Chapter 3
She couldn't believe she was still here--still in the building this late at night. She placed her key in the lock and opened her office. Shoop immediately brushed past her, reached for the light switch, which he found instinctively to the left of the door. Bright stark fluorescent light illuminated her usually cheerful space. Shoop strode to her paisley sofa, removed his overcoat, and laid it over the arm. Then he sat perfunctorily in the middle. He gestured for her to take a place at her desk.
"Have a seat, Ms. Barnes," he motioned, pulling his small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. She moved to her desk, dumped her belongings on top and sat in her swivel chair. Usually she preferred to lounge on the sofa. It was more comfortable and she had discovered over the years that if she allowed students to take up a position on her couch, they had a tendency to stay there for a long time. Please don't let this be the case with Shoop, she prayed. She desperately wanted to go home to Rocky. She needed to feel his arms around her and hear him tell her this was all a bad dream.
Shoop crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the soft pillows of her sofa. He looked entrenched. Not what she wanted.
"All right, Ms. Barnes," he started, flipping through the pages of the notebook and glancing at the notes he'd taken in the lab. "Let's start at the beginning. When did you arrive here?"
"You mean tonight?" she asked, somewhat confused.
"Yes," he answered. "You weren't here all day?"
"No, sir," she said. She was sitting up straight in her desk chair, not feeling one bit relaxed. She knew she had nothing to hide and yet this was quickly beginning to feel like an interrogation.
"When did you first arrive at the building today?" he asked, rephrasing his question, and poising his pen for her response.
"I got here this morning around nine o'clock, but I went home for dinner about five o'clock and then returned at six," she described.
"Is this your regular daily pattern?" he asked, now munching thoughtfully on the end of the pen, his sleepy brown eyes watching her, as he glanced over the tops of his rimless glasses.
"No," she said, swallowing, "only on Tuesdays. I have a graduate seminar on Tuesday nights."
"I see," he nodded. "Hmm," he added, changing positions. "All right, take me again through every step from the time you entered the building at six."
"All right," she said. "I parked in the lot. One of my students, Kent Drummond, you know, you met him ..."
"Right," he cut her off. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. "Continue with your story."
She suddenly felt defensive. "It's not a story," she said. "I'm just telling you what actually happened."
"Right, right," he said in a practiced soothing voice, "Just continue." He shoved the hanky back in his pocket.
"Kent met me at my car."
"Where did he come from? The building?" asked Shoop.
"No, I believe he'd just arrived. His car was parked behind mine."
"Fine," answered the detective. "Go on."
We walked into the building together," Pamela continued, "He went directly to the seminar room and I stopped at the main office."
"Did anyone see you in the office?"
"I was just going to say, I stopped at the office because Phineas Ottenback, one of my colleagues, wanted to talk to me. I stood in the hallway for just a few minutes talking to Phineas and then he headed upstairs to his class and I went into the office to get my mail."
"Where did this Phineas Ottenback come from?" said Shoop, holding up his hand to slow her down, "Did you see?"
"At first, from the main office. But, originally, I suppose, he came from his office. That's at the other end of the hall."
"Near the lab?" he asked.
"Yes, near the lab. Several faculty members have offices in the side hallway that ends at the lab."
"Who?" he asked.
"Let's see," she answered, "Rex Tyson is on the left as you face the lab, the graduate students' office is on the right, Phin's office is next to Rex's. Then Charlotte's office is at the end of the hall, directly opposite the lab. Laura Delmondo's office is next to Charlotte's. Dr. Marks's office--he's the head of our department--is off the departmental office which is directly opposite the main entrance to the building."
"Are those the only faculty offices on the main floor?"
"They're the only ones in this wing. There are two other offices in the other wing of the building--the animal wing. Bob Goodman and Arliss MacGregor teach all the animal psychology classes and their offices are located in that wing."
"And your office is here on the second floor," he said. "Are there any other faculty offices up here?"
