Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Nineteen





Mrs. Wade Croft, wife of Grace University’s Head Football Coach, was sitting stretched out on a brown sofa near a fireplace. A blue crocheted throw blanket covered her lower torso. Next to the end of the sofa stood a wheelchair at the ready. A younger woman, similar in appearance to the one who opened the front door, was sitting beside her mother, her head on the older woman’s shoulder.

“Detective,” called out Mrs. Croft in the dim light, extending her hand. Shoop moved forward, briefly shook hands, and then moved back a few paces.

“Mrs. Croft,” he spoke softly. “We’re sorry to bother you again. I realize that the last questioning session was probably very—draining.”

“If your questions will help find Wade’s killer, Detective,” she said, staring directly into his eyes, “I will stay here all night and answer them.”

“Uh, wonderful—“ answered Shoop, “but that won’t be necessary. “ He looked around. The older daughter, who had let them in, motioned for Shoop and Pamela to be seated on arm chairs directly across from the sofa. “Mrs. Croft,” he said to the older woman, “and Miss Croft . . . Miss Croft . . . . “ He nodded to each of the daughters. “Actually, I have something I would like you to hear and get your reaction.”

“Our reaction?” asked the mother. She pulled the afghan tighter around her body. Her fingers clutched a mangled tissue.

“Detective,” said the older daughter, still standing. “Is this really necessary? My mother has been through so much already. Must you bother her with this . . . whatever?” The younger daughter gave a muffled moan and cuddled up closer to her mother.

“It won’t take very long, Miss, just a few minutes—“ he began. “Um, this is Dr. Pamela Barnes. She’s on the faculty of the Psychology Department and is an expert in acoustics. She has assisted us in a number of cases and has been helpful in this new development . . .”

“Yes, Dr. Barnes,” said the mother from her reclining position, “I believe I’ve read about your helping the local law enforcement a number of times. Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been able to identify Wade’s killer?” She looked expectantly at Pamela, clutching the tissue with both hands. The older daughter gave a small huffing sound and turned away.

“Do you have to bother my mother with this . . . new development, Detective?” interjected the older daughter.

“Elizabeth,” scolded the mother. “Please. The detective is trying to help us. He’s trying to find out who did this to your father!”

“It won’t help us!” yelled Elizabeth, suddenly. “It won’t clear Dad’s name! It won’t bring him back! What good is it?”

“Please, Elizabeth!” cried the younger girl from the sofa. “Please! Just do what Mother wants!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” sighed Elizabeth, crossing her arms and squeezing her arms so tightly that Pamela thought liquid would be forced out of her pores.

“Elizabeth,” continued the mother. “Emily is right. This is what we have to do now for your father. It’s our duty to help the authorities find this person who did this! For him! For others who might be at risk from this killer.“

“Really, Ma’am,” suggested Shoop, “it’s very simple. I play a very short recording of some people speaking and you—any of you—tell me if you recognize any of the speakers.” He looked around at all of the women in the room.

“You think one of these people killed Wade?” asked Mrs. Croft.

“We don’t know,” he replied, “but you should be aware that the speakers you’ll be hearing were recorded on your husband’s cell phone that we found at the murder scene.”

“His cell phone? They’re women,” ventured Elizabeth, tenuously. “More than one?”

“Yes,” replied Shoop. “Do you think you can do this?” He looked from one woman to the other.

“We don’t have any choice,” replied Mrs. Croft. “Is the . . . is the language rough?”

“No, it’s fairly innocuous,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Barnes?”

She had faded into the background and now Shoop was demanding that she make her official presence known.

“There’s no foul language,” Pamela agreed.

“Then, play it, Detective—“ said Mrs. Croft, “and we will all three of us listen carefully and see if we recognize any of these . . . women.” Pamela could see the difficulty she had in admitting to herself that her husband had not only been cheating on her, but doing it with more than one woman. Pamela could only imagine how she would cope if she discovered that Rocky was having one affair—let alone three.

Shoop opened his overcoat and removed a small CD player from his inside pocket. The CD of the voices was obviously already within. Shoop pressed a button on the device and immediately the recording of the Coach’s cell phone messages began to play.

“I’m really excited to see you. I’m here, just like you said. Can you come over?”

Pamela could hear the intense breathing of Elizabeth Croft as she stood in front of the fireplace, looking straight ahead, nostrils flaring. The mother had a softer look—as if resigned—and glanced over to the youngest child from time to time to see how she was responding to the recording. The girl Emily seemed forlorn and sad. The three women were different portraits in grief, thought Pamela.

Finally, “Second floor. 211. Take the outside stairs.”

“That’s it,” announced Shoop, placing the small unit back inside his overcoat. Pamela was getting hot in this room with her jacket on; she wondered how Shoop interrogated people and never removed his overcoat. She guessed he used it like a magician—to produce his special effects—like this recording—from time to time.

“I don’t know any of these women,” announced the older daughter Elizabeth, with a sneer immediately after the recording finished. “And I’m sure my mother wouldn’t know any of them either.”

