Death by Dissertation (6 page)

He explained that he would be taping the interview, and another man prepared a tape recorder, set it down on the table in front of me, and switched it on. After announcing the date, time, and my name, Herrera wasted no time before plunging right in. “You found the body, right?”

My stomach contracted. “Right.” Gosh, did my voice squeak like that all the time? I tried again, willing up those hormones. “Right.” Good, at least an octave lower. That ought to impress the guy.

Herrera just looked at me, his dark eyes patient. Sensing the man’s temper might fray easily, I got down to business. I gave him a concise report of the events of the morning. I stumbled a bit when I told him about being pushed against the wall and disturbing the body.

“What happened after you got pushed?" Herrera’s eyes narrowed as he asked. His mouth, framed by a thick, black moustache, set into a hard line, and I had the uneasy feeling he thought I might be making things up.

“For a minute,” I replied, “my head was ringing from bumping into the wall. Then I think I heard a door close—probably the door to the stairs across the hall. The person was most likely in the room when I got there, then he pushed me to keep me from seeing who he was.”

“You said ‘he.’ How do you know it was a male?”

I frowned, thinking about it. I could almost feel the hands on my back. “I don’t know that it was a man, but my impression is that the hands were pretty big. But that’s all I’ve got to go on, I’m afraid.”

“Did you see anything which might help identify who it was?” Herrera’s mouth relaxed, and so did I. Maybe he had decided to believe me.

“Not a thing.”

“What happened next?”

I continued my account, concentrating hard on remembering. When I finished, Herrera nodded, apparently satisfied. Then he asked what I had touched in the room. I thought about it and gave him the brief list. Now was the time to mention that I had gone into the room a second time, but my nerve failed me. I just wanted it to be over.

“Did you know the victim very well?” Herrera asked. So much for getting out of there.

I shook my head. “Not really. I’ve known him for about a year, but we weren’t particularly good friends. We didn’t have much contact outside of classes.”

“Can you think of any reason why someone would kill him?” Herrera’s voice, fluid and soft, was soothing, despite the tenseness of the situation, and an occasional vowel revealed that Spanish was his first language.

I struggled to remember the question. Ah, why would anyone want to kill Charlie? How about vicious, cutting remarks? How about a personality like an arrogant prima donna? Instead, I said, “Well, he wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. He had a sharp tongue, and he didn’t spare very many people.” I shrugged. “Other than that, I’m not sure why someone would want to do this to him.” Funny, I found it difficult to say the word kill.

Then it hit me. The night before, Maggie and I had stumbled into the middle of a conversation between Charlie and Rob. What was it Rob had said?

The effort of memory must have registered in my face; Herrera was quick to pick up on my confusion. “Have you thought of anything else?”

Reluctant to try to explain something that might not add up, I nodded. I told him about the previous night, and he immediately was interested in Rob. “Where can I get in touch with Mr. Hayward?”

“Actually,” I said, trying to remain casual, “they both live”—I stumbled over the verb—“right next door to me.”

“The victim was your neighbor?” Herrera verified, and I nodded. “And you say you didn’t have much to do with him?”

“Just because he lived next door doesn’t mean we were best friends. The apartment is in a good location, it’s reasonably priced, and I didn’t have the luxury of choosing my neighbors when I moved in.”

I replied with some asperity, but Herrera seemed satisfied. He asked me for the address and wanted to know if Rob would be at home.

“I don’t know what his schedule is,” I replied. “He could already be here, or he could still be home.”

Herrera stood up. He was a couple of inches shorter than I but more solidly built. He must have outweighed me by about thirty pounds—and most of it muscle, I bet—he looked like he worked out regularly. I didn’t want to have him annoyed at me.

He thanked me, then explained that I would have to come to the campus police office, if I was willing, to sign my statement and have my fingerprints taken for purpose of elimination. I assured him I would be delighted to cooperate. With that, he dismissed me.

