The Dipteran Female

It wasn't often that Homicide Lieutenant Mickey Kerrigan found himself completely mystified early in a murder investigation. The list of likely suspects was offset by an equal number of convincing alibis. But one point was certain—Professor Irwin Feldman lay dead in his study, a single bullet wound to his head.

Lieutenant Kerrigan got the call sometime after three-thirty that afternoon. The professor had been found dead by his housekeeper. Feldman had been alone in his study, having just finished a busy morning of meetings, both business and personal. According to the housekeeper—a Mrs. Estelle Hartman—several of the professor's visitors engaged him in heated conversations behind the study doors. Though she said that she was loathe to eavesdrop—a claim that Lieutenant Kerrigan found easy to dismiss after questioning her at length—Mrs. Hartman reported that Professor Feldman seemed irritable at breakfast, and was at odds with each of his guests throughout the morning.

First to visit that morning was Catherine Belding, Professor Feldman's student assistant. Rumor had it that Professor Feldman had grown increasingly displeased with her performance and had recently threatened to dismiss her from his service. A dismissal would have cost Catherine Belding her scholarship and the minimal living stipend that Professor Feldman had been providing. Voices had been raised behind the closed doors of the study, and Miss Belding was reported to have left Professor Feldman's study rather abruptly in tears.

Shortly after Miss Belding's departure, Mrs. Hartman announced a Mr. Frederick Schoppel. Mrs. Hartman understood that Mr. Schoppel represented the University's College of Sciences Grant Committee , though she couldn't be certain. Rumor once again had it that the committee was going to deny Professor Feldman's request to renew his research grant. The professor had argued before the committee that the grant was necessary to study the breeding habitats of the dipteran female of the family Culicidae. Without the grant, the professor's five-year study would be inconclusive and irrelevant. His work would be useless. According to Mrs. Hartman, the professor accused Schoppel of favoritism in directing other grants to his colleagues, and suggested that he had proof of kickbacks in the grant selection process. Mr. Schoppel left the study with much the same haste that Miss Belding had shown earlier.

Mrs. Hartman reported that the professor's final visitor arrived just before noon. The housekeeper stated that she was not familiar with the gentleman, but that he introduced himself as the editor of Animalia Habitatus, a scientific journal she had seen the professor reading occasionally in his study. Mrs. Hartman was unable to share with Lieutenant Kerrigan any “overheard” conversation, as she was busy preparing lunch in the kitchen for the two gentlemen. As she reported to the lieutenant, she assumed that the two men had words, as the visitor left the house by the time she announced that lunch was served. She reported that she retrieved both meals from the study shortly after one o'clock, and that neither meal had been disturbed. The housekeeper further reported that she left the residence briefly to do some grocery shopping, returning shortly before three in the afternoon.

Lieutenant Kerrigan walked slowly around Professor Feldman's study. The coroner had long since removed the professor's body. The rest of the room remained as it had been when Estelle Hartman opened the study door at approximately three-thirty that afternoon to announce a phone call from Professor Wilelm Schmidt. Professor Schmidt was the author of a number of articles on Aedes Aurifer, and was working jointly with Professor Feldman in his recent studies. Upon entering the study to announce the call, Mrs. Hartman found Professor Irwin Feldman dead on the study floor.

Kerrigan scratched at the two-day salt and pepper stubble on his chin. He was deep in thought and didn't notice the well-dressed gentleman enter through the study's double doors to his left.

“So, Mickey, what do we have this time?” the gentleman said as he removed his suit coat and laid it across the back of the Queen Anne chair near the doorway. “This better be interesting. I was on my way to the theater tonight when I got word that you called.”

“It's a corker, Doc,” Kerrigan said turning toward the door and extending his hand to the doctor. “I've got a full house of suspects, but they're all flush with alibis.” Kerrigan had a habit of speaking in poker terms when he was in the early stages of a homicide investigation. “If I can't break the alibis, I don't even have a pair to draw to. I sure wish you'd sit in a hand on this one.”

