Who Needed Killing?

By Bill Fitts

The Needed Killing Series: When James F. Crawford retired from the university he didn’t expect to become a private investigator. But Provost Rufus George wanted Crawford to investigate a suspicious death--and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Turns out, Crawford has a knack for solving crimes. With his dog and cat as the perfect sounding board, he talks through the specifics of each case--posing questions to Tan and The Black and answering them himself. If you like your mysteries with a side of humor, give the Needed Killing Series a try.

Book 5: Provost Rufus George is worried. “Something,” he tells Crawford, “is not right at University Village. I want you to look around and see if anything bothers you.” Checking out a retirement community seems harmless enough. Crawford begins with a question here and a question there--until he asks the wrong question and he and the provost find themselves the target of a wily and ruthless killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Fitts
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781941387030

Bill Fitts

When Bill began writing “The Screaming Sword,” he took notes in a Marble Composition notebook and typed on a Smith-Corona portable electric typewriter. He now uses Scrivener, a word processing program designed for writers, on an iMac. He has published 3 books in Song of Narne, epic adventures in a magical world, and 6 in the Needed Killing Series, cozy mysteries with a southern flair. He’s still writing in both genres.Bill and his wife, Anne Gibbons, owe an odd kind of thank-you to the 2011 tornado that ripped through Tuscaloosa, Ala. They were physically unharmed, but they began to assess their needs and wants, their hopes and dreams with the visceral understanding that the future is uncertain. In 2015 Bill and Anne moved to Vero Beach, Fla. They enjoy living 9 miles from the ocean—an easy drive but out of storm surge range—and their cats enjoy the screened patio.Visit Bill’s website billfittsauthor.comConnect with Bill on FacebookNeeded Killing Series facebook.com/TheNeededKillingSeriesSong of Narne facebook.com/SongofNarne

Book preview

Who Needed Killing?

Book 5

in the

Needed Killing Series

Bill Fitts

Copyright 2014 by Bill Fitts

Excerpt from They Needed Killing

copyright 2018 by Bill Fitts

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Shelbyville and the people (and pets) who populate it are either products of my imagination or used fictitiously. It would be idle to deny, however, that Shelbyville, along with its university, was inspired by my hometown, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and its environs.

ISBN: 978-1-941387-03-0

Cover design: Keri Knutson at Alchemy Book Covers

Printed in the United States of America

billfittsauthor.com

Again, for Anne;

and for my high school Latin teacher, Olivia Fines,

who only asked that you do your best,

and who advised me, many years ago,

to march to a different drummer

Characters

Irene Adams university internal auditor

Tiffany Altikriti university human resources specialist

Frederick Ashton Crawford’s financial advisor

Jo Ballard Shelbyville assistant DA

Shelly Anne Cork university systems administrator

Crawford (James F. Ford) university retiree; private investigator

Eliot Dorcas University Village executive director

Stan Dowdy friend of Crawford; a-v specialist at university

Arlene Dylan University Village activity director

Roberta (Ro) Einstein professor in School of Nursing

Sydney Floyd superintendent, university police

Ellen George married to Rufus George

Rufus George university provost; married to Ellen George

Ross Howard deputy sheriff, Lee County Tennessee

Harry Johns homicide investigator, Shelbyville

Mary Keith Crawford’s house cleaner

Gordon Martin used car dealer in Tennessee

Julia Martin university student

Octavia McCall University Village office manager

Roger McDuffy retired accountant; University Village resident

Victoria Moore Rufus George’s assistant

Mr. Whiskers Bobby Slater’s cat

Nan dispatcher, sheriff’s office, Lee County Tennessee

Hank Norris University Village head nurse

Darcie O’Sullivan university dean of students

Sophia (Sissy) Pakulski University Village sales representative

Martha Portner junior accountant at the university

Felicity Rasmussen vice president of advancement at the university

Caleb Redding University Village resident

Bobby Slater Crawford’s lady friend

Charity Sterling district attorney, Cranbury, Tennessee

Tan Crawford’s dog

The Black (TB) Crawford’s cat

Minton (Min) Tubbs one of Crawford’s neighbors

Jim Ward friend of Crawford; head of homicide, Shelbyville

Malcolm Washington Megalopolis insurance agent

Nate Willard one of Crawford’s neighbors

1

Sunday

I CAUGHT A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, slammed on the brakes, and felt the tires slip then grab the cement, one side before the other. The 4Runner turned a little sideways but came to a stop inches from the street. I don’t think the bicyclist even knew I was there, much less how close I’d come to running him over. It was a cinch he hadn’t heard the squeal of the tires. With earbuds firmly in place, he was bobbing his head to whatever music he was listening to as he slowly pedaled along, oblivious.

