The dark figure brushed past Kat, careening around the corner and down the stairs. Her heart misplaced several beats. She grabbed the railing to catch her breath and allow her now thudding heart to stabilize. Just the last student in the building in a hurry to leave, she told herself. She watched the shadow bound down the stairs, a duffel bag swinging wildly in hand. She paused on the landing and then, with composure recaptured, climbed to the third floor and Gerald’s office.
Down below, the professor’s assailant, rounded the corner, picked up speed, and caught a rear glimpse of Robin’s short brown hair and Kelly’s poodle cut far ahead of him. He followed them to Robin’s car, recognized it as a 1957 two-tone Chevy, and vanished into the night.
An ordinary housefly
circled Gerald’s cluttered office as Kat entered. The room sported nicotine-beige walls, two mismatched chairs, one wooden and one leather, under a bulletin board lavishly papered with unread notices and announcements of little consequence. The fly circled a rickety olive-drab table. It surveyed a gravel field of spilled coffee grounds surrounding the coffee pot, then explored a mountain range of paper on the desk. A series of plateaus rose to varying elevations: layers of projects undone, newspapers forgotten, and crumpled fast food wrappers. The fly, anxious about volcanic activity spewing from a glass tray filled with ash, bits of tobacco, and the smoldering remains of a fresh pipe, zoomed to and fro, seeking a safe landing.
It turned its attention to the fleshy features of the old biology professor who leaned way back in a chair behind the desk and faintly snored. The insect brazenly alighted on the sleeper’s nose.
There was a grunt, a twitch, and a swipe of an arm, all of which discouraged the fly but unbalanced the man in the chair.
Gerald Higgins was only barely conscious when gravity won and he tumbled into the corner with a thud, the chair clattering to the floor beneath him.
Katharine just crossing the threshold, cried out in alarm.
Gerald growled and focused his attention on the fly. He raised his left arm to motion Katharine not to move then rolled up last week’s Gazette, prepared for murder. The fly innocently groomed itself but was doomed. A loud smack became retribution.
“What in the world?” Katharine asked, not sure if she should laugh or be concerned.
Gerald grunted. “I’ve just executed musca domestica and I’m not at all ashamed.”
“Pardon?”
He sighed, disposed of the carcass, and ran his fingers through his thin white hair, attempting to reorganize his appearance, then righted the chair. “A common housefly,” he lectured. “A bother at this time of year.”
She chuckled as he motioned her to a chair and then settled himself. “So you’ve come calling to revel in an old man’s embarrassment. Surely you must be bored.”
She nodded, displaying a faint smile. “True enough. Absolutely nothing’s happening. It’s a month into the semester and everyone’s settled down and behaving. Not even a beer party to cause a scandal.”
He shrugged. “Poor Kat. You’re finally in charge of news and there’s nothing to test your skills.”
She sighed. “Temporarily in charge. Until that friend of the president arrives. And he’s only an interim at that. At this rate, it’ll be a year before they finally hire a permanent media relations person.”
Gerald sorted the sheaf of papers on his desk. “Well, we’ve never been known to act in haste around here. Have some coffee.” He waved his hand toward the little table.
She winced when she plucked the pot from the mess on the surface. “Want some?” she offered.
“No, I had my limit some time ago.”
Katharine snuggled into the black leather chair, delicately toed off her shoes and curled her long legs under her. She studied the overturned heels and pondered switching to the German anklestrap courts tomorrow instead of the boots. The red leather would give her a boost. But she was avoiding the inevitable. Maybe a little coffee first before she delivered her report. She wrapped her hands around the mug and enjoyed its warmth, then carefully sipped and nearly gagged. “What is this?” she croaked.
“Just my normal coffee.”
She curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. “Gerald, when did you make this coffee?”
“When I came in at six this morning to finish my notes on this experiment,” he absently muttered.
She rolled her eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that coffee gets really, really strong when it sits for fifteen hours?”
“Hmm? Oh, sure. A little too strong again, eh?” he said as his eye pounced on a typographical error on the first page of the research report. He grabbed a pen to jot a correction. “Sorry. Martha used to come in and make fresh pots throughout the day for me. Never got used to doing it myself.”
Kat’s friendship with Gerald was an extension of her own with Martha, a literature professor. Love blossomed for Gerald and Martha at a conference. He moved to
Mountain View
University
to accept the endowed chair in biology. They married and had several beautiful years together before she perished in an accident.
Kat recognized Gerald’s unspoken loneliness and often visited at the end of the workday to share campus gossip. He was a humble man, though not always a quiet one. His efforts in many areas represented the university well, and reminded Kat why she loved this place and these professors.
Memory of the thin-lipped Charlie Abbott that she’d just passed downstairs sparked a momentary frown. Well, most of them, she thought, picturing the thinning brown hair hanging in wisps from the top of his head as he studied his notes. A man amidst the shimmery world of chemical prisms, he did not shine.
She asked Gerald about him, experiencing guilt from her unkind thoughts. “Why is Dr. Abbott so self-centered?”
Gerald picked up the jumbled papers and tapped them lightly on the desk to realign them and form the only neat pile in the room. To him, it was the most important one. He pushed his notebook forward, shoved his glasses further up his nose, and settled back in his chair to better examine the question.
“Dr. Abbott suffers from tunnel vision, filtering out all extraneous events. Unfortunately that often includes people.”
