the offices and classrooms had been reconfigured from an earlier time. Pamela guessed that Mitchell’s office had once been some sort of dining room or library in an old mansion. The ceilings were higher than other offices and certainly higher than any of the classrooms. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling—so high that Mitchell needed a traveling ladder to reach the top shelves. There was one long dining-room sized table on one side of the room and two desks on the other—the one at which Mitchell sat to greet faculty and students—and the other that held his computer and printer and related paraphernalia. All around the room—in the shelves, on window sills, and hanging from walls—were memorabilia. Many of these were academic—plaques, certificates, and awards from Mitchell’s many years of scholarship and research. However, there were also many natural trophies—stuffed animal heads, ducks, geese, and guns—everywhere. Mitchell was an antique gun aficionado and she had heard many tales of his hunting exploits at faculty meetings and dinners.
“So?” he asked, leaning back in his rolling, reclining leather arm chair. “What can I do for you?
“Guns,” she said.
“Guns?” he asked. “Don’t tell me, Pamela, that you’re taking up hunting?
“Not quite,” she responded. “But I need to pick your brain about weaponry.”
“Interesting,” he said, nodding. He grabbed a pencil between his palms and rolled it about, peering at her as he rocked back and forth.
“Mitchell, I’m afraid, I’ve gotten myself involved in another mystery,” she said, finally.
“Oh?” Mitchell rubbed his hand through his thick blond hair.
“Yes, and—I might add—not by my own choosing.”
“Your husband will be glad to hear that.”
“He doesn’t know—yet.”
“Hmm. And I’m to assume that you’re not going to tell him?
“No, I’ll tell him--eventually,” she said. “Detective Shoop came by my office today and asked for my help in their investigation of the murder of that local disc jockey that happened Saturday night. Did you hear about it?”
“Oh,” he said, stopping his chair from rocking and planting his feet on the ground. He leaned his elbows on his desk and bent forward towards her. “I believe I did. My students were talking about it today.”
“Yes,” she said, “they would. Anyway, the poor guy was shot while he was on air Saturday night—on KRDN. Shoop is the lead investigator. The station records all their programs so they obviously had the recording of the murder itself. Shoop brought me a copy of it to see if I might do an acoustic analysis—like I did with Charlotte’s murder—and maybe help them identify the killer.”
“So, they don’t know who the killer is,” said Mitchell.
“Not a clue,” she said, “I mean, KRDN is just a small, little isolated building out there on Highway 27. This Ballard—the disc jockey—was the only one there Saturday night—when the killer walked in, shot him dead, and left. No one evidently saw the person or has any idea who it is.”
“You said guns?” prompted Mitchell.
“Yes,” she replied, setting her jacket and other belongings on a nearby chair, and bringing the CD in its sleeve out from her purse. “I’ve been listening to this all during my office hours today. Willard is helping me too, but our expertise focuses on voices. There’s obviously Ballard’s voice and we think we might hear the killer’s voice superimposed over some of what Ballard says. I’m still working on that. What I wanted to ask you about is the gunshot. That’s something I know nothing about. Nothing at all. I thought you might play the CD and just give me your impressions.”
“Sure,” said Mitchell, reaching for the CD, “let’s crank ‘er up.” She handed him the CD. He removed it from its sleeve and inserted it into his hard drive. Then, he pressed “play.” The now familiar sound of Ted Ballard’s voice filled his
“So?” he asked, leaning back in his rolling, reclining leather arm chair. “What can I do for you?
“Guns,” she said.
“Guns?” he asked. “Don’t tell me, Pamela, that you’re taking up hunting?
“Not quite,” she responded. “But I need to pick your brain about weaponry.”
“Interesting,” he said, nodding. He grabbed a pencil between his palms and rolled it about, peering at her as he rocked back and forth.
“Mitchell, I’m afraid, I’ve gotten myself involved in another mystery,” she said, finally.
“Oh?” Mitchell rubbed his hand through his thick blond hair.
“Yes, and—I might add—not by my own choosing.”
“Your husband will be glad to hear that.”
“He doesn’t know—yet.”
“Hmm. And I’m to assume that you’re not going to tell him?
“No, I’ll tell him--eventually,” she said. “Detective Shoop came by my office today and asked for my help in their investigation of the murder of that local disc jockey that happened Saturday night. Did you hear about it?”
“Oh,” he said, stopping his chair from rocking and planting his feet on the ground. He leaned his elbows on his desk and bent forward towards her. “I believe I did. My students were talking about it today.”
“Yes,” she said, “they would. Anyway, the poor guy was shot while he was on air Saturday night—on KRDN. Shoop is the lead investigator. The station records all their programs so they obviously had the recording of the murder itself. Shoop brought me a copy of it to see if I might do an acoustic analysis—like I did with Charlotte’s murder—and maybe help them identify the killer.”
“So, they don’t know who the killer is,” said Mitchell.
“Not a clue,” she said, “I mean, KRDN is just a small, little isolated building out there on Highway 27. This Ballard—the disc jockey—was the only one there Saturday night—when the killer walked in, shot him dead, and left. No one evidently saw the person or has any idea who it is.”
“You said guns?” prompted Mitchell.
“Yes,” she replied, setting her jacket and other belongings on a nearby chair, and bringing the CD in its sleeve out from her purse. “I’ve been listening to this all during my office hours today. Willard is helping me too, but our expertise focuses on voices. There’s obviously Ballard’s voice and we think we might hear the killer’s voice superimposed over some of what Ballard says. I’m still working on that. What I wanted to ask you about is the gunshot. That’s something I know nothing about. Nothing at all. I thought you might play the CD and just give me your impressions.”
“Sure,” said Mitchell, reaching for the CD, “let’s crank ‘er up.” She handed him the CD. He removed it from its sleeve and inserted it into his hard drive. Then, he pressed “play.” The now familiar sound of Ted Ballard’s voice filled his
Similar Books
