Rocked by Murder

By Ken Kreckel

Visiting professor of geology John Jennick discovers the body of his longtime friend and colleague lying next to his work in a deserted lab, his head crushed. When suspicion falls upon him, the professor endeavors to find the perpetrator. From the first, an English woman, a fellow instructor in the department, volunteers to assist him. As they work together, a mutual attraction develops, one that is problematic for our professor, as he is still mourning the untimely death of his wife, the event which drove him to the university. The investigation takes them through a myriad of deceptions and suspicions, ultimately leading to tragic past events that have come to life in the present. Our professor must confront his own past as well, one well guarded by his own private demons, to discover who killed his friend, and more importantly, why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Kreckel
• Release date: Jun 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466184510

Ken Kreckel

Ken Kreckel writes historical fiction, mysteries, travel, as well as technical publications. As a feature editor of the Historical Novels Review, he has published hundreds of reviews, countless interviews with authors, and features dealing with historical fiction. He has contributed many other articles to various magazines and newspapers. Fascinated with some of the lesser known aspects of history, his novels mainly deal with mysteries associated with the Second World War. For example, The Rommel Mission focuses on the attempted surrender of German forces just after D-day. As a professional geophysicist who has worked throughout North America and Europe, he has personally researched many of the settings for his work. He lives in Wyoming, where he teaches at Casper College and consults for environmental organizations in the Oil and Gas field.

Book preview

ROCKED

BY

MURDER

KEN KRECKEL

© 2005 by Ken Kreckel.

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Print Copy: ISBN: 1-4137-6284-0

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Also by Ken Kreckel:

The Rommel Mission

The Ardeatine Connection

For Jody, Brad and Chuck

CHAPTER 1

Much to his later regret, John took little notice of the hooded figure leaving the lab. He saw it only briefly, his attention having been distracted from his dog walking chore by the clank of the back door to the lab. He turned around to see a man, or perhaps a woman, dressed in what seemed to be a dark hooded sweatshirt and pants hurrying away from the already closing door. A question arose in his mind as to the figure’s identity, as there were only two others besides him working this evening, and he had thought they both would be staying well into the night. Half consciously he noted that the figure’s gait was peculiar, with something of a hitch that was not quite a limp. His mind started to return a possible identity but the thought instantly flew out of his mind as his Labrador jumped up on him, landing her front paws on his lower stomach, jolting his entire frame. She stayed on two paws, leaning her eighty pounds against him as she looked up with pleading eyes, a long stick clutched in her mouth.

OK, girl, John laughed as he wrestled the stick from her mouth and flung it onto the darkened lawn. As the dog rambled after it, John looked back towards the door but saw no one. He peered into the gloom of the barely lit wooded back lot and the parking area beyond but discerned no movement. Whoever it was, was gone.

John returned his eyes to his dog, now running at top speed towards a stick only she could see in black void. John often took his Labrador Maggie along when he worked evenings at the geology lab, and enjoyed the mandatory play breaks with the dog. It was a good excuse to leave his work behind for a moment, and partake the chilly night air of an autumn night in upper Michigan. The inevitable snow would be falling soon enough, and these interludes would be put away until the late spring. Thus it was a good idea to enjoy the outdoors whenever possible.

There was a bad side to these breaks however, as a sudden sinking feeling in the core of his stomach reminded him. When he was alone, particularly when his heart felt a bit lighter and his mind was clear of most of the day’s clutter, the feeling would find him. Ever stalking him, always close by, the feeling would arise from within, reminding him of who he once was, and what he once had, and what he was no longer. It was inescapable, as much a part of him as his sight, or hearing. It was an almost physical presence, lumping in his throat and churning at his guts. It could be distracted, shoved down, nearly pushed out, and for a time, admittedly a brief time, it would disappear. It would stay away as long as he was busy, focused, and doing something, anything, that replaced the torture of introspection. However, when he had nearly forgotten, it would return.