The air in the hallway was noticeably cooler, and I felt my head ease a little. I went to the bathroom and wiped my face with some cold, wet paper towels. Peering nearsightedly into the mirror, I assessed my features from the point of view of a homicide cop considering a suspect. After deciding that I could do a better job with my glasses on, I took another look. Average face, no real distinguishing characteristics; thick, short, dark blond hair; matching beard; brown horn-rimmed glasses, slightly oversized, through which gleamed sea-blue eyes. I felt I was entitled to one poetic touch in what was otherwise a catalog of sadly ordinary attributes.

Whether or not I looked like a homicide suspect was another question. As I well knew from the hundreds of murder mysteries I had read, the person who discovered the body was often high on the list of suspects. But was real life—or real crime—anything like a book by one of my favorite mystery authors?

The men’s bathroom in the history department, I decided, was not the place to contemplate such philosophical matters—although some madcap persisted in writing graffiti in Russian on the walls of the stalls.

Out in the hallway, I almost knocked down Elspeth Farrar, the professor whose lecture I had attended the previous night. The poor woman tottered as if she was about to fall, and I reached out to steady her.

Dr. Farrar brushed my apologies aside, along with my hand, insisting that she was okay. Then, peering up at me, she asked, “Whatever is going on down the hall, Andy? I do believe I saw someone in a police uniform milling about.”

I was surprised she asked, because usually she ignored what went on around her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be observant when she wanted, but most of the time her head was stuck in the nineteenth century.

“Well,” I said, not wanting to be the bearer of ill tidings yet again, “I’m afraid something pretty bad happened here last night.” I hesitated for a moment. “Somebody killed Charlie Harper in the grad lounge.”

Dr. Farrar responded with nothing I had expected to hear. “I must say, it’s about time someone put that vermin in its place.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Chapter Six

What an epitaph for Charlie! “Vermin” was probably as close as Dr. Farrar would come to a four-letter word in conversation. Much of the time she talked like a character in a Victorian novel, and I wasn’t sure her vocabulary included many words outside a Victorian dictionary, despite her bizarre notions about Queen Victoria’s secret writings. Charlie hadn’t always been discreet when expressing his opinions, particularly about what he viewed as professorial incompetence. I was sure word had gotten back to Dr. Farrar, somehow. My money was on Azalea Westover.

Home, I decided, was the place I most wanted to be. I had plenty of work waiting for me, not counting the two books sequestered in the grad lounge, and if I hung around, people would pester me for information. The grapevines on campus were as efficient as those at any university, and with Azalea as the Head Grape, it wouldn’t be long before the whole campus had the story. I could catch up with Maggie later and talk more about the situation.

Downstairs, I flashed a smile at Mary Catlin, who, in lieu of an electronic surveillance system, checked backpacks and purses for purloined library materials. She waved me through with a friendly smile, the same way she did when I had an armload of books she didn’t take time to examine. Such faith she had in me and my innocuously innocent face; it paid to know people in the right places.

During the short drive home, I unwillingly thought about Rob. Though it pained me to admit it, I was worried about how he would react to the news. As far as I knew, Rob was Charlie’s only real friend and the one who would feel the loss most deeply. Charlie was just too hard to get to know, too prickly to allow anyone to get close to him. I was angry over the unfairness of his death, and regretful for the denial of promise yet to be fulfilled, but I would not grieve for him.

I didn’t want to break the news to Rob; I quailed at the thought of confrontation with Lieutenant Herrera after he found out what I had done. But since I had known Rob practically all my life, I felt I should do something for him in this instance, even though I still harbored feelings of resentment toward him for actions and omissions in the past. The tragedy of Charlie’s murder made me realize that some of my own perceived grievances were not so compelling after all.

When I pulled into the driveway on my side of the duplex, I saw Rob’s car on his side.
What am I going to do?
I wondered as I got out of the car. Do I tell him or don't I?

Just then another car pulled up in front of the house, resolving my dilemma. Lieutenant Herrera had come to question Rob. That seemed rather fast. I would have thought they’d spend more time on campus, getting the lay of the land first.

My stomach again performing gymnastic maneuvers worthy of Houston’s own Mary Lou Retton, I unlocked my front door and nodded at Herrera and his companion. As I closed the door behind me, the lieutenant was waiting for a response to his knock.