I put the car in park, turned off the engine, and sat shaking in the driver’s seat.

I wondered if I’d have seen the cyclist in time if I’d been using the rearview and side mirrors instead of being twisted around in the seat, peering over my shoulder, looking down the driveway. My high school driver’s education coach had insisted that the only way to drive a car was to be looking in the direction it was going. As he had punctuated his always look where you’re going with a painful thump on the shoulder if you didn’t, he and Pavlov had imbedded in me a habit that was still going strong. I guess I’ll never know.

It bothered me that the bike rider was cocooned in his world of music and didn’t have the slightest idea how close he’d come to being hit. No lesson learned there.

Growing up, I had ridden my bike all over Shelbyville, learning the back routes from one side of town to the other—through neighborhoods, back alleys, narrow streets, sidewalks, yards—I rode my bike across them all as they served as a way for me to get from one place to another. I switched between them without a thought until the day I shot off the sidewalk onto the street through a four-way stop and saw, as I cut across the street, to my right, through the car window, the wide-eyed face of the driver I had so carelessly cut in front of. I was so frozen in fear that I coasted down the street I was on, suddenly in no hurry. I have no idea what happened to the driver but we both knew he’d almost killed me and it had been all my fault.

I hope he shook it off. Maybe said something to himself about the dumb kid who’d almost gotten killed and hoped I’d learned something from it—because I had. Oh I’d gone on to do plenty of stupid things on my bike—and in my life—but never again that one.

After a while, I started the car, drove up the driveway, pulled into the garage, and this time backed out with the rear end headed up the slope until I reached the stockade fencing and gate that led to the backyard. Then slowly drove down the driveway and onto the street checking carefully to make sure no one was coming.

Back in my kitchen after driving the backroads to the grocery store and home again, I sat down to drink my first cup of coffee and read the Sunday paper. I’d picked up half-and-half on Wednesday—my usual grocery shopping day—but I must have gotten a bad container. Opened it this morning and poured it into my coffee only to watch it curdle. Not a pleasant sight and not the way I wanted to start the day.

After I’d gotten back with the uncurdled half-and-half, I ate breakfast and then did the usual morning chores—cleaning up after the pets and myself. The day was pleasant enough that my dog Tan had elected to sleep in the backyard rather than inside. The cat had found his usual patch of morning sunshine and was carefully grooming himself.

Armed with a fresh cup of coffee, I returned to the Shelbyville News Sunday edition. I have a certain pattern when it comes to reading the newspaper. For some reason I never start with the front section—maybe I want to be fully awake before reading about national and international news. Anyway, I’d finished the section with the obits and the crossword, the business section, and the sports section. The sports section had been thin. The university’s men’s and women’s basketball teams had both been out of town this weekend as well as the women’s gymnastic team. The paper always sent some of its columnists to the away football games but opted to make do with stringers for the rest of athletics.

I recognized the economics of the decision but it made for skimpy sports news. Since the gymnastics team was national championship caliber it seemed—on the surface—that the paper could justify hiring one columnist who knew enough about gymnastics to spot when the scores were reported incorrectly. Since I’m a fan I might be a little biased.

I still wasn’t up to the national and international news section. The headlines had been depressing enough. So I picked up the local/regional section Reminding myself not to read about the pets available for adoption from the local animal shelter. I was determined to hold the line at one dog and one cat at a time.

One story caught my eye. It was a rehash or synopsis of a story that had come out in bits and pieces during the fall. I guess this was an attempt to give a serious subject the attention it deserved but it hadn’t worked too well. The article was continued on several pages—as if the editors were content to use it as filler instead of giving it a half-page to itself.

