The Quotient of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) (5 page)

Resigned, we made plans for the next few hours.

Patty had had the presence of mind to make arrangements for the Marshalls to stay overnight, or as long as needed, in an area of the Clara Barton dorm reserved for special guests or visitors in extenuating circumstances.

“I’m sorry it’s the dorm near where Jenn was mugged,” she whispered to me. “But at least they won’t have to make the long drive home to Fitchburg in the dark. And I gave them Jenn’s smartphone so they can keep in touch more easily. They only had one old-fashioned flip phone between them.”

I commended her for her thoughtfulness, then had an idea of my own to put to the assembly. As much as I longed to bury my head in a puzzle right now, like one of the logic puzzles bookmarked on the phone in my purse, there was something more important that needed my attention.

I made the rounds of the small groups and invited them all to my house. A much more comfortable place to wait for the update on Jenn’s condition, with better food.

“That’s cool, Dr. Knowles. Willa has a car and we can take some kids,” Andrew said, with a strong hint that he and Willa were a “we,” though earlier it had seemed that Andrew and Lauren were a couple. And earlier than that, I’d considered it might be Andrew and Jenn who were a twosome. It was hard to tell these days.

“Yes, very cool, Dr. Knowles,” Virgil said, with a knowing grin. “And how handy that we’ll all be together when the call comes.” His strong hint was that I had an ulterior motive wrapped in my generosity. There might have been a grain of truth in that.

• • •

I loved the parties in the Ben Franklin Hall lounge, but I usually kept gatherings in my home to a small number of close friends. Pizza nights with Virgil and Bruce, consisting of lots of cheese and tomato, drinks, a movie, and war stories. Beading sessions with Ariana, who labeled my jewelry-making attempts “obsessively symmetric,” and a few other women who were customers in her downtown Henley shop, A Hill of Beads. Working dinners with Fran, where we generated plans for the department, sometimes joined by Judy, who helped us solve the world’s problems in between laughs over Fran’s grandchildren or Judy’s failed dates.

I missed my girl buddies. They allowed me to be rational, yet encouraged the occasional crazy idea. Such as calling Fran in Africa, once our time zones were compatible, to ask what she remembered about Kirsten Packard and her fall from the Admin tower. I knew I should let Fran know about Jenn, but I didn’t want her to worry when she was a continent away. I hoped if I waited just a short time, Jenn would be fine, the thug would be in jail, and Fran could hear a complete, happy-ending story, or I could skip it entirely until she returned.

This afternoon was a different kind of gathering in my little cottage. Not quite a wake but certainly not a party. The commuters had gone home straight from the hospital; the residents had arrived at my house in two cars. Dorm students seldom passed up a chance for a meal off campus. The same might be said for Ted, whose wife was visiting relatives in Ohio. He’d asked if my invitation included teachers.

“Only full professors,” I’d said, happy that he felt free to ask.

“I guess that means me, too,” Randy had said, decidedly not a surprise, given his new closeness with the Marshall family.

I shared food and drink at the campus coffee shop with students often enough to know the current fashion in snacks and beverages. Thanks to masterful vehicle logistics by Bruce, we used both cars to pick up enough supplies to cover all tastes. I thought I owed everyone something more nutritious than pizza at dinnertime, so I chose a large roasted chicken and what my mother would have called “the fixings.”

I hoped the Marshalls would feel comfortable in my home and with Jenn’s friends. I wanted them to feel as welcome as possible, though nothing could make up for the terrible state their daughter was in.

It took very little time for my small space to become warm (my heating system was working) and inviting (Bruce had spread out a buffet on my kitchen island). Soon my coatrack, a relic from my grandparents’ home, was bulging with parkas, scarves, and extra sweaters. Backpacks and boots were strewn on the floor in the entryway. As much as I valued my privacy, I liked the look and the sounds of friends making themselves at home, eating and drinking as if they belonged.

The students had located some of my favorite kitchen items. A pie plate with the numbers of the value of pi around the edge. A smaller version that was a tiny condiment bowl in which the numbers of pi, starting with “three” at the bottom center, spiraled out to the rim. A snack plate with a crossword puzzle design, with the solution stamped on the back.

