Murder is an Art (11 page)

Sally wondered if he was speaking from experience. She imagined Jorge as the Wronged Innocent, the man sent to prison to suffer for the crimes of another because the police had rushed to justice. She thought of him in his prison whites, his muscles bulging as he broke rocks in the hot sun with a sledgehammer, all the while enduring a punishment intended for someone else.

She blinked the vision away and said, “You mean the police would arrest someone they knew was innocent?”

“No. They wouldn't do that. Not if they were certain. But they want to close the case, and if there's a likely looking suspect, then he'd better watch out. And look at it this way: about nine-tenths of the time, they get the right person.”

Sally didn't like the whole idea of it. “What about the other one-tenth? What about those people?”

“They're the ones who'd better get themselves really good lawyers.”

It was on the tip of Sally's tongue to ask Jorge what kind of lawyer he'd had, but she thought better of it. She imagined a public defender, barely out of his teens, who'd passed the bar exam a month before the trial, who was still heavily into Clearasil use and shaving only every third day or so, and whose client was doomed to spend time in prison for a crime he never committed.

“If I were you,” Jorge said, “I'd forget about the whole thing. Just teach your classes and let the police do their job. That's what we pay them for.”

“That's probably a very good idea,” Sally said.

She might have said more, but the phone rang just then, and Jorge excused himself.

Watching his broad shoulders pass through her doorway, Sally picked up the phone.

“This is Dr. Good,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“Dr. Good?”

People always said that, though Sally invariably answered the phone by giving her name. She could never quite understand why no one ever believed her when she told them who she was. Or maybe they just weren't listening.

“Yes,” she said. “This is Dr. Good.”

“Oh. Well, this is Amy Willis. In the business office?”

Sally had dealt with Amy Willis before. She was responsible for the payroll, and she kept up with all the departmental budget accounts. Possibly because of her fiscal responsibilities, or possibly because it was simply her nature, Amy had more tics than anyone Sally had ever met.

She never seemed to sit still. She tapped her fingers and patted her feet. When she talked, her hands were in constant motion. Even her hair seemed at times to be twitching around on her head.

“I need to talk to you about a confidential matter,” Amy said. “Can you come over to the Business Office?”

Sally looked at her watch. She really needed to grade some of those papers.

“Can it wait until this afternoon?”

“Not really,” Amy said. “It's about Mr. Hurley.”

“I'll be right over,” Sally told her.

17

Sally left her office, turned the corner, and nearly collided with A. B. D. Johnson. He wasn't in any of his usual stages of dudgeon, which was surprising in itself. Even more surprisingly, he looked distraught.

“I have to talk to you,” he said, his jowls quivering.

“I'm on my way to a meeting,” Sally told him, which, while it wasn't exactly the truth, was close enough and might discourage him.

“This is important,” A. B. D. said, as if to imply that college meetings weren't, a fact that Sally couldn't really argue with. “I'll only take a minute.”

There was an undertone of desperation in his voice, and Sally gave in.

“I can give you a minute, but that's it.”

She turned back to her office, and A. B. D. followed like a despondent basset hound. As soon as they were inside, A. B. D. closed the door behind him.

“I didn't kill Val Hurley,” he said, looking uncannily like Richard Nixon proclaiming that he wasn't a crook. If he'd been on trial, the jury would have voted him guilty on all counts, no matter what the counts might have been.

“No one said you killed anyone,” Sally assured him, but A. B. D. merely turned a dangerous shade of red, and his eyes widened alarmingly.

“What's the matter?” Sally asked. “Could I get you a drink of water?”

“Don't treat me like a student!” A. B. D. said. “I've used that ‘drink of water' bit, myself. You're just trying to calm me down and brush me off!”

“No, I'm not,” Sally said, all the while thinking,
Yes, I am.

“Well, it won't work,” A. B. D. said. “You can't get rid of me that easily. I'm probably going to be arrested soon, and it's all Fieldstone's fault.”

“Fieldstone?”

“Can't you see that this is the perfect opportunity for him to get rid of me? I know he's had his eye on me for years, just waiting for me to slip up. He thinks I'm a troublemaker, and now he's going to turn me in!”

“But you haven't done anything,” Sally said.

A. B. D. suddenly turned shrewd. “How do you know that?”

“Because I'm sure you wouldn't hurt anyone.” Sally wasn't sure at all, but it seemed like the right thing to say. “Besides, what had Val ever done to you?”

“He got that new chair, that's what he did. You know that. Why are you denying it?”

“I'm not denying it. I didn't even think of it,” Sally lied.

“Of course you thought of it.” A. B. D. looked around furtively, as if expecting to discover half the faculty hiding behind the bookshelves and under the desk as they listened in on him. “Everyone's talking about it, and they don't even know about the memo yet.”

“Memo? What memo?”

“The memo I wrote to Fieldstone.” A. B. D. reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Fortunately, I keep copies of everything. That's a lesson I learned a long time ago.”

He thrust the memo toward Sally and waved it in her face. She took it from him as much out of self-defense as out of any desire to see what it said.

“Go ahead,” A. B. D. said. “Read it.”

Sally unfolded the paper and looked at it. It was a standard Hughes Community College memorandum form, and it was directed to Harold Fieldstone.

Sally had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that wasn't due to hypoglycemia. All the same, she wished she had a Hershey bar.

“You didn't say anything … incriminating, did you?”

“Just read it,” A. B. D. said.

Sally read it. The body of the memo began with a series of complaints about the school's lack of fiscal responsibility over the past few years, shifted to a snide remark about the lack of faculty pay raises, and then brought up the matter of Val Hurley's chair.

The most unfortunate sentence of all was this: “People who have no more compunction than to spend exorbitant amounts of precious college funds on a piece of expensive furniture should be dealt with forthrightly and terminated immediately.”