“Is that right, Mrs. Croft?” asked Shoop.

“I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Croft. “No one jumps out at me right away.”

“So you don’t recognize them?”

“Maybe some of them seem vaguely familiar . . .” said the mother, her face a contortion of lines.

“You mean you think you’ve heard these women before?” asked Shoop.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Detective,” said Pamela, jumping in. “Let me suggest that voice recognition is an extremely difficult task—even if you know the name of the person you’re trying to identify. In this case, we have no idea of the person—or person’s name—that we’re looking for.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Croft. “You know, like when someone sounds familiar but you can’t quite place them.”

“Exactly,” said Pamela, coming closer to the wife and kneeling beside her. “You know, Mrs. Croft . . .”

“Please, Dr. Barnes,” said the woman, “call me Sheila.”

“Sheila,” said Pamela, “it’s one of the problems in my type of research. Officials often assume that if you recognize a voice, you can identify it—and that’s just not the case. For example, you may recognize the voice of a salesperson who called you the other night, but that doesn’t mean you can identify the person. The only way you could do that would be if someone were to present you with a recording of several sample voices and asked you to select that particular salesperson from those voices.”

“I understand,” said Sheila. “If you asked me if the voices of any of these women on this recording belonged to my friend Elaine, for instance—“

“Do they?” interjected Shoop.

“No,“ she answered smiling. Pamela noticed that when she smiled she was a striking woman and could see where her two beautiful daughters got their good looks. “None of them are Elaine. I’m sure.” She gave Emily a little hug and the young girl glanced up at her mother and returned the smile.

“Do you recognize any of these women, girls?” Mrs. Croft asked her daughters, looking plaintively from Elizabeth to Emily. She held their eyes pleading. Emily bit her lip and tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head.

“Of course, I don’t,” replied Elizabeth, running to her mother and kneeling beside her legs. “Oh, Mother, how could Daddy do this? How could he?” She clasped onto her mother’s legs. Pamela, realizing that the poor invalid woman had enough people clutching at her, rose to give the small family some breathing room. As the three women comforted each other, Pamela moved over to Shoop, turning her back on the Croft family to give them a moment of privacy.

“I don’t think any of them recognize any of the voices,” she whispered to the detective. Shoop continued to stare at the tableau of misery arranged on the couch—both daughters tearfully entwined in the arms of their mother.

“You’re sure?” he mused. “Is this that special vocal lie detector technology you’re using here, Doctor?”

“No,” she answered, “nothing’s foolproof as far as lie detection is concerned, Detective. You know that as well as I do. Otherwise, they’d allow lie detectors in court.”

“It would certainly help my line of work if you people could invent something that could do that.”

“That could detect lies?” she asked, laughing softly. “We do have profiles of vocal behaviors that are consistent with lying.” She gave him her best scientific answer.

“Which probably would take six months to implement, or cost a thousand bucks a pop for some expert witness like you, or be dangerous—or something.”

“Or something,” she agreed. They turned back to the three women on the couch. The trio resembled three black crows in their mourning attire, perched and waiting for Shoop’s next move.

“So,” he began, “none of you thinks you’ve heard any of these voices before? I could play the recording again if it would help . . .”

“Truly, Detective,” said Sheila Croft, “they only sound vaguely familiar. I’ll think about where I might have possibly heard them speak—and if I ever did, it would only have been briefly—and infrequently.“

“Yes,” he nodded. “That would be helpful. And you too, girls!” He pointed at the two younger Crofts. Pamela cringed at his terminology. “If you remember ever hearing any of these women, you need to get in touch with my office as soon as possible.”

“Why do you need to know the names of Wade’s . . . of these women? Do you think one of these women killed Wade?

“We don’t know. It’s possible that one of them killed your husband . . .”

“Do you think there was some sort of jealous feud over him, Detective?” she continued, now allowing her total humiliation to be seen. “Did one of these women find out about the others and demand to be Wade’s only . . . paramour?” She covered her youngest daughter’s ears, but the girl was not paying attention, so lost in her sadness.

“Again, Mrs. Croft,” said Shoop, “we don’t know. That’s one possible scenario. Or a totally different person could have discovered them in the motel and confronted Coach Croft. But these three women are certainly suspects and it’s imperative that we find them. And at the present time, no one knows who they are or has any inkling how to find them.”

“Detective,” said Sheila Croft, gathering herself and, reaching out her hand, “I wish you luck in your quest—and I will continue to contemplate who these women might be.“ She shook his hand gently. Pamela noticed the difficulty with which she lifted her arm. “Dr. Barnes,” she said to Pamela, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I typically don’t get to many school functions so I don’t get to meet many of Wade’s faculty colleagues. I’m sure I would enjoy getting to hear about your research.” Pamela reached her hand out and down so the woman would not have to exert herself to shake it. How sad, she thought, that she is still imagining her life with her husband in the present tense. She will probably do that for some time.