Formula for Murder Page 2

  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.

  Detective Burrows shouted over his shoulder, “Hey Frank, what are you doing letting her so close to the body?”

  “She was here first.’”

  Detective Burrows, his normally good-natured face somewhat sallow in the fluorescent light, zeroed in on that. “Did you see this happen?”

  “No, but I was in the building. During it for all I know. Talking to Gerald. When I walked past the lab earlier, Dr. Abbott appeared to be alone, studying his notes next to some vials. Where’s Gerald?”

  “Upstairs in his office making calls.”

  Kat nodded, and continued with her questioning. “When was the time of death? What do you think the man was after?”

  “No dice, Katharine. I ask the questions here. Besides, what makes you think it was a man?”

  She looked around and pointed to the mess. “Women seldom commit violent crimes and this sure looks like it qualifies.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t a philanderer and a very angry wife or girlfriend did it?”

  “You better watch what you say,” interrupted Frank as he stashed some of his photography equipment. His eyes swung in Katharine’s direction. He enjoyed leaving them there for a while. It was certainly more comfortable than looking at the dead body. As often as he witnessed these scenes he was never at ease around a new corpse.

  Detective Burrows narrowed his eyes and nodded, getting the point. “So who are you working for tonight, Katharine? The college? Or just here to bug me?”

  That prompted her to ask, and consequently get out of answering the question, “Come to think of it, did anyone notify the university president?”

  “Of course we tried. We’re also trying to reach the dean. I understand the president’s out of town.”

  “Actually, he wasn’t due to leave till morning, early. Try again,” Kat suggested.

  While she carefully studied the scene, the men continued their work. Kat knew not to touch anything or walk around needlessly. They knew she’d grown up with the drill and would act accordingly or they wouldn’t have let her stay. She knew officers were still gathering evidence, carefully collecting shards of glass in the sink near Charlie’s body. It was then she noticed he wasn’t really “wearing” a short rod, but the broken end of a long one. It looked like the killer had the presence of mind to destroy fingerprints by shattering the end he’d held.

  Burrows wasn’t really nervous having her around. The man knew her father, James, for many years. Her dad was one of his best cops. Kat had wormed every bit of investigative technique from him before he retired.

  While watching, Kat speculated on what brought the professor to this point. She mentioned his research, and the sheets of notes nearby were looked at by the cops again with more interest, though no more understanding. She glanced over their shoulders and finally tucked herself between Burrows and John so she could get a better look at the handwriting. The usual tiny script associated with scientists hindered close scrutiny of markings. What was she hoping to see? Signs of fear, anger? Anything to show what led him to this point of death. Maybe later she could study it.

  Gerald returned, saying he’d finally reached the president and he was on the way. As head of the biology department, Gerald looked over the notes in hopes of helping.

  A frazzled female student motioned to Kat when John Lang wasn’t looking. She pointed to some books near the door. Seeing how far away the books were from the crime scene, Kat decided to take pity on her, scooped up the scattered pile, and handed it over. The girl nodded her thanks and tried to see inside. Kat scooted her away.

  Gerald provided the name of the chemistry chair, Dr. Simon Santora, saying he was the one most likely to help. He could also provide a list of students working with Charlie.

  A slight clamor drew Kat’s attention. Thomas Ludlow, the president of Mountain View University, bustled up, his soaking umbrella still trailing rivulets of rain. Detective Burrows and Kat converged on the door at the same time. “You remember Detective Richard Burrows?” she said, knowing they’d met but that the president saw hundreds of people every week. They all stayed near the door, away from the scene.

  She stepped back but remained within hearing distance. Santora arrived shortly after and made note of the information the detective requested.

>   President Ludlow physically pulled himself away from the sordid details Detective Burrows was outlining. Almost white eyebrows highlighted his concentrated gaze as he turned back to Kat with a grimace. “Oh, Miss Everitt, could you please meet the new public relations man, Nick Donnelly, for me in front of Heritage Hall? I was supposed to meet him earlier but he was running late. He should be there by now.”

  She nodded and he, Dr. Santora, and one of the detective’s men left for the registrar’s office to get student addresses.