“Doc” was Doctor Maxwell Barnes, a full-time cardiologist and a part-time amateur sleuth. Several years earlier Doctor Barnes had been called into a case that Lieutenant Kerrigan was investigating. In that case, the victim had suffered a heart attack at the same time he had been hit over the head with a Lladro statuette by his jealous wife. Doctor Barnes testified that the blow to the head, though serious, was not lethal. The heart attack, which may have been brought on by the excitement of the argument prior to the assault, was the actual cause of death. In that case, Doctor Barnes' testimony was the difference between murder and manslaughter for the victim's widow.

Since that first case, Doctor Maxwell Barnes established a reputation for noticing the obvious. There was seldom any need for psychological profiling, no early rush to establish a motive, and seldom was there a need to find an eyewitness. The smoking gun needn't be a 38 Special, a lead pipe, or an eight-inch switchblade. Barnes had often told Kerrigan that no scene is ever left exactly the way it was prior to the crime. One just needed to know what to look for and what questions to ponder once potential evidence was found. And he firmly believed that everything at a crime scene was potential evidence.

“This place was like Grand Central Station, Doc. There was a steady parade of visitors through here—many with motive enough to want to see the professor dead. We've talked to all of them. None of them denies being here. There are fingerprints on top of fingerprints. I tell ya Doc, This one's a lulu. I've got too many suspects. There's got to be something hidden here somewhere.”

“Mickey, how many times have I told you never to assume the complex and never rule out the obvious? Everything has a reason to be where it is at a crime scene.” Doctor Barnes slowly moved around the room, stopping occasionally for a closer look. Briefly, he stopped next to a small marble table with a rather tasteless brass lamp on it. He took a small plastic baggy from his trouser pocket. Using the end of his ink pen he lifted something from the base of the lamp and placed it into the baggy. Carefully, he placed the baggy in his shirt pocket and patted it gently. He stepped over to the matching marble mantel and bent down in front of the fireplace. Taking a handkerchief from his back pocket, he turned the broken mantel clock now lying in pieces on the carpet face up. Bits of broken glass lay strewn about the brass timepiece.

“We got a break there, Doc,” Kerrigan offered. “Looks like there was a scuffle before the professor took the slug. The clock must have been knocked from the mantel there. You can see where the dust had settled around it between the two candlesticks. I stopped the housekeeper from dusting the mantel before you arrived. Can you believe it? Her boss is iced in the study here, and she's worried about dust.” Kerrigan chuckled and shook his head. “Anyway, looks like the clock stopped at three-ten. With the housekeeper finding the body at three-thirty, I'd say we've established the time of death fairly close.”

Barnes placed the clock back on the carpet and stood up. “I'd say your timeframe seems logical, Mickey.” Barnes continued to look about the room. “And just where was the body when you arrived?”

“Over here, Doc,” Kerrigan said pointing to the floor near a large oak desk.”

Doctor Barnes walked several paces over to where Kerrigan indicated Professor Feldman had fallen. There was a dark stain where the blood had soaked into the carpet. He reached across the desk and shuffled through the few loose papers. He stood for a moment looking at one particular page before turning to look once again at the clock on the floor in front of the fireplace.

“What is it, Doc? What am I missing?” Kerrigan asked.

Barnes raised his hand and Kerrigan remained still. For several awkward minutes the homicide detective and the cardiologist stood in silence. Finally, Barnes spoke.

“Mickey, I assume you gave your list of suspects the usual parting advice today.”

“If you mean did I tell them not to leave the city without first checking with me, that's affirmative, Doc. What did you have in mind?”

“Mickey, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to have you call all the people that Professor Feldman met with today or was supposed to meet with. Have them assembled here tomorrow morning by nine. Make sure that Professor Schmidt is invited as well.” Barnes continued to look from the oak desk to the broken clock across the room.

“But Doc, Professor Schmidt never came by today. It was his phone call at three-thirty that the housekeeper came in to announce. I don't get it.”

“Mickey, if it makes you feel better, I don't get it either. Just have them all here tomorrow at nine. Now, if you don't mind, I have a very expensive ticket to Cats to use tonight.” Before Kerrigan could raise an objection, Maxwell Barnes brushed by him, grabbed his suit coat and disappeared into the foyer.

