The Cat, The Professor And The Poison

Twenty-two

Denman is a tiny town, and according to what Candace told me, most everyone who lives there is connected to the college. We stopped at the police station first, or should I say the police shack. If I thought Mercy’s police headquarters was ridiculously small, I never could have imagined that police officers in this country would be forced to work out of what was practically one of those backyard storage sheds you can buy at Home Depot. Only one officer was present, Officer Dooley, and he told Candace she was welcome to question anyone she could find who wasn’t out of town.

“Courtesy call,” Candace said as we got back in her squad car. “Don’t want it to get around to any officers in town that I’m stirring up trouble on their turf. Let’s talk to the college president now. Maybe we’ll get new information about the professor from him. His name is Lawrence Johnson, by the way.”

“How will you explain my presence?” I asked.

“Since I’m not about to let you out of my sight, we’re back to Plan A, the one that started this whole thing. You’re a ride-along-taking one of those citizen police-academy courses.” She checked her small campus map and then put the car in gear.

“Me hanging around might make your job more difficult, though. I can wait in the car, or you can drop me at McDonald’s and I’ll get coffee. Every college town has a McDonald’s.”

“Nope. That’s not how this works. We are joined at the hip until this case is solved.”

I sighed. “All I’m saying is that we’re far from Mercy and any danger right now.”

“Ski Mask could have followed us-though I was paying close attention and didn’t pick up any tail. But who knows? Rosemary Bartlett might turn out to be more like Rosemary’s Baby,” she said.

“I give up. You’re the one in uniform, and I must obey,” I said with a laugh.

A few minutes later we drove onto campus, and Denman College turned out to be far different than I’d imagined. The buildings were a blend of very old and very new. We passed the infirmary, which obviously had been someone’s home at one time, but there was also a residence hall that looked modern and was about six stories high.

The administration building turned out to be a beautiful large redbrick structure with white pillars. The landscaping was well tended, with shrubs surrounding steps on both sides that led to the main wide set of steps. We parked in a spot marked RESERVED right next to the president’s parking place.

“Let them try and give a police car a ticket,” Candace said as we got out and headed toward the administration building.

A cement plaque set into the brick next to the huge oak double doors said BUILT: 1910.

“Wow,” I said as we went inside. “This place is a hundred years old, and everything looks like it’s in perfect condition.”

We learned from a posted building map that the administration offices were housed on the third floor. I saw a sign with an arrow pointing right that said MAIN DINING FACILITIES but heard no voices. The place was pretty much deserted.

We walked through what had once been the huge foyer of the building. Couches, chairs and coffee tables made for a nice relaxing place for students to visit. But not a soul was around.

The two elevators beyond this area seemed far more modern than the building. I’d expected old-fashioned cage-like protecting doors to close before the main doors shut, but that didn’t happen.

President Johnson’s office, as another sign told us, was at the far end of the hall to our right. There was no secretary in his reception area. Candace went up to another lacquered and gleaming tall door with a PRESIDENT LAWRENCE JOHNSON plaque prominent, and I hurried to keep up. I had been lagging behind admiring the high ceilings and beautiful arched windows.

She knocked, and a deep voice told us to come in.

President Johnson sat behind his massive desk, a slew of papers in front of him. Two dark wooden armchairs with padded blue silk striped seats and backs sat in front of the desk facing the president.

He stood and nodded. “Deputy Carson.” Then he looked at me. I had left behind the jeans and T-shirt and had chosen a khaki linen skirt and blouse, but as nice as my outfit was, I in no way looked like a cop. His puzzled look was no surprise.

“Jillian Hart,” I said to the man, who had to be Harry Belafonte’s long-lost twin. The guy was gorgeous.

Candace quickly added, “She’s in the Citizen’s Police Academy. And she’s signed confidentiality documents. Ms. Hart’s learning how we do the people’s business in South Carolina.”

He’d been looking skeptical before she said “the people’s business,” but that phrase seemed to have worked, because he said, “Very well. Have a seat, ladies. This is an unpleasant business, something I certainly didn’t think I would have to revisit.”

“We know what happened with Professor VanKleet here at your college. All I’m looking for is corroboration. Let’s get right to it. Why did you fire Professor VanKleet?”