When I heard Lauren laughing in front of the open freezer door, I knew she’d found my ice cube tray, which held cubes in the shape of the letter pi. “I knew you were cool, Dr. Knowles,” she said.

“Icy cool,” Patty added.

I felt my home had passed some kind of coolness test. All was well.

Virgil mingled more than he would have if I’d had a purely social party with our peers. A widower and single father, Virgil didn’t get out much, in his own words, and didn’t feel the need to. His son was in college, the threshold for when Virgil said he’d think of dating again, but so far there was no sign of that. When Bruce or I would broach the subject, he’d shut us up with, “All the good ones are taken,” or “It’s not like Franklin Hall, you know. We don’t have a party every week down at the station.”

This afternoon I knew Virgil the Cop was in investigative mode, listening to the students’ conversations, trying to pick up information about Jenn Marshall as informally as possible, in a way that wouldn’t spook the kids. A thought came and went quickly—that Virgil might think one of these students was Jenn’s attacker. I wished the thought had never entered my mind.

Once I was sure everyone was taken care of, I mingled also, seeking out the Marshalls. I realized I’d been avoiding them all afternoon, since I couldn’t bear to see them so sad and I had no idea what to say or do that might cheer them up or give them hope.

I hadn’t expected to see Jenn’s parents again until March, for Pinning Day. Henley’s custom was to celebrate sophomores who made their selection of a major field with a pinning ceremony that included parents. Sophomores officially declared their majors on that day, and faculty presented students in their department with a traditional Henley College pin. I hoped the Marshall family would all be in good health by the time the Math Department was ordering the refreshments for that day.

I couldn’t locate Mrs. Marshall, but I found Mr. Marshall as I wandered to the family room, which was attached to my kitchen. Possibly having heard enough from Randy Stephens about Jenn’s musical prowess, he had cornered two of the students.

“What’s security like on campus?” I heard him ask.

“The dorms are always locked; you can’t get into any of them without a key card,” Lauren answered, expertly balancing a plate and a drink. I was reminded how easy it was to entertain students; they didn’t require perfect Martha Stewart linens and place settings. They seldom needed a fork.

Willa held up her key card. “Yeah, everyone needs one of these. Technically.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Marshall asked.

“You’re not supposed to be able to get in without a card, but we all know how lax it is. Someone holds the door for you, or even a stranger, maybe. Or you go in and you know you’re going right back out, so you put in something to keep the door open so you won’t have to bother with your key again.”

“There’s always a person at the desk in the lobby,” Lauren said, defensive.

“A police officer?” Mr. Marshall asked.

Willa raised her eyebrows. “LOL,” she said. If Jenn’s father didn’t understand text lingo, he didn’t let on.

Lauren shook her head. “No, it would be a student. But they get training.” I couldn’t swear that Lauren was lying, but I’d never heard of Dorm Lobby Desk Training, unless it was to point out the nine-one-one code for emergencies.

“That’s not much protection,” Mr. Marshall said. His tone was gentler than his words, though both were heavy. He seemed to be trying to figure out why his innocent young daughter was three miles away in a coma instead of poring over her textbooks in a warm, well-lit dormitory room.

“And what about outside the dorms? On the campus?” Mrs. Marshall seemed to appear from nowhere to ask the question. She held a glass of water with both hands.

The group fell silent. And no wonder. Who could defend safety on our pathways with Jenn Marshall still hovering between life and death?

Willa gave it a try. “Some of us have phone apps,” Willa said. “Like, I have Circle of 5. I just hit a button and a message goes out to five contacts that says ‘Come and get me’ and shows where I am.” Andrew shot her a questioning look. “They’re all big guys,” she added. I guessed Andrew, a rather small guy, wasn’t in Willa’s Circle of 5.

“We also have an escort service if we need it,” Lauren said.

“But they take forever to show up,” Patty said. “Meanwhile, you could be waiting alone out there for, like, a half hour, to get from the library to your dorm. So you just figure, never mind, and go for it yourself.”

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Marshall showed signs of satisfaction with the offerings. I didn’t blame them.

Brent stepped up. “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he said.

