The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) (7 page)

I passed the Mortarboard Café and the gym and arrived at the narrow path between the Student Union and the Clara Barton dorm. I positioned myself in the middle of the path, where the three commuters might have been when they saw the attack.

I expected to see crime scene tape, but apparently the police were finished scooping up evidence. I looked up to the right at the dorm windows. Had there been a student at one of them yesterday afternoon? Someone whose daydreaming had been interrupted by a sudden attack below? I doubted it, because the only nine-one-one call had come from one of the commuters. No harm in checking, though. I wondered if the Henley PD had done that. Had they made sure to interview all the residents? I smiled at my arrogance. Good thing Virgil and his buddies on the force had me around.

I stood on the path for a while, for no good reason, the campus quiet and eerie. I looked south, toward the other two dorms. My view of the wide Henley Boulevard, past Paul Revere Hall, was blocked by equipment that should have been familiar to me by now. This deserted morning the dull yellow behemoths, badly in need of a hosing, seemed animated, the sweeping arm of a cherry picker waving at me, the sharp prongs of the forklift aimed angrily at me.

I turned away.

I took one last look north, down the path where Jenn had walked. A piece of paper, green or gray, stuck on a bush, caught my eye. Something left behind during yesterday’s attack? I’d learned what Virgil called Locard’s Exchange Principle, named after an early twentieth-century forensic scientist—the theory that anyone who enters a crime scene both takes something and leaves something behind. But the police had searched the area and surely would have found a piece of paper as large as the one that I spotted halfway down the path.

Unless the gusty winds had sent it to this spot during the night. In that case, it could have come from anywhere on campus or across Main Street, for that matter, and was useless to the investigation.

What was wrong with me? There was no barrier keeping me from walking forward, to the bush and the paper, except in my fearful mind. I finally stepped past the invisible obstruction onto the path, and walked a few steps.

Lacking binoculars and the courage to keep going, I could only squint at the paper from about twenty feet away. It looked like a bill. Money? I inched closer. Definitely money. Closer still, on top of it now. A one-hundred-dollar bill.

I squatted down for a better look. No doubt about it. A one-hundred-dollar bill was entangled in the dry twigs of the leafless bush.

I considered calling Virgil, but that seemed silly. Someone had lost one hundred dollars between yesterday afternoon and this morning. Someone headed to or from the Coffee Filter on the other side of Main? A lot of money for a student to be carrying around. Did the fact that the bill was at the crime scene make it evidence?

My answer was to cover all bases. I took out my phone and clicked on my camera app, though doing so required removing my gloves. I hoped no one was watching as I took pictures of the bill from five different angles, plus one long shot to show the distance between the bush and the side wall of the Student Union. If caught in the act, I could always claim that I was on an art project photo shoot of flowerless, leafless twigs.

Before frostbite took over, I put on my gloves and snatched the bill. I stuffed it in my jacket pocket, not worrying about smudging at this point, and walked back down the path I’d come from. I could decide later what to do with the money. It might end up being fake money from a game. I wasn’t going to remove my gloves again to examine it right now.

It felt good to move, and I took the long way to Ben Franklin Hall, walking around the fountain, behind the Administration Building, close to the back of the tower, but not too close. I stretched my neck and studied the crevices, cutouts, and layers of curved arches as they caught the sun and repeated themselves in shadows.

I resigned myself to the fact that neither the buildings nor their strange shadows would give up their stories. I’d have to dig out the secrets myself. I still had more than an hour before my calculus class, and I’d already sketched out the lesson and problems for the day. I had an idea where to start digging for stories.

• • •

I was the only one waiting at the door of the Emily Dickinson Library, stamping my feet to keep up my circulation. The door opened at ten to eight, moments before frostbite became a real threat. Donna Martin, our librarian, had taken pity on me and unlocked the dead bolts.

“Dr. Knowles, you must be freezing. You should have called in.” An experienced librarian, but new to Henley College, Donna wasn’t aware that such an act would have been anathema to our previous keeper of books and journals, who adhered to a strict schedule no matter what the circumstances.

