Medieval Murders (6 page)

10

R
ay was happy to get back into the sunshine and warmth of the day, away from the dull light and chill of the air-conditioned building. He retrieved his car and drove over to University Maintenance, a complex that occupied a two-block area on the north side of campus that housed the power plant, repair and trade shops, storage facilities, and a management building.

Ray found John Stockton, the Director of University Maintenance, in his littered office near the main entrance of the one-story cement-block building.

“I was expecting you a bit earlier,” said Stockton, as he stood and extended his hand.

“Just running a bit behind,” Ray replied, dropping into a chair. “When I sent you that e-mail yesterday….”

“Isn’t that always the way. Every afternoon before I leave work I write a to-do list for the next day. Then I get here, and all I do is fight fires, one little crisis after another. At the end of the day I look at the list, and I haven’t accomplished any of those things. Frustrating as hell. So you want to know about the lock and key system.”

“I want to know how Sheila Benson, the woman who jumped from the carillon, got a key for the building.”

“How she got a key, that’s an interesting question. The person who can best explain our rather cobbled together system is Ben Beyer. He’s been in charge of keys since the 60s, think he was right out of high school then. In the beginning, he was a university carpenter and looking after keys was just sort of an extra assignment. I think he’s been doing it full-time more than thirty years. Could have retired ten years ago, but he’s stayed on, and I’m damn glad. He knows everything about the locks and keying systems at this place, and none of it is documented. I’ve tried to get him to start writing things down, but he says he’s always too busy, and I think that’s probably true. When he does finally retire, we’ll be in an even bigger mess.” Stockton stood. Come on, I’ll take you over there.”

Ben Beyer had his back to them when they entered the lock shop. He was cutting a key and didn’t notice them until he switched off the machine and turned to get something off his desk.

“Didn’t see you boys there,” he said.

“Just arrived and didn’t want to interrupt you. Ben, this here’s Elkins from University Police. He’s investigating that death over at the carillon, and he’s got some questions about keys.”

“Horrible thing,” said Beyers. “I’ve been around here a long time, and I can never remember anything like that. Was she some kind of wacko or something?”

“We’re trying to figure it out,” said Ray. “I need to know about the key system.” He held out the key in the plastic bag. “That’s an AC001 key,” Ben looked at the key through the bag.

“What does that mean?” asked Elkins.

“A bit of history here. It’s one of the old series. There wasn’t any key system until the 50s when the college started to grow real fast. That’s when they put in the first key system. It was used in all the new buildings, and they eventually converted most of the locks in the old buildings. It’s a real simple system, or at least it was in the beginning. The master key that would open everything had the AC001, ‘AC’ for ‘All Campus’ and the ‘001’ was, well, I’m not sure. The other keys had letters and numbers to identify buildings and rooms. Faculty members get a key to their office and that key also opens the exterior door of the building. Department chairs have a key that opens all the doors in their department, deans have the same kind of thing, but for the area they manage.

“When we became a university in the early 60s that master code was changed to ‘AU’. So I can tell you that key,” he pointed to the key in the plastic bag, “is from before sixty-two. There are very few of those around anymore. The ‘AUs’ will open the ‘ACs’, but it won’t work the other way.”

“Who has access to master keys?”

“Pretty much limited to maintenance people: custodians, electricians, plumbers, the supervisors in the paint and carpentry shops. Police and fire have them, too.”

“How many of the master keys are in circulation?” asked Elkins.

“Can’t tell you for sure. We’ve ordered thousands of blanks, maybe tens of thousands over the years. I’ve never kept records of how many of a given key I cut, but I’ve made a lot of those. You know, we have people that need them day to day, and keys get lost. People quit and take them along. Contractors, they’re the worst, they don’t return them. Given how many are probably floating out there, I guess we’re damn lucky we don’t have more problems.”

“How about the carillonneur?”

