Angel Food and Devil Dogs (18 page)

"Is there any other reason you had for fighting with Carl Rasmus?"

"Why?" said Harmon shortly.

"Why? Because he's dead, that's why! Did you?"

"No. Look, Carl accused me of all sorts of things. He sent me outrageous emails..." A look of anguish flickered over Harmon's face.

"Do you have copies of any of them?"

"I delete things like that... I'm sorry, I have work to do. Is there anything else?"

"Yeah there is. Carl claimed people on the tenure committee had slandered his work. Why would he say that?"

"I can't think why he would be so upset. Would you think a guy like that would kill himself just because he felt a little depressed or unhappy?"

"I didn't know him. What do you think?"

"I think about him everyday. I'm so sorry he's gone," said Jimmy Harmon shaking his head miserably.

Fenchester City Hospital was twenty blocks away. Too far to walk in the cold December darkness, but a quick drive.

The lobby was classic hospital modern: glass, neutral carpeting and phony plants that looked real. Bright colored framed prints dotted the walls. To the right was a gift shop laden with things people in hospitals didn't want or need, at obscenely high prices. Where else can you buy an eighteen-dollar magazine?

I asked the woman at the desk where Georgia Smith's room was.

"Name?" she chirped. She had beehive hair, tons of make up and cat-eye glasses. I looked around to see if there was a candid camera from some low budget reality show focused on my face to capture my dubious reaction. This desk lady had to be an actor. But no, she was just the hospital desk volunteer... from another decade; or maybe another planet.

"Georgia Smith," I said slowly and clearly for the second time. She checked her list. Because Georgia's condition was so serious, the desk woman had to call somebody to check on what to do with me. Georgia's husband Adam said my visit was all right with him.

Hospitals used to be repositories of constant noise. Imagine an old movie or TV show about doctors saving lives at
St. Something
. Drama or comedy, there was always a non-stop soundtrack of public address system pages:
Calling Doctor Howard, Doctor Fine, Doctor Howard.

That's pretty much history these days. Doctors, nurses, even aides, all have pagers on silent. The glaring lights are gone. Hospital lighting is
diffused
. Sometimes the hallways are even carpeted. Although the surface harshness is mostly gone, there's still the desperate battle between life and death. Death often wins. For many people, the worst moments of their lives are spent in a hospital, no matter how quiet or tastefully decorated it is.

On the third floor, Adam Smith, Georgia's husband, met me at the nurse's desk. Someone must have told him about my using the rug to smother Georgia's burning clothes. Adam shook my hand, thanking me sincerely, and then he started crying and hugged me.

"Take deep breaths," I told him.

In an average week, Adam Smith was probably a good-looking guy, but now he looked like hell. He obviously hadn't slept for days, which was one reason he couldn't control his tears. A tumble of emotions showed simultaneously in his red-rimmed eyes. His sandy blond hair was uncombed and oily, his clothes were a mass of wrinkles and he needed a shower, badly.

"She's going to be OK," I said consolingly.

He nodded and began to cry again, but stopped after two sobs and said, "Yes, she is. I... um... you want to talk to her? She's under heavy sedation, she sometimes says things that make sense, but then other times..." he looked off into space vaguely.

"Adam, you need to go home and get some sleep."

"I can't, I can't. I have to be here in case she wakes up. I don't want her to be alone."

"Where are her sons?"

"They're home now. They'll be back at 7:00 PM."

"Is there anyone else in the family who could be here...?"

He shook his head absently.

"If I could get someone here, would you go home and sleep?"

He just stared at me.

I said firmly, "You'll be of no use to her if you make yourself sick with exhaustion." He nodded slightly.

A nurse let me dial 9 on the hospital phone to get an outside line. I called Amanda Knightbridge and told her that Adam Smith hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. She suggested she come to the hospital immediately to sit with Georgia while Adam went home to rest. I told her I'd get Georgia's sons to pick her up. Adam gave me their number. I got hold of them and told them to swing by Washington Mews to pick up Amanda Knightbridge.