“Thanks. You came just in time,” I said, drawing much needed warm breaths.

“I heard what happened to Jenn Marshall. It’s terrible,” Donna said. She made a gesture to help remove my coat, but I wasn’t ready to give up a single layer. “Jenn works in the stacks for us one day a week. Lovely girl, quiet. I know you know that. I hope she makes it through all right.”

Once again, I voiced a “me, too,” to a well-wisher.

I rubbed my hands, then shook them out, trying to recover the feel of my fingers. I wondered if Donna would be amenable to bending the rules enough to let me teach my classes here until the Franklin Hall heater was fixed.

We chatted a few minutes about whether there was anything Donna could do for Jenn (nothing I could think of) and how we needed better security during the day (I agreed), since times were changing for the worse in town and in the world (I uttered a neutral grunt).

“Anything special I can help you with this morning?” Donna asked. Chipper already, but then she’d been warm for a while.

I considered saying that I just wanted to browse, and find what I needed myself, but in the interest of time, I owned up to Donna. “I’d like to look through some old yearbooks. How far back do you keep them?”

Donna straightened to her full height, probably average, but everyone over five three looked tall to me. “We have every single one,” she said. “The last ten years are in the corner”—she pointed to a small reading area at the back of the library—“older ones are in the stacks. What year are you interested in?”

I gave Donna the dates for the two years Kirsten was a student. If she was at all active—in music, sports, drama, or any of the dozens of clubs I assumed Henley supported back then—I’d find her picture and who knew what else about her. Maybe I’d come across a photo of her in a beret like the one Patty Hearst was often shown wearing.

I took a seat by a window in the main reading room, facing the west wing of the Administration Building. The tower, off center architecturally, was closer to this end of the building. I fought off the image of a woman falling? . . . jumping? . . . being pushed? . . . to her death.

Donna returned with four issues of Henley College’s yearbook,
The Lighthouse
, one on either side of the dates I’d given her. More than I’d asked for. I liked that in a librarian. She also brought me a cup of hot chocolate, apologizing that they were out of tea. The day was looking up.

I turned to the indexes of the faux-leather-bound books and found Kirsten Packard listed in only one of them, as a sophomore member of two clubs—French and Music. Better than nothing. I paused a minute before flipping to the pages that contained the club photographs. I realized that, except for the poor-quality newspaper image I’d seen, I had no solid picture of what Kirsten looked like. In my mind, she was a rag doll falling from the tower, hitting the steps with a soft, bloodless thud, as if the only unhappy consequence of the trip was a bit of dirt in her thick yarn hair.

Now I was about to see the real Kirsten, as close as I would come to flesh and blood. I sipped the hot chocolate, finally warm enough to shed my coat and scarf. I checked out the French Club first. Kirsten Packard was third from right in the fourth and last row. Tall, then. I ran my finger up to row four and counted.

And started. If I didn’t know better, I’d have identified her as Patty Hearst. Kirsten Packard wore the same gaunt, haunted look that I’d seen in grainy photos of Hearst. Tall and thin, straight hair slightly longer than shoulder length with one side pulled over her ear, pointed chin, the beginnings of a smile that wouldn’t go anywhere.

Yearbook photo shoots were usually completed before the December holidays, which meant that Kirsten was still five months or so from her fall from the tower. Did it take her by surprise? A last-minute decision? A shocking betrayal on the part of a friend? Or was this troubled look an indication that she’d always known how her life would end?

I blew out a breath and turned my gaze to the scene outside the library window. The main entrance to the campus was through a checkpoint on Henley Boulevard between the library and the Administration Building. My view was of the guard post, busy now with faculty, commuter students, and—lately—construction workers, arriving to start their day.

I had only a few minutes before it was time to head for Franklin Hall and my nine o’clock class. I left the French Club page and turned to the Music Club photograph. I would have loved a list of students and their instruments of choice, but no such luck. It was a straight stand-in-rows photo of all the members. All I could glean from the page was that Kirsten was involved in music. She might have played the drums in a marching band or sung soprano in the Glee Club. Or she might have pounded away on the carillon. There was no information here.