  John motioned that he had her name on the list of people who would be questioned later. She took her leave quietly, cursing her lack of an umbrella and the necessity of meeting a man whose need here she questioned.

  Kat drove the short distance to Heritage Hall, which housed the administration offices. Its lighted steeple served as a beacon throughout the town in rain or shine and she admired it again as she headed that way.

  Donnelly, on the other hand, wasn’t in an admiring mood as he sprinted through the rain from the stout front doors back towards his British racing green Austin Healy in the empty lot. Kat noticed his long, powerful stride, which contrasted sharply with the hunched shoulders and intermittent sneezing. Her sedate sedan pulled in as he neared. In the pause following his third sneeze he reached for her passenger door, and threw himself into the seat on the fourth. A little miffed at his audacious behavior, Kat said rather haughtily, “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been here almost an hour. My poor car is leaking, stalled, and I’m soaked and tired. You sure don’t look like Thomas but at this point I’ll take any port in a storm.”

  “And how am I supposed to know if you’re really this what’s his name the president is expecting?”

  Through his chattering teeth he said, “Sorry, I’m Nick Donnelly.” And in more slurred tones added, “I’d show you my ID but it’s probably soaked like the rest of me. Couldn’t you just help me find the president or my apartment?”

  “I’m Katharine Everitt,” she said and extended her hand.

  “Katharine” he repeated as his large hand engulfed hers firmly, if damply. The warm look in his eyes ended abruptly with another sneeze.

  Realizing he was indeed wet, Kat acquiesced, “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t you? Thomas said he’d have a place for me until I could find my own.”

  “Great. Well, let’s head back to the science building and see if he’s still there.”

  He dashed through the rain, his slightly long hair flying in the breeze, adding to his rugged looks. He retrieved his suitcases and tossed them into her trunk. She again admired his rangy body, attired in snug black jeans and a sadly-soaked turtleneck. He was half asleep so she ducked inside once back at the building. The deputy at the scene said the president had left.

  “Where’s the coroner?”

  “Been and gone. Doesn’t take long to record the temperature and humidity.”

  “Rats. I wanted to hear what he had to say.”

  “It was murder.”

  “Gee thanks, I knew that much.”

  She left a message with him for President Ludlow in case he returned.

  Kat checked with the security office for a key for Donnelly, but they were unaware of the president’s housing plans. Although it looked like Nick might be willing to sleep through the night in her car it didn’t seem the best of alternatives, so she left a message on the president’s phone. She headed home with Nick, who could wait till morning to hear more details about the murder.

  The day’s rain turned to mist. She shivered, disquieted. Nick slid sideways slightly as he drifted into a deep sleep.

  Her comfort momentarily returned when she left the towns of the valley behind and began to immerse herself in the ambiance of the rolling hills. Where she lived in the Poconos, the mountains had hiccupped down to hillocks, not as impressive as the steep ridges of the Appalachians but soothing still. Then a faint rain spattered the car, the horrible kind, misty enough to obscure vision but not heavy enough to keep windshield wipers functioning without a squeak. Concentration turned to the road and not the man beside her.

  Chapter 3

  Overly-rigid consistency in baseline, letter forms, and spacing can be a cover-up, but for what?

  “Handwriting Analysis” by P. Scott Hollander

  Katharine woke, realizing she finally had a gorgeous hunk stay overnight, and he’d slept in the guest bedroom with fever his only companion. Nick woke, remembering a beautiful woman, and not much of anything else. It was not an auspicious start to a morning where murder investigations and bureaucratic pacification topped the agenda.

  Nick stretched and glanced around the bedroom, somewhat disoriented in a strange place but feeling much better. He vaguely recalled a scrappy woman help him find his medicine the night before. He arrived at her place totally zonked and feverish. He did recall that she was some woman. What he could remember of her. This illness was getting to him. Maybe he shouldn’t have left the hospital quite so soon. Or maybe it was just a slight setback from the soaking rain and he’d be fine now.