One of the fraternities on campus, Nu Omicron Tau, had crossed over the line during the fall semester and been thrown off campus. An interesting expression that meant the authorities—in this case the dean of students—had denied the students the right to use the building that housed the fraternity on campus. I wasn’t sure how that all worked, frankly. I was pretty sure the university owned the land the houses were built on but I thought the greek organizations paid for building construction. Whatever, every so often one of the greeks—usually the fraternities—did something wrong and got punished for it. Generally it was a case of going too far in serving alcohol to minors, recruiting new members, or hazing the new inductees—called pledges.

As I searched for where the story was continued I remembered some of the rumors that had gone around town when the dean had announced that the fraternity was off campus with no chance to return for five years. Something about making sure few, if any, current members would be part of moving back.

The article didn’t provide any specifics as to exactly what bad things the boys had been accused of doing. The dean’s office had been reluctant to get into specifics—pointing out that Nu Omicron Tau existed on campus at the university’s whim and could be thrown off just as easily.

That’s not how the university’s spokesperson put it, of course, but since there was no mechanism for the fraternity to appeal the decision, that’s what it amounted to—as well as I could follow.

The person who had written the story hadn’t tried to explain exactly how that whole relationship worked. It had been a lot easier to get quotes from those who were outraged at the decision—actives and alumni of the fraternity, primarily.

The alumni seemed to think that it was a wild overreaction on the part of the dean of students—she could have just prohibited them from going to the first two home football games next year. That would have been quite a sufficient punishment for all sorts of misconduct. That part puzzled me for a moment until I remembered that alumni took advantage of the fraternity and sorority houses when they came to the games and recalled the athletic department’s reluctance to schedule serious opponents early in the season. Missing the first two games was no hardship as far as the alums were concerned.

In short, the outcry against the decision was loud and angry. The university’s response was muted other than saying that the dean of students was acting within her authority. The only senior member of the university’s administration who’d actually made a statement had been the provost, Rufus George. He was quoted as saying that he believed that Dean O’Sullivan had acted decisively and he supported her actions. The rest of the powers-that-be were doing an imitation of see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil.

I felt a twinge of compassion for Dean O’Sullivan even though I’d never met her. The pressure on her to rescind the ban must be pretty intense and nobody seemed to be backing her except Rufus. I wondered if those in the administration who’d thought the dean of students needed to be a man in order to maintain discipline now thought a woman too strict? She had to have her reasons even if she didn’t want to publicize them. Besides, if Rufus George was standing behind me, I wouldn’t worry about my back.

I moved on to the front section, depressing news or not. There had been times when I was too busy to read the paper so thoroughly but today I needed to find something to do while waiting to pick Bobby up for the Sunday matinee.

I edged the 4Runner out onto the street in front of my house, carefully looking left and right. It would be awhile before I backed down my driveway again.

There was no traffic so I pulled on out and headed toward Bobby’s townhouse. She’d gotten us tickets to a musical about a dead country-and-western singer. It was a play that the local theatre group performed on a semiregular basis. The local talent pool fit the play’s requirements and the public kept attending in record numbers. I had never seen it, but once they started performing at the community college south of town instead of the old downtown movie theater my interest in live theatre had lagged.

Bobby attributed my lack of interest to the lack of bars and restaurants on the community college campus compared to downtown Shelbyville. As usual, she wasn’t that far off. I didn’t understand why the community college had been built so far away from the center of town, nor why the Shelbyville theatre group had moved there too. Still, the Alabama governor who’d started community colleges all over the state had done so for political reasons—one of which was to get back at the state’s universities. It was all politics back then—as it was now. If I knew the ins-and-outs of it, today’s play, for that matter, was no doubt politics too. I just didn’t know whose ox was getting gored.

I turned into the entrance of Bobby’s subdivision, reminded myself to watch out for pedestrians, and then smiled. I was going to spend the rest of the afternoon with Bobby. It didn’t matter where we were going. It didn’t even matter whether an ox was involved. For a moment I wondered why I’d been so grumpy, then forgot about it in anticipation of being with Bobby.

2

Monday Morning

AS A RULE of thumb, I try to avoid doing much business on Mondays—Monday mornings in particular.

When I was growing up, people used to refer to certain cars as lemons—cars that just didn’t work right. There was nothing you could do but give up on them and try to get the manufacturer to take them back. It wasn’t until I was older that I heard them referred to as Friday or Monday cars. The idea being the assembly line workers were either too eager to quit work or too hungover from the weekend to pay much attention to what they were doing when they built the car you bought.