I decided to give five more minutes to the yearbook project and turned to the pages of candid photos, collages that had been put together to commemorate important moments, but weren’t necessarily indexed. Each highlighted event had its own colorful divider, in the middle section of the yearbook. The Senior Ski Trip—happy, bundled-up kids on the slopes and in the lodge. I couldn’t find Kirsten in the set. The Cotillion—dancing couples, with men imported from nearby schools, no doubt. No Kirsten there either.

The last section—“Campus Life”—showed groups of students in the cafeteria, browsing in the bookstore, getting comfortable in their dorm rooms.

And there she was. In a photo of two young women in modest, tailored pajamas laughing as they pretended to make up their twin beds. One of the more dated photographs in the book. The caption read:

Sophomores Kirsten Packard and Wendy Carlson tidy up their room.

It would be a different picture if taken of today’s Henley College roommates. They were more likely to be in sweatpants and a crop top than formal pajamas, and hardly likely to make their beds.

I looked again at Kirsten and Wendy. Both tall and thin with dark hair, the women might have been sisters. Did Wendy really have a more carefree look than Kirsten, or was I projecting what I knew of Kirsten’s end?

I packed up and left the library, feeling as though I’d just met a new friend. Wendy Carlson, Kirsten’s roommate, at last. All I had to do now was find her.

Franklin Hall was even colder on Friday. Adding a layer of thermal underwear didn’t seem to help, but at least I was getting some use out of my ski clothing. I liked the sport in theory, but in truth the roaring fires in the sheltered, comfortable lodges were the attraction for me.

Today I had the nasty thought of kidnapping the administrators who worked across campus and forcing them to trade their warm offices for our frosty ones. We’d been told in an email from Admin that the heat would return “shortly,” but I wondered if anyone was even working on the problem. I considered making a trip to the lower floor to query Judy’s allegedly hunky guy about when the building might be fit for humans. I decided I could give him one more day.

Judy and Ted were both solicitous when I arrived in the faculty lounge after my nine o’clock calculus class for what was becoming a routine steamy facial.

“Any news on Jenn?” Ted asked. “Any improvement?”

I rubbed my hands over the pots of boiling water and shook my head.

“I know how much you care about Jenn,” Judy said, moving farther to the side of the hot plate so I’d have more space. “Do you think she knew she was in danger?” she asked.

“You mean, was she being stalked?” I asked, surprised at the thought.

Judy shrugged. “Or maybe someone she knew had a problem with her? I don’t know. If she let someone get close enough to get the jump on her, she might have known him. It was broad daylight.”

“What earthly difference does it make whether it was day or night?” Ted asked from his seat at the conference table. He lowered his horn rims and looked over them at Judy. “Haven’t you ever heard of random acts of violence? It’s the world we live in today.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Judy said, flipping her short bob, expressing my sentiments.

While never the life of the party, Ted was always pleasant and often greeted us with a brainteaser or brainy riddle. “Physics is all about puzzles,” he’d say. “We deal with riddles like, what’s the world made of? How do you cool a bottle of particles to zero degrees? What happens when matter and antimatter collide?”

As much as I didn’t get all his jokes and puns, I missed the old Ted. I wished I had the nerve to ask him about his own college days and a certain roommate he’d neglected to mention to us. His silence left me with an uncomfortable question—why would he try to hide his closeness to Kirsten Packard’s family?

Right now, though, I had a sad tale of my own to tell. Nothing compared to what the Marshalls were going through, but I shared it anyway.

“Wait till you hear about Kenny the Copyeditor,” I said, and poured out my story.

“Is it too late for you to fix it?” Judy asked.

“It better not be. But it’s going to take some time to sort out.”

“Bummer,” Judy said. “Who needs that kind of busywork?”

Ted grunted. “Maybe that’s just what she needs. Distractions can be the good guys.”

Before I could ask Ted what on earth he meant, my cell phone rang. Virgil’s number was on the screen. I felt a panicky twinge. I hoped he wasn’t calling as a representative of the medical community.

“Can you be ready to view the security footage around three this afternoon?” he asked.

