Voice Mail Murder Part 4

She played it several times. Common sense told her that this message was a companion to the first. She realized that the speaker in the first message had neglected to indicate the room number and must have called back shortly after the first message to indicate it. She tapped the a.n.a.lysis b.u.t.ton and her computer whirred. Almost instantly, a series of graphs indicated frequency levels, intensity amounts, variations in tempo, and other subtle vocal changes. As Pamela glanced at the acoustic print-out, she realized that her screen was telling her exactly what her ears were telling her as she listened to Message Number One and Message Number Two-and what her mind told her as she compared the texts in the two messages. The speaker of the first two messages was the same person. Good, she thought, that limits the number of suspects from a possible seven to at least six.

She turned back to her screen and brought up the third message. She remembered that this was the longest message: "h.e.l.lo. I've arrived and I have on a very short silk black teddy-nothing else. Would you like to see for yourself? Why don't you. I'm behind Door 360. See you soon."

She smiled, realizing that this speaker seemed much more confident than the speaker of the first two messages-and much more comfortable in her s.e.xuality. She also had a sense of humor. Pamela's ears told her that this speaker was definitely a different woman than the first. Even so, she uploaded the text of the message into her software and again ran the acoustic checks, which reaffirmed her own judgment. This woman sounded older than the first, calmer, more sophisticated. Pamela wondered if this was her only message or if she would hear her voice in any of the remaining messages.

She moved on to Message Number Four: "I'm running late. Maybe a half hour? I'll call."

She played the fifth message: "I'm here. 402"

Her instinct told her that messages four and five came from the same speaker, but she wished the woman had said more. Darn it, thought Pamela. Why couldn't you be more talkative like Message Number Three? She felt this was a different person than the previous speaker, but the texts of these messages were so short, she feared her acoustic program wouldn't be able to provide much information. Even so, she placed each message in its slot and hit the b.u.t.ton. The computer did its thing and, even with this small amount of data, the program spit out information about the speaker's frequency, intensity, tempo, and other vocal features. Pamela stared at the output. She replayed the short messages over-and then over again. She realized instantly that Messages Four and Five were a match-that is, were produced by the same person. Then, she listened to Four and Five and compared them to the three previous messages, looking for similarities in the p.r.o.nunciation or vowel formation with the other two speakers.

No, she thought. This is simply not the same voice as the other two women. This is a third woman. Oh, dear. She wished she were wrong. She knew that this finding would complicate the investigation and that Shoop was probably hoping that she would discover that only one person left all seven messages. Unfortunately, it was not the case. This woman's voice was dramatically different and it was noticeable even by listening to these two short messages. For instance, in the fifth message, this speaker produced the "I" sound in "I'm" much more broadly than the other two. She curtailed the "r" sound in "here" and did a similar thing to the "r" in the "four" of "402." This speaker appeared to be very curt, self-a.s.sured, prim, and not very demonstrative-not the type of woman Pamela a.s.sumed would be having an afternoon romp with a football coach. Even so, her voice was different-uniquely different and she was not one of the other two women. Three suspects-three women.

With a heavy heart and a sigh, she moved on to Voice Number Six: "I'm here, honey bunch. I have something new to show you. I'm in Room 117. Hurry! Hurry!"

She smiled. This one, she was sure, was a repeat. She recognized the syntax, the vocabulary-and the lilting, girlish tone. She set up her a.n.a.lysis quickly and it showed her what she expected. Message Number Six was actually Message Number One and Two. That same youthful quality and charm.

Feeling a bit encouraged, she plunged on to the final message-Message Number Seven: "Second floor. 211. Take the outside stairs."

Hmm, she pondered. Could it be? Very short, curt. She repeated the message. Placing it in her a.n.a.lysis slot, she ran her acoustic program. The output produced a similar display as it had for Voice Number Five. Just what Pamela had antic.i.p.ated. She listened again, comparing Messages Number Five and Number Seven. Yes, this was the same woman. She was sure. And that was the end of the messages. No more suspects.

