Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Twenty-Four





She had taught her one class for the day and had spent a pleasant hour with her graduate assistant, Claire, going over the young student’s data from her thesis research project. She typically did a lot of hand-holding—in the figurative sense—with her graduate students who generally struggled with the data analysis portion of their thesis research. Why wouldn’t they? She remembered her own doctoral program and the mountains of computer printouts she’d had to wade through for her own studies. It was so much easier today with online statistical analysis programs. Graduate students could run their t-tests and multivariate analyses right on their own laptops in their own dingy apartments. They didn’t have to take up residence in some central computer lab as she’d had to do many years ago when she was running data. Claire was a conscientious young woman and diligent, but not nearly as enthusiastic about research in general as her former assistant, Kent Drummond, had been. Yes, the same Kent Drummond who now vied for—and apparently appeared to be winning—the race for top man in her daughter Angela’s heart. Strange, she thought, how lives are interwoven.

“Dr. Barnes,” said Claire, seated beside Pamela on her couch, “did you say that I should rerun the data for both Hypothesis Two and Three or just Two?”

“What?” responded Pamela. Their laps were filled with reams of statistical print-outs. A typed rough draft of the student’s thesis lay to Pamela’s right side. “Sorry, Claire, I must have drifted.”

“It’s okay, Dr. Barnes,” said the thin girl, long brown hair draped over her face, “I do that too after staring at rows and rows of numbers for hours on end.” She gave a weak laugh. Pamela placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder.

“Maybe it’s time we wrapped up for the day,” she suggested. “Let’s take a look at your data tomorrow, with a fresh eye. I’ll be thinking about what to do about your two hypotheses. Maybe we could combine them.”

“That would be great!” replied the student and noticeably sparkling.

“Good,” said Pamela, gathering the papers, standing, and stretching. My goodness, I have been seated hunched over that project for far too long. Claire grabbed her backpack from the floor and shoved the pile of print-outs inside. Quickly zipping up the bag, she stood and headed for the door.

“Oh, and, Claire,” said Pamela, retreating to her desk, “don’t forget about our subjects for the deceptive vocal cues study.”

“Uh, tomorrow,” mumbled the girl, “I think we’ve got a few people coming in. I’ll check the sign-up sheet in the lab and e-mail you. Okay?”

“Sure,” said Pamela, and the girl was gone. Yes, Kent was definitely a more worthy assistant. Still, Claire had always come through for her and had completed all the tasks that she’d given her. Claire just didn’t seem to have much interest in research and certainly little joy—in much of anything.

At her desk, she poured herself a fresh cup of blackberry tea from her thermos that Rocky had packed for her and glanced out her window on the lovely fall day below. Joan and Willard were in class, she knew and she reveled in this moment of privacy before plunging back to work. The ringing telephone drew her back to reality.

“Dr. Barnes.” It was Jane Marie. She hadn’t spoken to her since the excitement this morning and she was curious to find out if Jane Marie had discovered what was up with their illustrious leader. Why was he so grouchy this morning? And why was he even in the building so early? He’d looked like he’d been on an all-nighter as her students would say.

“Jane Marie, whatever is going on with Dr. Marks?”

“I’ve been investigating, Dr. Barnes,” replied the secretary. “Just like you. You’ll be surprised all that I’ve found out. Are you out of class?”

“Yes,” said Pamela, intrigued.

“It appears he and Velma had a huge fight.”

“But we saw them at the football game,” argued Pamela. “They seemed fine. Although Velma is always very quiet. I’m never really sure about her.”

“I know,” agreed Jane Marie, “a strange bird, that one, if you ask me. But anyway, Dr. Marks wouldn’t say directly, but, you know me, I can usually finagle any tidbit of information I need—or want—from him. I know how to get him to—well, I know how to manipulate him . . .”

“I’m sure you do . . .”

“What were they fighting about?”

“The Coach!”

“The Coach? Why?”

“Now, this is where this becomes an assumption on my part, but I was sort of tiptoeing around after you left. I got him his coffee like he asked—which I never do, you know. Dr. Marks is always so women’s lib, even though I would never mind making him a cup of coffee. For heaven’s sake, I make a pot for myself every morning and bringing him a cup is no great imposition! Anyway, after I brought him his coffee, I was in his office, just standing there at his desk. He was sitting there, drinking it, rubbing his hands through his hair like he was lost. And, Dr. Barnes, I could smell him. He had not showered. You saw him! He was a mess! I know he’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday! It’s horrible! And he has a five o’clock shadow! I mean, what if he has a meeting with Dean?”