John was, in a way, a haunted man. Haunted not by his deeds but by his failures, it was first a sin of omission that tugged at him and clawed at him from within. It mattered little that he could not have done anything about it, and was incapable of staving off the cancer that consumed, and ultimately ended, his wife’s life. It only mattered that he thought there must have been something he could have done. It wasn’t important that the thought had no basis in logic or fact. To John, the only important thing was that he had come up short, and she was gone. Sure he made a pretense of doing something—pursuing doctor after doctor, researching procedure upon procedure, seeking out miracle cures and even divine intervention. He did his best to comfort her and steadfastly stayed by her. He was, as they say ‘there for her’, whatever that was worth. But in the end it was all show. Nothing came of all the effort as the cancer remorselessly gnawed away, bit by bit, at her life, her being, her very self and who she could become. In the end, he had even become a conspirator in her demise, in league with the monster that bedeviled her. Yes, he did it out of compassion, and to make it easier, but easier for whom?

Maggie rescued him from this reverie, panting and jumping by his side.

One more time, he grunted as he threw the stick as far as he could. The dog took off after it, as fast at eight years of age as she had been at one. John could see her stop after about thirty yards. She looked around at high alert, ears perked, posture ramrod straight, rapidly scanning the area for the stick. John could see her plainly in this area, her yellow-white fur reflecting the ambient light which issued from the few old time street lights placed along the campus pathways. She took off at high speed, nearly tumbling as she overran the stick, then picked it up and returned to him at a run, ears flying. He turned and trotted back to the doorway. Maggie caught him just as he arrived at the door.

Back to work, girl, at least for me, he said to the dog. She looked up with disappointed eyes but immediately dropped the stick and nosed into the door in front of him. She bounded up the two flights to the lab and stood on the landing above, waiting for John to catch up and open the fire door to the corridor within.

John trudged up the stairs after her, much more slowly than she. He glanced at his watch, 7:42PM. He sighed as he thought of the work ahead. He still had those quiz papers to correct, but they would have to wait. He simply had to complete his petrographic analysis of the Benington site. Hopefully Tom would not be monopolizing the best equipment in the petrography section, as he had been doing the past two weeks or so. John shook his head at the thought of Tom toiling away in the rock lab. Tom was, like himself, a middle-aged returnee to the campus scene, but not as a visiting professor, rather a nontraditional student. Very nontraditional at that, John thought, as he visualized Tom slavishly peering though the scopes hour upon hour long into the night. He certainly applied himself more now than he did when they were both undergraduates together, several eons before it seemed to John, but what ordinary humans reckoned as twenty-eight years. No, then Tom was a not-too-serious, gifted amateur, scoring with the women as much as making the grade in school. Time had transformed this cavalier into the all-too-serious married drone he had met this fall. John had since watched Tom dourly pursuing his field of study with all the joylessness appropriate to a middle-aged man who had realized, too late, that he was, after all, a failure. The thought slowed John’s pace even more as he turned through the first landing.

Still though, he thought, Tom was making a valiant effort, and perhaps he could successfully remake himself. Possibly it would be enough to save his career, and perhaps more importantly, his marriage. John recalled seeing Tom’s wife a few weeks after his arrival on campus. The lovely Julie, the girl who had been a knockout blonde of twenty, was still an arresting woman of forty-something. Long blonde hair, styled in the manner of a woman much younger, looked appropriate on her. Well-built but remaining slim, she had avoided the overripe look of many of her contemporaries. Nevertheless in one aspect she had aged beyond her years. It was in her eyes, the unmistakable look of disappointment. It was disappointment in life, in herself, but most of all, and most devastating to Tom, disappointment in her husband. It marked her with a certain pathos that gave lie to her apparent attractiveness, and, to John, at least, was a glaring flaw as real and as ugly as a wart of a nose, or a boil on her cheek. A woman in love, whether with someone else, her children, herself, or only life itself, bore an unmistakable attractiveness to John. A woman out of love might as well be dead.

