Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Nine





Her talk with Jesse Portillo, the young football player, had haunted Pamela. Maybe that was why, now, on a brisk, fall Saturday evening, she found herself sitting high up in the faculty section of the home bleachers of the Grace University Football Stadium waiting for the starting gun (or whatever happened to begin a football game). Her jacket clutched tightly around her body, she rubbed her hands together. A gentle afternoon breeze had turned into a nippy wind and her fingertips were icy. Rocky, seated next to her, grabbed one hand in his and squeezed. Down on the field, the band played warm-up songs and cheerleaders leaped and danced.

“Dr. Barnes,” called out Jane Marie over the noise, “how do you like your first football game?”

Pamela smiled at her colleague sitting two heads to her right on the end of the row. Leaning over Laura Delmondo, she yelled, “It’s exciting! Very noisy!”

“It’ll get noisier!” added Laura, smiling. Pamela knew that the young professor and the secretary were avid team fans and often attended the games together, as other faculty members seemed to have little interest in campus sporting events. Laura had left her new baby at home with her husband, and Jane Marie’s husband, who worked in the oil industry, was away on a rig for several months. The two women, of similar ages often socialized.

“Expect the President to speak,” added Mitchell Marks, seated to Rocky’s left.

“Really?” questioned Pamela, bending over Rocky, “Is that typical?”

“It is when the head coach is murdered and the school decides not to cancel the game,” noted Mitchell, with a roll of his eyes. He smiled sideways to include his wife who was seated on his left. The group of six was the entire contingent from the Psychology Department. Pamela knew that Mitchell typically attended major games and school functions, not always because he had any interest in the actual event, but because he perceived it a part of his job as Department Head to also be a figurehead for Psychology and its faculty members. Pamela was delighted that he took his position seriously and was relieved that it allowed her to avoid most such activities.

The band started a louder and livelier tune and the crowd of mostly students and some faculty die-hards began clapping to the beat. People were still entering the bleachers and finding spots—obviously many were regulars at the Tigers’ home games—and as fans slid into spots in the bleachers, Pamela could see many greetings taking place. She could also hear an undercurrent of discussion about the recent murder—and the events surrounding it. People were curious about how the administration would portray their decision to continue with the game as planned, considering the horrific event. She was intrigued about what their school’s top gun would have to say.

A burst of applause as the band finished a lively number caused the entire population of the home bleachers to rise en masse. More faculty and staff streamed down from the entrance at the top, now trying to squeeze in between colleagues as space in the bleachers became more difficult to find. Pamela glanced to her right where Jane Marie was speaking to a slim, blonde woman who had just entered and was moving down to a lower row. The woman stood below, looking up at Jane Marie with determination. Her eyes were bloodshot but her mouth was set with grim resolve. Jane Marie was speaking to her with agitation, her hand on the woman’s shoulder. As Pamela stared at the twosome, Jane Marie turned back to Laura and Pamela.

“Rosemary,” she said to the woman, “I’d like you to meet Drs. Delmondo and Barnes from our department.” The two professors smiled and nodded at the forlorn woman who clutched a large purse protectively to her chest. “Rosemary Ellis. Rosemary is . . . was Coach Croft’s secretary. We go way back. Don’t we?” Jane Marie moved down a level to Rosemary and gave her a hug. The coach’s secretary stared over Jane Marie’s shoulder off into space.

“We’re so sorry,” said Laura to Rosemary. “Jane Marie has been worried about you. How are you doing?”

“I . . . fine,” said the woman, her blue eyes oblivious of Laura, and then she added something that Pamela didn’t hear.

“I’m surprised you’re even here,” said Jane Marie, clutching the other woman’s hand protectively. “No one expected you to be here, Rosemary.” Jane Marie spoke softly as possible to her friend, given the incredible noise. Pamela struggled to hear the conversation between the two women but she was two people removed. The women continued their whispered conversation for a few moments, and then hugged farewell, and the Athletic Department secretary turned and continued slowly down the aisle of the bleachers to a seat near the front.