At nine sharp Doctor Barnes rang the front doorbell at Professor Feldman's residence. He was greeted by the housekeeper, Estelle Hartman, who led the way into the study. Catherine Belding stood at the far end of the room staring out of the window that overlooked the manicured garden below. Three gentlemen occupied the remaining corners of the room. Barnes walked over toward the fireplace and extended his hand.

“Good morning, Mister Schoppel. So good of you to come.” The slender man—probably in his mid-forties, Barnes assumed—seemed both surprised and honored at the recognition. His surprise at being recognized assured Barnes that this indeed was Schoppel—a man who felt much more important than anyone had ever given him credit for. His off-the-rack suit told Barnes that this was a middle manager, a man of limited means. The battered leather case that he clutched defensively against his chest told Barnes that this was a man who was accustomed to delivering messages at the bidding of those more important than he. Still clasping his case with his left hand, Schoppel timidly reached out and shook the doctor's hand.

Turning quickly, like a politician working a room full of campaign contributors, Barnes walked over to the distinguished-looking gentleman in the three-piece suit standing rigidly next to the oak desk.

“And you must be Wilelm Schmidt. Thank you for coming, sir.”

“I am Professor Wilelm Schmidt. Please state your name and your business.” Schmidt offered neither his hand nor a smile.

“My apologies, Professor,” Barnes said with a slight nod. The out-dated European cut of the suit coat, the baggy suit pants, and the vest that only a European would wear in the middle of July, as well as the rigid posture and lack of warmth told Barnes that this must be Professor Schmidt.

As Doctor Barnes walked over to the third gentleman, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. He had a moment to glance down at the card quickly before extending his hand.

“Good morning, Mister Simmons. I assume you are Edward Simmons, editor-in-chief of Animalia Habitatus. ” In truth, Barnes assumed this gentleman to be Edward Simmons for no other reason than the fact that he wasn't Frederick Schoppel or Professor Wilelm Schmidt.

“And Miss Belding. Forgive my manners for not addressing you first.” Barnes crossed the floor of the study and accepted Catherine Belding's hand. He looked into her youthful eyes and saw confusion and fear.

“Missus Hartman, if you please.” The housekeeper, who had watched the introductions with little interest, had turned to leave. “Missus Hartman, I'd like you to stay as well. It seems to me that you have played an important role in this unfortunate situation.”

The housekeeper started to back out of the room.

“Missus Hartman, please. I'd like you to stay and help me set the timelines here. You can be a big help, and your assistance will help speed things along. Please?”

The housekeeper reluctantly stepped back into the study and sat quickly on the Queen Anne chair just inside the doorway.

“What I'd like each of you to do is briefly tell me about yourself, your relationship to the—to Professor Feldman, and the nature of your contact with the professor yesterday morning. Miss Belding, why don't we start with you.” Barnes swept his hand toward the middle of the room.

“My…my name is Catherine Belding. I'm a graduate assistant here at the university. Professor Feldman is…was my sponsor—”

“I'm sorry, Miss Belding, but for the benefit of those here who might not understand what a sponsor is, could you explain?” Barnes asked.

“Every graduate assistant is funded by the university through a grant program, and grants are necessary to fund research projects. But to be funded as a graduate assistant, you have to have a sponsor—someone who is the principal research figure in a field of study supported by a grant. Professor Feldman was my sponsor. As long as I assisted Professor Feldman with his research, and as long as that research was in the field of study funded by the grant, my education was paid for. Yesterday, I came over to discuss his continued sponsorship.” Miss Belding bowed her head and stepped from the center of the room back toward the window.

“Why don't we continue in the order of your visits yesterday. Mister Schoppel, I believe that would make you next.”

Schoppel remained standing by the fireplace. He cleared his throat and began. “My name is Frederick Schoppel. I've been employed at the university for seventeen years. For the last twelve years I have managed the grant program here at the university. I—”

“I apologize for the interruption, Mister Schoppel, but when you say that you manage the grant program, are you saying that you actually decide which programs will or will not receive grant money?” Barnes asked.

“I don't exactly determine who receives the money.”

Schmidt scoffed and shook his head.

“Professor, if you please. You'll have your turn in a minute. Let Mister Schoppel finish,” Barnes admonished politely.

