Voice Mail Murder Part 5

"So, I'm going to officially transfer the reins of leadership over to a.s.sistant Coach Jeff Dooley," he noted. The young man standing next to him smiled weakly and nodded to the crowd. "Jeff is taking over for Coach Croft at our request. He worked closely with Coach and he knows what Coach wanted, how he worked and his approach. I'm sure he'll make Coach proud. I ask you to give him your support."

The President turned to the young coach standing beside him and shook his hand, holding it for a long time as cameras flashed.

"Okay," he added, dropping the young coach's hand finally, "enough talking. Let's get this game on!" He flashed a bright smile at the bleachers, lifted both hands in the air in a victory pump, and then strode purposefully off the field. The young coach jogged over to the side of the field and conferred with his a.s.sistants, standing near the cheerleaders. As his a.s.sistants moved to follow his orders, Dooley leaned over to speak to a lithe, blonde woman standing near the cheerleaders. She smiled at him and patted his shoulder.

Suddenly, the band broke out in the school fight song, and almost immediately, the home team entered the field to whoops and hollers, followed by the opposing team. Pamela felt sorry for the opponents who would, it seemed to her, have a difficult battle after that inspiring pep talk from the home school's President.

The game began and proceeded without incident that she could detect, although it would be unlikely that she would detect any incident in the play of a football game, about which she knew next to nothing. There was a lot of whistle blowing, pushing, shoving, players falling down, being knocked down, footb.a.l.l.s being thrown around, and the announcer's voice yelling various achievements in the game. None of these achievements meant anything to her-or to Rocky, it seemed, as she often turned to him for explanation of the rules and found him giving her a shrug. Her manly man was never much for team sports. She was able to chat at various time-out intervals with Mitch.e.l.l, Laura, and Jane Marie, and attempted to gather any information that they had about the Coach. She did not, however, admit to her involvement in the case-and her knowledge of the voice mail with the seven messages but only three speakers-all of whom appeared to be possible suspects in the Coach's murder.

As the game ended (much to the delight of the home fans, as the team had apparently won with a dramatic score of 17 to 7), Pamela and Rocky tumbled out of the bleachers, moved along by the push of the excited crowd. There was a huge sense of invigoration. She a.s.sumed that if the team had lost, many fans would have blamed the administration's decision to go ahead with the game, but seeing as how the team won, they probably would take that as exoneration for the executive decision to play.

The couple was rounding a large, circular, concrete column on the ground floor of the stadium, when Pamela felt the corner of her jacket being pulled. She grabbed Rocky's arm, stopping him, and turned around. Hidden behind the column stood Shoop, wearing his old grey overcoat and looking for all the world like a pedophile. He was motioning to her. She glanced at Rocky and then moved over to the column.

"Detective," she greeted him. Rocky followed. "I didn't expect to see you at a college football game."

"Nor I, you, Dr. Barnes," he snickered. "My sources tell me this is an unlikely place to find you. And yet, here you are!" He gestured widely, his coat flapping in the stiff breeze. Rocky chuckled. "Mr. Barnes," said Shoop, nodding to Rocky.

"Detective," acknowledged Rocky, "I hope you're not embroiling my wife in another one of your investigations?"

"Mr. Barnes," said Shoop, "we do not embroil anyone. We only ask for a.s.sistance. If your wife decides to exceed our request . . ."

"So," continued Rocky, "that means you tracked her down . . ."

"Actually," Pamela cut in, before the two men came to blows. "I'd already spoken to the detective, dear. He asked me to evaluate some recorded voices. That's all. Isn't that right, Detective?"

"Yes," answered Shoop, puffing up his relatively scrawny chest defensively against the much more muscular Rocky. "I merely tracked your wife down here to bring her this." He reached into the pocket of his overcoat that was flying in the wind. A plastic CD case was in his hand.

"Not another set of voice mail messages?" queried Pamela.