“You two are friends?” Pamela asked Jane Marie after the woman had moved away.

“Yes,” replied Jane Marie. “I know most of the administrative assistants from most of the departments fairly well. Rosemary is definitely one of the nicest.”

“This must all be just horrible for her,” added Laura. “Why would she even be here tonight?”

“I can’t imagine what she’s going through,” agreed Jane Marie. “I mean, I try to imagine how I’d feel if someone murdered Dr. Marks . . .”

At that, Mitchell, hearing his name mentioned, leaned over Rocky and called down to her.

“JM, enough with all the hypothesizing about my demise,” he scowled and his wife nudged him playfully. Jane Marie blushed. A cheerleader atop a pyramid leaped in the air and was caught by a group of four of her compatriots—to massive applause from the crowd. Pamela rubbed her hands together. She noticed that her breath was now visible as she exhaled—definitely fall.

A hush suddenly fell over the crowd. Pamela noticed a tall man, wearing a long, elegant, black overcoat striding out to the center of the playing field. He was followed by a younger man dressed in a football jacket and cap. The two men stood in the center of the field. It was evident to Pamela that both were wearing lavaliere microphones because the taller, older man (who Pamela knew was Gerard Foster, the school’s President) spoke first.

“Students,” he intoned. “Students, faculty, staff, parents.“ The crowd became breathlessly still. “Typically, the first home football game is a joyous event here at Grace University. But, this game, as you know, is not typical. Our team—our campus—indeed, our entire community has experienced a horrible tragedy recently that has saddened us deeply.“

Pamela glanced around. All eyes were on the President and what he might say that would temper the mixture of grief, fear, and curiosity that everyone appeared to be experiencing. The young man in his jacket and cap standing next to the President stood at attention, watching the older man respectfully.

“Coach Croft was beloved—by his team, by the campus community, by all of Reardon, I’d venture to say. He was a winner—a winning coach, but also a winning personality. He demanded the best and he gave his best. Some of you may wonder why we have decided to go ahead with this game in light of his senseless murder. Believe me, we agonized over this decision, but in the end, after discussing it with the team, the coach’s wife and family, and the Board of Trustees, we have decided that the best way to honor Coach Croft is to continue with this game. This is what he would have wanted. He was preparing the team for this game. He knew they were ready. He wanted them to play and he wanted them to win. He wouldn’t want them to mourn him by avoiding their task; he’d want them to honor him by going out there tonight and doing their best, playing their hardest, and winning this game!”

A few people applauded uncertainly. Then a few more entered in until the crowd was showing its approval with its hands.

“Yes,” said President Foster to this show of support from the crowd, “I can see that you agree that this is what Coach Croft would want. Coach wasn’t a quitter. He wouldn’t want his team to quit either.”

More applause, this time more generous.

“So, I’m going to officially transfer the reins of leadership over to Assistant Coach Jeff Dooley,” he noted. The young man standing next to him smiled weakly and nodded to the crowd. “Jeff is taking over for Coach Croft at our request. He worked closely with Coach and he knows what Coach wanted, how he worked and his approach. I’m sure he’ll make Coach proud. I ask you to give him your support.”

The President turned to the young coach standing beside him and shook his hand, holding it for a long time as cameras flashed.

“Okay,” he added, dropping the young coach’s hand finally, “enough talking. Let’s get this game on!” He flashed a bright smile at the bleachers, lifted both hands in the air in a victory pump, and then strode purposefully off the field. The young coach jogged over to the side of the field and conferred with his assistants, standing near the cheerleaders. As his assistants moved to follow his orders, Dooley leaned over to speak to a lithe, blonde woman standing near the cheerleaders. She smiled at him and patted his shoulder.

