Murder Makes a Difference

By M. A. B. Lee

It was just his way of getting the last word - that was Charlie all over. But what could I do? Can you say “no” to being an executor? It never occurred to me to ask. The one thing I did ask was how he died. I assumed it was his heart, I wasn't prepared to hear “Murder.”

Two planes, three airports, and a couple of time zones later I was driving a rental car through the central Iowa twilight. An early spring rain had put water in the drainage ditches; the frogs were calling and the air smelled damp and expectant. Dysart and Garrison, Alburn, Vining; all the little towns looked the same as they did last time I was here, over 30 years ago. Only that time I was driving away - away from Iowa , away from Charlie, and away from our marriage. Our marriage had it's moments, but it was never quite enough for me. I wasn't suited to be a faculty wife. I never regretted leaving and never expected to go back, but here I was, answering a call from the grave.

It turns out an executor doesn't really have a lot to do and my appointment with the lawyer was short and straightforward. I had to send his books and papers to his alma mater in Boston , and sell everything else and give the proceeds to the university here. Also, he wanted me to spread his ashes on the Cedar River . That threw me for a loop. Didn't he have someone else, someone closer, who could do this? As I took down the telephone number of the funeral home, I wondered how I could avoid this final task.

My next stop was the public library. I sat down at a table with a pile of back issues of the local papers. I found the obituary first. It was titled “Dr. Charles Eldritch, Famous Historian, dead at 62 years of age.” It read like a resume, where he got his degree, the awards he had won, even listing his most recent books, which had been less academic and more popular history. It didn't mention me.

Articles about the murder were not hard to locate. All the papers covered it. PROFESSOR ELECTROCUTED! MYSTERIOUS MURDER ON CAMPUS! PROFESSOR FOUND DEAD IN OFFICE. Electrocuted? Charlie was murdered by electrocution? That was a surprise. According to the newspapers, someone had rigged his desk lamp to give him an violent electric shock when he turned it on. This had been particularly deadly because of Charlie's bad heart. We all know how common murder is, the gun shot in anger, the knife wielded in jealousy, but this was different. Someone had thought this through, planned it out, taken days, maybe weeks, to figure out the method and set the trap. It seemed odd that this would happen to Charlie.

Then I went to the University. Not much had changed since I had left. I walked across the Old Quad, where the grass looked as tired and dry as it did years ago, to the Whitman Building and up two flights to the History Department. I stopped to read the list of faculty which hung in the hallway. There were a few names I recognized, many more I didn't. I noticed Peter Longwood was still on the faculty. He and Charlie had been close from the start, but I had thought Peter's main interest was himself and his career. I wondered if their friendship had survived the battle of egos that seemed so common in academics. The chairman of the department was listed as Dr. French and I went to announce my presence.

He was young, no more than forty, with wildly bushy hair and a mustache so elaborate it looked fake.

I introduced myself and told him I was Charlie's executor. He shook my hand gravely.

“Are you family? We haven't met before, have we?”

“No, we haven't. I don't live here.” I decided right then I wasn't going to tell him I was Charlie's ex. He'd hear it soon enough.

French went on talking about Charlie's “passing”. What a word! I almost said it was better than failing, but caught myself and instead nodded solemnly.

Then he said, "We were all very surprised. We wouldn't have expected this of Charles;

not of anyone really."

"You mean murdered?” I asked, somewhat confused.

“It's the motive, don't you see, that bothers everyone. What had Charles done that he got himself murdered? Something like this tarnishes the reputation of the entire department. Already the Dean is talking about cutting our graduate student fellowships.”

No sympathy, no grief, just concern for the department.

French went on, “And then the Gillespie Foundation dropped his nomination.”

“The Gillespie Foundation” I echoed. It was the most prestigious award in the field, like the Nobel Prize for History Professors.