"No, my dear Dr. Barnes," a.s.sured Shoop. "This . . . ." He tapped the side of the CD container. "This is the information you requested. You asked for samples of suspects' voices that you could use to compare to the voice mail messages. Well, here are your samples. Our forensics people have extracted short segments from all of the interviews we conducted with the women we have interviewed for this case-and a few of the more effeminate men-and we placed them on this CD-in no particular order-all listed by number. You have merely to go through these dozen or so suspects and compare them to the speakers on the voice mail CD and simply let us know if you find a match."

"Simply," she said, laughing.

"What does he mean, voice mail recording?" Rocky asked his wife, a look of fury on his face.

"Don't worry," she said soothingly, patting his arm. "And, Detective, thank you. I'll compare the voices. But-there's no *mere' about it. With the three voice mail suspects and -you said-a dozen or so suspects on this sample tape, this is not going to be quick work."

"Don't worry, Dr. Barnes," said the detective, pulling his coat tighter against the wind, and turning to head out of the stadium. "You can have the entire weekend!" He stormed off.

The entire weekend, thought Pamela. It was Sat.u.r.day night.

Chapter Ten.

Rocky hadn't spoken as they drove home from the game. Pamela stared straight ahead, glancing surrept.i.tiously from time to time at his knuckles gripping the steering wheel, every gnarly muscle in his hands visible. They seldom fought, but her involvement in several murder investigations over the last few years had been major bones of contention. Rocky believed any involvement was personally dangerous for her; she believed she was perfectly safe and was merely providing helpful information from a distance. Unfortunately, Rocky's perspective had been proven correct in several instances and Pamela's life had been put in jeopardy because of her a.s.sistance on the cases.

Now, the couple was in their bedroom in their modest ranch-style home on the outskirts of Reardon. Pamela sat on their bed, Candide shuddering in her lap, as Rocky paced back and forth around the room. The little dog seemed to sense his master's fury and he had rushed to Pamela for comfort.

"Were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, not looking at his wife, but continuing to pace back and forth.

"Rocky," she implored, clutching the little white dog in her arms. "Shoop came to me. He just asked me to listen to some voices. That's all! You're making too much of it!"

"So why couldn't you tell me?" he asked, stopping suddenly, turning, and facing her.

"I was going to-honestly," she answered, rubbing Candide's head. "I just hadn't . . . found the right moment."

"The right moment?"

"You know . . . how you get about things like this?"

"Like getting involved with murderers? Like you did before? Like having some deranged nut case tracking you down? Running you off the road? All because you were just *listening to some voices'? You needed the right moment to tell me that?" he yelled, storming closer to her.

"Please, sweetheart," she begged. "Please. I know you're upset, but truly this isn't like the other times. I mean, I knew the murderer that first time . . ."

"And he almost killed you!"

"That's not going to happen!"

"You are the most foolish woman I've ever known! You'd think that given what you've gone through, you'd never speak to that Shoop fellow again! Never let him inside your office! Let alone agree to help him on another of his investigations!"

"But, Rocky, it's really my civic duty," she argued. "Coach Croft was a member of Grace University-a faculty member!"

"Let the police handle this, Pamela! It's not your job! You are not a criminologist!"

"I know that. It's just that in this case . . ."

"In this case. In this case!" he shouted, turning his back on her and flinging his head and arms against the wall. "It's always something. You are a Psychology professor-not a cop. Have you forgotten that?"

"Of course not," she said louder, sitting up straighter. Candide made a huffing sound and looked up at her face.

"Then, act like it. Tell that man to find someone on his staff to investigate that recording-whatever it is. You are done! You are done with helping him!"

"This is different. They found the Coach's cell phone next to his body. There were a number of messages on it from women-and they-the police can't find any of these women. They don't appear to be people who anyone recognizes."

"And how do you fit in? Shoop expects you to tell him who these women are?"

"I can't do that. I can't identify anyone from a voice print, but I can compare a voice print to a sample."

"And that's what he gave you tonight? A sample for comparison?"

