A knock on the door came, finally, at eleven thirty.
Detective Virgil Mitchell, all six feet and two hundred and fifty pounds of him, give or take, filled my doorway. He scuffed his shoes on the welcome mat as if he’d just come in from a blustery storm of rain, snow, or sleet. I had a flash of an unpleasant image: who knew where his shoes had been?
More important, why was the detective whom I was counting on to help me clear Rachel’s name looking so dour?
CHAPTER 5
Tonight Virgil and I skipped a high five, our usual greeting. Instead he gave me a hug that nearly brought me to tears, though I hadn’t been moved to cry before that moment.
“I’m sorry about your colleague,” he said, resulting in a full outpouring from my eyes.
It wasn’t only Keith Appleton’s death that I was weeping over. Every loss, big or small, for whatever reason, reminded me of so many other losses, other deaths.
Virgil patted my back then let me leave to collect myself. When I got back I was glad to see he’d helped himself to a beer.
“Technically, I’m off duty,” he said. His wink told me he knew it was an unnecessary explanation.
“You forget my in with Internal Affairs,” I said, coming back to normal now.
Virgil unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He’d already flung his jacket on a kitchen chair. I sympathized. Who else other than priests had to wear a tight collar even in hot weather? And in New England, the summer months were hot twenty-four seven. Period. No cooling off at night. You could be up all night and not feel a breeze or relief from the humidity. I tried to keep from staring at the large dark circles around Virgil’s armpits.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. And unbearably hot.
He saluted me with his beer. “You got that right.”
I led Virgil to the den, the coolest room in the house, where we took seats across from each other. He reached over and picked up an L-shaped piece from the wood puzzle, which I’d emptied onto the table as soon as I’d solved it. He looked at the frame, frowned, then put the piece down and gave it a pat.
“This is me giving up,” he said.
I smiled, remembering what a little humor felt like.
Virgil’s hairline made a deep V on his forehead, much like Bruce’s widow’s peak. I’d often teased that there must have been something in the water at Camp Sturbridge where they’d met as teenagers. Bruce would then rattle off a list of famous people who shared their hairline, including Leonardo DiCaprio and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Only once did I throw in a mention of Hannibal Lecter’s V hairline.
All other physical resemblances between Virgil and Bruce ended at the hairline, however, as Bruce was shorter by three inches and lighter by about ninety pounds.
“Appreciate this,” Virgil said, between swigs of his beer.
I’d put out a bowl of pretzels. They were gone in a flash. I was sorry I’d dumped my cheese and fruit dinner down the disposal but that wasn’t the fare Virgil would have liked anyway. I couldn’t think of any more tasks or small talk to skirt the conversation I’d ostensibly been waiting up for and looking forward to.
It occurred to me that I didn’t know exactly what I wanted from Virgil. Why hadn’t I made notes? I’d had all evening and how had I used the time? Doing puzzles, making and taking calls, emailing. I’d actually thought of beading instead of drawing up a plan for this meeting. I was usually so prepared for an interview, a class, a seminar, even for the toast I’d made a month ago at a college friend’s wedding.
Now, tasked with assuming a role in a murder investigation, I had nothing. Did I think I’d just say “Please consider Rachel Wheeler not guilty?” Or raise my hand and recite, “I vouch for your number one suspect, Rachel Wheeler,” and that would be that?
Virgil sat back, crossed one leg over the other as far as it would go with the heft around his middle. Letting me take my time. I looked at the sole of his shoe and imagined I saw blood and brains. Never mind that Keith had been poisoned, not blown apart. Amazing what happened when a violent act entered the psyche.
My biggest conundrum, and one I should have thought through during the last four hours, was whether to mention Rachel at all. For all I knew the police had another suspect in tow, the real killer, and Virgil came to deliver the news in person.
I saw LOL in big text-messaging letters in the air in front of me.
“Virgil,” I began, the single word sending my lips into a desert of dryness.
Virgil uncrossed his legs and leaned his bulk forward. “You probably want to know what’s what with your assistant.”
I could have kissed him for rescuing me. “She’s my friend,” I said, as if that should make a difference.
Virgil shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands, palms out. “Your friend.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s okay. It’s a tense situation. Let me set the scene for you,” he said, taking a small notebook from his shirt pocket.
I took a deep breath and sat back. “Okay.”
“A call comes in at sixteen hundred and ten hours from a male with a report of a nonresponsive victim in Benjamin Franklin Hall, northwest corner of Henley College campus. Uniforms are dispatched. They get to the building where a janitor, later self-identified as the nine-one-one caller, greets them at the door and leads them to an office on the fourth floor.”
I nodded. “The chemistry floor,” I said, wanting to keep everything neat and correct.
“Chemistry. Thanks. Professor Keith Appleton, determined to be deceased, is ID’d by the janitor.”
“He’s not…” I stopped in time, holding myself back from another irrelevant correction-technically speaking, Keith was not a full professor yet, though most people used the term to mean simply college teacher. “Never mind.”
Virgil picked up his thread again. “The first officers on the scene report that the victim is on the floor behind his desk in a position that appears he fell or was pushed from his chair. His shirt collar appears to have been torn open, by himself or another. The victim’s face and neck exhibit a pink discoloration.” Virgil ran his finger down the page and turned the leaf before he continued. Trying to spare me unpleasant details? Or keeping some matters confidential? Both, probably. “Some things are knocked over. A clock-”
“That’s his distinguished alumnus clock from Harvard,” I said, swallowing a gulp. “He was extremely proud of that.”
Virgil nodded and appeared to appreciate the information. “A photograph-”
“Keith with Senator Kennedy, right? He loved that picture. The only one in his office. It was taken at a special fund-raiser only weeks before the senator died.”
“Thanks again,” Virgil said.
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Why were my nerves so rattled? I felt like clamping my hand across my mouth. I looked around the den to find something calming. I settled on a poster, rolled up in the corner, waiting for me to take it to a shop for mounting. I imagined it unfurled, revealing the sweet, smiling countenance of Emmy Noether, said to be the most important woman in the history of mathematics. Even a huge Sophie Germain fan like me would have to agree.
Virgil cleared his throat. “There was some other stuff. On the desk is a clear bottle of white powder, a crystally substance, the officer called it, labeled potassium chloride. The uniforms ask the janitor to come in and ID the bottle. Did he ever see it before, to his knowledge did it belong in this office, et cetera, et cetera. This is where I arrive with my partner, Archie-you’ve met him a couple of times, I think. We send the uniforms out…” Another pause to flip through pages. “The janitor says the bottle looks like it belongs down the hall in a chemistry laboratory, in a cabinet that’s always locked.”