The waiting quizzes popped back into his mind as he neared the second landing where Maggie sat patiently, nose aiming at the door handle. Perhaps Heather could do it, John thought. Heather was nominally John’s graduate assistant, but had been assigned to help Tom for the semester. A petite blonde of twenty years, Heather had more energy on her worst days than John had on his best. Perky almost to the point of irritation, Heather would cheerfully do almost anything in the line of duty. Just keeping her busy proved to be an exhausting task, so perhaps farming out the job of grading the quizzes was just the thing. She certainly was capable of doing them, and he knew she was in her office this evening, or at least she was when he had taken Maggie outside. He had passed her cracker-box sized cubicle on the way out, and had seen her busily addressing a mountainous pile of paperwork, paced by a radio blaring some offending sounding ultramodern hip-hop. He would be adding to her pile of work, but he knew she wouldn’t mind, or would at least appear not to.

John at last reached the landing. Maggie stood, tail wagging, eager to reenter the lab area. Maggie always greeted each arrival as if it were the first, checking out each room, greeting anyone within them with a frank but overly enthusiastic jump on their bodies followed by a thorough licking of their faces. But not all, John recalled, as Maggie would never jump on old Professor K for example. Whether she sensed something or merely realized his advanced age John wasn’t sure, but with Prof. K she was much more subdued and would merely sit by his side to be patted.

John opened the door and Maggie pushed through as soon as it opened more than a crack, bounding into the hallway, panting shamelessly, as usual. However this time something was different. After two strides she stopped dead in her tracks, mouth closed. She stood at alert, ears forward, nose cautiously sniffing the air. She stepped forward, slowly, step by step, crouching lower, eyes scanning the hall, nose working furiously. She moved past the first open door, the crystallography room. She nervously glanced into its darkened interior, but quickly returned her attention to the hall. She paced forward once again, this time stopping at the entrance to the petrography lab. She crouched lower, staring into the room, and a low growl emerged from her tightly shut snout.

What is it, girl, what’s the matter? John whispered. When he reached her, he bent down, and touched the dog’s head. "What’s wrong? he asked even as she pulled away from his touch. She continued growling in a barely audible manner as John looked up and peered into the room.

At first, everything appeared normal. The main classroom lights were off, but the room was dimly lit from the back. The two tables nearest the door were full of the usual heaps of sample bags. One of the empty bags had apparently fallen and now lay on the floor near the entrance. He could see the lab bench beyond, and the first two microscopes on the left, plastic bags still covering them. At the third station, the one housing the most recently acquired, and best, petrographic scope, the light source was on, indicating it was in use. This was the instrument usually used by Tom. The rest of the bench was in shadow.

John stood and reached for the main light switch to his left. Fumbling around for a moment, he at last found the two switches and flipped them on. Immediately the fluorescent lamps suspended above the room began glowing to life. The hum of the starters became audible. In seconds the light became strong enough to see the rest of the room. John entered the room, heading along one of the sample tables to the microscope bench beyond. He moved cautiously forward, aware of each step. Maggie moved haltingly next to him, careful not to get ahead of him. The hairs on the dog’s back became raised, forming a sort of ridged stripe along her spine. Her growl became stronger. They moved forward together, staring ahead at the direction of the scope and light. After several steps they began to see the whole lab bench, and the area in front slowly came into view. Another step and the floor was no longer obscured by the sample tables. Then they found him.