“That’s ole Percival Pennington, but he don’t have a master. He’s got a key for just that building. He has a second key for his office and the entrance doors in the music school. He loses his keys at least once a year, usually more, and the replacements I give him are just cut for those doors. Let me show you.” He went to one of several gray metal cabinets hanging on the wall, opened it, turned several hinged leaves, like pages in a book, and removed two keys held together on a thin metal ring. “I always do both his keys, his office and the carillon, as a set. And I make up several sets at a time, knowing he’ll be needing them.” Beyer lifted a key set off the hook. He removed one of the keys from the ring. He turned several leaves in the storage cabinet and removed a second key. He put this key against the key that would only open the carillon door. “Look at these two. If you compare that AC001 with this one, you can see the difference.”

“Yes, I see it. So Pennington would never have had an AC001?”

Beyer rubbed his chin as he thought about the question. “Well, if truth be told, I might have given him an AC001 a time or two over the years. I always have an inventory of those. And in that particular lock in the carillon, they work better. That lock never gets enough use. It’s always cranky. The master key works better. Besides, I wasn’t worried about Professor Pennington running around campus opening doors he shouldn’t.”

Beyer picked up the plastic bag holding the key Ray had brought in and inspected it closely again. “I guess the mystery you gotta solve is how that woman got the AC001. And, like I said, over the years a lot of those went out of here. And given the looks of that one, it’s seen a lot of miles.”

11

Thursday morning Elkins sipped on a mug of coffee as Char Pascoe briefed him on a long list of items. Working toward her summary, she leafed through pages of a legal pad to check her notes.

“Pennington is still at his place in northern Minnesota. This is according to the dean’s secretary in the music school. He had a heart attack in early August. They hope he will be back and well enough to play in the next couple of weeks. She told me that he has been emeritus for almost ten years, but he continues on as the carillonneur. She said he usually comes back to campus the week before the first home football game. I guess that won’t be true this year.”

“They don’t have anyone else?”

“I asked that question.”

“And?”

“It was just weird, like Pennington has always been here. No one expected that he wouldn’t show up. She said they were scrambling for a possible replacement.” Char paused briefly, “I did get his number, and I called him in Minnesota. I wanted to know if anyone else had a key to the carillon.”

“And?”

“Pennington said that in recent years he’s the only one that’s ever in the carillon other than the maintenance people. The public tours stopped years ago, something about the stairs and lighting, a question of safety and liability. He said that he used to give graduate students keys so they could practice, but he said these days few students want to learn how to play a carillon. Then he told me when he’s dead, they’ll just put some long haired kid up there with an electric guitar and big speakers.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“I had to. He wanted to know why the police were so interested in who had keys. I told him and could tell the news upset him.”

“Well that’s understandable. What a violation of his space.” Ray paused for a long moment, then asked, “What else?”

“I’ve got prints for Bensen, and they matched the ones on the key and the chair. I’ve also had a phone conversation with Dr. Gutiérrez.”

“And,” said Elkins.

“She wanted you to know about an interesting finding.”

“Okay?”

“Gutiérrez said she found partially dissolved calcium tablets in Bensen’s stomach.”

“What?”

“Calcium tablets, you know, women, osteoporosis. It looks like Bensen had her vitamins and minerals with her breakfast. So why would you bother if you were going to kill yourself?”

“Who knows? We’re all such creatures of habit.” Elkins paused and sipped his coffee. “Or she hadn’t planned to kill herself.”

“So what are you thinking, a capricious act? She decided to kill herself on a whim sometime after breakfast?”

“If this was suicide, it wasn’t capricious. She had somehow acquired a key, thought about how she was going to do it. That wouldn’t have been her first trip in. But what if this was a murder?”

“We don’t have any evidence.” She looked and asked with emphasis, “Do we?”

“Well, no, but we always have to keep that possibility out there.”

“For a reasonable time,” said Char. “But if there’s no evidence to the contrary, you’ve got to reach some kind of… Looking at your face I can tell you’re not comfortable.”

“I just have this feeling, and I don’t have data to support it. Until we do, we keep saying it’s an apparent suicide. Anything else?”