“You bet,” I said, relaxing my grip on the phone. “Do you still want to come to campus?”

“If there’s a place. It might be more comfortable for everyone if it’s not at the station. They made copies of the videos for me, and I can take them anywhere.”

“No problem. I’ll find a room in another building. I’d invite you to Franklin, but our heater’s out and it’s bone-chilling cold in here.”

“Thanks. Sorry about your inside weather, though. Can you round up the usual suspects?” he asked, then quickly added, “No comment, please, and don’t tell Bruce about the slipup.”

I zipped my lips, a spontaneous reaction. “Got it. I’ll let you know where we can set up, ASAP.”

“What’s up?” Judy asked when I’d clicked off. “What do you need a room for?”

I explained the project and asked if she wanted to be one of the viewers.

“I’ll have to pass. I’m completely booked all afternoon. Maybe if there’s a second showing sometime?”

“I’m sure he can arrange that.” I rattled off Virgil’s cell number and she added it to her phone contacts.

“Is this that big guy who hangs around with Bruce?”

“The same. Tell him Sophie sent you.”

From across the room, Ted chuckled. I was glad I could help change his mood. “I’m sure Randy wouldn’t mind hosting the security viewing,” he said. “He must have some empty practice rooms this month.”

“Good idea, Ted. Thanks. I’ll call the Music Department.”

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Big surprise. I hadn’t thought of inviting Ted. I almost reminded him that it was a useless project since everyone knew that random violent acts were the norm these days. Unless that was an oxymoron. Instead, I said, “We’d love to have you, Ted.”

Anyone listening might have assumed we were planning a party instead of an electronic manhunt.

• • •

Partially warm at last, I left the lounge and braved the cold hallway and my arctic office where I needed to make a long list of phone calls.

A call to Randy Stephens’s secretary got us a music room for our three o’clock video showing. No problem setting it up with a TV and DVD player.

“And your heat is on?” I asked, to be sure.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? It’s in the teens out there.”

“It’s in the teens in here, too,” I explained.

“Oh, sorry. I heard about your heater. Or lack of. Wish we could accommodate all your classes, but kids are in and out all day this month, practicing, and more practicing.”

I thanked her, clicked off, and left a voice mail message giving Virgil directions to the music rooms in the Administration Building.

My next two calls also ended up in voice mails. One to Bruce, who’d gone off duty an hour or so ago, at nine
AM
, and was probably sleeping in his own bed by now; the second to Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, who shared a cell phone, inviting them to dinner at my house this evening.

I started to punch the number for Henley General to inquire about Jenn’s condition, but figured if there was news to be had, it wouldn’t come to me through a cold call to the reception desk. I had to trust Virgil, the Marshalls, and Jenn’s roommate, Patty, to keep me in the loop.

My last item of business before my math history seminar was to track down Kirsten Packard’s old roommate, Wendy Carlson. I had hopes that the newly renamed Alumni Office, updated from Alumnae Office to prepare for the first male graduates, would come through for me. I didn’t expect to be scolded.

“Didn’t you purchase the alumni directory?” an unnamed secretary asked.

“This is Professor Sophie Knowles,” I said, thinking that would excuse me.

“Faculty can purchase the directory at a discount.”

“Uh, I didn’t get the notice this year.” Or I may have tossed it, but she didn’t need to know that. “Can you look up the address for me?” I spelled Wendy Carlson’s name.

“If she wants to be found, yes. But not if she either didn’t list her address or if she got married and changed her name. I can’t promise anything if she didn’t give us her maiden name.”

Did people still call it that? Were there still maidens around?

“Okay, you’re lucky,” the alumni secretary said after a short time. “She’s listed her business address and phone number.” She rattled off the information and I typed it quickly onto a sticky note on my computer.

“Thanks, I appreciate this,” I said. “One more thing. Can you tell me if she has an advanced degree?”

“None that she has listed. Just a B.S. with a physics major.”

“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.” Trying to leave a good impression in case I needed her again.

“If you give me your campus address, I’ll send you a form and you can purchase the alumni directory.”