“Oh, my,” Sally said.

A. B. D. nodded sadly. “You can see the problem. Obviously I didn't mean
terminated
in the sense of
killed.
I would never suggest something like that. But this is Fieldstone's big chance to get rid of the loyal opposition. He'll have me arrested today. I'm sure of it.”

Sally's first inclination was to ask, “So what am I supposed to do?”

Her second inclination was to say, “Think of all the free time you'll have to work on your dissertation while you're in prison.”

But either of those things would have been just as foolish as what A. B. D. had written in his memo to Fieldstone, so she didn't say them.

She said, “I'm sure you won't be arrested. I'll talk to Dr. Fieldstone and explain things to him. He's probably been very busy today, and he might not even have had time to read your memo.”

“You can't be sure of that! I've taught in the prisons! What if I'm thrown in with some of the people who failed my classes? I wouldn't last a day! Someone would slip a shiv in me before they got the cell door locked!”

A. B. D. was getting worked up, and Sally was getting worried. With his shuddering jowls and his red face, he looked as if he might be capable of just about anything, even murder. Sally began to wonder if maybe he were in need of professional help.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said firmly. “You're in no danger of going to prison. Even if Dr. Fieldstone were to call the police, they wouldn't arrest you on evidence as flimsy as an ambiguous memo. They're too careful for that. After all, they have community relations to think about, and false arrests don't do much to foster a sense of trust. You take everything much too seriously.”

A. B. D. was jolted upright. “Too seriously! You don't think being accused of murder is serious?”

“No one's accused you of anything. I think you should take a day or so off from your classes. You could have a talk with Gary Borden. He might know someone who could help you feel better about things.”

A. B. D. sank back into his chair and put his hand over his eyes.

“You think I'm crazy, don't you?” he said. Then he leaned forward. “I know you do. Why don't you just come right out and say it?”

“Because it isn't true. You're just … overwrought. Just try to think it through. You didn't really say anything to make anyone suspicious. You're making too much out of this. There's nothing for you to be worried about.”

“Oh yes, there is. You don't know Fieldstone. He's out to get me.”

“I'm supposed to be meeting with him right now,” Sally lied, hoping that A. B. D. would remember that he'd promised to keep her only a minute. “I'll tell him that the memo means nothing. That he can just disregard it.”

A. B. D. looked hopeful. “Do you think he'll listen to you?”

“I'm sure of it,” Sally said, although she knew that Fieldstone never listened to anyone unless he agreed with them.

“Maybe I should go over to his office with you,” A. B. D. said. “I could explain about the memo and tell him what I really meant by
terminated.
”

“I don't think that would be a good idea,” Sally said.

She knew that it wouldn't have been a good idea even if she really did have a meeting with Fieldstone. In fact, it would have been an even worse idea in that case. As it was, she didn't want A. B. D. to find out that she was lying. That wouldn't have done at all.

“Well, all right.” A. B. D. was deflated. “I suppose I'll have to trust you.”

He didn't look to Sally as if he'd ever trusted anyone, which was probably part of his problem. Except in this case, he was absolutely right not to trust her, since she probably wouldn't see Fieldstone that day at all.

“You don't have a thing to worry about,” she assured him. “I'll take care of it.”

She stood up. A. B. D. didn't move.

“I have to go now,” she said.

“All right.” A. B. D. stood up and opened the office door. “Let me know what he says, will you?”

“Of course,” Sally said, stepping past him and into the hall.

But I'll have to see him first,
she thought.

18

Amy Willis seemed even more nervous than usual. She tapped her short red nails on the top of her desk. She crossed her legs. She uncrossed her legs. She stuck a pencil into her hair, and then took it out and drummed an obscure, jerky beat on the desk.

“I really don't know how to begin,” she said as she continued to drum.

“Just tell me why you called,” Sally suggested.

They were sitting in Amy's office, which was smaller than Sally's and even less private. While its door didn't open onto a hallway as Sally's did, it did open into a large outer office that was ringed by other offices, all with open doorways. Sally imagined that listening ears were everywhere.

Maybe I've been hanging around A. B. D. Johnson too much,
she thought.

“Why don't we close the door?” Sally said.

“That's a good idea,” Amy said, getting up.

When the door was closed, she sat back down and started cracking her knuckles.

“You were going to tell me something about Val,” Sally said.

Amy sighed. “I don't know where to begin.”

Sally was losing her patience. First A. B. D. Johnson and now Amy. It was too much.

“You called me,” she pointed out. “If you don't want to tell me anything, I'll just go.”

Amy stopped cracking her knuckles and picked up the pencil again. She tapped out a few tentative clicks, then stopped.

“It's not that I don't want to tell you. It's just that nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Sally saw her opening. “Like what?”

“Like someone stealing money from the school. I didn't even think it was possible. We have a very efficient system here, with lots of checks and balances. It shouldn't have slipped by.”

“What slipped by?”

The tapping increased in intensity. Sally resisted a powerful urge to reach across and grab the pencil out of Amy's hand, and then snap it in two and toss it in the trash can.

As if she sensed Sally's thoughts, Amy put the pencil down and crossed her legs. Her right foot began to jiggle rapidly, but at least it was soundless.

“Mr. Hurley tricked us, is what he did,” Amy said.

Sally noted the use of the plural. Consciously or unconsciously, Amy was already beginning to spread the blame around.

“He tricked you?” Sally said.

“That's right. He tricked us. Otherwise, we'd never have let it happen. Surely Dr. Fieldstone will understand. Won't he?”

It was clear from Amy's tone that she didn't really think Fieldstone would understand at all. Sally wondered if everyone on campus except her believed that Fieldstone had received his graduate degree from the Inquisition with Torquemada as his dissertation director.