Adam and I went into Georgia's room. There were monitors and tons of equipment I couldn't begin to identify, but everything was turned off. The lights were low. The room was quiet.

Georgia lay in a high hospital bed on her stomach. There was some kind of frame under the covers that held the sheets above her legs like a tent. There was a chair placed at the end of the bed so she could see and talk to someone without having to lift her head. I was glad I couldn't see her legs. I didn't need another mental image like that.

"Sit down, she can see you better. She's on a constant painkiller drip," Adam said inclining his head toward an IV bag, "they just told me the doctor wants to increase the pain dosage in the morning so she'll be in, like, a semi-coma for a few days. It's supposed to make it easier for her." Tears were forming in his eyes again, "I want it to be easier for her." He shook he head sadly, then pulled himself together and went on, "even now, she may not be able to say anything."

I sat and waited, watching Georgia's face for any sign of movement. Ten minutes went by. Suddenly Georgia blinked her eyes open. She'd been so still that the rapid change startled both Adam and me.

Adam said, "Georgia, honey, this is Maggie Gale. Do you remember her? She was in the conference room." Georgia's eyes focused on my face. The drugs had slackened her features. She tried to concentrate through the fog of meds.

"Oh," she said very quietly. Her eyes became brighter.

Adam said with mild surprise, "She knows who you are."

Georgia moved her head to face me more directly. She opened her mouth to speak, but the breathy sound that came out was so slight I couldn't hear her. She became agitated. She wanted to tell me something. I leaned very close so that her mouth was at my ear. She whispered each syllable slowly and separately, but what she said didn't make any sense. It sounded like, "Carl's macaroni's can." She stopped and nodded slightly. As if to encourage me. As if she was sure I knew what she meant. Then she closed her eyes and drifted off.

"Georgia?" I said in a low voice. She didn't even move. After another few minutes I stood up and walked with Adam out of the room.

"What did she say?" Adam Smith asked brushing his hair from his eyes, wearily.

"It sounded like,
Carl's macaroni's can.
Does that mean anything to you?"

"No, but it isn't the first time she's said something weird like that. She's slurring her words from the drugs." Adam yawned so widely that I imagined him dislocating his jaw and having to stay that way. His breath was rank. When he finally closed his mouth, he shook his head like a dog. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

Just then two teenaged boys got off the elevator followed by Amanda Knightbridge. The boys were wearing jeans and big sweatshirts and were similar looking except one was a little taller and heavier than the other. Both looked tired and anxious, and as though this tragedy had aged their souls. They came immediately to Adam to ask how their mother was. I took Amanda Knightbridge aside.

She said, "I'm glad you called me Ms. Gale... oh dear, Adam looks dreadful."

"He needs rest. Maybe one of the boys should go back with him too."

"Send both of the boys back with him, they're all very tired. I have several books, so I can easily be here all night." She glanced at Georgia again, and then focused her bright eyes back on me. "Do you feel Georgia may be in danger?"

"She could be. I think she may know something, but I don't think the... killer
...
knows that she knows. Regardless, you have to promise me that you'll not let anyone else from the College in the room with Georgia alone." I was impressed that she'd picked up on the possibility that Georgia might be a target. "Georgia just mumbled 'Carl's macaroni's can,' to me, does that mean anything to you?"

"No, it doesn't mean anything to me. Do you know who the perpetrator is?"

"No, I don't."

"Yet you feel I'm not a suspect? You must be going on instinct alone, because I'm sure you have not had time to check my alibi. Perhaps you should call Kathryn Anthony to confirm my story..."

I just smiled at her.

She smiled back and said, "I'll not leave Georgia's side."

"Good. I'm going to arrange with President Bouchet for a guard. I'll call you here to tell you when the guard will arrive and how to identify him or her, OK?"

"Yes, that will be fine."

Georgia Smith's sons went home with Adam. I had assured them all that not only would Amanda Knightbridge stay, but that Georgia would feel secure with her there. The boys looked relieved, Adam looked worried. Whether they would get any rest, I couldn't say.