“Yes, Peter Longwood and Charles were both nominated.” French said. “Quite a feather in the departmental cap, if I do say so. But now all this.” he gestured vaguely. “The Gillespie Foundation dropped his nomination. They said it was because his nomination file was incomplete, but we all know it's because they don't want to have nominated someone who might prove to have been a criminal.”

Poor Charlie. His memory would always be tainted with suspicion. “I will be going through his office and disposing of his things, as he wished.” I said. “It shouldn't take more than a few days.”

“Well, that's a big job.” French said. “You know how heavy these old academic books can be,” he chuckled and waited for me to join in. I didn't. “Why don't I just have some the graduate students pack up things for you. And they'll be able to sort out what needs to stay here. Nothing of monetary value,” he added hastily. “Books from the library, student papers, that sort of thing.”

“No thanks, I don't need any assistance; and I am capable of distinguishing a library book,” I said.

***

“What an ass,” I muttered to myself as I walked down the hall to Charlie's office.

The cops had finished with the office, the yellow crime scene tape had been taken down and left in a pile on the floor and there remained the light dust from the fingerprint search all over the desk and computer, file cabinet and book shelves. It glistened slightly in the pale spring sunlight.

Two walls were floor to ceiling bookshelves. The desk was arranged so he sat with his back to the window. It was a standard university issue desk, uncluttered and precisely arranged with a blotter in the center, pen holder, tape, and paperclip box placed equidistant around the edge and in the far corner was an electric clock that had stopped. The desk lamp was gone, presumably taken by the police as evidence. Off to the side the computer sat on its own little table. Behind it, a tangle of cords led into an extension power strip that in turn was plugged into the wall socket. I couldn't tell which cord went to what, but there was one that wasn't plugged in, so I assumed it was the clock.

It felt odd to be there. What was I doing invading the life of this man I hadn't seen in almost thirty years? I had to remind myself that Charlie wanted me to do this. I sat behind the desk and began opening drawers. There were letters from publishers about future books, and glowing reviews of the books he had already published. He probably hadn't kept any of the less enthusiastic reviews. Then I found the letter announcing his nomination for the Gillespie Award. Even as a graduate student, Charlie had dreamed of winning it and I had listened to his dreams and encouraged him. Now he wouldn't win the prize even posthumously. I hadn't cried yet for Charlie, and I thought maybe I was going to start right then. But I'm not much for crying; instead I got up and began to investigate the file cabinet. It was filled with teaching stuff: notes for lectures, reading lists, exams.
I was on the second drawer when a voice said, “Excuse me.” A young woman hovered in the doorway. She was tall and athletic looking. Her black hair was cropped short and she was wearing jeans and a tee shirt with a skull on it.

“Dr. French sent me. Need some help?” she said.

French's spy to make sure I didn't walk off with anything important? She seemed an unlikely Mata Hari. “I think I can manage on my own, thanks.” I replied.

She walked into the office as if she hadn't heard me and sat down behind the desk. “Weird isn't it, death?" she began in a low voice. "Imagine him sitting right here, and then, all of sudden, he's dead, but he's still sitting here. Right here." She put her head down on the desk and let her face go slack with her eyes bulging open. It was a ridiculous pose, yet unpleasant too, and ghoulish.

Then she stood up and assumed a more professional manner. “We'll need a ladder to get to those top shelves, and some boxes to pack all books into.” She began making a list on a small pad of paper she was carrying. “And a big recycle bin for paper and a trash bin. Oh, yeah, sorry, I'm Kristen, the secretary. Actually I'm a student, but I work part time in the office here.”

“Hello, I'm Frances Whittaker. Did you find him?” I asked, curious about exactly how events had unfolded.

“Gees, no. I have nightmares just thinking about it. I came when I heard the screaming. One of his graduate students found him. She was freaked! She was screaming and screaming. And Dr. Longwood was there too, all pompous and taking charge. He closed the door so I didn't even see it, the body....I mean Dr. Eldritch. He sent me back to the office to call the cops. But I heard that his head was on an open book; like he had been reading and then went to turn on the lamp. Of course Dr. Longwood was all over, telling everyone it was his latest book that Dr. Eldritch was reading. He had to make sure everyone knew that.