Not quite true, but Brent, as a freshman in only the second coed class in the formerly all-women’s college, wouldn’t know any better. I chose not to correct him and hoped Mr. Marshall wouldn’t go through the archives and find out that there had been one or two other nasty incidents over the years. And if he went back far enough, he’d find that one of the tragedies involved Jenn’s favored carillon. Or at least the tower that housed it.

I left the group, not eager to get caught up in a campus security discussion with the parents of an attack victim. I headed for the opposite corner of the kitchen–family room area, where Virgil sat at my breakfast table, facing the patio door while talking on his cell phone. I sauntered by, as if I weren’t on a mission, knowing I’d find enough busywork in the vicinity to allow me to eavesdrop on his side of the conversation. I cleared the countertop, trashed used paper plates, and slowly loaded the dishwasher with glasses and mugs.

My mission was a wipeout, however, since all I heard was lots of “okays,” four or five “uh-huhs,” and a final “That’s it?”

He hung up and smiled at me. Not giving a centimeter.

“How’s the investigation going?” I asked, wiping a platter with extra attention.

“Fine.”

“Any hot leads?” I laughed, attending to my drying chores as if the china were much more important than his answer and I was asking only out of politeness.

Virgil laughed in response, reached over to a bowl of cherries, and helped himself to a handful.

I gave in and took a seat across from him. I pushed the bowl toward him, ever the gracious hostess. “Please, Virgil? I have something to bargain with. A clue.”

“You mean”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“‘money’?”

I hated being late to the party.

With a party in full swing in my home, there were too many interruptions that kept me from charming Virgil into giving me news of the investigation. I would have been happy simply to learn what his buddies on the force were doing while he was surreptitiously interviewing students and waiting to speak to the victim.

Had the police put out an APB for the attacker? Was there a contingent of Henley’s finest on the road, searching for the guy? Where? Did they think he was still in town? Were the techs combing the crime scene for hair and fibers? Looking at security footage? I shivered at my next thought. They might be waiting for the results of tests that would determine whether the brute left his DNA on Jenn.

I realized I had no description of the attacker, except that he was a lone male. I wondered how much detail the commuters had been able to provide in their witness statements. Was he wearing a baseball cap? A Red Sox jacket? (As if that would narrow it down.) Surely not a Henley sweatshirt, as the rumor had suggested.

I was about to ask Virgil if perhaps the man had gotten into a car on Main, the wide street that ran between the Clara Barton dorm and the Coffee Filter, when Ted came into the kitchen. He showed me the lifeless black screen on his smartphone.

“Dead,” Ted announced. “Any chance I can use your computer for a few minutes? I have to get back to people about my paper for the heavy metals conference in Atlanta this summer.” He smiled. “Everything you ever wanted to know about tungsten under pressure.”

“No problem,” I said, pointing down the hallway. “Find Bruce and he’ll take you back to my office.”

“Okay if I print?”

I nodded. “Of course. It’s a standard system; printer’s right there.”

Ted was replaced quickly by the long-legged Willa, alerting me that “the boys” were messing with the jigsaw puzzle laid out on a card table in my den, as my mother always called it. Poor Willa had a lot to learn.

I’d set the puzzle out for Melanie, Bruce’s niece, who was due for a weekend visit, but I was happy to have anyone else work on it. When completed, this one would show a symmetry drawing by M. C. Escher, a pattern of repetition consisting of a man on horseback. Should we pay attention to the figure in light orange, traveling to the left? Or to the figure in dark orange, traveling to the right?

“Tell them to knock themselves out,” I said to Willa. “There are a lot more puzzles where that one came from.”

She walked away, her mouth twisted in displeasure.

After many futile calls to the hospital during the evening, spirits were low, but a community had formed around Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, who’d thanked me and Patty profusely for not leaving them stranded in a motel.

“Mr. Marshall and I are indebted to you, Dr. Knowles,” Mrs. Marshall said, pulling me away from the students. “I don’t think we’d get this kind of attention at a big school.”

“But maybe the security would be better,” Mr. Marshall said.

I was taken aback, not sure who else heard him. The situation clearly had a great impact on the gentle, down-home man. Fortunately, I realized immediately that, although I knew the stats for big and small campuses, this wasn’t the time to recite them.