  He wandered down the hall, seeking the bathroom. The living room distracted him. It was subtle and refined, oozing warmth from multi-textured plants in the windows to the untidiness of the desk in the bay. Blue and beige with burgundy highlights blended with the rich, warm, patina of aged walnut and oak. Her tastes were romantically eclectic considering the Monet copy on the wall next to the modern floral prints—not overly feminine but soft, welcoming. He headed toward the bathroom.

  Kat stood there in camisole and matching shorts applying makeup. The door was only partially closed. She didn’t realize he was there at first, so he studied her carefully. Like the movie queens of old she was classically elegant. Her wavy, golden-brown hair, emerald eyes, and perky mouth radiated passion. He was energized just looking, but finally managed to glance past her.

  The artfully feather-painted room was spotless, only cluttered with half a dozen jars and bottles. She withdrew the magic potions from a flowered bag on the sink, and was meticulously replacing each item as she used it.

  He finally spoke before she could accuse him of voyeuristic tendencies. “I take it this isn’t a hotel and you’re not part of room service?” She jerked away from the mirror but recovered her poise quickly.

  She offered greetings and concern about his fever, but quickly realized she needed covering and reached for the robe hanging nearby.

  “The fever seems to be getting worse by the minute,” he said, his gaze taking in the sexy clothing she hid beneath the robe.

  She’d talked with the president late the night before and learned about Nick’s illness. This morning she was flattered by his attention, and knew by it that he didn’t have serious repercussions from the fever.

  She left the bathroom to him with all the aplomb of that movie queen. They agreed to meet soon for breakfast to fill him in.

  She cautioned herself to be wary. There was more to the man than broad shoulders and a sexy grin. Before long she hoped to find out what it was. She would stay nearby but feared too close might cause burns. His intensity and gentle and boyish smile emitted raw sexuality. Katharine escaped quickly. A sleep-tousled Nick in an unbuttoned shirt that revealed his trimly muscled chest caused reactions that hindered thinking.

  Later they met in the sunny yellow kitchen where breakfast fixings cluttered the otherwise neat countertop. A strawberry-painted canister filled with coffee nestled near the drip coffeemaker. Nick acquired the newest information from the president by phone while Kat made coffee. She doled out a cup to the grateful man, along with murder details, and confirmed that the president had put him in charge not only of public relations, but also of the campus end of the investigation. She offered him an omelet and bustled about preparing it while she related what she knew and answered his questions about the current state of the university.

  “How long has it been since you were a student here?”

  “Long enough for me to say
it’s classified.”

  “Well, that answer confirms the rumor.”

  “What rumor?”

  “That you worked for the government,” she said while putting the finishing touches on his pepper and tomato omelet.

  “Sorry about that. Force of habit. I’m not used to being able to talk about myself. I only recently quit my work with the government. I was with them 15 years.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “Technically, the Defense Intelligence Agency. I was doing battle damage assessment. Someone didn’t consider the battle over.”

  “Can you talk about your injuries? Ludlow said it wasn’t up to him but that you might be willing. That fever seemed pretty bad last night but you seem fine now.”

  “Not much to tell. I got shot while on duty. The docs in that country weren’t up to the latest medical technology. I managed to catch malaria. Took a while to clean me up. I’m fine with the quinine. If I hadn’t been stuck out in the rain so much yesterday I would have been OK.” He zeroed his attention on tackling the omelet.

  “Are you OK now?” she interrupted?

  “Just great, but someday I’m going to sell off that Healy to the lowest bidder and good riddance. Now that’s a subject to stay away from!” he admonished, followed by a violent sneeze.

  The sneeze prompted her to fix him an herbal tea. The fever seemed under control from the medication but the sneezing indicated some virus crept in when he wasn’t prepared. This favorite remedy prevented colds. Favorite, in that it worked. The taste barely made it tolerable, but her belief in its healing powers encouraged her to convince him of its merits.

  As the unmistakable scent of heated vinegar wafted into the air, Nick jerked up from studying his coffee mug. “What is that you’re drinking?”

  “Not me. You,” she said as she deftly switched the cup, pulling the coffee out of reach. “This tea will wipe out those sniffles instantly. Getting sick in the middle of a murder investigation will make your life too difficult.”