It was the body of a person, presumably Tom’s, curled up on his right side on the floor. A stool lay tipped on its side next to him. At first he appeared to be sleeping, but that thought was instantly shunned from John’s mind as he bent to examine his friend. Maggie moved forward as well, sniffing furiously but cautiously, now and then stepping back before continuing. John crouched down and peered at the face. It was Tom; there was no doubt about that. The one eye visible to him was slightly open, but unmoving. He appeared unharmed, but motionless. Unconscious, John thought, perhaps his heart. He reached out to put his hand on his neck and cheek. He felt warmth, but perhaps not quite enough warmth at that. He thought of checking his pulse but quickly realized he had no clue just how to do that. Instead he reached out and rolled him over to a face-up position. As he did so his brain started scrambling, searching for some long buried memories of CPR class. He may well have to resuscitate him, he thought as he rolled him onto his back. He lowered his head close to that of his friend’s, placing his ear over the nose, seeking to hear or feel evidence of his breath. He listened intently, hearing and feeling nothing. Even as his mind registered the fact that his friend was not breathing his eyes focused on the part of the face he could see from this close angle. Tom’s right eye was fully open, expressing a look of supreme surprise or amazement. John pulled back, refocusing to take in the sight of his entire face. His mouth was half-open, a swollen tongue lolling outside. A trickle of bright crimson blood issued from his mouth. It was then John saw the pool of blood in which the head had been lying. It was a large oval patch, very slowly spreading, the edges a darker hue than the middle. John peered around Tom’s head. So much blood must be coming from somewhere, he thought as he rolled the body over a bit more. Now he could see the source—a large gash apparent on the right side of his head. His brown hair matted to a shiny black, blood, and bits of gray and white stood out in the wound. Small particles of some blackish material also colored the area. The wound itself was large and concave outward, making the head appear grossly misshapen. John looked at the wound in a detached, scientific manner, as if encountering some strange yet interesting phenomena for the first time, but then John realized what the bits of gray and white were.

John recoiled from the sight, letting go of the body as he fell backwards, the head hitting the floor with a sickening thump. The room began spinning and his stomach lurched. His friend was dead, and he realized he had been peering into his exposed brain! He fell out of the crouch on to his butt. He almost sprawled completely but caught himself with his right hand. The weight of his body falling on his hand twisted his wrist painfully but John was barely aware of it. He saw Maggie become agitated and jump towards him, landing just at his side, actually helping him arrest his fall. At that moment he heard a scream.

Both he and Maggie turned towards the sound. In the doorway stood Heather, a look of utter horror on her face. As he looked at her, her gaze left the body and locked onto his eyes. Her look of horror was instantly replaced by a quizzical look.

What happened? she mouthed silently. As she waited for an answer her quizzical look was replaced by a much more recognizable one. An expression of fear came over her entire face. She backed up, eyes still locked on John’s. He returned the stare with a questioning look, trying unsuccessfully to find words. For just a moment a similar questioning look flashed across her features. However the fear quickly returned and she broke eye contact, turned and fled down the hallway, an ear-piercing wail following her.

CHAPTER 2

Some minutes later John sat in an empty classroom, a Houghton City Policeman guarding the door. Maggie was there as well, pacing nervously around the room, occasionally stopping to unsuccessfully solicit a pet from the patrolman. Through the space in the doorway not filled by the cop’s bulk he could see various people coming and going, most of them uniformed. Several departments were represented, the city police, the sheriff’s department, even the keystone cop-like campus police. In time, John saw the Geology Department head, Ted Bournmouth, pass by, accompanied by a chubby suited man. Muffled voices echoed down the hallway, but he couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. John could only wonder at what was going on, and only guess at how much of it was being directed at him.

John had no idea how long he had been sitting in this room. He only knew that a policeman had directed him here, as a frenzy of emergency personnel addressed his friend’s body. It was clear to John that his friend was dead, and he noted confirmation in the fact no effort was made to move the body to an ambulance. Instead the flurry of activity had continued, even as he sat doing nothing, watched by the ever-present guard. In a way it was good. The time alone had given a chance for the acute nausea to pass, to be replaced by an uneasy queasiness. His trembling had subsided as well, and as it had, his brain returned to a functioning state.

He knew, of course, that Heather had jumped to the conclusion that he was responsible. John couldn’t blame her; coming upon that scene was shocking enough. Seeing him there, crouching over the horror of the body, it was a short leap to concluding he had done it. Still, it was disconcerting to have someone think he was a murderer. After her scream and subsequent flight he went after her, reinforcing the notion in her head that she was next. John realized that about halfway down the hall and stopped. He knew she would call for help so he just went back to the room, the room that contained the grisly remains of his longtime friend.