She realized that she had accomplished something that would probably be very helpful to Shoop's investigation. If he and the Reardon Police were floundering because they at present had no idea how many different women were actually speaking on this recording, she could answer that question. Unfortunately, she couldn't provide him with much more information. She could give him a personality profile-after much more study-for each woman, but that would probably not be much help. She realized that she might be able to add more information but it would take more a.n.a.lysis-at a much more microscopic level. But for the moment, she grabbed her telephone receiver and called Shoop, using the number on the business card of his that she still had tucked in her desk blotter.

"Detective," she said cheerfully when the man answered his private line, "I don't know if you'll be happy to know this or not . . . ."

"Dr. Barnes," he interrupted, "any information you supply will make me a very happy man, I am sure."

"Then," she commenced, "be prepared to be overjoyed. I can tell you conclusively that there are three women speaking on your tape."

"Three?" he queried. "That's a b.u.mmer."

Chapter Eight.

She had gone on to confirm for Shoop her finding that three different women were speaking on the Coach's voice mail. She provided the detective with a list of each of the three unknown speakers and which of the seven messages they had recorded. They then contemplated for a few minutes as to the order and arrangement of the messages, wondering if that provided any information. Shoop verified for Pamela that the Reardon Forensics team had been able to determine exactly when each message had been sent, and that they were in chronological order on her CD. That is, the first message was sent first, the second message sent second, and so on. Not much help, they both agreed. Shoop had thanked her and grumbled as he encouraged her to "keep digging" and attempt to uncover additional information about the women. For her part, Pamela suggested to Shoop that identifying the voices was virtually impossible unless there were sample suspect voices she could use for comparison. Shoop pondered her request, said he would get back to her, and then abruptly hung up.

She gave a shrug. After all, this was the third time she'd been involved with this strange man and she realized that his social skills left much to be desired. She was determined not to let his curt behavior get to her.

"Dr. Barnes?" asked a tall, young man at her door, dangling a schedule card in his hand and looking around from her office to Joan's across the hall. His black back pack was slung over his shoulder and a loose lock of dark hair fell over his left eye in a cavalier fas.h.i.+on. "Is this Dr. Barnes's office?"

"I'm Dr. Barnes," responded Pamela, smiling. She was surprised to see any student showing up at her office door this late on a Friday afternoon-even on the second day of the semester.

The young man smiled, set his bag down on the floor, and stepped inside the office, holding out the schedule card in front of him.

"Uh . . . is it too late to sign up for your cla.s.s?" he asked sheepishly, that lock of hair bouncing back and forth, forcing him to push it out of his face in annoyance.

"Which cla.s.s would that be?" she asked sweetly. Students always a.s.sumed that professors only taught the cla.s.s in which they were enrolled.

"Uh . . ." he continued, fl.u.s.tered, turning the schedule card around and reading the course t.i.tle, *Psychology of Language?'"

"Why don't you come in . . .?"

"Jesse. Jesse . . . Portillo," he said, rocking back and forth on his heels. She motioned to her comfy couch and the young man grabbed his bag from her doorway and lumbered over and plopped down on the sofa with a sigh. She recognized the sound because she had heard many students make it before and it usually indicated that they would be glued to the spot while they rested their feet for a while.

"You realize . . . Jesse . . . don't you," she scolded gently, causing the boy to flush a bright red as she leaned towards him and directed a finger his way, "that this is the second day of cla.s.s? Psychology of Language met yesterday for the first time. Why didn't you come see me earlier?"

"I . . . I. . ." he muttered, looking down between his legs at the linoleum floor, rocking almost painfully back and forth. She cringed because she certainly didn't intend to make him feel this badly about registering a few days late. There were numerous valid reasons for a late registration and she was happy to entertain his. But this student seemed mortified by her question.

"It's okay, Jesse," she a.s.sured him. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just want to make sure you understand that you're already behind in my cla.s.s and . . ."

"Dr. Barnes," he looked up at her, big soulful eyes pleading, but of course, she was used to students with big soulful eyes pleading for all sorts of things-late entry into a course, higher grades, excused absences, and more. "I'm really sorry. I was registered for another Psychology cla.s.s for my general social science requirement, but it had a lab that conflicted with practice, so I had to drop it and take something without a lab-and your cla.s.s doesn't have a lab, so I thought it would be perfect!"

