Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Twenty-Six





It was just a mild concussion the doctors said. Even so, they had held her overnight and she was now bundled in her bed with orders to stay home from work for the day. Rocky was scurrying around like a dervish bringing her goodies for her nightstand so that she wouldn’t have to fix herself anything to eat while he was teaching his classes. He had suggested that he stay home from work—it wasn’t as if the man ever called in sick—but she wouldn’t have any of it. It was nice to be waited on, but truly she just wanted to rest—and think—and Rocky would never allow that with all his fussing.

“I fixed up your thermos, as usual,” he was droning on, as he placed the container on her nightstand. “It will keep your tea hot so you won’t have to traipse into the kitchen to fix yourself more.”

“I can make tea,” she argued, leaning back on the two extra pillows Rocky had placed behind her. He had arranged a plate of cookies and small appetizers (easier to eat) within arm’s length. “They checked me out at the hospital, Rocky. They said I’d be fine.”

“They also said to rest,” he snapped, broaching no disagreement. “I don’t want you out of bed except to go to the bathroom. Is that clear?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I swear,” he said softly, sitting gently on the bed beside her, “Pamela, how do you manage to get yourself into these fixes?”

“My brakes went out!” she cried in self-defense.

“They were probably cut by some maniac. I shouldn’t even be leaving you at home,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re overprotective,” she replied. “Shoop said even if someone did cut my brake line, they were probably just trying to warn me. “

“Right,” he noted, shaking a finger in her direction, “because you need warning—a warning to stay out of this murder investigation.”

“Please,” she whined, holding her palm to her temple. “Please don’t shout. It hurts.”

“Sorry, Babe,” he whispered, bending towards her and tucking the covers around her neck.

“I’m not cold,” she said in slight annoyance. Then she regretted her peevishness and stuck out her lower lip in her most beguiling manner. “Forgive me; I’m grouchy because I’m sore.”

“Of course, I forgive you. Can I get you something? Some aspirin?” She shook her head. “And besides, there’s nothing to forgive. You’ve been through a terrible experience and you just need to relax and take it easy for a while.”

“Rocky,” she began, “if someone did cut my brakes, it must be because I know something—or the killer thinks I know something about the murder. Don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily,” replied her husband. “Look here, Pammie. You’ve been involved in this investigation since the beginning. Good Lord, you’ve been sitting in on Shoop’s interrogations of most of the suspects. I don’t know what these people know about you—or think they know about you—or what Shoop has told them, but even if they know nothing, you have a reputation on campus. I mean, you were involved in those other investigations and were instrumental in solving them, because of your expertise. A lot of people know that—particularly people on campus—or people who know people on campus—such as anyone who knew Coach Croft. If any of the people who are being interviewed by Shoop see you there and know who you are—and connect you to those other investigations—who knows what they’ll think you’re doing now—or what you know—or will eventually figure out about this case too.”

“I get it,” she sighed. “My reputation precedes me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what you get for being a famous crime fighter.”

“But, even if the killer thinks I know something crucial,” she argued, “I don’t know what it is.”

“It just may be that the killer resents your snooping around.”

“The police are snooping around.”

“Yeah, but it’s not so easy to cut the brakes on a Police cruiser,” he suggested, “and if the killer did, what good would it do? There are more official vehicles where that one came from.”

“I’m an easy target, is what you’re saying,” she hinted, stretching back on her pillows. Rocky looked at the wall clock and stood up. The movement evidently awakened the couple’s dog and Candide appeared from under the bed.

“Here’s my little watchdog,” announced Pamela. Candide responded by leaping up on the big bed and snuggling under her arm. A small black nose peeked out from under her arm. “You’ll protect me, won’t you Candide?”

“I’m going to have to get going or I’ll miss my first class,” Rocky said to her. “I’ll only be gone a few hours, now. I’ll cancel my office hours today and come straight home. You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to have Angie come over and stay with you while I’m gone?”

“Of course not,” she sniffed. “I’m not going to have her miss a class her last semester.”

“All right,” he agreed. “And your classes?”

“I’ll call Jane Marie right now,” she told him. “Can you hand me the phone?” Rocky picked up the white landline unit and placed it on the bed next to his wife.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he whispered, bending over and kissing her forehead.

“Careful,” she cringed. “Kiss the left side.” He did and then turned and disappeared out the door. She could hear the garage door raise and then lower.

“Well, buddy,” she said to the little dog beside her. “How much damage can we do on the phone?” She reached over for one of Rocky’s tasty chicken and bacon appetizers and held it up for the canine who snarfed down the treat without even chewing. Pamela lifted the receiver on the phone and called the departmental office.

“Jane Marie,” she said when the secretary answered, “can you cancel my classes for me?”