I flashed back on what I had seen in the grad lounge that morning. My head started throbbing. I headed for the refrigerator to get a Diet Coke and some aspirin, then I returned the living room and settled in my favorite chair.

Sipping the Coke helped quiet my stomach but did nothing for my head. The aspirin needed time to work. The mid-morning sunlight streaming through the front window made the whole room feel warm and humid. I wanted to get up and turn the air-conditioner down a few degrees, but the electric bill would be high enough without that. I sat still and tried to cool off, while my mind hopped around like a Chihuahua on speed.

I worried about Rob and his reaction to the news. I also wondered what the police would think about his relationship to Charlie. I didn’t know for sure, but I thought Charlie was gay. I was open with him about my sexuality, but he had never said anything to me about it. The fact that he hadn’t used it as an opportunity to deride me made me think I was right. Would Herrera draw conclusions about Rob and Charlie because they shared an apartment and lived in Montrose? He might even think Rob killed Charlie for some reason. If he thought they were lovers, that is. Rob probably wouldn’t waste any time letting Herrera know how hetero he was. At least, that’s what I would have thought before seeing him in the gay bookstore. Now I wasn’t so sure.

The phone rang then, and I welcomed the distraction to my paranoia. “Hello,” I said, a little wary.

“Hi, Andy. It’s Dan.”

“Hi, Dan. What’s up?” This was the first time he’d ever called me. What on earth could he want?

“I should be asking you that.” He laughed nervously. “I just heard about what happened this morning, and I thought I’d check on you.”

“Well, it wasn’t an experience I’d necessarily like to repeat,” I said, “but I guess I’m all right now.” But I’m a little nonplussed, I added silently, because I never figured you, Dan, for the kind of guy who goes in for ghoulish details. I mean, you don’t even read mysteries!

Living in Texas for several years had taken some of the Boston twang off Dan’s voice, but not all of it, especially in times of stress. That was evident now. “I’m glad to hear you’re okay, because finding something like that would be rather disturbing, I should think.”

I took a sip of Coke before replying. “It was disturbing, but I think Charlie was more disturbed than I.” I didn’t mean to sound waspish, but I couldn’t quite figure out what he wanted to know. To tell the truth, Dan was a bit on the pushy side. Though friendly, he was always pretty determined to get what he wanted.

“I should be feeling more regretful, for Charlie’s sake,” he said hurriedly, alert to the tone of my voice. “But, geez, the guy could be such a prick. If you’d been around him longer, you d know what I mean. Still,” he went on, more reflectively, “that’s no reason for bashing him on the head. If it were, half the faculty would be dead by now.”

“I can’t argue with that.” I tried to keep the distaste from my voice. “People kill for the damnedest reasons sometimes, and I’m sure the police can sort this one out.”
I hope,
I added to myself.

“You’re right,” Dan said. “Guess I’d better let you go. I’ve got to get back to work. I have some last-minute details to tie up before I hand in my dissertation to the committee.”

He sounded reluctant, as if he’d like to pump me for further details, but I didn’t offer him any encouragement to linger on the line. I wished him good luck with his dissertation. I hadn’t even taken my hand off the receiver before the phone rang again.

“Hello,” I said, more warily than before. As soon as I heard the caller’s voice, I knew I should have just let it ring.

“Heavens, Andy, why’d you bash his head in?”

I groaned; I should’ve unplugged the thing right then.

“Well, Bella,” I replied, trying to keep my rapidly fraying temper under control, “I suppose I could ask you the same thing.”

Bella Gordon—history graduate student, former fashion model, and daughter of the Honorable Frank Gordon, mayor of Houston—snorted. “Charlie was a creep most of the time, but I didn’t have any reason to do it.”

“Right,” I replied, loading as much sarcasm into my voice as I could, “so you got your tame commando to do it for you.”

It never paid to be subtle with Bella. The woman had the tact of a cactus. There wasn’t much of the dumb blonde about her, though, except perhaps her penchant for seemingly endless conversations about any subject under the sun. She had never met a silence she couldn’t fill. Despite her semi-constant yammering about inconsequential things, she had what it took to be a good historian. She snorted at me again. “Bruce wouldn’t dirty his hands like that.”