Pamela laughed to herself. Yes, she was sure many students considered Psychology of Language a perfect option because it didn't require a lab session as did many of the science and social science courses that students had to take for their core requirements. She, however, considered it perfect because of the subject matter which she loved-but she would have time to convince young Jesse of this fact as time went on, she thought.

"Yes, you are probably right," she a.s.sured him, noticing him calm, "Psychology of Language is a perfect course. At least I think so. What do you have to practice that prevents you from taking a lab?"

"Oh. Football."

"Football? You mean you're on the football team?" she asked him.

Yeah," he shrugged, "but not on the starting line-up. I just sit on the bench."

"Even so, that's very impressive," she told him. He smiled, then his face broke and his head fell into his hands.

"Jesse?"

"Sorry, Dr. Barnes." He glanced shyly up at her, his face awash in pain. "It's been really hard, you know, with what happened to Coach."

"I can imagine," she said quietly, and waited for the boy to speak further. She could sense that he had more to say.

"I can't think about cla.s.s. I'm sorry. I didn't even go to the cla.s.ses I was scheduled for yesterday. I went today, but that's when I found out about the lab and . . . everything got all mixed up . . . and Coach Dooley told me I'd have to change my schedule, but I just can't concentrate on school . . ."

"Of course, you can't," she said softly. "No one would expect you to. This must be a traumatic experience for you-for all the team."

"It's horrible," he said, again, staring intently at the pattern on her floor. "Why would anyone hurt Coach? Why? He was the best . . ."

"I don't know, Jesse," she said, her heart breaking for this young man who obviously had far more important problems to deal with than which social science course to register for. Her breath caught as she listened to him speak.

"He was great to us . . . to every one of us . . . not just the starters. Yeah, he pushed us; he pushed us really hard, but he cared about each one of us. I mean, Dr. Barnes, he knew what each guy's major was; he knew what cla.s.ses we all were taking. Sometimes he'd call our teachers personally if any of us were having a hard time. He wanted everybody on the team to do great-not just on the field, but in school too. He was like a parent. I mean, he was so proud when we got good grades. He would call out the guys who got A's and praise them at practice. If you made the Dean's List-Oh my G.o.d-he, like, had a ceremony at practice for you! And, if you had trouble, he was there too. He was just the best guy in the world. I can't understand why . . ."

"I'm sure he was very proud of you," she said. "What year are you?"

"Oh, I'm a junior," he replied. "Business major. But I really love being on the team, even though I don't really get to play much. "

"Maybe you'll get to play this weekend," she offered. "They did decide to go ahead with the game, didn't they?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "but it's a terrible idea, Dr. Barnes. Coach is dead and they're just going on like nothing has happened. Coach Dooley says Coach would have wanted us to play. I don't know. Maybe he's right."

"I believe I heard President Foster say that the University would be dedicating the game to Coach Croft's honor?" she hinted. Personally, she wasn't sure it was a good idea either to continue with the scheduled game following so closely on the murder of the team's coach.

"Yeah," agreed Jesse, "but I don't like it. It's not right. n.o.body feels like playing. We'll probably lose. We're all way too upset."

"Is that what Coach Croft would want you to do?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't know what he'd want!" he shouted. "They don't care about what he'd want. They just don't want to upset things; they've got media contracts and stuff. They don't care about how the students feel."

"Maybe you'll feel differently when the time comes," she suggested.

"I don't know," he said, calming down somewhat. "That's tomorrow night. Maybe. I mean, his wife said we should play. If she says it's okay, maybe we should. I just don't know. Somehow it just doesn't feel right. But . . . but . . . you know . . . I guess we should because of . . . where they found him. I mean, he was in a motel room. I mean, he must have been . . . you know . . . sleeping around. I just can't believe Coach . . ."

"Jesse," said Pamela, shaking her head sadly as she realized how terrible it must be for this young man to have his hero's feet of clay crumble beneath him so dramatically. "Jesse, Coach Croft was not perfect, but that does not mean that he was still not the great coach and mentor that he obviously was to you and to all the team. If you focus on that-on those memories of him-those positive memories, then maybe it will make it easier for you to play tomorrow night with the enthusiasm that you know he would want you to have."