“Dr. Barnes!” cried Jane Marie, “Are you sick? It’s not like you to cancel classes!”

“A car accident,” she replied. “I rammed a lamppost. Spent the night in the hospital.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed the perky secretary.

“I’m fine, truly!” said Pamela. “Just a mild concussion. They just said to stay home today and rest—and you know Rocky!”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t brook no back-talk!” Jane Marie answered. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to be married to a drill sergeant!”

“Well,” said Pamela, drifting, “it has it moments. . . .”

“Yes, I can imagine. . . “ chuckled Jane Marie. “What happened? Were you hurt?”

“Just a small gash on my forehead. My brakes gave out and I rammed a lamppost.”

“Your brakes? Just gave out?”

“Yes,” responded Pamela.

“Oh my, that’s terrible! Well, don’t worry, Dr. Barnes. I’ll see to it that your classes are cancelled.”

“Thanks.”

“And if you’re interested,” she continued, “Dr. Marks is in a much better mood today. Seems he and the missus have reconciled!”

“How lovely,” responded Pamela. “Don’t think we could tolerate a scruffy Mitchell Marks.”

“Or a smelly one. . .” added the secretary.

“There’s just too much drama over there,” said Pamela. “It’s probably a good idea that I stay home for a while. Maybe things will calm down.”

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, “trouble seems to follow you.”

“That’s what Rocky says. Now with this accident he wants to lock me up and throw away the key . . .”

“But, Dr. Barnes,” she exclaimed, “it’s not your fault if your brakes failed.”

“That’s not the point,” said Pamela, grabbing her thermos lid and sipping her new warm tea. Mmmm. It was orange—very spicy. “The police think someone may have cut my brakes.”

“Oh my God! Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sighing and relishing the warm beverage. “Who would want to cut my brakes?”

“Someone who doesn’t like you messing around in Coach Croft’s murder investigation?”

“And who would that be?”

“How would I know? Maybe one of his mistresses—you know—the ones whose voices you’re studying on that recording?”

“One of those women is dead. Remember?” she prompted the secretary.

“One of the other two?”

“One of them lives in Boston.”

“Then the third one. Surely the police can arrest her?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Pamela. “She’s just one suspect. The police consider every person connected to Coach Croft a potential suspect—with the possible exception of his wife.”

“I know, she’s in a wheelchair,” said Jane Marie, “but maybe that’s an act! Maybe she’s not really handicapped.”

“Then she’s been pulling this ‘act’ off for many years,” argued Pamela.

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes,” exclaimed the secretary, “I wish I knew the answer, but you’re the specialist. Can’t you listen to all these peoples’ voices and figure out who killed the Coach—and his mistress?”

“If only it were that simple,” said Pamela. She tossed another chicken-bacon square to Candide who downed the small morsel and proceeded to lick Pamela’s fingertips on her free hand.

“Isn’t that what they do with a lie detector?” queried Jane Marie.

“Something like it, Jane Marie,” she explained, “but my approach and that of lie detector technology are neither fool-proof. Both only point to possible deceptive behaviors; there’s really nothing definitive about most lie detection protocols. If there were, then it would be more likely that such protocols would be allowed in court.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Dr. Barnes,” said the secretary, “but if you can help the police find out who killed Coach Croft, you should do it. Just be careful! We don’t want anything to happen to you!”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. She believed the woman’s concern and she also believed that she was relatively safe in continuing her acoustic investigation. Even so, her brakes had broken and she did get in an accident. She concluded her call with Jane Marie, assured that she would take care of Pamela’s classes in her one-day absence. She had barely hung up the receiver when the machine again rang. Lifting the handle, she spoke tentatively into it.

“Yes?”

“Your brake line was cut,” snarled the voice she immediately recognized as Shoop’s.

“You’re sure?” she questioned him. This was not news she wanted to hear.

“Yup,” he confirmed. “Nicked—made a slow leak. With a sharp instrument.” He let the pronouncement hang in the air, apparently awaiting her reaction.

“What does this mean?” she finally asked.

“It means—Dr. Barnes—that our killer considers you a threat,” he said with precision. “We’ve got this person worried and trying to cover their tracks.”

“And I’m the one lying on the road?” she screamed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, calmly. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. But, we are going to pursue your line of investigation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he explained, “we’re going to bring everyone in—every possible suspect in this case—and we’re going to record them—and have you listen to them while we’re doing it. We’re going to make sure they know that you’re helping us and we consider your input very valuable.”

“You do consider my input very valuable, don’t you?” she questioned.

“Of course,” he replied, hesitantly, “but we’re going to make certain our suspects know that. And we’re going to see what they do next.”

“In other words,” she said cringing, “you’re going to make me the guinea pig.”