Pascoe flipped through the papers again, reading as she went. She looked up and said, “It seems to me there was one more thing, but I can’t remember it. Oh yes, Bensen’s car. It was parked in the main campus faculty parking ramp.”

Elkins nodded to signal that he took in the information.

“You have someone waiting to see you,” said Pascoe. “I told her I’d make sure she was next.”

“Who?”

“Reda Rudd. Says she’s from the
Daily
.”

“Reda, haven’t seen her during the summer months. She’s the one who wrote the exposé of the athletic department and the university police. And,” he added, “she created an opportunity to bring one of the criminal justice program’s top graduates back to campus. Wave her in on your way out.”

“Sure will. And,” she gave Elkins a mocking smile, “I’ll thank her for giving you the opportunity to persuade me to take a major pay cut for the honor of returning to my alma mater.”

“Cost of living is less here. You’ll be ahead in the long run. Plus, when you start your Ph.D., you’ll get a tuition waver.”

“I can hardly wait,” she retorted. “I just don’t have enough to do.”

“Reda, come on in. Want some coffee?”

Reda—wearing sandals, white shorts, and a light-blue T-shirt, her red hair tied at the back and hanging past her shoulders—pulled a bottle of diet Coke from her pack. “I can’t stand coffee. I don’t know how you people drink it, especially first thing in the morning.”

“Just one of the many vices of the older generation. How was your summer?” Elkins asked.

“It was okay. I visited my parents. It was good to see them, but a month in Ames is....” She let the sentence trail off and flopped her hand open and out to complete her meaning. “Then I came back here and finished an incomplete from spring term. How about you?”

“I was here most of the summer. I took two weeks off to spend some time with family and some old friends.”

“Where?”

“Northern Michigan, God’s country. So what brings the News Editor of the
Daily
here so early in the term?”

“Well, first, News Editor was last year; this year I’m Editor-in-Chief. And obviously the big story is the death of Professor Bensen. We’ll resume publication on Monday and that will be front page, even though it’s week-old news. She was a leading figure in the women’s movement on campus, and there was a lot of unhappiness last year with how she was treated by the university. You know, the tenure thing and all.” She paused, her tone changed. “I’ve only got bits and pieces of what happened. What can you tell me?”

“It looks like a suicide,” said Elkins. “We’re being very thorough with our investigation, and at this time we have no evidence that it is anything else.”

“You’ve always been honest with me, not like Chancellor Pearson, and I know you’ll do a very professional job. But regardless of the evidence, you know a lot of people are saying that she must have been murdered. Some of the more wacko radical feminists contend that her death was ordered by the administration and carried out by the university police. There’re many crazies out there, lots of anger, hatred, and suspicion.”

“How are you going to report it?” asked Elkins.

“I’ve drafted an article. Will you take a look at it and tell me what you think?”

“Sure. Do you have it with you?”

Reda pulled a sheet from her pack and handed it across the table. “That’s a mock-up of the front page.”

Elkins read the article.

Controversial Campus Figure Dies.

Foul Play Not Ruled Out.

Sheila Bensen, a popular and controversial member of the English Department for the last seven years, was killed Tuesday morning in a fall from the Patriots’ Memorial Carillon.

Although foul play has not been ruled out, police currently believe that the cause of death was suicide

Professor Bensen was a leader in women’s issues on campus and in the community for many years. Her activities on behalf of women and the minorities have often angered the university’s male-dominated power structure.

Last June the board of governors upheld the
university’s decision to deny tenure to Professor Bensen. Observers of the campus political scene feel the board’s action was a signal that they would continue to support the reactionary policies of Chancellor Pearson’s administration.

Brian Battleson, leader of Students for Social and Political Justice (SSPJ), was quoted after the June meeting as saying, “This was the board giving permission to Pearson to continue the oppression of women and racial and sexual minorities. This university and this state have a long history of supporting the forces of repression. This is one more example of these forces winning out.”