“As I was saying.” Schoppel shot a quick glance toward Schmidt. “I manage the

grant programs. I don't determine the programs. I make sure that once the program has received the grant, that the program is spending the grant money appropriately. If there are inappropriate expenditures within a grant program, the university could lose the grant and find it very difficult going forward to secure future research grants.”

“So, you're sort of a watchdog for the university,” Barnes said. From the look on Schoppel's face, Doctor Barnes realized that Schoppel was mildly offended at the comparison.

“So, Mister Schoppel, what was your business yesterday with the professor?”

“Professor Feldman was concerned about his grant. It was up for renewal at the end of this month, and he asked me to give him assurances that the grant would continue. I told him, as I've told you, that I don't determine the recipients of the grants. I only oversee their proper expenditures. Unfortunately, Professor Feldman didn't believe that I lacked the authority to bestow grants, or in his case to renew them.”

“Thank you, Mister Schoppel. Now, Mister Simmons, I believe you had an appointment with the professor just before noon yesterday. Is that correct?”

“You know that is correct, sir, as you have my business card in your hand. As you are well aware, I am editor-in-chief of a major scientific journal, and—”

“Two bit science fiction rag, you mean,” Schmidt muttered.

Simmons' face turned red with anger. “See here, Professor Schmidt. I won't—”

“Whoa, Mister Simmons. Professor, please! Mister Simmons, continue.” Barnes suddenly felt like a boxing referee.

“As I was saying,” Simmons continued, “I am responsible for the publication of scientific research and discovery. As the editor-in-chief, it is my personal responsibility to maintain the integrity of each published article.”

“When you say that you ‘maintain the integrity of each published article,' are you saying that you verify the findings of each researcher?” Barnes asked.

“My goodness, no,” responded Simmons. I would have to be an expert in all fields of science to have that responsibility. I simply check out any claim by my staff or the readers themselves that some submitted research claims might be questionable.”

“And just what would any of this have to do with Professor Feldman?” Barnes asked.

Simmons looked around the room. He met Schmidt's hard stare and returned the stare briefly before breaking eye contact. He took a deep breath and pursed his lips before continuing.

Maxwell Barnes instinctively knew that the next statement from Frederick Simmons would be a lie. He was sure of it. He just wasn't sure why.

“From time to time, I have found Professor Feldman to be an excellent resource when articles in his field of study were called into question. I simply visited him yesterday to ask his advice on a questionable article on entomology. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

“So you're saying that your visit with Professor Feldman was a cordial visit. Is that true, Mister Simmons?” Barnes glanced quickly over at Mrs. Hartman for her reaction.

“But of course. Why would you ever think otherwise?” The housekeeper's brow furrowed deeply.

“Thank you, Mister Simmons.” Barnes turned to Professor Schmidt. The professor had relaxed his rigid posture and was idly scratching the back of his left hand.

“Professor, if you please, sir.”

Professor Schmidt looked coldly at Barnes. “Really, I see no reason why I have been called here. I didn't even meet with the professor yesterday.” He looked around the room. “In fact, I've never even been here before today. I see no sense in my being summoned here, no sense at all.” Professor Schmidt punctuated his statement with a quick wipe of his brow. He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small amber container of pills. “If you would permit the housekeeper to bring me a glass of water, I would be grateful.”

Mrs. Hartman was only too happy to find a reason to leave the room. Though she had assured Homicide Lieutenant Kerrigan the day before that it was not her practice to eavesdrop, she knew what she had heard the morning that Professor Feldman had been murdered. None of today's accounts of those conversations was accurate.

Mrs. Hartman returned with a glass of water. After swallowing his medication, the professor continued. “It was my phone call—a call I placed from my home nearly forty miles from here—that led to the discovery of the professor's body. As you can see, I had nothing to do with Professor Feldman's murder. It would have been impossible.”

Schmidt once again resumed his rigid pose.

“If you don't mind, Professor Schmidt, I'd like you to follow as the others have done and share a little about your background, the type of work you do, your relation to the victim, and perhaps why you called Professor Feldman yesterday.” Doctor Barnes folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall next to the doorway.

“I am Professor Wilelm Schmidt,” he began pompously. “I am a world renowned expert in the science of entomology. That would be insects, Doctor Barnes,” Schmidt added sarcastically. Barnes started to respond that he was well aware of what the science of entomology was, but Schmidt quickly continued.