"Yeah," Jesse said, looking at her face for the first time. "You're probably right, Dr. Barnes. I gotta remember the good part about Coach-and he was really good-to me. I don't think I'd have made it to my junior year-like I am-if Coach hadn't pushed me the way he did. I gotta remember that."

"Yes," agreed Pamela, and then she stood and reached out her hand. "And why don't you give me that schedule change card? I'll sign for you to add my *Psychology of Language' cla.s.s."

He beamed as he reached the small blue card over her desk and into her hands. She placed it on her desk and signed it with a flourish. Handing it back to him, she added, "Make sure you take this to the Registrar's Office right away or you won't be officially listed on my roll. And it's-" she said as she glanced at her watch, "almost 5 o'clock, so you'd better hurry. I believe they close at five."

The young man stood and took the card from Pamela. He bent over, grabbed his back-pack, and slung it over his shoulder. Striding to her doorway, he turned and spoke.

"Thanks a lot, Dr. Barnes," he said. "Thanks for letting me in your cla.s.s. And thanks for listening to me-to me complain."

"Jesse," she told him, "listening to students complain is all part of my job. And if I could help you deal with this horrible ordeal with what happened to the Coach, I am very grateful. Good luck tomorrow!"

"Thanks!" he smiled. "Will you be there, Dr. Barnes?"

"I . . . don't know," she stammered. She was not really into sports and had never attended any athletic events in her fifteen years of teaching. "Maybe. But, good luck, and remember that Coach Croft will be there in spirit. Do your best for him!"

"I will!" He hoisted the back-pack higher on his shoulder and with a brief wave, disappeared down the hallway.

Chapter Nine.

Her talk with Jesse Portillo, the young football player, had haunted Pamela. Maybe that was why, now, on a brisk, fall Sat.u.r.day evening, she found herself sitting high up in the faculty section of the home bleachers of the Grace University Football Stadium waiting for the starting gun (or whatever happened to begin a football game). Her jacket clutched tightly around her body, she rubbed her hands together. A gentle afternoon breeze had turned into a nippy wind and her fingertips were icy. Rocky, seated next to her, grabbed one hand in his and squeezed. Down on the field, the band played warm-up songs and cheerleaders leaped and danced.

"Dr. Barnes," called out Jane Marie over the noise, "how do you like your first football game?"

Pamela smiled at her colleague sitting two heads to her right on the end of the row. Leaning over Laura Delmondo, she yelled, "It's exciting! Very noisy!"

"It'll get noisier!" added Laura, smiling. Pamela knew that the young professor and the secretary were avid team fans and often attended the games together, as other faculty members seemed to have little interest in campus sporting events. Laura had left her new baby at home with her husband, and Jane Marie's husband, who worked in the oil industry, was away on a rig for several months. The two women, of similar ages often socialized.

"Expect the President to speak," added Mitch.e.l.l Marks, seated to Rocky's left.

"Really?" questioned Pamela, bending over Rocky, "Is that typical?"

"It is when the head coach is murdered and the school decides not to cancel the game," noted Mitch.e.l.l, with a roll of his eyes. He smiled sideways to include his wife who was seated on his left. The group of six was the entire contingent from the Psychology Department. Pamela knew that Mitch.e.l.l typically attended major games and school functions, not always because he had any interest in the actual event, but because he perceived it a part of his job as Department Head to also be a figurehead for Psychology and its faculty members. Pamela was delighted that he took his position seriously and was relieved that it allowed her to avoid most such activities.

The band started a louder and livelier tune and the crowd of mostly students and some faculty die-hards began clapping to the beat. People were still entering the bleachers and finding spots-obviously many were regulars at the Tigers' home games-and as fans slid into spots in the bleachers, Pamela could see many greetings taking place. She could also hear an undercurrent of discussion about the recent murder-and the events surrounding it. People were curious about how the administration would portray their decision to continue with the game as planned, considering the horrific event. She was intrigued about what their school's top gun would have to say.