Once I was in the workforce, it seemed to me that Mondays were always filled with issues that had accumulated since Friday afternoon and then were dumped on you first thing Monday morning. So you had to work yourself out from under two and a half days of troubles in addition to what hadn’t gotten fixed on Friday. Like I said, I try to avoid calling businesses on Monday but it doesn’t seem to work the other way.

Victoria Moore had called me a little after eight in the morning to see if I could meet her boss, Rufus George, at the University Club for an early lunch. The provost had a funeral to attend that afternoon so it needed to be a rather quick lunch, but he hoped that I would join him and accept his apology for the late invitation. All of this was according to Victoria, of course. But it sounded just like something Rufus would have said and I had no problem believing it.

So at eleven thirty, I was sitting at a linen-topped table across from the university’s provost. The bud vase, linen napkin, and heavy silverware seemed a little excessive for my cup of soup and half a sandwich special, but it went well with his roast beef, asparagus, squash casserole, rice and gravy, and—his favorite—good old-fashioned southern spoonbread.

I watched him as he carefully cut a piece of roast, put it in his mouth, and started to chew. So far our conversation had covered—on his part—how his wife was doing and how they’d enjoyed Christmas. On my part, I had confessed that Bobby Slater and I had gone to the Florida Keys to celebrate and—as far as I was concerned—that she, Bobby, was doing very well indeed and I was doing tolerably.

Celebrate? Rufus had said raising his eyebrows quizzically.

Just the start of a new year. I was quick to reply. Nothing more that that. At least I didn’t think there was more to it than that. I’d have to ask.

In the South, a certain amount of social conversation has to take place before business can commence. Even between men who’d known each other as long as Rufus and I had—maybe especially so. We’d met years ago, through his son, Jon. Jon and I had been in the same Boy Scout troop. We hadn’t kept up our friendship but Rufus—well, we weren’t really friends. I wasn’t sure exactly what our relationship had become—just that there was a lot of mutual respect involved.

My respect for him was based on history. His for me was based more on my potential.

Oh not all of it was on potential. I’d accomplished what he thought I was capable of two times now—three if you count the murder I’d investigated for his wife on behalf of The Festival’s board members. The fourth murder I’d solved hadn’t involved the university or the George family, except I’d had to call on him for an introduction to the district attorney of Lee County Tennessee.

Thanks again for your help with Crystal Sterling, sir. She’s quite an impressive woman. Of course she’d have to be to be appointed district attorney.

We both knew the truth. For a woman to have been appointed district attorney in rural Tennessee—much like in rural Alabama—she had to be head and shoulders more qualified than any male candidate.

Rufus put his fork down, patted his lips with his napkin, and then put the napkin back in his lap.

Ms. Sterling was equally impressed with your skills as an investigator.

I blinked at him.

She called me a day or two after you’d revealed the murderer to her. ‘Wrapped him up like a Christmas present and handed it to me’ was the way she described it. He gave me a small, satisfied smile. She thanked me for the introduction. Even said she might want to ‘borrow’ you some time.

And what did you say to that?

That you were not mine to lend—but I promised to put in a good word for her if she needed an investigator without local ties.

I grinned at him. We were at the end of the meal—just a few bites left—it was almost time for him to get down to business.

"According to the Shelbyville News you’re the only quote senior administrative official end quote willing to make a statement in support of Darcie O’Sullivan."

Rufus looked vaguely puzzled as he chewed. He probably hadn’t spent his Sunday poring over the newspaper.

That Nu Omicron Tau business. I prompted him. She threw them off campus for five years.

He nodded his head, swallowed, and spoke. I believe I am the only ‘senior administrative official’ Dean O’Sullivan briefed before making her announcement—with the exception of the president. The briefing was in the strictest confidence, of course.

Of course. Well that was that. It was a cinch I wasn’t going to find out from Rufus what the frat boys had been up to, but the dean had made sure she had his support—and the president’s—before acting. I wondered what that meant.

Rufus wiped his lips with his napkin, folded it, and placed it on the table.

James, how much do you know about the retirement community called University Village?

I thought about it for a second. Not much more than that it’s affiliated with the university. They get their Internet access through the university’s technology department instead of some commercial service—at least that’s the way it was set up before I retired. Sean thought it was a great thing for the department to do. After I heard all the things he’d promised them, I figured he’d just increased the number of people who were going to end up disappointed or angry. If they believed anybody could provide what he’d promised. Other than that, I’m clueless.