“Be sure to call me if there’s anything I can do,” I offered, as Patty Reynolds arrived to take them away.

Patty had assumed leadership of most of the guests, as well as the management of the Marshalls’ stay in Clara Barton. Patty told me she’d make sure they were okay and if there was any news about progress in Jenn’s condition or in finding her attacker, she’d let me know. Would that Virgil could be so forthcoming.

“Thanks for this, Dr. Knowles,” Patty said, flailing her arms to encompass my little cottage. “This was the best way to spend such an awful day. I’m with Lauren. I’d so major in math if I could do it.”

Nice to know that students were lining up to sign on to my department, if only they had the head for math. I wished Fran were here to appreciate my internal sarcasm. I’d waited too long to call her and now it was one in the morning in Rwanda. I couldn’t take the chance that even night owl Fran would be up. Though she might not mind being awakened if the motive was strong enough, her husband, who’d traveled there with her, probably wouldn’t be too happy.

The students left, promising to stay in touch. I promised the same and said good-bye. Ted waved sheets of paper at me as he made his way through the kitchen, indicating a successful session at my computer. Randy, who’d spent most of the time talking to the Marshalls or Ted, blew me a kiss, shouted a dramatic “Thank you, doll,” and followed Ted out the back door.

“‘Doll,’ huh?” Bruce said.

“That’s Randy,” I said. “He conducts a regional orchestra down in Barnstable County.”

“That explains it,” Bruce said, slicing the air with his arms, attempting to mime an orchestra leader, but looking instead like a helicopter pilot gone mad.

I gave the house a once-over. I checked each room, fluffed pillows, and picked up paper cups and plates and crumpled napkins as I traveled. I’d closed off my bedroom at the end of the hallway, leaving the guest room and den for my visitors. Ted had left my office as neat (or not) as he’d found it, except for an opened bottle of water sitting on an MIT coaster, one of a brass and leather set bestowed on me as a conference speaker.

I found no stray guests lurking in the corners.

We were down to Bruce, Virgil, and me. I felt I should bring out pizza and beer and a deck of cards. As if that might erase the events of the day.

The three of us took our drinks of choice—sparkling water for me and Bruce, coffee for Virgil, looking to a long night—to my den, which held almost no remaining signs of our recent gathering.

“Pretty neat crowd,” Virgil said from his spot on my new leather recliner. Bruce and I took the old couch. From the way Virgil inspected the room, I guessed he meant to define the attendees as “not messy,” as opposed to “cool dudes.”

I sat through about fifteen minutes of small talk. How polite all the students were; how nice of the faculty, Randy and Ted, to come; how Virgil’s son was spending his winter break (not in a cleverly devised Intersession, it turned out). We covered how well done the chicken was and how tasty the side salads. When we got to whether it would snow again this month, I’d had all I could take.

Not that Virgil didn’t deserve a break. He’d been on the phone more than off since he arrived at my house, squeezing himself into a corner, scribbling on a pad of paper, even stepping out onto the freezing patio for privacy for one call. But I was eager to get to work.

“What’s this guy look like?” I asked Virgil. “The one who attacked Jenn.”

Smooth move, I thought, slipping in a casual question. A bit out of context, but good timing, since Virgil had pulled the lever to send the recliner to a non-upright and locked position.

Why, then, did Bruce and Virgil burst out laughing?

“Real subtle, Soph,” Bruce said, slapping my knee for effect.

Ignoring my boyfriend’s gesture, I leaned forward, toward Virgil. “I want in,” I said. “How’s that for not subtle?”

“I was just about to ask for your help,” Virgil said.

I turned my head away, the better to look at him sideways. What kind of joke was this?

“Really,” Virgil said, sensing my skepticism. “We have a lot of security footage and I think it would be helpful if you and some of the kids looked at it.”

Now we’re cooking
. I took a deep, exhilarating breath, put my feet up on the coffee table, and fired away.