Katharine nodded and attempted to switch gears. She seized the opportunity to share the results of the handwriting analysis with Gerald, who’d become concerned that his student, John, had cheated on an exam. He couldn’t expel the student on the basis of a negative report, but he retained the right to request a test remake. Kat held several certificates from an international graphoanalysis association and was highly respected in her field. A few at
Mountain View
University
were finally seeing the value of handwriting analysis. Kat handed Gerald the report hesitantly, while thanking him for his faith in her detection abilities.
She returned the borrowed essays and tests with the report. “You were right. His first essay, which also is pretty atrocious, shows some unstable writing but no signs of dishonesty.” Kat moved to the side of his chair and pointed out some examples in the second essay.
“But look here; there are too many triple-looped ovals. He’s trying to hide deceit here. It’s only one of the clues, but I’m convinced he was cheating.”
Gerald nodded, frowning deeply. He pulled the report forward and reviewed the rest of the analysis. It was enough to prompt him to want a discussion with the student and run a repeat of the exam in a secure setting.
He settled back and smiled at Kat. “You know I’ve admired your skills in this area ever since you put Vice President Simmons in his place when he mocked the validity of graphology. He was afraid to reveal any of his handwriting for months!”
Kat shared the chuckle, then settled wearily back in her chair. “Sorry, about John. I know you were hoping he wrote that last essay by himself. How do you figure he cheated on the exam?”
“There are certainly enough choices. He could have had the answers written on the brim of his cap, on his arms, or even the tongues of his shoes. I’ve seen it all,” he sighed.
Katharine took a moment to replay some of the day’s little indignities and was grateful for his patience and attention. “This new guy, Nick Donnelly. I’m a little miffed we didn’t even have a chance to meet him beforehand. It was thrust upon us. He was to arrive today.”
Gerald nodded and folded his hands together on the desk. “Hmm. President Ludlow must see something in him. Why not give the fellow a chance? What harm can come of it?”
She sighed. “You’re right. Are you ready to leave? I’ll walk down with you.” After the incident in the hall, she wished for an escort but didn’t want to seem unduly anxious.
He stood and rummaged about for keys. “The last classes just got out. I’ve got to do my rounds, make sure everything’s locked up.”
She trailed slowly behind him dragging her heels, wishing she’d thought to change into her pink sneakers. Style they lacked, but couldn’t be beat for comfort. A minute later Gerald shouted an oath and backed out of the latest lab he’d entered. As she raced to see, he blocked her view.
“Charlie Abbott’s dead. Appears to be buretted. Call the cops while I block off this area.”
“Buretted?”
“Go on now, get away from the door.”
Kat flipped open her cell and called 911.
Chapter 2
The angular formation is characteristic of a strong-minded person—one disinclined to yield. Angular writing, crashing into the right margins, signifies an impulsive, angry person—angry enough to kill?
“Handwriting: a Key to Personality” by Klara Roman
John Lang, a pimply campus cop who’d win the youth award in a line-up of freshmen, arrived first and placed fluorescent yellow crime scene tape across the door. He knew Kat well and answered her questions, but when other police arrived he turned away to greet them and she slipped under the tape and into the lab.
Her old friend, Richard Burrows, a slightly paunchy detective, spoke quietly with Mark Raub, director of campus security, and she remained close to the door and absorbed the scene.
A photographer named Frank moved in a clockwise direction, his long dark locks tied with a cord at the back of his neck making him look strangely out of place in a room full of cops. The narrow aisle between lab counters hampered his movements, and he blocked her view of the body, so she made her own mental snapshots of the room. The lab wasn’t quite a shambles, but damage had obviously been done, especially in the vicinity of the body.
Tonight the scent of chemicals masked the scent of death.
The lab had a sterile and pristine appearance, despite the body and broken glass. Stools and carts were tucked out of sight and chemicals and glassware lined the cabinets in neat rows along the opposite wall. Raised sinks interspersed with computer terminals, and gas and water knobs adorned huge ventilation hoods to the left of the door.
Frank moved to the other side of the body and no longer blocked her view. Now she understood what Gerald had said. She had seen bodies before, but the glass rod sticking out of Charlie Abbott’s chest was no accident. She involuntarily gasped, but covered the sound so as not to disturb the police in their measuring, calibrating, logging, and contemplating.
One body, one death. Signs of a very angry enemy. The shock rippled in concentric circles as she realized the repercussions this would cause in the ranks of the scientific community, in the university, and the town. Cosmopolitan the valley may claim to be, but murder was not on the daily agenda here.
Kat stared down at Charlie, trying to assimilate, to erect the buffer that police often use to assure sanity in such an insane world. She didn’t much like Charlie, but nobody deserved this. The university generally provided a supportive, caring environment; it was not equipped to suffer the repercussions caused by violent murder. She vowed to help any way she could.
Charlie’s glasses still sat low on the nose, Ben Franklin style, but the founding father’s characteristic sparkle was missing from Charlie’s eyes. It had never been there. Charlie wasn’t the type to sparkle. His name may have been the most flamboyant part of him—Charlie rather than Charles, probably acquired before his granite nature was honed. She marveled that the glasses sat where they always did, unjarred by the fall, or death. And marveled again that she could think of something so inconsequential with someone she knew lying dead at her feet.