Hangman's Root (16 page)

Thank heavens the shop is closed on Monday. Ruby and I rendezvoused over the phone at eight A.M. to lay out Monday's game plan. I would head for the jail to interview Dottie, then to the university to see what I could dig up. Ruby would shoot Ariella, then drive to Wimberley to scout out Max Wilde, the elusive woodworker, who might be of some help in piecing together Miles Harwick's background. We would meet at Dot-

tie's at three to feed the animals—although by that time, The Whiz might have gotten Dottie bailed out so she could feed them herself.

I had a reason for dividing our efforts this way. I wanted to keep Ruby occupied while I located Kevin and talked to Amy. If Amy was involved in this thing, I wanted to know it up front and as soon as possible. I couldn't shield Ruby from unpleasant information about her daughter, but at least I could see which direction the fire was coming from.

So instead of hotfooting it to the jail, I tucked my notebook into my purse and drove to the campus, where I sweet-talked a visitor's permit and gate card out of the surly guard at the kiosk and drove to the lot behind Noah's Ark, letting myself in through the card-controlled gate. The students were back en masse, tanned and hung over from a solid week of boozing at the beach. But Rose Tompkins, one of the women I had come to see, was alone in the departmental office suite.

The sizable reception area contained two desks, Rose's next to the entrance and Cynthia Leeds's squarely in front of Dr. Castle's door. Rose was studying a piece of paper on her desk, her round face squeezed, worry lines furrowing her forehead. She looked up and saw me and was distracted for a moment from what she was reading.

"Hello, Rose," I said. "I hope you're feeling better." I didn't think she was. Her face was gray and her eyes were puffy. I could detect the scent of rosemary, coming from a small diffuser on her desk. In aromatherapy, rosemary is a pick-me-upper.

Rose's breath came out in a puff of a sigh. "It was such a shock. I can't get the sight of Dr. Harwick out of my mind." She gave a little grimace, her eyes going back to whatever it was she was reading. She looked up again. "Miss Leeds said I made a terrible fool of myself. She said I embarrassed the department."

"That's easy for Miss Leeds to say. She didn't walk in on a dead man. And I don't know why the department ought to be

embarrassed." I nodded at the diffuser. "YouVe chosen the right scent, Rose. It should make you feel better."

Rose sat up straighten "You're a friend of Dr. Riddle's, aren't you.^ Could you let her know something for me? I would have called, but I wasn't sure ..." She left her sentence unfinished, but I got the meaning. She wasn't sure how to get a message to Dottie in jail.

"I'll be glad to," I said. "What do you want me to tell her?"

She spoke absently, as if a quarter of her attention was on me, three quarters somewhere else. "Tell her we've canceled her Monday classes, because ..."

This sentence stalled out too, and her eyes went to the paper she had been studying. Either she didn't want to say something as blatantly rude as "because she's in jail," or she was preoccupied with what was on the paper, or both. I tried to read upside down. It looked like a letter. Another threat from the animal rights people? But surely that kind of thing had stopped with Harwick's death.

Rose looked up with an effort, recalling her attention to me. "Fm sorry. I'm slightly distracted this morning. Miss Leeds isn't in yet, and I've been dealing with everything myself. We've cancelled Dr. Riddle's classes for the week because we don't have anybody available to cover for her while she's ..."

I hate unfinished sentences. Three in a row were too much for me. I finished this one for her, since her meaning was so clear.

"While she's in jail? That won't be too much longer. I'm expecting her to be out on bail momentarily, so don't bother to cancel her classes."

She looked shocked. "I don't handle that. Dr. Castle phoned Miss Leeds from Boston, where he's attending a meeting. He told her to cancel Dr. Riddle's classes, period. He'll hire a replacement as soon as he gets back."

I frowned. Castle was jumping the gun. He could at least hold off until Dottie was indicted, which wasn't going to happen, if I

had anything to do with it. But that's the way this business works. The minute somebody's arrested, the popular imagination renders a guilty verdict. Forget the trial, the evidence, the jury—go straight from "charged" to "guilty" in one fast move.