“I’m listed in the faculty directory,” I said. I clicked off and had way too good a chuckle.

Wendy’s business address was the Boston Public Library. From physics major to librarian? Why not?

Bruce was off this weekend. How handy. I had a sudden urge to visit our state capital.

• • •

It was Andrew Davies’s turn to lead the seminar. His chosen topic: Archimedes, A Man Ahead of His Time. I’d emailed comments on his paper a week ago and hadn’t seen it since, but I had good reason to believe he’d do an excellent job.

At least I didn’t change his words and print the piece under his name, I thought, still in a huff over Kenny. The rogue copyeditor hadn’t answered my urgent email request that he not send the altered crossword puzzle to press. The puzzle had been one of my better efforts, too, if I did say so, titled “No Exit.” The main thread of clues was based on removing an “ex” from the answers. Who knew what was left of my bright idea? As soon as I had a minute, I’d email my editor and ask if she knew what was going on.

I headed for the seminar room and arrived in time to meet Andrew at the door.

“Dr. Knowles, can we start with a few words to, you know, send good vibes to Jenn?”

“Very nice thought, Andrew. Why don’t you lead us?”

I took a seat in the back of the room and teared up with the rest of the students as Andrew said his few words about his friend and asked us all to remember her “whatever way we chose.”

The rest of the hour was normal, as Andrew showed us why pi was often called “Archimedes’ constant” and explained an invention known as the Archimedes screw. He showed a video of the screw, which operated as a pump, raising the water level through a helix-shaped tube. His main visual was a collection of images of Archimedes on postage stamps.

“If your country puts you on a stamp, you’ve really made it,” Andrew said, making me wonder if I still had time.

• • •

Back in my office at noon, I sent a group email to students I’d invited to the showing of the security footage, giving them the time and the Music Department room number. I added a note encouraging them to bring anyone else they thought might be helpful.

I’d made plans to have lunch with Bruce at one o’clock at my house. After my messy performance yesterday, I wasn’t ready to face Toi again so soon. I remembered how thoughtful Toi and Bruce had been during my tea spill. I’d be sure to have a little thank-you present in hand for my next visit to Pan’s restaurant. And a big thank-you for my long-suffering boyfriend.

I needed to get one more thing off my mind before I left the campus. I called up the number for Leila, my editor. I reached her in her New York office and, with hardly any intro, jumped right in.

“I need to talk to you about Kenny.”

“Kenny who?” Leila asked.

I grunted. I’d blocked his last name from my mind. “Kenny, the new copyeditor.”

“We don’t have a new copyeditor. Jamie is running a little behind since we dumped a whole load on her when Kate left on maternity leave. Is that what’s wrong?”

“Jamie’s still my copyeditor?”

“Of course. I thought you liked her.”

“I do. I love her. So I’m not being shunted to Kenny Something?”

“Sophie, we have no Kenny Anything.”

I told Leila about the email from a person named Kenny who claimed to have made unapproved changes to my submission.

“It must have been a mistake, like a wrong number. I’ve done it. You know, hit send before I realized I had the wrong person in the ‘To’ slot.”

I opened my email and searched for Kenny’s note. “His last name is Simmons and the address is from your offices,” I said. “And he’s talking about a recently submitted crossword puzzle, so I assumed—”

“Who knows why that happened? If you want, I’ll forward you a copy of the most recent version you approved with Jamie. The theme is fabulous, by the way. Leaving off the ‘exes.’ ‘Citing’ for ‘thrilling mention’? Loved it. Nice job, Sophie.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and tried to let go of Kenny Simmons. Leila clearly had.

Moments later, my computer dinged out an email notification. My message to Kenny last night had been bounced, the delivery status: action failed. How appropriate.

A lot of grief over nothing. And a waste of time, which I could have used searching on Google for events that occurred twenty-five years ago. I’d wanted to check on Fran’s mention of a bank robbery, or maybe more than one, in Henley around the time of Kirsten’s death. Never mind the wasted hours, I thought. I now had a way to find and, I hoped, talk to Kirsten Packard’s roommate.