“You know, it coulda been me.” Kristen went on with a theatrical shiver. “That morning, the day it happened, Dr. Eldritch told me his desk lamp was flickering. I was going to pick it up and take it to maintenance on my way to lunch, but then I forgot. I coulda turned on the lamp myself!”

“But,” I interrupted, feeling a little bit like Sherlock Holmes “If he said the lamp was flickering, he must have turned it on without getting a shock. So the lamp was alright in the morning.”

“Oh, right.” Kristen agreed after a moment's thought. “Still, I might have interrupted the murderer setting the trap.” she said, apparently cheered by the thought that she had come close to danger. She went on, “He had a committee meeting in the morning, then he went to the library. He got back around noon. He was in the break room. Everyone saw him. Then he went back to his office.”

“If the lamp was alright in the morning, the trap must have been set sometime between when he left for the meeting...”

“A little before 10.” Kristen filled in.

“And noon when he got back from the library.”

Kristen frowned and said aloud what I was thinking “That doesn't seem like much time.”

I hoped she wouldn't jump to the conclusion I had. How could an outsider know he was going to be out of his office? The murderer either knew his schedule or was around enough to take advantage of the opportunity when it arose. That argued for someone inside the university. But Kristen was on a different track.

“I've never known anyone that was murdered before.” she said. “It's different then just being dead, isn't it? More important somehow."

I had to agree with her.

Kristen went off to collect the things on her list while I started to sorted out the papers and files. There were many interruptions. Word that I had arrived must have traveled quickly, because over the next two hours a number of people dropped by, faculty I knew, faculty I didn't know, graduate students. Mostly they had the same message, ‘So sorry, Charlie was a wonderful...teacher, mentor, colleague' and then, invariably, a comment about the ‘why' of all of it. It was the department-wide opinion that this was the work of professional criminals that Charlie had, purposefully or inadvertently, gotten involved with. Many of them used the same phrase as Dr. French, ‘.. got himself murdered.' There was a lot of speculation concerning the motive. Charlie's specialty was Spanish colonial history. He often traveled to South America for research and that seemed to stimulate people's imaginations. They had all sorts of ideas as to what he might have become involved in, dope smuggling, ancient artifacts, Spanish bullion from a treasure ship wreck, even illegal immigration. I didn't believe any of it, not the Charlie I knew. Yes, it was over thirty years ago and we were young, but crime just wasn't in him then, and I couldn't believe he had changed that much.

My thinking was interrupted by Kristen who came clattering down the hall with a hand truck balancing a step ladder, a pile of collapsed boxes, and a large blue plastic trash can. We organized ourselves to pack the books. Kristen stood on the ladder and handed them down from the top shelves and I packed them into the boxes.

“Everyone seems to think Charlie brought on his own murder.” I said, reaching up to take a large book from Kristen's outstretched hand.

“No way.” she replied. “ Not Dr. Eldritch. He was a good guy. Don't you think he was a good guy? I heard you two were married.”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. People change.”

“I don't think they change that much. I mean if he was an awful person when you knew him, then maybe he'd get worse and worse as he got older, but I don't think a nice guy would suddenly become a criminal? Do you?”

“No, I don't.”

“Anyway,” Kristen went on, “Dr. Eldritch was a good teacher too. He had time for students, not like Longwood. And everyone liked his books. You could really read them, you know. Not like textbooks.”

I was cheered to hear someone speak kindly about Charlie.

We were making good progress packing the books, when I heard someone call my name. I looked up. Peter Longwood was standing in the doorway – draped maybe is a better word - leaning his lanky frame against the doorjamb, coffee mug in hand.

“It's been a long time.”

I didn't reply. Peter hadn't aged so much as distilled; thinner now, with a drawn face and more pronounced nose.

"I'm surprised to see you here.” he went on.

“Charlie invited me” I replied. “He named me his executor.”