“I have published a number of papers on a variety of subjects.” Schmidt glanced quickly in the direction of Simmons. “Presently, I am working on a paper—co-authoring it to be precise—with Professor Feldman. It is the study of the life cycle of the dipteran female in cold-weather climates. We were to present our paper next month at the Science Symposium. I was simply calling Irwin…Doctor Feldman …to see if the final draft might be ready for my review. I'm afraid there is nothing more sinister about our relationship.”

Barnes unfolded his arms and stepped to the middle of the study. “Well, I certainly appreciate the information that each of you has shared. I think that is all for today. I would caution you all to remember that Lieutenant Kerrigan has asked each of you to remain in the area while this investigation moves forward. With that, I bid you all good day.” Doctor Maxwell Barnes turned and walked quickly out of the study.

Mickey Kerrigan rolled over and looked at his clock. It was 3:45 A.M. Just as he closed his eyes, the phone rang a second time. He was used to the odd-hour calls, but he still answered each with irritation in his voice.

“This better be important!” Mickey snarled.

“Good morning, Mickey. I didn't wake you, did I?” Doctor Maxwell Barnes feigned an apologetic voice. “Mickey, I need to see Miss Belding, Schoppel, Simmons, and Professor Schmidt first thing in the morning. Oh, and do let Missus Hartman know that I'd like her to be present as well.”

“Gee, Doc, I don't know. This is kinda short notice. Simmons and Schmidt complained about your first meeting. They felt you were a little heavy-handed—you not being a cop and all.”

“Mickey, just do as I ask. I don't have time to explain. Have them gather again at Professor Feldman's place. Tell them nine sharp. And Mickey, you be there too.”

Just as Kerrigan was about to respond, Doctor Barnes hung up.

“Good morning everyone,” Doctor Barnes chimed as he walked into the study. “So happy you could all make it.”

“What choice did we have?” Simmons responded. “He as much as threatened us with arrest if we refused.” Simmons cocked his head in the direction of Lieutenant Kerrigan, who looked as if he'd slept in his suit coat. Kerrigan merely shrugged.

“I've had a bit of time to consider what each of you said yesterday, and I think I've got a fairly good idea who killed Professor Irwin Feldman.” All heads—including Kerrigan's—turned suddenly toward Barnes. Barnes in turn looked at each of the suspects assembled in the study. “But I would ask that you bear with me for a brief but important time while I think aloud.” Barnes clasped his hands behind his back and took three slow steps toward Frederick Schoppel. He stopped short of Schoppel and slowly raised his head until he was looking directly into the little man's eyes.

“Mister Schoppel, I understand that you were a bit modest with the group yesterday when you described your responsibilities in the Grants Program. As I understand it, you indeed do have the authority to determine which research projects will receive study grants and whether those already funded by grants might renew.” Schoppel started to speak, but Barnes silenced him with a raised hand. “I further understand that you were about to terminate Professor Feldman's research grant, unless he dismissed a key participant in the program—a participant whose contributions had come under scrutiny and had begun to raise questions among members of the grant committee.” Barnes again glanced around the room. Simmons sat motionless. Professor Schmidt once again scratched the top of his left hand nervously. Catherine Belding was as pale as a ghost.

Doctor Barnes looked back at Schoppel, who stood with his mouth agape. “Relax, Mister Schoppel. Though you weren't exactly truthful yesterday, my revelation regarding the nature of your visit to the professor hardly establishes a motive for murder. Ironically, I assume it was the professor who actually would have had a motive for murder, and not you. No, Mister Schoppel, you didn't kill Professor Feldman.” Frederick Schoppel collapsed into an overstuffed lounger near the fireplace.

“Mister Simmons,” Barnes said as he turned to face the editor-in-chief. “Isn't it true that your visit with Professor Feldman was less than the cordial request for professional assistance you would have us believe?” Barnes raised his hand and silenced any protest Edward Simmons had intended to make. “Isn't it true that you actually came to confront the professor with the most serious offense a researcher might commit? Isn't it true that you had reason to believe that some of Professor Feldman's recently published findings had been plagiarized from a study done years before in Germany—East Germany, to be precise—and that evidence of the plagiarism only recently surfaced, owing to the fall of communism and access to the free press?”