The President's Mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. Every window blazed. The house was obviously full of people. Miranda Juarez answered the door. She looked neat and efficient in a crisp gray suit and ivory blouse, but there was an undercurrent of stress in her voice and her hand shook slightly when she opened the door to a cozy room near the back of the house.

I said, "You're here late... have you been here all day?"

"No, I was in my temporary office this morning working on reconstructing files that were damaged in the fire, then I had some errands to run for the President. Would you like coffee?"

When I said no, she left to get Bouchet. I pulled my laptop out of my bag and made some notes. Less than a minute later, Max Bouchet came in and closed the door. His dark Armani suit was wrinkled and he'd loosened his red striped power tie.

"Has something else happened?" he asked anxiously. Stress was running high. No wonder. People were falling off balconies, getting blown up, and being killed by flying paperweights. Things weren't going well at Bouchet's College.

"No, nothing new, except information." He visibly relaxed and sank into an armchair as I told him about seeing Georgia Smith. He readily OKed a round the clock guard for her, so I paused to make a quick call to a security company I often use, to set it up.

"Max, Skylar Carvelle wanted to talk to me today, but when I got there it was too late. Had he said anything to you?"

Bouchet sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Carvelle was always telling me things about the other faculty, sometimes petty things, sometimes serious."

"A tattletale?"

"Exactly, but I hadn't spoken to him for several days, and I can't think of anything he's said that might have to do with Carl's death. I'm sorry I can't be more help on this, I'll try to remember if there was anything else."

I asked Bouchet for access to Carl Rasmus's apartment.

"He lived in Married Student Housing, right on campus. He wanted to be close to his office and he said he didn't care what the place
looked like
. Security has passkeys. Some of the security people are here now." He went out the door and was gone for a few minutes. He came back with four keys on a single ring. "These are pass keys to the whole college. They'll open almost every door in the place. I have no idea how many people have these. That's why I had Carl's office padlocked," he said shaking his head.

"You have no idea who has pass keys to the college? So anyone could have had a key to Carl's office or to the door to the fatal balcony? Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I know, I know, I just found this out myself. The whole college has been on the same key system for at least twenty years. It's a security nightmare," he groaned with exasperation. "Skylar's death wasn't on Campus... and classes and exams are over. Most of the students have gone... and I've had undercover guards on campus since yesterday morning."

"Yeah, I saw them in the Administration Building."

"You did? But..." Bouchet was shocked I'd noticed his guys when they were supposed to be incognito.

"It's my job to notice, and it's not as if they look like college students."

"Oh, yes, well," he conceded.

"Max, students may not be at risk, but faculty have certainly been targeted, do you think it's wise to..."

"Maggie, I know I may be making a mistake but if we close, we may never solve any of these crimes, and that could close the College forever."

It was my turn to groan, but I did it inwardly, then I asked, "Is there anyone here now, who could corroborate where you were today?" The sound of Kathryn Anthony's voice saying,
Trust no one
, had just flitted through my brain again. I was pretty confident about Bouchet's honesty, but I needed to be sure.

"Um, yes," Bouchet understood the implication but didn't complain. He leaned out the door and called out, "Sam! Angus!"

Two big guys from the College Security Squad came into the room and answered my questions. Bouchet had been in the President's House from 9:00 AM until about 12:30 PM when he and the guys had gone to the College Tavern for lunch.

When they'd gone Bouchet asked me, "Have you narrowed the suspects?"

"Well, in a way." I replied, "It's pretty obvious Skylar didn't kill himself. Georgia and Bart are out because they were in the hospital when Skylar was killed and Amanda Knightbridge seems to have an alibi for Skylar's murder, too. Because I think the two deaths are related, Dan Cohen's out because he was away during Carl's death, as was Kathryn Anthony, but I'm adding someone to the original list. So barring the
unknown factor
, I have five suspects. I haven't had much luck finding anyone with a clear motive and I need to check alibies for this morning. I already know that Jimmy Harmon doesn't have one. I'm going to Carl's apartment now, then the police station to make a statement. Anything new about that organization... Carl's beneficiary?"