“Oh really.” Peter said. “That's unexpected.” I didn't tell him it was unexpected to me also.

“Poor Charles,” he sighed dramatically. “He must have made someone very angry to end up like that. I wonder what he got involved in.”

“Peter, you and I both know Charlie wasn't like that.” I said.

“Well, you can hardly deny he was murdered. I found him myself, slumped at the desk with his head on an open book, my latest book. I had just given it to him, not two days before.”

How like Peter to focus on his book, not Charlie's death. “I didn't realize you found him.” I said.

“Well, I mean I was the first there, after that woman started screaming. Someone had to take charge, you know. I could see immediately that he was gone, and I closed the door to keep all those ghoulish graduate students from staring. Then Kristen showed up and I instructed her to call the police.”

He was so proud of his role in all of this.

“I don't think it's fair to blame Charlie for his own murder.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Fairness? Fairness doesn't come into this at all. It's a matter of facts. And the fact is that Charlie got himself murdered.” Then he walked out.

“He's such a jerk!” Kristen pronounced. She still standing on the ladder, although we had stopped work when Peter walked in. “I wouldn't be surprised if he killed Dr. Eldritch himself.”

“Kristen,” I answered, “Just because someone's an arrogant bastard it doesn't follow that he is necessarily a murderer.”

“No, but I bet he did it.” she argued. “He could have ducked into Dr. Eldritch's office anytime, without anyone noticing. And he'd know when Dr. Eldritch was going to be out of the office. And, he probably gave Dr. Eldritch the book on purpose, as part of the plan.”

“Lots of people had the same opportunity.” I said. “And Charlie would have turned on the lamp eventually, even without that book.”

It was obvious that Kristen was not going to be deterred. “Yes, but Dr. Longwood wanted it to be his book, don't you see? It's one of those things murderers do, to show how clever they are.”

“I think murderers are only clever in books or on television.”

“But a professor who's a murderer is bound to be clever, isn't he? Anyway, don't you want to find out who did it? Don't you want to put someone in jail.”

“Kristen, that's the job of the police, not us. If you go around saying Dr. Longwood's a

murderer, you will get yourself in trouble.” I was sounding like a scolding aunt. She was right, of course, I did want to find out who did it. I didn't want Charlie to be remembered as a some sort of crook. But I couldn't imagine we would figure out something the police had missed. Things like that only happened on television.

We quit in the afternoon with much of the work done. Kristen volunteered to come back the next afternoon and I agreed. On my way back to the hotel, I walked up the east quad and across the river on the foot bridge. It was busy with students walking and on bicycles. It was a walk Charlie and I had often made. He would talk about the class he was teaching or the paper he was writing, about his strategy for getting tenure. And this was where I had told him I was leaving.

I stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked down at the river. It was still high from the spring melt and the current was strong, the water dark and cold looking. A few ducks gathered along the banks, uncertain about swimming. This would be where I would spread the ashes. I'd come in the late afternoon when there wouldn't be many people around. Could I just dump them quick, like some vandal dumping trash? Did I have to say something?

When I got back to the hotel there was a phone message from the funeral home. I called back and got a serious-voiced woman who informed me the cremains were ready to be picked up. How can you say “cremains” seriously? It sounds like a breakfast food. I drove across town and picked up a square cardboard box from a young blonde woman with a smile as serious as her voice.

I brought the box back to the hotel and put it on the dresser. I wondered why he wanted me to do this. Was this some last gesture of love? More likely he was trying to make me feel guilty about leaving him. Now he got to leave me, in that final and absolute way that brooks no second thoughts, hopes of reunion, or even a chance at conversation. And dammit, it did make me feel guilty. I stuck the box in a drawer and went to out to dinner.

That night, I couldn't sleep. What a strange way to kill someone, bloodless and cold, clever but not complex. Knowledge of his bad heart and access to his office was all that was required. Either was easy to come by at the university. Few faculty bothered to lock their offices. Charlie had never made a secret of his heart problems, and the trap itself was straightforward.