Lawrence Johnson sat back in his leather swivel chair and rested his intertwined fingers on his abdomen. Bet he had a six-pack under that starched white shirt. The man seemed to be in awesome shape, so much so that it was impossible to tell how old he was. Since his dark head was shaved and shiny, there was no gray hair to give away his age.

“Why did I fire Hubert?” Johnson said. “Let me first say, I did not like doing it. At one time he was one of the most brilliant minds on the faculty.”

“At one time?” Candace said.

“The man was ill.” Johnson tapped his temple. “Everyone knew that, but in higher education, eccentrics are common. Oftentimes it accompanies genius-and that was the case with him.”

“But he must have done a good job at some point,” Candace said.

“While he was married to Sarah, he did more than good. He brought an enormous amount of research money to this college. But he began to cross the line from peculiar to almost frightening right about the time their marriage fell apart. I know Sarah. She works for me now, and she did try her best, but when Hubert stopped taking his medication, things got very, very bad.”

“What’s very, very bad?” Candace said.

Was he making jars of red goop here, too? I wondered.

“Bad, in that students started to complain not only to this office but to their parents. He was behaving oddly in class, not lecturing, not following curriculum. We cannot have that here,” Johnson said, his dark eyes hardening for the first time.

And at what college could you have that? I thought.

“That’s why you fired him?” Candace said.

“No. His research was too valuable,” Johnson said.

Translation, I thought, he brought too much money to the college to let him go.

“I reprimanded him-in the kindest way I could, of course,” Johnson went on. “I did not wish to condemn the man for something he could not control-his mental illness. But I did put him on probation and took away his course load. He was to focus on his research until I saw that he was fit to return to the classroom.”

“Did he ever get back in the classroom?” Candace asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” he said. “He continued to deteriorate. I even offered to take him to a colleague, an abnormal-psychology professor who was still a practicing psychiatrist. Hubert refused.”

“So you did everything you could,” Candace said.

This brought a smile to Johnson’s lips. “I would do anything for the people at Denman-the students, the faculty, the families. It is what I must do to maintain our reputation.”

“But then VanKleet really went off the deep end, right?” Candace said.

Johnson closed his eyes, shook his head. “I could not believe what I saw in that laboratory.”

“Did you visit his lab often?” Candace asked.

She was trying to get information without giving away anything that she knew, and she was good at it. “No. That’s not my practice. The bright men and women who work here do not need the president looking over their shoulders. I only went because I was informed there was a problem.” His last sentence was terse.

“And who informed you?” Candace said.

“I don’t know. It was anonymous, a computer- generated letter placed on my administrative assistant’s desk.”

“Do you get anonymous letters often?” Candace said.

“More often than you might think,” he said. “One professor slipping information about a colleague he or she is still working with, students telling tales on their friends whom they’ve fallen out with; you name it, it’s happened. For the most part, I ignore this kind of thing.”

“But you didn’t ignore this anonymous tip?” she said.

“Hubert was already on probation, and the details in this letter were too serious to ignore. I had to see for myself if this was true. Sadly, it was. We do not do research using cats, but there they were, and though they didn’t seem to be in ill health, they shouldn’t have been here.”

“Did you save this letter?” she said.

“I did,” he said. “But unless you have a legal document such as subpoena, I don’t believe I’m obligated to share it with you. Just speaking with you is a favor to your chief of police. He is a friend of a friend.”

“The professor’s dead,” Candace said.

This was the first time I detected any of her usual impatience.

“But his family is not dead,” Johnson said. “His ex- wife still works here, and I have an obligation to keep unseemly information about her deceased husband away from those who might make life more difficult for her.”

Or for Denman College, I thought.

“Could your decision not to share this letter-which you have every right to do-have anything to do with another VanKleet who was sent packing?” Candace said. Her tone was tougher now.

She obviously was on to the fact that this man wanted all the secrets to stay in the Denman College closet.

“I should have expected that you would know about Evan.” Johnson smiled. “I underestimated you, Deputy Carson. My mistake. Forgive me if I was unprepared, but I wasn’t informed I had to talk about him.”