“Did you say any of this to him?” asked Pamela through the receiver, now becoming totally immersed in the woman’s story.

“Of course not!” replied Jane Marie, aghast. “That’s not how I do things. I . . . I handle Dr. Marks in a more. . . subtle way. . .”

“I’m sure you do,” said Pamela, chuckling to herself.

“All of a sudden,” said Jane Marie, “he started on this tirade about women. Mind you, I’m standing right there. He’s never done that before.”

“You mean, spoken disparagingly about women?” asked Pamela.

“No!” she countered, “opened up to me at all! He was furious. I don’t think he even knew—or cared—that he was speaking to a woman. He was mad at women—or I dare say—a woman. And who would that woman probably be?”

“Velma,” supplied Pamela, perfectly.

“Yes,” agreed Jane Marie, “then in the midst of this huge speech about the horribleness of womankind, he says it’s all the Coach’s fault!”

“How could it be the Coach’s fault?” queried Pamela. “I’d think it would be the other way around. I mean, he’s the one cheating on his wife with three—possibly more—women.”

“Evidently,” said Jane Marie, pointedly, “Mrs. Marks—Velma—sees this whole episode with the Coach and his mistresses, particularly because of his invalid wife—as an indictment of all men! The Coach, according to Velma, is just the poster boy for what’s wrong with the men of the world!”

“Oh-oh,” said Pamela, “it sounds as if Velma was already chomping at the bit and that the Coach’s murder—and his escapades—were just the catalyst to set her off. Maybe Dr. Marks is up to his old tricks again. . . .”

“You mean another affair?” asked Jane Marie, and then quickly answered her own question. “No, I don’t think so. He really learned his lesson the last time. That episode with Evelyn Carrier about did him in. It almost ended their marriage too. He’s worked so hard to make it up to her.”

“Maybe not hard enough,” suggested Pamela.

“I see it from his point of view, I guess,” said Jane Marie, “I don’t know what Mrs. Marks goes through. I do know he spends a lot of time on campus.”

“Even more last night,” responded Pamela, and the two women giggled together with apparent relish. “So, what did he do? Did he go home to clean up? Or what?”

“No, he stayed,” said Jane Marie. “He evidently had a razor in his desk and tried to shave and wash up in the first floor men’s rest room.”

“That must have been amusing,” remarked Pamela.

“Definitely,” agreed the secretary, “unfortunately, he still smells, but I won’t tell him. He went to Admin for a meeting. That’s why I’m calling now.”

“Not with the Dean?”

“Lord, I hope not!” said Jane Marie. “Anyway, he never really told me that he spent the night in his office, but I obviously figured it out and he didn’t say anything to try to dissuade me. I just tried to be sympathetic and helpful—you know, like I always am—and I figured eventually I’d find out what happened.”

“You are a super sleuth,” said Pamela.

“Not as super as you, though,” noted Jane Marie. “I talked to Rosemary and tried to get some more dirt from her, but she’s not talking. She said that you were in her office when that detective found out about the identity of the Coach’s mistresses.”

“I was,” said Pamela. “We were playing the recording of the mistresses’ voices for her when one of the members of the football team walked in and recognized the voice as his mother’s!”

“His mother! Oh my God!” she said. “That must have been awful!”

“For the student,” agreed Pamela, “yes. For the detective, a major break in the case. It showed us that the women we’re searching for are apparently mothers of football team members.”

“So, where do you stand now in your investigation?” asked Jane Marie.

“It’s not my investigation, Jane Marie,” noted Pamela, “but now with one of the three apparent mistresses dead, I’m sure Detective Shoop will be re-questioning the other two mistresses. I’m sure he’ll be re-questioning everyone who has any involvement with the Coach. Two murders in just a few days. And obviously connected. “

“I’ll let you get back to your investigation, Dr. Barnes. Oh, I know, I know. You’re just helping. But we’re so proud of you! You’re the Department’s very own Sherlock Holmes!” With a few pleasant good-byes and a fervent denial on Pamela’s part that her involvement in the Coach Croft murder case was totally peripheral, the two women ended their phone conversation.