Suddenly, the band broke out in the school fight song, and almost immediately, the home team entered the field to whoops and hollers, followed by the opposing team. Pamela felt sorry for the opponents who would, it seemed to her, have a difficult battle after that inspiring pep talk from the home school’s President.

The game began and proceeded without incident that she could detect, although it would be unlikely that she would detect any incident in the play of a football game, about which she knew next to nothing. There was a lot of whistle blowing, pushing, shoving, players falling down, being knocked down, footballs being thrown around, and the announcer’s voice yelling various achievements in the game. None of these achievements meant anything to her—or to Rocky, it seemed, as she often turned to him for explanation of the rules and found him giving her a shrug. Her manly man was never much for team sports. She was able to chat at various time-out intervals with Mitchell, Laura, and Jane Marie, and attempted to gather any information that they had about the Coach. She did not, however, admit to her involvement in the case—and her knowledge of the voice mail with the seven messages but only three speakers—all of whom appeared to be possible suspects in the Coach’s murder.

As the game ended (much to the delight of the home fans, as the team had apparently won with a dramatic score of 17 to 7), Pamela and Rocky tumbled out of the bleachers, moved along by the push of the excited crowd. There was a huge sense of invigoration. She assumed that if the team had lost, many fans would have blamed the administration’s decision to go ahead with the game, but seeing as how the team won, they probably would take that as exoneration for the executive decision to play.

The couple was rounding a large, circular, concrete column on the ground floor of the stadium, when Pamela felt the corner of her jacket being pulled. She grabbed Rocky’s arm, stopping him, and turned around. Hidden behind the column stood Shoop, wearing his old grey overcoat and looking for all the world like a pedophile. He was motioning to her. She glanced at Rocky and then moved over to the column.

“Detective,” she greeted him. Rocky followed. “I didn’t expect to see you at a college football game.”

“Nor I, you, Dr. Barnes,” he snickered. “My sources tell me this is an unlikely place to find you. And yet, here you are!” He gestured widely, his coat flapping in the stiff breeze. Rocky chuckled. “Mr. Barnes,” said Shoop, nodding to Rocky.

“Detective,” acknowledged Rocky, “I hope you’re not embroiling my wife in another one of your investigations?”

“Mr. Barnes,“ said Shoop, “we do not embroil anyone. We only ask for assistance. If your wife decides to exceed our request . . .”

“So,” continued Rocky, “that means you tracked her down . . .”

“Actually,” Pamela cut in, before the two men came to blows. “I’d already spoken to the detective, dear. He asked me to evaluate some recorded voices. That’s all. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

“Yes,” answered Shoop, puffing up his relatively scrawny chest defensively against the much more muscular Rocky. “I merely tracked your wife down here to bring her this.” He reached into the pocket of his overcoat that was flying in the wind. A plastic CD case was in his hand.

“Not another set of voice mail messages?” queried Pamela.

“No, my dear Dr. Barnes,” assured Shoop. “This . . . .” He tapped the side of the CD container. “This is the information you requested. You asked for samples of suspects’ voices that you could use to compare to the voice mail messages. Well, here are your samples. Our forensics people have extracted short segments from all of the interviews we conducted with the women we have interviewed for this case—and a few of the more effeminate men—and we placed them on this CD—in no particular order—all listed by number. You have merely to go through these dozen or so suspects and compare them to the speakers on the voice mail CD and simply let us know if you find a match.”

“Simply,” she said, laughing.

“What does he mean, voice mail recording?” Rocky asked his wife, a look of fury on his face.

“Don’t worry,” she said soothingly, patting his arm. “And, Detective, thank you. I’ll compare the voices. But—there’s no ‘mere’ about it. With the three voice mail suspects and —you said—a dozen or so suspects on this sample tape, this is not going to be quick work.”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Barnes,” said the detective, pulling his coat tighter against the wind, and turning to head out of the stadium. “You can have the entire weekend!” He stormed off.

The entire weekend, thought Pamela. It was Saturday night.