Sherry Tompkins, President of Sisters for a Shared Future (SSF), opined at the same time that the denial of tenure was a clear indication that the glass ceiling is alive and well, and if you buck the system you will get pushed out of the university.

English chair, Professor Clifford Chesterton, told
Daily reporters that Professor Benson had made major contributions to the Department. Among these contributions he listed two new department offerings, Twentieth Century Women’s Literature and Feminist Critical Theory. Further, he noted that although the department had voted not to tenure Professor Benson, her wit, intellect, and bright smile would be missed. Professor Chesterton gave the board the English department’s recommendation that she not be tenured.

by Reda Rudd

After he finished, he asked, “Am I just proofreading or do you want me to comment on content?”

“Content, of course, but I’m always happy to have the proofreading, too.”

“I’m not comfortable about the foul play line in the headline, although you handle that in the second paragraph, and most of your quotes are inflammatory. I think this sets the tone for your stewardship as editor,” he said with a smile.

“Don’t be so damn sarcastic. Do you know how hard it is to get undergraduates to think about anything but beer, football, and sex? Besides, a little controversy early in the year sells lots of annual subscriptions.”

“I like the article. Especially the fact that I’m not quoted. Pearson would demand to know why I talked to a reporter from the
Daily
.”

“See,” said Reda, “we’re considerate of our friends. Besides, you’ll be back to faculty next week.”

“I wish that were true. My replacement bailed out, and none of the other candidates were acceptable, so Pearson has formed a new search committee. Looks like I’m stuck with this for most or all of the fall semester.”

“Good,” retorted Reda in almost a cackle, “for once there will be a good relationship between the university police and the press.”

“Well, terrific,” Ray said as he rolled his eyes. “While you’re here, can you answer some of my questions about Bensen? How well did you know her?”

“Not well. I was in one of her feminist lit courses, and I saw her at the women’s movement activities that I was covering or participating in.”

“What can you tell me?”

“About?” asked Reda.

“Let’s start with the teaching.”

“She wasn’t a great teacher. I was really interested in the topic, got an ‘A’ in the class, but she wasn’t very good. It’s not that she wasn’t bright or didn’t know the material, but she was never prepared, totally disorganized, and always winging it. When you handed in a paper, you were lucky to ever get it back.”

“How did she deal with students?”

“Didn’t like men, that’s for sure. There were two guys in the feminist lit class, I knew one of them quite well, good student, nice person. They both dropped because she treated them like crap. ”

“Example?”

“Her view—everything wrong with the world was because of men. It was a kind of craziness. She linked it to testosterone, which she referred to as ‘more deadly than crack.’ If you could get past the loony tunes, she had some interesting things to say. She made me aware of writers I hadn’t heard of, authors I learned to like. So I’m thankful for that.”

“Outside of class, in women’s groups?”

“Well, she wasn’t the voice of reason. Her positions weren’t too radical. They were just irrational. If someone disagreed with her, she would accuse her of being co-opted by the male -dominated society. You can never have a discussion with a person like that. It’s like talking to a Bircher.”

“How did people, let me rephrase, how did women react to her?”

“They were sort of in a double bind. She was at every meeting, was always there to help with any cause, but was strident and often disruptive. You know what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying that people are glad to have someone who is supportive and works for the cause, but at times that help may come at too high of a cost.”

“That’s right. Let me go back to the article. I’m not asking for your approval, but is it accurate as to the facts surrounding her death?”

“Yes. Again, I’m bothered a bit by the headline on foul play. There is no evidence to support that. On the other hand—I can even give you the appropriate verbiage here, I went to one of those ‘writing across the curriculum’ workshops last year—you have a good sense of audience and you have provided your reader with enough background information that they know about Bensen and the events leading up to her death.”

“You are,” said Reda laughingly, “learning the lingo of the biz, the parlance of the palace, and all that good shit.” Her tone changed from playful to serious. “You really helped me last year with the dope and date-rape articles. I trust you. If this develops into anything, I hope we can work together.” Reda didn’t wait for a response. She climbed out of her chair and gave Elkins a high five before she departed.