"Yes," Pamela answered, "Just Dr. Bentley's which is directly across the hall from mine and Dr. Swinton's which is next to Dr. Bentley's."
"Other than this Dr. Ottenback," he noted, jotting down this information in his notebook, "did you notice any other faculty members in the building tonight?"
"Yes," she answered. "Dr. Marks was in his office talking to Charlotte, but I just heard them, I didn't really see them."
"You're sure you heard the victim, Charlotte Clark in Dr. Marks' office?"
"Yes," answered Pamela, "and I heard her leave and walk down the hall shortly after I entered my classroom." She looked down at her hands folded in her lap. Just how much of what she'd heard between Mitchell and Charlotte should she reveal?
"Did Dr. Marks remain in his office or did he also leave?"
"As far as I know, he remained, although I don't know for sure, because I started class almost immediately and when class was over, I went immediately to the lab when Kent called me."
"Yes," said Shoop. "I see." He jotted away in his small notebook.
Now," said Shoop, his droopy eye lids crinkling, "back to your activities following your arrival at the building tonight. After you spoke to. . ." he trailed away, checking his notes, "Ottenback and overheard the conversation between Marks and Clark, then what did you do?"
"Do?" she questioned. "As I told you, I went to my class, spent three hours teaching, and then a few minutes before nine I dismissed class. I asked Kent--he's my assistant, so he's used to running errands for me--I asked him to run down to the lab and make sure it was locked."
"Why did you do that?" he queried. "Was there some reason you feared that it wouldn't be locked?"
"No," Pamela hesitated, "but we've been warned lately from upper administration and from Dr. Marks to be ultra careful about lab security. The lab contains some extremely expensive equipment and it wouldn't take much for someone to steal it if the door was left unlocked."
"Who, again, has keys?" Shoop asked.
"Every faculty member has a key of their own. I assume Jane Marie, the departmental secretary, has a key--or at least access to one," she pondered. "A graduate student can check out a key when they're conducting their own research or aiding a faculty member with research."
"So, how many keys to the lab, would you say, are out there?" he asked directly.
She thought, counting faculty, Jane Marie, and adding an extra few for graduate students. "I would guess that there are probably 15 or 20."
"But you don't know for sure?"
"No," she answered, "But Dr. Marks, the head of the department, could tell you that."
"And I'll be talking to him, you can be assured," noted Shoop. "Now, Ms. Barnes, please continue with your stor--your description of events."
"I asked Kent to run down to check on the lab to be sure it was locked.," she said, "He did and as I was heading towards the exit, he came running toward me, horribly upset. I followed him to the lab and that's where we found Charlotte."
Shoop bent forward on the sofa, looking at her pointedly.
"Tell me precisely what you saw from the moment you entered the lab."
"The door was open, as Kent told you. He went in and went straight to Computer Carrel #4 and I followed. As I rounded the first row of computers I could see a woman seated in the carrel, bent over the computer desk. I could see the glare from the computer screen so I assumed the person was working at the computer."
"You say 'Computer Carrel #4,'" he stopped her. "Did you know the number of the carrel before you got there?"
"Yes, actually. All the carrels in the first row are numbered. The computers in the first row have more technological features than those in the other rows. The department has subscriptions to several expensive online data bases, and faculty and graduate students can tap into those from any of the computers in the first row. Also, there are sophisticated recording capabilities in each of the first row computers--sensitive microphones and recording paraphernalia that don't exist on the other computers."
"You mean," Shoop asked, "the computers in the first row can do things that the other computers can't?
"Right," she said, smiling, now more in her area. "They can do things even our office computers can't do. That's why you'll often find faculty working on the computers in the first row."
"Did Charlotte Clark use these first row computers a lot?" he asked.
"I'd assume she did; it was her lab," Pamela said, almost laughing.
"Her lab?" he asked.
"I mean, she shared it, but it was through her efforts and fame that we even had the lab," she said. "So, yes, Detective, in a way, it was her lab."