But why hadn't the killer timed it so he could come back later and dismantle the wiring. That was the question I couldn't answer. If the cops hadn't found the wire on the lamp switch, they would have assumed it was a heart attack brought about by natural causes and that would have been the end of it. There would have been no investigation at all. It seemed to be the glaring error of this murder. But since the police hadn't made any progress in the investigation, maybe it wasn't so much of an error.

Next morning I went to Charlie's apartment. It was comfortable and expensive with Scandinavian furniture, a high quality sound system, television and a couple of bookshelves full of paperback bestsellers.

While we were together, Charlie kept his work at the office and hardly ever brought home papers to correct or research he was doing. If he wanted to work on week-ends or in the evenings, and he often did, he stayed at the university. It looked like that hadn't changed. He didn't have a study in his apartment, just a desk in the corner of the guestroom. I started there, carefully going through each drawer and each piece of paper looking for a clue. But of course the police had already done this, so what did I expect to find? Still, I couldn't help but look.

The desk turned up nothing but examples of how meticulously Charlie kept track of money. I found some plastic garbage bags in the kitchen and began to fill them. It doesn't take many to contain a life. I went through the desk, every drawer in the kitchen, bedroom drawers, and closets, examining everything and throwing out the personal as I went.

Kristin had come up with the name of a firm which specialized in disposing of estates. When I explained to them there was nothing in the apartment but twentieth century furniture the woman had assured me, “Don't worry, that's most of our business anyway. Not much in the way of ‘estates' anymore is there?” I had to agree with her.

I found a few things I remembered from when we were married; odd things like a small cast iron skillet and a set of wooden napkin rings. But it looked like he had gotten rid of almost everything we had in our house. I had hoped, I think, to find one thing about me, something that showed that he thought about me occasionally. Isn't that perverse? I complain when he remembers me to be his executor, and feel bad when he doesn't keep any souvenirs of our time together.

There were no diaries, letters, or journals. Nothing to shed any light on how he felt or thought, or why he was murdered. I realized I was never going to understand what had happened.

***

That afternoon, Kristen and I continued to pack books. After an hour, Kristen called for a break.

“Please, let's relax for a minute. There's chocolate cake in the break room.”

“Just bring me a piece, I'll keep going.” I was in a hurry to finish now. I wanted it to be over, to get back to my own life.

“No, no, no. You need to chill. Put down that file folder and come with me.”

I complied. It's hard for me to pass on chocolate cake. We sat in the break room at a small wooden table on folding chairs, enjoying coffee and cake. Kristen was talking about her classes.

“History was my major, that's how come I got this job, but then I changed to Art History which is kind of history you know but more interesting and it's an art major although you still get a BA, not one of those Fine Arts degrees. I was going to switch to .......”

She stopped as Dr. French and Peter Longwood walked in.

They were engaged in the busyness of getting coffee when she began again, in a louder voice, “The cops have found fingerprints. They found fingerprints and they know whose they are.”

French and Longwood turned to listen.

Kristen looked at Peter and thrust out her arm, pointing “They are yours, Dr. Longwood!” It was so corny I was about to laugh. But Peter didn't.

“You stupid little girl,” he responded. “Of course my fingerprints are all over Charles' office, I was his friend.”

French put his hand on Peter's shoulder “Easy, Peter.” he said.

Kristen was unfazed by his response. “Not in the office, the prints were on the book, your book, on the very page Dr. Eldritch was reading when he died.”

I thought for a moment she was telling the truth. We hadn't found the book in Charlie's office so presumably the police had it, and they would have checked for fingerprints. But it seemed late in the investigation to have discovered this.

“What does that prove? I probably touched it when I went to discover if Charlie was dead.” Peter countered.

“But you didn't go into his office then, did you? You looked in, decided he was dead, and closed the door. That's what you said yesterday. So how did your fingerprints get on the exact page he was reading?” Kristen asked.