Although his hands were shaking and his guts were tying themselves up in knots, he reentered the room. There’s an innate curiosity in most scientists that is so strong it will cause them to undergo any trial to gain one more kernel of knowledge. John had that quality in spades. Indeed it was his defining characteristic, and it was at work now. He simply had to know what had happened, what process had turned his colleague into an ugly lump on the lab’s floor. Knowing was so much more important than how he felt.

John surveyed the scene. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. He saw the sample bag on the floor, and supposed someone had brushed it off the adjacent table, but that could have happened at any time. John moved to the lab bench in the back of the room. Again, nothing seemed to be disturbed. He moved up to the microscope Tom had been using. The light source was still on. John leaned forward to peer through the eyepiece, carefully avoiding touching anything. There was nothing in the field of view. He backed off the eyepiece and looked at the microscope’s stage--there was no slide. Strange, what was Tom doing here, John thought, as he looked at the area to the scope’s right. Nothing here either, no slides, no notes, nothing. The bench area was clear, as if Tom had finished his work and was preparing to go home. That didn’t make sense however, since he had told John he would be working long into the night. John gingerly stepped to the right, using a giant step to avoid the puddle of blood which had settled on the floor outwards from Tom’s head nearly to the lab bench. John looked more closely at that bench, and from this angle could see a smattering of blood droplets, radiating outwards from the area of the scope. Interspersed with the blood droplets were bits of black material, similar to the black stuff on Tom’s head. It looked like Tom had been sitting at the scope when someone bashed in the right side of his head. He then fell off the stool, and assumed the fetal-like position in which he died. But what was Tom looking at in the scope, and what had caved in his head? What was the weapon?

John was in the process of searching the room for the weapon when the first officers appeared. A pair of Campus Police, looking typically dimwitted and doughy, stood motionless for a time over the body, shock obviously getting better of them. A minute later, however, the spell was broken by the arrival of a Houghton policeman, the very same one who now stood at the doorway. He was tall, well-built, and very Nordic, dressed in a crisp dark blue uniform. Without a hat, his blonde crew cut hair suggested a storm trooper. When he entered the room he first checked the body for signs of life. He then called for additional help into the mike attached to his shoulder. He quickly scanned the room. Apparently having taken it all in, he barked some orders to the campus cops to get out and secure the floor. They cringed slightly at first, then rushed to their assignment. He then ushered John into the empty classroom. On the way he obtained his name, the victim’s name, and a brief statement. He told John to sit tight and await the arrival of Detective Somebody. When answering his questions, John was acutely aware of the cop staring into his eyes, attempting to read him, to peer inside of him, and John felt very uncomfortable at this novel form of examination. However it was a scrutiny that he would get very used to over the course of the next several days.

Since the detective had not yet arrived, John’s mind turned to a more analytical assessment of the murder. Whether a cover for his revulsion, or an attempt to process and categorize the event, John felt more comfortable in this detached, more scientific thinking. Perhaps it was simply the way his brain worked, but he was compelled to try to make sense of this, identify it, categorize it, and in the end, master it. The first problem was why anyone had done this at all. Murder? His friend Tom? The mere thought was astonishing. He was simply too ordinary, too boring to be a murder victim. But still, there it was. He was in fact murdered, and someone had to have done it. But who could have? Who could feel so strongly about Tom? John began by mentally listing all the possibilities. He was, of course, quite without many facts, but he did know Tom, at least from when they were students together, and was acquainted with the main points of his life since. The answer might very well lie in one of those realms. Accordingly, John ticked off the possibilities. First was money. He knew Tom’s career had crashed and burned. It was always possible Tom had gotten into some sort of money trouble, money trouble with the wrong sort of people. With a beautiful wife to support, this was very possible. Perhaps it was the wife herself. Julie was clearly disappointed in Tom, and then there were the rumors, the whisperings of affairs, and the notice of the maybe not coincidences. John had always discounted these until two week’s ago when he was at an evening barbecue at their house. Everything seemed fine, both of them were smiling, apparently happy. But there were the little things--a disapproving glance, a momentary look of dismay, a definite distance in their mannerisms. Later, Tom had even