Pamela mused on her entanglement in the events of the last few days. She had managed to be right in the thick of things—especially being there when Ricky Terlinger recognized his mother’s voice as one of the three women on the recording. How auspicious was that! Would they have ever tumbled to the fact that Croft was canoodling team mothers in the afternoon if the young man had not walked in just at that moment? She thought they probably would have, but it would have taken longer. And the recent murder of Skye Davis—obviously the third mistress and probably the one who was with the Coach in the motel room the day of the murder. Could she have killed him? And if she did, then who would have killed her? Or did some other person kill them both? And why? She didn’t know, but she knew that she could possibly provide the police with information they didn’t have if she could uncover some new information about the three mistresses. Yes, they now knew who the women were, so it wouldn’t be a matter of identification or recognition. But she could continue her profiling as Shoop had originally requested. She could listen to the voices of the three women—even the dead woman—and see if she could determine any new traits that she might have missed. Willard had figured out that Abigail Prescott was from Boston. Maybe if she did some more intense analysis, she could find some little nugget that could assist them in tracking down this killer.

She popped open her acoustic analysis software and loaded the voices of the three mistresses. It sounded like a fairy tale—The Three Mistresses. But not funny—not funny at all, she thought. With her headphones in place, she played the voices over and over, listening each time for some tell-tale feature that might single that speaker out as unique. Could she detect any jealousy in any of the voices? That might certainly be a factor, although she wasn’t exactly certain how jealousy would be displayed in a voice. All three women sounded excited and anxious in their messages—some more than others. After all, they were meeting a lover in a motel room. They would all probably sound anxious and excited. Some sounded scared; some didn’t. None of them sounded deceptive, but then, she realized that it was very difficult to detect deception from vocal cues alone. It might, however, be possible to detect a speaker’s genuine feelings if they were trying to mask those feelings with a false statement. Again, she couldn’t detect that any of the three women were not genuinely anxious to meet Croft. What was she missing?

A young man dressed in business attire and an overcoat, pulling a rolling suitcase ambled past her doorway. He appeared lost as he looked in various open doorways, eventually stopping at hers.

“Excuse me,” he said, tentatively, glancing at the nameplate on her open door, “Dr. Barnes, I’m Jack Bentley. I believe you might know my mother, Joan.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes!” exclaimed Pamela, “You’re Joan’s son! I’ve heard so much about you!” She leaped from behind her desk and motioned the young man to enter and have a seat. “Your mother’s in class now, but she should be out in a half hour or so. You can wait here if you like.”

“Don’t think I’ll have time,” he responded, pulling back his coat sleeve to check his wristwatch, “I’ve got a plane to catch in less than an hour and a taxi is waiting downstairs for me. I just wanted to say ‘good-bye’ to Mom before I took off.”

“Oh, my!” replied Pamela, “Does she know you’re leaving? Should I try to get her out of class?”

“Uh, no . . . and no,” responded the man, with a blush, pushing back a lock of golden brown hair in a manner that reminded Pamela so much of Joan that she was stunned. “Actually, it all happened so fast. I’ve been looking for work here. Nothing. I know Mom was beginning to wonder if I’d ever find a job . . . and so was I. But, I just heard from this buddy of mine back in Seattle. A new position opened up at my old firm quite unexpectedly. Not quite as much money as I was making before, but it looks good and they want me, which is the main thing.“

“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Pamela. “I really could get your mother from class, Jack. . .”

“No, no, please!” he said, holding up his hand as she started to rise. “It’s not like I won’t be back to visit. I’m not going to Siberia—just Seattle! I just have to leave today—now, actually!” He rose and bent over her desk to shake her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Barnes. Mom talks about you all the time. You’re the detective, right?”

“Oh, not really,” laughed Pamela. “I just dabble.”

“Well, be careful,” suggested the young man, grabbing the handle of his suitcase and heading for the door. “And, please tell Mom I’m sorry I missed her—and tell her I love her.”

“I’ll do that,” agreed Pamela. Then running quickly to the doorway, she embraced the man with a tight hug. “This is from your Mom! Congratulations—and good luck!”

“Thanks!” he smiled, and headed jauntily down the hallway.