Edward Simmons, like Frederick Schoppel before him, stood speechless.

“You too can relax, Mister Simmons. If there was any anger in the room after you brought these charges forward during your meeting with Professor Feldman, I would expect that that anger was displayed by the professor, and not you. Once again, hardly a motive for murder. You, sir, may now sit down.”

“Miss Belding,” Doctor Barnes said turning toward the window. The young research assistant now leaned against the back of the desk chair for support, her face pale and terrified. “Miss Belding, your contributions to Professor Feldman's research were more than just cosmetic additions, weren't they?” Catherine Belding made no attempt to answer. Barnes continued. “In fact, Miss Belding, you did much of the work on several of the professor's recent projects. Several were even published. So, when Mister Simmons had contacted the professor earlier in the week with the suspicion that these works were plagiarized, the first person Professor Feldman accused was you.”

“I…I didn't plagiarize anything,” Catherine Belding sobbed.

“Isn't it true that Frederick Schoppel and the grant committee were aware of the plagiarism allegations, and that they had insisted Professor Feldman fire the person responsible?”

“No…no, it isn't true.” Belding buried her face in her hands.

“Miss Belding, I'm astounded, utterly shocked. How could you?” Schmidt interjected. Everyone except the research assistant turned toward Professor Schmidt.

“How could you do such a thing? Professor Feldman treated you as if you were his own daughter. And…and you return his trust and affection by killing him? I am appalled.” Schmidt tried hard to appear disgusted.

Lieutenant Kerrigan took a step toward Catherine Belding. Doctor Barnes quickly stepped between them.

“If I may, Lieutenant, I'd like to continue here.”

“But, what's the need?” Schmidt asked. “She was caught plagiarizing. Professor Feldman found out. Rather than lose his grant, he confronted her. Without his sponsorship, she would lose her scholarship. Once word got out, she wouldn't be able to assist a mouse running through a maze. I commend you for your brilliant work, Doctor Barnes. I bet she doesn't even have an alibi.” Schmidt sneered in Catherine Belding's direction.

“What about that, Miss Belding? Do you have an alibi for three-fifteen on the afternoon of the Professor's murder?” Barnes turned back toward the window.

“I…I was in the lab…alone. Professor Feldman had asked if I would check on the larva of the dipteran females we had been incubating. It was my responsibility to lower the temperature incrementally throughout the week to study the effects of lower temperatures on the larva development. Professor Schmidt, you knew that. You could vouch for me.”

Schmidt raised both hands as if to say that he wanted no involvement in establishing Catherine Belding's alibi. “I'm afraid I won't be of any help, Doctor Barnes,” Schmidt added. As you are aware, I was forty miles away when Miss Belding shot Professor Feldman.” Turning toward the research assistant, he added, “I'm sorry, Miss Belding.”

“No, no…it isn't true!” Catherine Belding screamed.”

There were several moments of silence, interrupted by Catherine Belding's muffled sobs.

Finally, Doctor Barnes spoke. “Of course it's not true, Miss Belding,” he said softly.

Everyone, including Catherine Belding, turned toward Barnes. “And you, of all people Professor Schmidt, should know it's not true.”

“What is the meaning of this? Of course it's true. How would I know any different?” Schmidt nervously scratched the back of his hand. Instinctively, he reached into his inside coat pocket and produced the amber container of pills.

“How would you know any different, Professor? You would know because you, Professor, were the last to see your colleague alive,” Barnes said matter-of-factly.

“That's impossible. Ask the housekeeper. Ask Missus Hartman. She'll tell you. I was on the phone from my home forty miles away when Professor Feldman was murdered. I have an alibi. Miss Belding does not!”

“That's true, Professor. And for most of yesterday afternoon, that's the one piece of the puzzle that didn't make sense. You see, in most murder investigations there are very few solid alibis. Almost never will you find one so airtight that it defies the odds.” Barnes paused.

“You are right, Professor. Miss Belding seems to be the only suspect without an alibi. You, on the other hand, seem to be the only suspect with an airtight alibi.

“Since when is having an alibi a crime, Doctor Barnes?” Schmidt asked sarcastically.