A burst of applause as the band finished a lively number caused the entire population of the home bleachers to rise en ma.s.se. More faculty and staff streamed down from the entrance at the top, now trying to squeeze in between colleagues as s.p.a.ce in the bleachers became more difficult to find. Pamela glanced to her right where Jane Marie was speaking to a slim, blonde woman who had just entered and was moving down to a lower row. The woman stood below, looking up at Jane Marie with determination. Her eyes were bloodshot but her mouth was set with grim resolve. Jane Marie was speaking to her with agitation, her hand on the woman's shoulder. As Pamela stared at the twosome, Jane Marie turned back to Laura and Pamela.

"Rosemary," she said to the woman, "I'd like you to meet Drs. Delmondo and Barnes from our department." The two professors smiled and nodded at the forlorn woman who clutched a large purse protectively to her chest. "Rosemary Ellis. Rosemary is . . . was Coach Croft's secretary. We go way back. Don't we?" Jane Marie moved down a level to Rosemary and gave her a hug. The coach's secretary stared over Jane Marie's shoulder off into s.p.a.ce.

"We're so sorry," said Laura to Rosemary. "Jane Marie has been worried about you. How are you doing?"

"I . . . fine," said the woman, her blue eyes oblivious of Laura, and then she added something that Pamela didn't hear.

"I'm surprised you're even here," said Jane Marie, clutching the other woman's hand protectively. "No one expected you to be here, Rosemary." Jane Marie spoke softly as possible to her friend, given the incredible noise. Pamela struggled to hear the conversation between the two women but she was two people removed. The women continued their whispered conversation for a few moments, and then hugged farewell, and the Athletic Department secretary turned and continued slowly down the aisle of the bleachers to a seat near the front.

"You two are friends?" Pamela asked Jane Marie after the woman had moved away.

"Yes," replied Jane Marie. "I know most of the administrative a.s.sistants from most of the departments fairly well. Rosemary is definitely one of the nicest."

"This must all be just horrible for her," added Laura. "Why would she even be here tonight?"

"I can't imagine what she's going through," agreed Jane Marie. "I mean, I try to imagine how I'd feel if someone murdered Dr. Marks . . ."

At that, Mitch.e.l.l, hearing his name mentioned, leaned over Rocky and called down to her.

"JM, enough with all the hypothesizing about my demise," he scowled and his wife nudged him playfully. Jane Marie blushed. A cheerleader atop a pyramid leaped in the air and was caught by a group of four of her compatriots-to ma.s.sive applause from the crowd. Pamela rubbed her hands together. She noticed that her breath was now visible as she exhaled-definitely fall.

A hush suddenly fell over the crowd. Pamela noticed a tall man, wearing a long, elegant, black overcoat striding out to the center of the playing field. He was followed by a younger man dressed in a football jacket and cap. The two men stood in the center of the field. It was evident to Pamela that both were wearing lavaliere microphones because the taller, older man (who Pamela knew was Gerard Foster, the school's President) spoke first.

"Students," he intoned. "Students, faculty, staff, parents." The crowd became breathlessly still. "Typically, the first home football game is a joyous event here at Grace University. But, this game, as you know, is not typical. Our team-our campus-indeed, our entire community has experienced a horrible tragedy recently that has saddened us deeply."

Pamela glanced around. All eyes were on the President and what he might say that would temper the mixture of grief, fear, and curiosity that everyone appeared to be experiencing. The young man in his jacket and cap standing next to the President stood at attention, watching the older man respectfully.

"Coach Croft was beloved-by his team, by the campus community, by all of Reardon, I'd venture to say. He was a winner-a winning coach, but also a winning personality. He demanded the best and he gave his best. Some of you may wonder why we have decided to go ahead with this game in light of his senseless murder. Believe me, we agonized over this decision, but in the end, after discussing it with the team, the coach's wife and family, and the Board of Trustees, we have decided that the best way to honor Coach Croft is to continue with this game. This is what he would have wanted. He was preparing the team for this game. He knew they were ready. He wanted them to play and he wanted them to win. He wouldn't want them to mourn him by avoiding their task; he'd want them to honor him by going out there tonight and doing their best, playing their hardest, and winning this game!"

A few people applauded uncertainly. Then a few more entered in until the crowd was showing its approval with its hands.

"Yes," said President Foster to this show of support from the crowd, "I can see that you agree that this is what Coach Croft would want. Coach wasn't a quitter. He wouldn't want his team to quit either."

More applause, this time more generous.