"Yes," she replied, grateful that he had calmed slightly as she tried to explain. "All Shoop wants me to do is compare the voices on the voice mail that were on the Coach's cell phone to this sample recording he gave me tonight. It has segments from the interviews that the police have done with all the females they have spoken to. I should be able to determine if any of the voice mail speakers match any of the voices the police have interviewed."

"They can't do this themselves?"

"They probably could," she said sweetly, "but it would take them longer. I can do it much quicker with my software and experience."

Rocky walked around, arms folded. She could see him rolling his tongue around the inside of his mouth-a sure sign that he was experiencing a dilemma. She remained quiet because she knew that he needed to come to his own conclusion. Eventually, her husband plopped down in their green arm chair in the corner and put his feet up on the ha.s.sock in front of it.

"All right," he announced. "I don't like it, but it sounds relatively innocuous." He looked up at her and pointed his finger in her direction. "But I'm telling you, don't go getting yourself involved in anything more. I mean, just run this comparison, give it to Shoop, and then-you're done! Okay?"

"Absolutely!" she agreed. In truth, she loved Rocky for his anger about her a.s.sisting the local law enforcement because it showed her how much he cared about her and worried about her. Even so, she wanted there to be honesty between them and she hated to have to keep anything from him because she valued his input. Picking up her poodle, she rose from their bed and headed into the kitchen.

"Now what?" asked Rocky, following her.

"I suddenly feel the need for alcohol," she responded, pulling out wine gla.s.ses with one hand from the cupboard while cradling the dog in her other. Rocky nodded and opened a cupboard door where he ran his finger down a collection of several bottles. Selecting one, he got out a bottle opener from a drawer and quickly uncorked the bottle.

"A nice Shiraz, I see?" she questioned, smiling and leaning against the counter. Candide scooted up onto her shoulder.

"Make up wine," noted her husband, handing the gla.s.s to his wife. They clinked their crystal together and each took a sip.

"Nice," she murmured. "Shall we adjourn to someplace more comfortable?"

"So," said Rocky, not moving from his position, "the Coach was found murdered in a motel room. They find his cell phone which has messages from three unknown women on it. The police can't identify any of the women on the voice mail . . ."

"Three women," she offered.

"Three women," he corrected. "I a.s.sume you provided them with this information."

"I believe I did," she said, looking at him over the lip of the gla.s.s, rubbing the dog's back like a newborn baby.

"And now, they expect you to compare the voices of these three unknown women to the voices of women that they've already interviewed."

"That's what Shoop says," she nodded. Setting Candide on the kitchen floor and her wine gla.s.s on the counter, she went to her purse which she had placed on a table by the kitchen door and removed the plastic-covered CD. "He told me that their forensics people would extract segments from all of the interviews they conducted with any women and provide me with samples. Supposedly, all the samples are numbered. All I have to do is listen and compare the samples on this CD to the ones on the voice mail recording and see if any match."

"And if they do," said Rocky, shrugging, "the police think that's the killer?"

"I don't know," she scowled. "But right now, they simply don't have a clue to the ident.i.ty of any of these women on the Coach's voice mail. Maybe one of them killed him-maybe not. But surely, the police need to interrogate all three."

"It looks like he was having affairs with them," observed Rocky.

"It does," she agreed. "And I don't know about you, but it seems to me that any man-well-known football coach or just an average schmuck-who tries to balance three mistresses-and a wife-is asking for trouble."

"And gets what he asks for?" questioned her husband.

"You said it, not me," responded Pamela, leaning back against the counter and sipping her wine.

"Whatever it is-whatever you find," he said, "I really think that this information-this CD-and what you're doing should remain quiet. I mean, please don't discuss it with anyone. You just never know who's listening and I really worry for your safety, Pam, when you get mixed up in these things."

"All right, all right," she agreed.

"And also," he added, "let's not mention this to Angie." As he spoke, the front door opened and their daughter stormed in, flinging the door back. She was laughing and talking to a young man who followed her. Candide leaped to attention at the arrival of his young mistress.