“It's not a crime, Professor. But I have found through my experiences that those suspects with the best alibis are those who have gone to great pains to establish those alibis for a purpose. That's why I took the afternoon yesterday after we all met to do a little nosing around.”

"But I called from my home when -- "

“Oh, you called all right, Professor. But it wasn't from your home. I did some checking. The phone company indeed shows a call from your home number at approximately three-thirty to Professor Feldman's number. The lady at the phone company was quite helpful. Before I hung up, she asked if I had any questions about your cell phone charges. Coincidentally, your cell phone records showed a call from your cell to your home about the same time your home number was calling Professor Feldman. Do you know of a service that the phone company offers called Call Forwarding? It's a neat little service that allows you to forward calls from your home to a second number. Don't bother to answer that, Professor. The helpful lady at the phone company informed me that you have had that service for years.

“I further checked on the charges incurred on your cell phone. There were roaming charges on the call to your house, indicating that you made the call from outside your billing service area. I further checked the extent of your service area. It extends at least thirty-five miles in all directions from your house. That would mean that when you placed the call to your home phone, which was then forwarded to Professor Feldman's home number—as you knew it would be—you were at least thirty-five miles from your own house.”

“That doesn't prove anything,” Schmidt snapped. “I could have, as you've cleverly pointed out, been forty miles away in the opposite direction, which would have put me almost eighty miles from the murder scene. You don't have a motive and you can't prove I was ever here. Like I told you, until you brought us all here yesterday, I've never set foot in this place.” Professor Schmidt smiled smugly.

“I expected more from you, Professor. As for motive—I believe that both Mister Simmons and Mister Schoppel have established the motive quite well.

Schmidt looked confused.

“Indeed there was someone working with Professor Feldman who was guilty of plagiarism. And you are quite correct, Professor Schmidt, when you point out that person stood to lose a lot. Mister Simmons had presented solid evidence to Professor Feldman over the phone that several research articles submitted under your name were indeed plagiarized. Did you really believe that research from East Germany wouldn't be recognized by true scientists? The search for knowledge knows no Iron Curtain, Professor. The studies you plagiarized had been reviewed a number of years ago, ironically by Mister Simmons himself.” Doctor Barnes remained calm and deliberate.

“But what of Miss Belding's dismissal? She had her own reasons for wanting the professor dead. You said so yourself. Even Professor Feldman had recognized her incompetence. I'm afraid, Doctor Barnes, that you are beginning to contradict yourself.” Schmidt reached up and mopped his brow. Gone was the arrogance he had displayed only moments before.

“Ah yes,…Miss Belding.” Barnes sighed as he walked over to the large oak desk. “Miss Belding, I believe this was intended for you.” Doctor Barnes reached down and picked up a sheet of paper from the desktop. “If I may, Miss Belding.” Holding the paper out in front for all to see, Barnes continued. “I noticed this letter yesterday afternoon. It is a brief note—only half written actually—in Professor Feldman's own hand. Missus Hartman has already attested to that fact in private. In this note, which is addressed to Catherine Belding, the professor assures Miss Belding of his continued support and research sponsorship. He goes on to acknowledge certain early doubts about her abilities, but further apologizes for ever harboring such doubts. The last sentence, which may have been interrupted, suggests that someone else was responsible for the research errors. I would suggest, Professor Schmidt, that someone was you.

“As for your alibi, Professor. I commend you for your resourcefulness. The mantel clock was a nice touch. Smashing it on the floor as if a struggle had ensued just to establish the time of the murder even had me stumped…briefly.” Doctor Barnes glanced over at Lieutenant Kerrigan. The homicide detective seemed lost once again. “I thought it odd that the only piece of furniture displaced was this clock. After all, the clock was shattered at the base of the fireplace, and the professor's body was several feet away on the floor beside his desk. The dust-free circle on the mantel told me that the clock was set closely between the two candlesticks that are still positioned on the mantel. Odd that a struggle would cause the clock to fall, but leave either or both candlesticks untouched.