Rufus nodded. Yes, the university has made some decisions about how closely it is tied to the retirement community that I haven’t been entirely comfortable with.

I kept silent.

That’s why I want to ask you to look into University Village. As a favor to me. Rufus held up his hand. Oh, don’t commit to anything now—of course. It’s just that you are retired and it would give you a reason to go out there.

Velma, the waitress who, as far as I could tell, always served Rufus, appeared at Rufus’s elbow with the check for him to sign. Miss Victoria said you needed to be finished about now, sir. Said you had a funeral to attend.

Thank you, Velma. Rufus pulled a fountain pen out of his suit jacket and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the check. Yes, it doesn’t do to be late to a funeral. You can tell Victoria I left in plenty of time.

He handed the check back to the waitress who took it and stood there, waiting.

Thank you, Velma. That will be all. Rufus capped the pen, put it back in his pocket, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. Velma took the hint.

As she walked away, Rufus leaned across the table toward me. Go out to University Village. Look around a little. Act interested. There’s something about it that makes me…well, I’d like your opinion of the place.

I sat up straight. You mind telling me what I’m looking for?

Yes, I do. Rufus looked at his wristwatch and stood up. I’ve got to go. There’s no need in telling you what’s bothering me. I want to know if anything bothers you.

I’d been out of town more than usual this fall and early winter but I still called myself keeping up with what was going on in Shelbyville. I checked the Shelbyville News website and some social media on a pretty regular basis. If something out of the ordinary had happened at University Village, I’d have heard about it. Only I hadn’t.

So what was it that had Rufus asking me about a retirement community? I decided I’d been neglecting my good friends of late. It was time to check around and see what they might have heard.

3

Monday Afternoon

SO I WAS on campus—well almost on campus. The University Club was housed in an antebellum mansion that was close to the university campus but not actually on the campus. I think it helped get around some Alabama liquor laws—that and the fact that it was a private club. I didn’t get this close to campus that often anymore—ever since I retired—so I decided to take the opportunity to drop in and visit with Stan.

He normally took an early lunch so we were on the same schedule as far as that went. I’d already pulled out of the parking lot when the idea struck me so I didn’t bother to stop and call him. In general, I don’t approve of drivers who try to talk on the phone while driving. It might not negatively impact their ability to carry on a conversation but it sure did their skill as a driver.

I took the opportunity to go the back way and drive through the old, affluent neighborhood that bordered the University Club grounds. I had biked all over the area when I was little and remembered it well—to the point I took an old alleyway between some houses so I could leave by the front entrance instead of going through another old neighborhood to catch the road by the river. Trying to impress myself, I guess.

Using that entrance put me on the main street that, further down, bisected the university. Traffic was heavy, but moving. I made it to Alexander Hall without any trouble and was able to loop back around it to get to the faculty/staff parking lot that tried and failed to accommodate the needs of faculty and staff that worked in the buildings that surrounded it.

A couple of administrations ago the university gave up on any pretense that it would provide adequate parking by announcing that it was moving toward becoming a pedestrian-friendly campus. At the time, I’d paid little attention to the announcement. It was the older employees—made cynical by years of experience—who saw it as a surrender to the battle of providing adequate parking. It was at that point that employees and faculty began having to pay for parking permits—permits that were like hunting licenses. There was no guarantee you’d find a parking place but you had paid for the right to hunt for one.

I pulled into the lot and immediately spotted Stan’s car. He was back from lunch and—miracle upon miracle—there was an open spot right next to his car.

I parked and made sure my retiree tag was hanging from the rearview mirror. There was some irony in the fact that when you finally retired from the university—giving up the daily need to park on campus—the university bestowed on you the right to park anywhere on campus you wanted to—excluding handicapped spaces—for free. And the permit was good for years—no annual renewal for this token of the university’s appreciation of a job well done.

I made sure to lock the car when I got out. There was no telling which was more valuable—my car or the retiree parking permit—and I didn’t want to go to the hassle of replacing either one.

Stan’s parking spot and mine were at the opposite end of the lot from the Alexander Hall Annex where the Department of Technology was housed but I wasn’t going to complain. When I was working I’d learned to grab the first spot I found.