"Boston?" I frowned. "I guess that means I can't see him until he gets back. Which is when?"

"Wednesday. If you'll let Miss Leeds know when you want to see him, she'll make an appointment for you."

"You can't do that?"

Her eyes widened. "Me? Oh, no. Miss Leeds takes care of Dr. Castle's calendar, and she's at the dentist this morning, getting a new crown." She paused. "I don't suppose there's anything I could do for you." Her remark was so diffident that it invited a "no, thanks," but I tried anyway.

"I'm anxious to talk to the young man who's employed in the animal holding facility. His name is Kevin Scott. I need his address and phone number, and his work schedule."

Involuntarily, her eyes went to the paper in front of her. "Kevin?" She was suddenly flustered. Without looking up, she slid the letter under a purchase order. "We ... we don't have anybody by that name working here. Perhaps you should try the chemistry department."

I knew Rose well enough to suspect that the best way to get something out of her was to pull rank. I straightened up, organized my face into the most lawyerly look I have in my repertoire, and tuned my voice to match. I felt like Clark Kent emerging from a phone booth.

"I spoke to Kevin last week. He identified himself as a part-time employee of this department. It is imperative that I talk with him again. I believe him to have important information regarding the death of Dr. Harwick, with whose murder my client is charged."

''Your client?" Rose's eyes were as round as her face, and fixed on me with a new awareness. Suddenly she wasn't talking to the

friendly owner of her favorite herb shop. She was talking to a lawyer, and the thought of it scared her. I pushed.

"I am a member of Dr. Riddle's defense team. At this preliminary stage, our investigation is informal. Later, we will subpoena the evidence and the testimony we need." I let that sink in for a moment, then let my eyes wander to the purchase order lying on top of the letter. "I assume you are willing to cooperate?"

An interruption saved Rose from answering my question. The man came into the office, tall, gray-haired, bearing himself with the authority of a full professor. "I need thirty quizzes run off," he barked. "Right away, if you don't mind."

Academic departments are like law offices. The people at the top expect the people at the bottom to jump when they give an order, reasonable or not. The people at the bottom are trained to jump, convenient or not. Rose was torn for a moment between defending her desk and doing her job. If the request had come from an assistant professor, she'd have balked. But in this case there was no contest. She jumped.

"Of course. Dr. Schmidt," she said, getting up and going swiftly to the door. Hand on the knob, she turned, glanced at her desk, then at me. Habits of social intercourse die hard. She could not bring herself to say something as rude as "Come with me so I can keep my eye on you," or even "Wait outside until I get back," much less "Keep your filthy hands off that letter on my desk." She settled for a meek "I'll be back in a shake." n.,

"I'll wait," I said helpfully, mentally calculating the time it would take her to warm up the copier and run off thirty quizzes. It would certainly be longer than a shake. Rose and Herr Doktor Schmidt were scarcely out of the office when the letter was in my hand.

It was a dot-matrix copy in draft mode, dated ten days before Harwick's suicide, with a salutation but no closing and no signature. It took thirty seconds to read it, and about four times that long to scrawl it into my notebook.

Dear Dr. Harwick:

You don't know me, but I know you, and what you did ten years ago. You may think you've gotten away with it, but you haven't. Unless you abandon your research, the whole world will know what you did, and your career will be totally ruined. You have one week from today in which to decide. If you have not announced by then that you are giving up your project, you can expect to read about your crime in the campus newspaper. And just in case you're thinking that a research project might be a cheap price to pay to get off the hook, think again. This is only the beginning. You should pay the highest penalty for what you did.

At the top of the letter was written, in pencil, a seven-digit number and the name "Kevin Scott."

I stared at the letter. It was exactly what The Whiz was hoping for, of course—evidence of a clear motive for suicide. She could argue that with blackmail hanging over his head like a heavy sword, Harwick had chosen to kill himself rather than face public embarrassment. Or worse. I reread the last three sentences, wondering how I would feel if someone vowed to dog my heels forever for something I had done ten years ago.

