Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

I approached a round, metal-clad, futuristic structure that looked more like a large flying saucer than the admissions building. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see Michael Rennie, dressed in a pair of shiny coveralls, walk out, stiff-legged, his arms in the air, saying, “Klatuu, Barada, Nikto.”

Seated at a desk behind the reception counter was a perky young woman with a lot of feathered hair. She wore a fuchsia satin jacket and pink pleated skirt, cinched with some kind of weird belt that had rhinestone monkeys running around on it.

The girl glanced up when she spotted me and laid the book she was reading on the desktop with the title showing: Jean-Paul Sartre’s Existentialism and Human Emotions. Heavy stuff, heavier than the girl.

“Hey, sunshine, what can I do for ya?” she asked in a pleasant tone. “My name is Mandy.”

“Hi, Mandy. I’m Jimmy O’Brien, a lawyer, and I need some information about Professor Carmichael.”

When I mentioned the professor, Mandy’s jovial spark vanished. She turned away, faced her desk and glanced at the book, as if Sartre could bring back her cheerfulness. It was a longshot.

Carmichael was the professor whom Robbie had murdered. Now that the FBI was going to raid the base and perhaps capture Robbie, I felt that I’d better find out all I could about the professor in case my insanity defense fell apart. Maybe Carmichael had a temper and threatened Robbie, maybe it was an accident, or maybe it was something else. Plenty of maybes, plenty of questions, but not many justifiable reasons for one human being to kill another. Then again, all I needed was one.

Mandy turned back and gave me a feeble smile. “The professor was a good guy. I liked him a lot. So did just about everyone else.”

“Did he have a temper, anything like that?”

“Oh, no, just the opposite. I mean, like, he was wicked.”

“Wicked?”

“Yeah, man, you know, like, totally awesome.”

“Tubular.”

“Yeah, bitchin’.”

“A radical dude.”

“Mondo primo.” Her spark was returning and the smile grew on her pretty face.

Just then, an older guy emerged from an inner office. The guy looked like Mr. Weatherbee, the high school principal from the Archie comics-round, bald with just a tiny tuft of curly hair floating on top. He wore a herringbone suit with a white shirt and a red-checkered vest. His eyes were droopy circles behind pince-nez spectacles pinched high on the bridge of his long nose, and his world-weary countenance was perfect for the role he played-that of a junior college administrator. “Mandy, I’ll handle this matter,” he said, while looking me over. “Mr. O’Brien, I couldn’t help but overhear. My name is Gerald Grundy. You are an attorney, is that correct?” His voice had a lyrical but lisping trait to it.

“Call me Jimmy. I’m representing Robbie Farris.”

“Yes.” Grundy sighed. “I suppose someone must.”

He asked me to step into his office. It wasn’t much, standard issue government desk, a couple of mismatched filing cabinets, and unlike the building, there was nothing Space Age about it, unless you considered the huge computer monitor taking up half of his desk Space Age.

I sat in the uncomfortable chair facing him and asked about the computer.

“Oh, I see. Well, we are trying to computerize all of our records. Grades, transcripts, that sort of thing.”

I didn’t say anything, just nodded. I didn’t care much about computers, just being polite. Starting out with a little small talk always seemed to take the edge off meetings like this.

“It will never work,” Grundy said. “The machine gave Reggie a full scholarship.”

“Reggie?”

“A bulldog, our mascot,” Grundy said, nodding with a cheery grin. Had to have been an inside joke, I was sure.

“I see… hmmm.” I gave him my best knowing smile. “That’s rich.”

“Now, Mr. O’Brien, what information are you seeking regarding Professor Carmichael? Information that is not in the police report, I presume.”

“What kind of a guy was he? I’ll bet he could get a little rough, maybe when a student missed an assignment.” I smiled wider.

Grundy waved his hands back and forth in front of his face. “Oh, pshaw,” he said, but with his lisp it sounded like thaw.

“Pshaw? You mean he wasn’t a hothead.”

“Oh no, not at all. He was a gentle soul. But I know what you are up to.” He squinted. “You’re looking for mitigating circumstances. Something to justify Mr. Farris’ dastardly deed.”

First, pshaw, and now dastardly deed. This guy wasn’t Weatherbee, but he talked as if he came from a comic book. Anyway, pshaw, I was striking out with my angry hothead theory. “Maybe you could hit a button on that thing,” I pointed at the computer monitor, “and tell me about his workload. Anything would help.”

Grundy glanced at me for a moment. He pursed his lips and started to say something, but then he leaned over and starting punching keys on the high-tech gizmo that looked like an IBM electric typewriter. After pounding away on it for a while, he looked up at the screen, waited a couple of minutes, and then started again. He typed some more and waited some more and typed again.

I sat there patiently. All of that typing, he could be writing a book. Who knows, maybe he was: Dastardly Deeds, a saucy sex thriller, the rhinestone monkey solved the case. Reggie was the culprit.

Finally, after an eternity of this, he called out, “Mandy, bring me the Carmichael file.”

Instantly Mandy was at the door. Her arms cradled a thick folder pressed against her chest. She toddled over and plopped it on Grundy’s desk. He peered inside then pulled out a huge sheet of paper, the kind from a computer, I presumed. He handed the lined sheet across to me. “Eyes only, I’m afraid, Mr. O’Brien, the report can’t leave this building.”

Mandy flashed me a quick smile as she left the office.

I scanned the printout quickly. Everything appeared routine, nothing there that would help. Carmichael had been a professor of geology, and had taught several classes, Geology 104-Physical Geology and Laboratory, five units. The geology classes and a couple of lectures had taken most of his time, but he also taught a class that had nothing to do with his chosen field: Television 022-Television Production, four units. It was a night class and it was after this class in the parking lot behind the college’s small TV studio that Robbie had murdered him.

I couldn’t fathom the connection between geology and television. I looked up from the paper and glanced at Grundy, who sat with his hands clasped, resting on the desk. He was actually twiddling his thumbs.

“The professor taught a TV course?” I asked. The direction of Grundy’s rotating thumbs reversed.

“Yes, it started as a hobby. Lately, however, it took practically all his time.”

“Teaching a TV course took all his time?”

“No.” Grundy shook his head; the hands disappeared beneath the desk. “I meant the time he spent running the studio. He volunteered when no one else would, but as time went on his avocation became much more labyrinthine.”

“What do you mean? Like, complicated?”

“Well, certainly more harried than it should have been. KVXR is a PBS station with programming produced here on campus, but for years the station has been losing money. About six months ago the trustees, in their wisdom…” He rolled his eyes. “…had voted to either sell the station or close it down.”

“Who’d buy a station that was losing money? Anyway, what does this have to do with Carmichael?” I asked.

“Professor Carmichael, in due course, understood the trustees’ position. He finally figured out the station would have to close, and he more or less resigned himself to that fact.”