I took my time walking through the lot, glancing at the cars and the myriad bumper stickers and other decals that adorned them.

I was in no hurry. Stan liked to take an early lunch and then promptly return all the phone calls he’d gotten while at lunch. Thus assuring himself of calling those people while they were at lunch, which enabled him to leave yet another message in the bureaucratic game of telephone tag. In all honesty, if Stan was interested in your project or what you were doing, you got priority service. If, on the other hand, whatever you wanted his help on was purely a tedious exercise in self-promotion…

I walked past a little foreign sports car and realized that its list price was more than my annual salary had been. The car was discreetly marked by three greek letters indicating which fraternity or sorority its driver had pledged—joined in the non-greek world. Usually there would be another sticker or two that revealed the driver had attended the university—or at least supported its athletic teams—but not always. For some, the greek letters were enough.

I really need to get out more, I thought to myself. It wasn’t any different than it had been when I worked here. Shoot, the year Sean—the man who’d driven me into early retirement—announced that there were zero dollars in the pool for merit raises so there would be no salary increases at the Department of Technology, he showed up with a brand new Mercedes. He had had that kind of sensitive touch. It wasn’t long after I retired that he died. Which is not to say that people with really expensive cars who choose to park them in university faculty/staff lots always get what they deserve.

You could look at the lot and see the difference in the cars. Second cars, commuter cars, parked around party cars—statement cars that said I’ve got so much money I can send my child off to college in a car that cost more than four years’ tuition. It was a faculty/staff lot so—technically—students weren’t supposed to park here—technically. There were always a few that did—hoping not to get caught. But they underestimated the university’s ability to make money out of the smallest things. There was enough money in parking fines to pay a bunch of transportation specialists who did nothing but patrol the lots writing tickets.

I looked around and didn’t see Gwen, the transportation specialist who’d patrolled this lot before I retired. It wasn’t the only lot she patrolled. The university gave each specialist as many lots as they could be expected to cover during a class period. How else would you maximize the income potential of parking tickets?

I checked a few of the more expensive cars and noticed that they were sporting faculty/staff hangtags and wondered if the profit motive was alive and well among the staff. How much would a student pay for a faculty/staff tag? And how much would it take before any staff or faculty would be interested in selling theirs? The economics of supply and demand.

As I pulled open one of the glass doors that led to the elevator lobby of the Annex, I saw that they hadn’t removed the card readers on the doors. It had been one of Sean’s missions to increase the security of the building—not the whole building, of course, just the Annex part that housed the Department of Technology. The rest of the building had classrooms, departmental offices, and offices for professors. Sean hadn’t cared about their security. He’d just wanted to be able to limit his employees’ access within the building. Before I retired I’d been unable to get anywhere on the ground floor and most of the second. I could get to the third floor but only that half of it where my cubicle was located. Unless I took the elevator.

Turned out that the elevator in the Annex was the only handicapped accessible entrance to the whole building. The university was in compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act—all federal funding would have been jeopardized if they hadn’t attempted to comply.

So the elevator lobbies on every floor had to be open to the public. So much for security. Oh, they made it as inconvenient as possible for the employees to get around once they were on a floor, but security-wise the fact that any terrorist could take an elevator ride within the Annex sort of robbed the secure doors of their importance—except as a way to annoy employees, reduce efficiency, and create barriers. All good management goals, I’m sure.

I got off on the second floor and immediately realized that I would have no trouble getting anywhere I wanted to within the Annex. It must have been close to ninety degrees in the building. No, not the building, I corrected myself just the Annex. Every door in the Annex was propped open. Here and there were electric fans trying to move hot air out and cool air in. It happened every so often. The heating/cooling plant for the Annex just wasn’t that dependable. The building had been constructed when computers were huge things that lived in rooms of their own in the basement.

The university had skimped a little on the cooling system for the upper floors while making sure the basement stayed chilled. When computers moved out of the basement and into offices shared with people, it changed the dynamics of heating and cooling the building. I understood why the air conditioning broke down in the summer, but why the system would overheat in the winter was beyond me. I just knew that it did.

The heat had overridden any concerns about security as far as the inhabitants were concerned. Don Larson, head of security, had probably given up and gone home. I was free to go anywhere. I started toward Stan’s office and then stopped. Somebody had come up with a very clever