“My next thought, Professor Schmidt, was that someone purposefully shattered that clock, but only after setting the hands to an appropriate future time. Who, Professor Schmidt, would benefit the most from an established time of death? Why, someone who had an established time for an alibi, of course. None of the others here could account for their time. But you…you, Professor, had what you thought would be the perfect alibi. And then there was the housekeeper. I found it odd that she hadn't heard a scuffle in the study. After all, her hearing has proven to be quite good. If the murder took place as the broken clock suggests at three-fifteen, I'm sure Missus Hartman would have heard the gunshot. But she heard nothing—no loud voices, no breaking glass…and certainly no gunshot. That would only suggest, Professor Schmidt, that you and Professor Feldman were together in his study sometime between one and three the afternoon of the murder.”

“You're just guessing…grasping at straws.” Schmidt wiped his brow hard. “Games and suppositions from an amateur. You have no proof. You can't prove that I was ever in this room.” Schmidt began to regain his composure, confidence, and arrogance.

“Oh, but I can, Professor,” Barnes answered quickly, a sly smile creasing his lips. “And, Professor, it is proof that I believe you will find most interesting. You are obviously familiar with the species aedes aurifer. More precisely, I am sure that you are quite knowledgeable of the dipteran female.”

The arrogance of Professor Schmidt melted into a puzzled expression.

“I noticed that you have been taking pills—first yesterday, and then just a few moments ago. I checked with your doctor, an acquaintance of mine. He confirmed that you are taking blood thinners for a heart condition.”

Beads of sweat now trickled freely down Schmidt's temples. Nervously, he scratched the top of his hand.

“That bite seems to be a bit annoying. I would assume that it is a fairly recent one.” Doctor Maxwell Barnes fixed a cold hard stare on Professor Schmidt. Schmidt's face blanched with a sudden understanding. Barnes saw the recognition in Schmidt's eyes.

“You were right. I couldn't place you here. And that's something a jury just might use to let you walk free. But then I noticed something yesterday…something so ordinary that it almost escaped further scrutiny. I found a dead dipteran female on the base of the brass lamp on the marble end table.” Doctor Barnes paused. Schmidt's eyes remained fixed on his own. “I had it sent to my lab late last night,” he continued, his voice slow and controlled. “They confirmed what I had suspected. There were traces of heparin in the female's thorax. I believe that heparin was prescribed to you as a blood thinner. Isn't that correct, Professor?”

Suddenly, Professor Schmidt pulled a small pistol from his jacket. He pointed it quickly at each person in the room, one at a time, ending with Doctor Maxwell Barnes.

“Don't make things more difficult, Professor. Hand me the gun.” Barnes slowly reached toward Schmidt's trembling hand. “I don't believe you want to hurt any of us here. Just as I don't believe you meant to hurt Professor Feldman. Isn't that true, Professor?” Barnes slowly inched closer to the professor.

“I didn't mean to do it. He…he laughed at me when I begged him not to expose my plagiarism. He laughed!” Schmidt's mood was increasingly unstable. In one breath he was apologetic. In the next, he was in a fit of rage. Barnes knew that he had little time.

“I believe you, Wilelm—”

“ Professor! ” Schmidt cried.

“Professor, give me the gun.

Schmidt slowly looked around the room. It was if he was seeing Simmons, Schoppel, Miss Belding, and the lieutenant for the first time. The terror on Catherine Belding's face confused him. Slowly, he lowered his hand. The pistol dropped harmlessly to the floor. Schmidt sank slowly to his knees and buried his head in his hands.

Lieutenant Kerrigan led the handcuffed Professor Schmidt through the double doors of the study and out into the foyer. The detective had already dismissed the others. All that remained were Kerrigan, the Professor, and Doctor Barnes. As Kerrigan and Professor Schmidt approached the front door, Maxwell Barnes called out, “Professor Schmidt, if I may. Try a bit of rubbing alcohol on that bite. It should take care of that annoying itch.”

Schmidt looked from Barnes down to the small welt on the back of his hand and shrugged. Kerrigan grabbed the professor's elbow and helped him out into the warm summer night. Doctor Maxwell Barnes turned back toward the study to retrieve his suit coat when he heard Kerrigan call after him.

“Doc, I meant to ask you. Since you based your entire investigation around something you scraped off of a table lamp, what the heck is a dipteran female anyway?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mickey. A dipteran female is from the family Culicinae, species aedes aurifer…a mosquito.”