But suicide was not the only possibility raised by the letter. The deadline had passed several days before Harwick died, and he hadn't recanted his research plans. Had the letter writer decided that public exposure wasn't punishment enough? Had the blackmailer turned murderer and exacted the "highest penalty" for Harwick's crime? What crime? What could the man have done that had festered in somebody's heart long and deeply enough to produce such a deadly poison?

I looked again at the name at the top of the page. If Kevin had written the letter, how did he come to know about something

Harwick had done ten years before? He couldn't have been more than nine or ten at the time. If Kevin knew, did Amy know too? And if Amy knew that, what else did she know? But maybe Kevin hadn t written it. Amy's words ran in my mind. Sadist. Butcher. Maybe Amy—

I stopped. Yes, this letter was exactly what The Whiz was looking for. But as I put my notebook back in my purse, I knew it wasn't what / was looking for. In fact, I was wishing like hell I hadn't found it.

The door opened and Rose scurried into the office, breathless. "I'm sorry I had to—" she began. She broke off when she saw the letter in plain sight on her desk. Her plump hand went to her throat. "You had no right to read—"

I was stern. "You can't withhold this, you know. It's evidence in what might be a murder case."

"I ... I wasn't going to withhold it." Her Cabbage Patch cheeks flushed and she shifted her bulk awkwardly. "I was waiting for Miss Leeds to get back from her dental appointment. She has to see it before—"

I didn't let her finish that one. "Before you turn it over to the campus police," I said. It would be good to bring Sheila into the loop. At the least, it would slow things down. I needed a little time so I could get to Kevin and Amy before the police did.

"No," Rose said, stubborn. "Dr. Castle has to be told about it first. Miss Leeds will speak to him this morning when he calls in for his messages."

"Tell me how you got it."

"I. . . " She sat down heavily, and her chair creaked. "I found it. Just now. In the departmental computer."

I sat down across from her. "You printed it out?"

She nodded. "It was a backup file, not the original." She licked her lips. "The original had already been deleted."

It figured. Whoever composed it had been smart enough to erase the file but dumb enough to forget about the backup.

"Did you write Kevin Scott's name at the top of the page?"

"Yes."

"What's the seven-digit number?"

Her nostrils flared out, pulled in. "I copied it from the accounting log. It was the only one of our accounts active when the letter file was created. It's Kevin Scott's access code." The corners of her mouth turned up. "Actually, I'm the only person who understands that log. Not even Miss Leeds or Dr. Castle know how to use it."

"Where is the computer?"

"In the supply room." She gestured with her head. "Miss Leeds and I have a work station there. Dr. Castle also has one, and there's another in the computer room in the basement."

The computer room in the basement. Handy to the animal holding facility, no doubt. And accessible to anybody who knew what he—or she—was doing.

"I need Kevin Scott's address and phone number," I said again. "And his schedule."

She fiddled nervously with a paper clip. "I really don't think I have the authority to ... "

I leaned forward. "The information can be subpoenaed. Rose. If it is,you II be subpoenaed too."

She put down the paper clip. "We don't have an address for him. He was moving when he came to work here. He was supposed to give it to us, but he never did."

"Do you have a phone number?"

She didn't say anything, but her eyes signaled yes.

"Could you get it for me?"

She worked her mouth nervously. "I really would rather you asked Dn Castle. Or Miss Leeds."

I looked at her silently. She shifted several times, then finally got up and went to a file cabinet, where she took out a file and made a note on a slip of paper. She came back to her desk and handed it to me.

I tucked the slip into my purse. "If you're not going to tell the police about this letter right away," I said, "I suggest that you lock it up."

She frowned. "Well, I suppose. Miss Leeds may have a better place to put it, but for now, Fll lock it into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet."

"I'd also make a copy of the computer file on a floppy disk and lock up the disk," I said. I stood up. There was one thing more. "I need to check on a departmental purchase. Can you help?"

"Maybe," she said, a little more brightly now that I'd announced my intention to leave. "Miss Leeds is the only one with the authority to sign purchase orders. But I make sure that they're filled out correctly before she sees them."

"Of course," I said, wondering briefly how many hands any given piece of paper passed through before it reached its final destination. "But this is such a small detail— I hate to put you on the spot. You probably won't remember"