"But, did you see her there, yourself, a lot?"
"No," Pamela answered, "our schedules didn't cross much. I believe she tended to work at night. I usually do most of my lab work during the day."
Shoop readjusted his position. He obviously was striving to become more comfortable. He pulled his large handkerchief from his pocket again and blew his nose, then rolled the cloth up tight and returned it to his pocket. Pamela sensed she was in for a much longer grilling.
"Now, Ms. Barnes," he continued, "You say, Dr. Clark considered the lab her lab. Did anyone to your knowledge resent this?"
Pamela laughed out loud at this. "Detective," she said, shaking her head, "You have to understand academics. They resent everything--particularly their colleagues who are more successful. Charlotte is-was--absolutely the most successful faculty member in this department, in, I would venture to say, the college, maybe even the University. She'd been interviewed on Oprah and the Today show. Her research was well-funded; some famous pharmaceutical companies were backing her research on drug addiction. She was the authority on teenage drug addiction--addiction of any sort. She made this department what it is. So, yes, there was resentment, but what you have to understand, is that there was also gratitude, because without Charlotte Clark, we wouldn't have this amazing laboratory, and Charlotte was nothing if she wasn't generous in allowing--no--encouraging her colleagues to make use of it. She even discussed outfitting the lab with each of us before it was built. She asked us what sort of features we each wanted in the lab for our own research before it was funded. I couldn't do the type of research I do in the way I do it if it weren't for Charlotte."
"Yes," he said. "A wonderful benefactress. But someone killed her, Ms. Barnes. And it appears--at least from a cursory observation--that nothing was stolen, so why would anyone go into the lab, kill Charlotte Clark, and not take one piece of all that expensive equipment?"
"I don't know," answered Pamela. "I just don't know."
"Is it possible," he prompted, "that someone wanted her dead?"
"I ... I ...suppose," stammered Pamela.
"Can you think of anyone who might want that, Ms. Barnes?" he asked, snorting up another sniffle.
"I can think of many people who were annoyed with her or resented her, but ---wanted her dead----no," she said, "I simply don't believe that anyone..."
"Anyone in your department at least," he filled in.
"Why would it have to be someone in our department?" she asked. "I mean, maybe she went into the lab, left the door open, and someone came in and killed her."
"Some stranger who didn't know her or have any relationship with her, just happens in, strangles her to death, and leaves without taking anything," he said, his shaggy eye brows punctuating his point.
"It does sound unlikely," said Pamela, weakly.
"Tell me, Ms. Barnes," he mused suddenly, "would Charlotte Clark-or any faculty member, for that matter-be likely to work in this expensive lab alone late at night-with the door wide open? Given your security concerns, is that likely? Or would it be more likely that she would lock herself in?"
"Hmm," said Pamela, "It's hard to say. Charlotte is no shrinking violet, but she is very protective of the lab. I'd say she'd keep it locked when she was working late."
"And yet," he noted, "when your assistant discovered her body, he says the lab door was open and the lights were on. If Dr. Clark was working in a locked lab, as you imagine she was, the killer would have had to have a key to gain entrance, no?"
"I guess," responded Pamela, "I just can't imagine Charlotte working alone in the lab that late with the door wide open. It would just be inviting trouble."
"I think I've got enough for now, Ms. Barnes," Shoop said, suddenly, closing his notebook and sticking it back in his shirt pocket. "Should I have one of the detectives drive you home?"
"No," she answered, "I'd really rather drive myself. I'll need my car tomorrow."
"Fine," he noted, rising, grabbing his overcoat, and heading towards the door. "I'll be downstairs in the lab, probably for several more hours, while the Crime Scene folks collect evidence. If you change your mind, just come by. I'll want to talk to you again, I'm sure." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything--or anybody--that you didn't mention, please give me a call." He turned and loped down the hall.
Pamela stood and watched him go. Then she sank back into her desk chair, shaking her head. This did not look good for the department-not at all.