Sounds of Murder

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Pamela left her office and exited the building as quickly as she could. The Blake Hall parking lot was lit up like an airport runway. Several police vehicles, the coroner's van, and other cars were parked helter-skelter, with their various lights blazing and blinking. Pamela almost ran to her car, covering her panting sounds as she quickly unlocked her door and jumped inside. It was hard to shut the door because of the wind, but she finally managed to get inside and start the motor--her fingers trembling badly. She carefully maneuvered her Civic into reverse and out of the small lot, being careful not to speed-not something easy for her. Wanting to get home as fast as she could, she still didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize her safety or cause her to risk breaking a law--however minor. She already had a few moving violations and tonight was not the time to acquire another.

She drove slowly down the winding campus streets she knew so well. The old brick buildings with white wood trim, the towering white columns and the enormous elms and oaks, interspersed with magnolia and cypress always made the campus feel like a page from Civil War history. Here and there the streets and the sidewalks were cracked from years of wear and the many hurricanes whose remnants had managed to blow far enough north to reach their small town of Reardon. She passed the library-closed now after 11:00 p.m.-the largest structure on campus, right in the center of campus, with sidewalks jutting out from it at all angles, going to all the various different buildings that surrounded it. Although much of the campus was in disrepair, it still maintained its old Southern charm, Pamela thought, sort of the Blanche DuBois of the academic world. It was a deceptive look, however, because Grace University was a renowned research university which offered doctorates in five areas-although not in Psychology, her field, which offered Masters' degrees only.

As she left the campus grounds and headed onto Jackson Drive, Reardon's main street, she noticed at once that there was hardly any traffic--not unusual for this late on a Tuesday night. Very few cars were on the streets. The whole place had a ghostly appearance-unlike the Blake Hall parking lot she had just left. She was not accustomed to driving this late at night. Her night vision was not good and she just didn't like driving at night--and alone--this night especially. With clear roads ahead, however, she picked up speed.

As she passed Reardon's downtown area, neon signs from some businesses twinkled on either side of the street. One side street, she knew, wound around behind the city square where the famous Reardon Coffee Factory was located. The Coffee Factory was actually a misnomer, because Romulus Reardon, the town's founder, had established the business during the Civil War to produce coffee substitutes for the Confederate troops when real coffee became impossible to import due to Union blockades. His efforts had been so successful that his line of alternative coffee products made from beets, sweet potatoes, and other local produce now brought tourists from around the globe to the charming factory/restaurant. However, at this time of night, the Reardon Coffee Factory would have few patrons.

Other than a few cars on Jackson, she saw no signs of life. Life, she thought--the life that had been snuffed out tonight. The life of someone she knew. And she'd seen the results personally. She couldn't help but replay the events of the preceding hours in her mind as she drove. Her foot pressed harder on the gas pedal and she drove instinctively.

She couldn't stop the picture from forming in her mind. The picture of Charlotte--her body slumped over in the computer carrel, head lying askance, arms hanging loosely, and that power cord from the headphones wrapped sinuously like a giant snake around her neck. It was so gruesome. Charlotte's eyes open, her skin just starting to turn a color Pamela couldn't and wouldn't want to describe.

Suddenly she arrived at-almost ran through one of the dozen or so stoplights on her route. Hitting her brakes hard, her car reverberated from the effort. Sitting all alone at the light made her more frightened, even though her car doors were locked. She had a nagging sense that someone--maybe the murderer-no, that was ridiculous--but someone might leap out and force her to open the car door. The light changed to green and she breathed audibly. She thought suddenly, "If I hadn't sent Kent back to check on the lab being locked for the night, he wouldn't have found Charlotte and I wouldn't have discovered her and called the police. I'd be home now, in bed asleep. Someone else would have discovered her body--probably tomorrow."