“You do,” she said. “My biggest question is why he was kicked out of school and the others weren’t.”

He tented his hands. “I believe I will decline to answer that. As I said, I am unprepared and should consult with the legal counsel who advises me on such things before I say anything.”

“You think he might sue you or something?” Candace said.

“It’s been known to happen,” Johnson said curtly.

“Was his being drunk that night the reason you kicked him out, or was it because he owed the college a chunk of change?” Candace said.

I read the surprise in Johnson’s eyes. “I will not get into that. Not today. Are there any other questions I can help you with?”

“Tell me about Sarah VanKleet. How did she handle all the trouble surrounding her family members?” Candace said.

He seemed to relax some at this change in direction and said, “Sarah is a hardworking woman who did the best she could with all she had to deal with. Her older son went to school here and has gone on to law school. She’s quite proud of him, as is Denman College.”

“She lives with Professor Lieber now?” Candace said.

He repositioned himself in his chair and blinked several times before answering. “I am not in the habit of inquiring about my employees’ private lives. Professor Lieber is well respected here. And loved by the students, I might add. He is unmarried, and if he has a relationship with Sarah, that’s certainly not my business.”

Like heck you don’t know about them, I thought. I’ll bet you know every detail of what goes on around here.

“Were Professor Lieber and Professor VanKleet friends?” Candace asked.

I wasn’t sure whether Candace had worn him down and he was tired of dancing around the truth, but he said, “Yes. They were friends. We have what I like to call a tight-knit family here at Denman.”

“Were you surprised to learn Professor VanKleet died a horrible, painful death?” She’d leaned in and was probably looking for his nonverbal response to this very direct question.

“Why, of course. Why would you ask such a thing?” He was rattled now.

“Because he brought shame on this college, didn’t he? Some people might be glad he died that way. At least one person did-the killer.”

“I-I can’t believe you’re saying these things to me,” Johnson said. “I tried my very best to do right by Hubert. Gave him every opportunity.”

“But you gave up on him in the end, just like everyone else,” she said softly. Then she stood.

I was so taken aback by her switch to this hard line that I felt like a robot and just followed her lead, standing as well.

Lawrence Johnson didn’t stand. He sat in his big chair in his fancy office, and I read sadness on his face. Even his eyes had filled. Candace had been tough on him, but I now understood that though he loved his college, he had also cared about Hubert VanKleet.

Candace said, “Can you tell me where the Bartletts live?”

That brought Johnson out of his reverie. “You mean Rosemary Bartlett? You’re talking to her, too?”

“I’m hunting for a killer. I might interview everyone in this whole damn town,” she said.

He looked a little stunned now, nothing like the calm, cool and collected academic he’d been when we first walked in. “Um… where did you park?”

“Right next to you,” Candace said.

“Then you can walk to their house. There’s a path on the far side of the lot that leads to Hawthorne Street. They live in a small house about a block to the right. Number 405.”

“Thanks,” Candace said and started to turn to leave. But then she stopped. “Does Mr. Bartlett do a good job janitoring? Is that why Rosemary got to stay and Evan didn’t after that little protest?”

Johnson opened his mouth to reply, but Candace said, “You don’t have to answer. I think I already know.”

I followed her out, and when we were in the elevator I said, “You didn’t tell me Rosemary’s father worked at the college, too.”

“I mentioned that everyone in town works at the college, didn’t I?” she said with a smile.

“You did. I have to say, I’ve never sat in on anything like that. You were awesome.”

“He could have been a suspect, you know,” she said.

“Because VanKleet tarnished Denman College?” I said.

“Maybe, but even though I didn’t act like it, I believe he’s a genuine guy doing a difficult job. VanKleet went rogue on him, and he had no choice but to fire him.”

“I agree you didn’t leave President Johnson with a warm, fuzzy feeling,” I said. “He might be worried you’ll come back.”

“This is murder, Jillian. There’s nothing warm or fuzzy about it. If I need to return with a subpoena for that letter Evan said he wrote, I will,” she said.

“Maybe Evan kept a copy. I could ask him,” I said.

“Good idea. Now I’m ready to hear what Rosemary Bartlett has to say.”