"Not mention what to Angie?" queried their twenty-year-old daughter. The couple held up their wine gla.s.ses and looked at each other with a mixture of sheepishness and fear. Angie and her boyfriend sauntered into the kitchen, still wearing their jackets. The young woman stooped and whipped the furry little dog into the air, twirling him around like a dervish.

"Candy! Candy! Who *da puppy? Who *da puppy?" she sang as she spun. After a few turns, she stopped and plopped the family pet on the ground. Candide wobbled a bit and then scampered out of the kitchen. "It's okay, Mom," continued Angela, turning to her parents, "Kent and I heard all about it!" The young man smiled sheepishly at Pamela and Rocky from his position in the kitchen doorway.

"Hi, Dr. Barnes! Mr. Barnes," he greeted them. The parents returned the greeting.

"What did you hear all about, Angie?" asked Pamela, gripping the stem of her wine gla.s.s with an increased intensity.

"I heard about you and Dad going to the football game!" she declared. "G.o.d, what a shock! You two at a football game! I thought you both hated team sports!"

"You heard wrong," responded Rocky, setting his gla.s.s on the counter and focusing his attention on his daughter and her young man. "Your mother and I felt an indescribable urge to experience the autumnal excitement of the opening of a college football game tonight-the colors, the atmosphere, the aromas, the sounds . . ."

"Yes," agreed Pamela, beaming at her husband's apt description, "especially the sounds!"

Chapter Eleven.

She had not rushed to complete her task during the weekend. She had done as her husband had asked and had spent her Sunday relaxing with her family. Angie and Kent had again come over-evidently realizing that her parents weren't going to read them the riot act for cohabiting. After all, Angie was of age. She had a part-time job and would graduate in the spring. Kent was employed full-time in the Human Resources Department of a local oil company-in fact, the same company that Jane Marie's husband worked for. He had put his Master's Degree to good use, thought Pamela and was one of her success stories. She was just happy that Angie was happy- although she knew Rocky had moments where he wanted to rip her boyfriend limb from limb. The foursome had dined together on Sunday-one of Rocky's superb pork roasts, complete with homemade gravy, browned potatoes, and his special green beans. He'd also whipped up a creamy dessert, probably laden with major calories, she worried. As it was, a very pleasant Sunday-no time for investigating or a.n.a.lyzing voices. It would just have to wait until Monday.

Now it was Monday and she found herself arriving bright and early as usual in the Psychology Department's main office. Jane Marie was already hard at work in her little alcove. Her hands balanced on her keyboard and the telephone receiver poised on her shoulder, it was evident to Pamela that their departmental secretary-or administrative a.s.sistant as she preferred to be called-was a superb multi-tasker. When she spied Pamela, Jane Marie said farewell to her caller, hung up the phone, and waved to Pamela to come to her desk.

"Dr. Barnes!" she cried. "What did you think of the football game?"

"Very exciting, Jane Marie," answered Pamela. "You're a regular fan, aren't you?"

"Absolutely!" responded the brunette, leaning over her monitor. "Billy and I go together when he's not out on the rig, but when he is-which is a lot, I've been going with Laura. She likes to get away from her baby once in a while and her husband is very nice about baby-sitting."

"That's great," said Pamela. She too was happy for Laura Delmondo and her young husband. The couple had eventually been successful in their efforts at in vitro fertilization and now had a six-month old infant son as proof. "I was expecting more fireworks."

"You mean, like President Foster saying something about the murder, or what?"

"I think he handled it just right," offered Jane Marie. "I mean, what could he say?"

"Of course," agreed Pamela, pulling up a chair and scooting closer to Jane Marie. The little office was deserted and Pamela realized that Jane Marie was an amazing source of information regarding campus events-of all sorts. "Have you heard anything more about the murder?'

"I wish," said Jane Marie. "Everyone is talking about it, but no one really knows anything."

"All speculation, you mean."

"Right. I've talked with staff people in the Dean's office and the Business Office, and, of course, Rosemary in the Athletic Department. Most everyone is mystified. I haven't heard anyone say that they even suspected Coach was having an affair."

"Not even his secretary-his a.s.sistant?"