterday. It could have been dropped during the attack”—I was getting better at using the word and not summoning the mental image—“and then blown away and then back again.”

Virgil didn’t say “far-fetched,” but I figured it was on the tip of his tongue.

“Kind of a big bill for a college kid, huh?”

“Or a faculty member,” I said.

Another smile. “Let me take it in anyway. No harm. I’ll return it to you if there’s nothing on it, and it will be yours to do what you want with it.”

“Or you can keep it, in case I get a ticket someday.”

Virgil happened to have a plastic baggie handy and inserted the bill. A little late to worry about contamination, I thought.

A bell rang, weaker than the Franklin Hall bell in my opinion, and students staggered in under the weight of large, unwieldy cases in the shape of violins or something in that family. Virgil and I headed out of the room, our business concluded anyway.

I’d left a message for Bruce about my credit card but hadn’t had time to whine about it in person with anyone. Since Virgil was handy, I ran on about Eric’s call and thieves these days. He understood it was just chatter, not a request for help. I knew what I had to do; I simply didn’t want to take the time.

“Can you take my statement on the credit card theft?” I asked, for fun.

Virgil frowned. “Not unless there’s a homicide involved. Is this bank guy, Eric, still alive?”

I admitted there was no murder one to investigate, and gave him a heads-up on Judy Donohue. “She’s chair of the Biology Department. She wanted to be here today but couldn’t make it. Judy’s going to call you about looking at the footage some other time.”

“Not a problem.”

Just before the oddly situated portal was the half-open door to Randy’s office, where what sounded like a late New Year’s Eve party was in progress. We stopped and peeked in. I recognized members of the music faculty and a group of students, including Willa, who was having a busy day, apparently. Recorded carillon music was playing in the background; trays of champagne-filled glasses were making the rounds. One student carried a platter of hors d’oeuvres that produced a smelly cloud of butter and garlic.

“We got some of those gourmet frozen puffs and microwaved them,” he said. “Would you like one?”

I declined on the basis of the oxymoronic description, “gourmet frozen.” I was mildly surprised when Virgil, who wasn’t all that fussy food-wise, waved away the offer with a polite “No, thanks.”

Randy spotted us. “Come in, come in,” he said, gesturing grandly.

“Randy found out this morning that he’s been accepted into the World Carillon Guild,” said Lorna Beckman, a music theory professor.

“It’s a big deal,” Willa explained. “He had to take a test and all.”

“We surprised him when your movie was over,” another instructor said, lifting a glass to the level of a toast.

“Congratulations,” Virgil and I said, both reaching in to shake Randy’s hand.

Randy, standing slightly in front of his faculty, took a bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’m now the official Henley College carillonist.”

“It means international travel, with recitals all over the world,” Lorna added.

“Come in and have some champagne with us,” Randy said, flushed.

Pleased as I was for Randy, I wasn’t in the mood for a party. Before I could respond, Virgil chimed in.

“I’d love to but I’ve been summoned to the station. I got dropped off.” He pointed to me. “And I need a ride.”

“Too bad” and “Come back later” and “We’ll save some bubbly” came from among the revelers.

I put on my best disappointed look as the gang waved us off and the office door closed.

“You got dropped off?” I asked Virgil as we walked away.

“Uh-huh. Did you think I lied?”

“Only for a nanosecond.”

“I’ll bet you’re less impressed now that you know I didn’t lie.”

“A little,” I admitted.

We’d come to the weird door. Virgil opened it and we climbed the steps to the normal hallway.

“Strange building,” he said.

“I agree.”

We walked through the building greeting people with “Heys,” mostly members of the administrative staff.

“My car’s across campus,” I said as we approached the exit.

Virgil shook his head. “I called in and a uniform is outside waiting for me.”

“Then you did lie about my being your ride.”

Virgil waved his hand. “I didn’t say you were my ride. I pointed to you and said, ‘I need a ride.’ Whatever they assumed, they assumed.”

I laughed. “I feel like I’m talking to Socrates.”

“Was I wrong? Did you want to go to the party?” he asked.

“No way. This has been more fun,” I said.

I considered telling Virgil about my recent discoveries about Kirsten Packard—locating, almost, Wendy Carlson, Kirsten’s roommate of old, now a researcher at the BPL; the rumor of a Patty Hearst–like robbery scenario; the other set of roommates I’d unearthed: our own Dr. Ted Morrell of the Henley College Physics Department and Vincent Packard, former US attorney representing Massachusetts, and father of the long-deceased Kirsten.

Putting it all together, it seemed like a lot to talk about. A case worth reopening, perhaps. But Virgil had shown less than no interest—that would be negative interest—in a cold case.

Sure enough, when we exited Admin a patrol car was idling in wait.

“Anything else?” Virgil asked, as he prepared to enter the car.

“Nothing else,” I said.

• • •

Bundled up again, I walked across campus, past the back of the tower, toward my car, parked as usual by the tennis courts. Another drawback of winter—it was already dark at just after five. There weren’t many students around and most of the workers had left. A few stragglers in work clothes, carrying lunch pails, some with toolboxes, climbed into pickups and cars. A group of three workmen, walking much faster than I was, overtook me on the path just east of the fountain. One, a young man, turned and tipped his Yankees cap. I pegged him for a major risk taker, wearing a Yankees cap this close to Boston.