Peter was clearly angry and a little shaken. “What possible reason could I have for killing Charles?” he asked coldly.

“Jealousy. He was better than you as a teacher. He was getting famous and you weren't.” Kristen replied.

Peter gave a forced laugh, “My dear child, Charles was an academic fraud and everyone knew it. Writing all those popular books, history for the masses. There's no real scholarship in that.”

“He was in the newspapers, and even on television. He would have won the Gillespie too.” Kristen said.

“If he hadn't been murdered.” I added. “If everyone hadn't thought he was some sort of criminal.” It was beginning to make sense to me.

“This is ridiculous.” Peter replied. “For one thing, my fingerprints could not have been on those pages, I wore....” he stopped.

“Gloves?” I completed the sentence. “My God, Peter, he was your friend. How could you?”

“I did not kill him. I am not a killer. How can you even think that? I couldn't kill anyone.” He was clearly distraught. Then he went on softly, “I simply changed the context of his death.” We all just stared at him.

“He was dead when I walked in. It was immediately apparent what had happened; the fool had electrocuted himself trying to fix the lamp. He had unplugged the clock instead of the lamp, then got a shock when he was trying to unscrew the socket. Poor Charles, he just wasn't terribly smart, was he? I wonder why you left him Frances , you made such a good couple. I put away the screwdriver, attached the wire to the switch and of course everyone believed it was murder.”

“Just to win the Gillespie?” I asked.

“I deserve to win. Everyone knows that. I just made sure the judges didn't give it away on a sympathy vote.”

“Peter,” French said. “Isn't this close to fraud? I think I should report this to the Gillespie Foundation. Of course it is late in the selection process.”

“Gillespie Foundation! This is a criminal matter.” I said. “Kristen, I think you should call the police.”

“The police?” French protested. “I'm not sure getting the police involved... It wasn't murder....Peter didn't really do anything...the department has been under a lot of stress...” French couldn't seem to finish a sentence.

We sat in silence for almost twenty minutes, then two cops walked in. “Dr. Longwood, you'd better come with us, sir.” one said.

“Just to answer a few questions,” the other added.

“I told you he was already dead. I am a tenured professor, I've written nine books, certainly no one can think that I....” Peter's voice was rising.

Dr. French tried to help. “Really Officer, I protest. This is one of our most distinguished professors. The Dean is not going to like this.”

The cops ignored him, took Peter by the arm and escorted him out the door.

“I think I'd better go talk to the Dean,” Dr. French said as he left.

Kristen was smiling broadly. “Told you so.” she said.

“You just made that up about fingerprints, didn't you?” I asked.

“Sure, but it worked, didn't it? A guilty conscience gets them every time.”

“You watch too much television,” I said getting up. “Let's go finish packing.”

***

Late that afternoon, I walked back to the hotel and took the cardboard box out of the drawer. This was my final task. As I approached the river I thought about Charlie and the way it ended for him. So everyone was right after all. Charlie did bring on his own death, but by carelessness rather than criminal activity. It didn't make his death any less real, but it was anticlimactic somehow; there was no one to blame, no where to seek justice.

I walked to the middle of the bridge. It was after four, the spring sun cast long golden beams across the river and the water looked warm. That was comforting somehow. I leaned over the railing and tilted the box. A little breeze came out of the west and swirled the lighter bits around before letting them fall on to the top of the water where they were swept downstream.

“Goodbye, Charlie,” I said out loud and then added “I'm sorry.” Although I couldn't have said exactly what I was sorry about.

***

I wondered how it would turn out for Peter. I believed his story, it was so much in character. In the end, I guess others did too because it never came to trial. I admit I was disappointed. Maybe he didn't kill Charlie, but still, to try to make his own advantage out of Charlie's death was deserving of some punishment. But he got off scot free. Except he didn't win the Gillespie and thank heaven for that. They gave it to some woman professor at Nebraska , and Kristen told me that everyone said she would have won no matter what had happened with Charlie and Peter. Of course that's all academic now.