“We can gather the students and see if anyone recognizes the attacker or spots someone unfamiliar on the video.” I grabbed a pad and pen from the holder on an end table and made notes as I talked. “Someone who doesn’t fit in for any reason. Someone too old, too young, not dressed right. Carrying something out of the ordinary.” I paused, tapped the pad, and drew a line to start a new list. “Where are the cameras? I know we’ll have footage from the dorm and from the Student Union building next door. The camera on the guard post at the library entrance is a good spot to check also. And we can see if the Coffee Filter has a camera. If not, the bank right next door to it surely will. We should go back, maybe a few days, and look at earlier footage. Maybe a week.”

“So, you’ll help?” Virgil asked.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, shrugging. “I’m kinda busy.”

It was the best laugh all day.

• • •

We wrapped up the conversation about the Marshall girl, as Virgil named her. He promised to email or call me with a time when we could review the relevant security footage. I nagged him to have it ready tomorrow and he humored me with a solid thumbs-up.

My jobs were to find a room on campus for the viewing and make a list of students likely to be helpful with the project.

“Round up the usual suspects,” Bruce said.

“That’s all you’ve got, Bruce?
Casablanca
?” Virgil asked.

Bruce, whose goal was to watch a movie every day, and quote from one as often as possible, put on a sheepish face. “Tough day,” he said. “Give me a break, Virge.”

We gave Bruce a pass, especially since he was all but out the door for his regular shift at MAstar, which began at nine
PM
. “Serving and protecting in the air,” he always said, but I suspected tonight there was a DVD on the schedule also. He needed to refresh his inventory of suitable movie quotes.

As Virgil was struggling into his heavy coat, I remembered what else I’d wanted to talk to him about, before Jenn Marshall captured all our attention. I was surprised to realize how long it had been—a couple of hours?—since I’d thought about Kirsten Packard.

“Can you hang back a minute?” I asked Virgil.

“Sure.” He let his coat fall onto a chair and returned to the recliner. I made a mental note to talk to Bruce about a possible birthday present for his friend.

“Ready for a beer?”

“More coffee, please.”

“Still on duty?”

He gave me a questioning look. “You tell me.”

“I’ll get the coffee.”

I hurried to the kitchen, grateful for Virgil, Bruce, and all their ilk, who were never truly off duty.

• • •

It was hard to decide on a tactic for presenting my carillon theory to Virgil. I chose a slow lead-in. “I learned something interesting today,” I said, setting a tray of coffee and cookies on the small table next to the recliner. I took the couch again, and in about ten minutes, I’d told him all I knew about Kirsten Packard. “Did you ever hear about the case?” I asked.

“Sure. Cops talk about twenty-five-year-old cases all the time, over donuts.”

“Virgil!”

He lost the grin. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I know this is an intense time for you. I’m trying to help you take a step back. It’s not your job to solve cases, hot or cold. Maybe I was wrong to ask you to look at the footage around today’s attack on your student.”

“No, no.” I rushed to correct Virgil and dismiss the worst possible outcome—that he’d cut me out of Jenn’s case. Those of us who never served in the military or law enforcement were at a tactical disadvantage; that is, we were no good at tactics.

“I’m just curious about Kirsten Packard. Ted Morrell and Judy Donohue—she’s the biology chair—said there might have been a cover-up back then.”

“They were there at the time?”

“Ted was there. He’s been at Henley forever.”

“And he said he thought there was a cover-up?”

I lowered my eyes. “Maybe it was only Judy.”

“Who wasn’t there at the time?”

I sighed. “Right.”

“What makes you think it’s easy to find out about something that happened twenty-five years ago? Problem is, there’s too much of this DNA stuff on TV where they come back right after the commercial with the key to everything.” Virgil shook his head and let out a syllable or two of disgust. “Or they hit a button on a computer and they get a list of every case back to the beginning of human history where the killer used a hammer.”

“I know, that’s unrealistic. But I just read that they found new documents about the day President Lincoln was assassinated.”

“You don’t say,” Virgil said, feigning interest.

I continued in spite of his attitude. I was a teacher, after all. These working conditions weren’t new to me. “A researcher discovered the records of an army surgeon who was at Ford’s Theatre, in the next box, when Lincoln was shot. He was first on the scene, you might say, the first doctor to treat the president, and we’re just now reading his report. How about that?”