Just the Facts

Chapter One

Egotistical Jerk Dr. Franklin Lodge Bludgeoned to Death, No One Mourns.

Jake Bertrain, owner-editor of the weekly McKinley News-Press, sat in his Main Street office playing with headlines he knew he would never publish.

Sipping warm Starbucks and downing the last of a jelly-filled Krispy Kreme donut, Jake stared out the window at huge puffs of January snow falling on the narrow street separating the single block of McKinley businesses from campus.

It was 11:30 p.m., Tuesday. Lodge’s body had been discovered on his office floor in the Lutkins Building on the McKinley University campus at 9:33 p.m. Jake didn't like crime scenes and had hung around just long enough to gather basic information and get quotes from the police and the victim's graduate assistant. Back at the office he had been too tired to trudge up the outside stairs to his flat above the newspaper office, and too conditioned by nearly 20 years as a newspaper reporter and editor not to finish the story before going to bed. The weekly edition of the News-Press didn’t hit local streets until Thursday afternoon, but the story would appear in the Online Press early the following morning.

Of course, no one reads the Online Press, Jake thought to himself, except perhaps on the infrequent occasion a major story breaks. And come to think of it, this would be the first major story in the two plus years since Jake had moved to this small but picturesque North Carolina college community. The newspaper’s only other fulltime employee, 65-year-old office manager Mary Taylor, called the OP the newspaper under the porch, citing its average of fewer than 200 hits per week.

Wet snow accumulated on the sidewalk and street outside. Attractive thirty- something Lorna Potter, manager of The Rooster Coop, a campus coffee shop next door, tapped on the window and waved as she eased down the slippery walk to her car. Jake thought of New York snows and other winters. He thought of Collie, who had been gone nearly four years now. He thought of Annie. And he thought of Franklin Lodge.

He had known Lodge only by reputation, pompous ass being the most common description. Lodge had had pretty much everything going for him: TV news anchor confidence and good looks. Elegant wife. Perfect kids excelling in Ivy League universities. At the top of his field, publishing wildly, invited to the most prestigious conferences world-wide. And he had an air of superiority that offended most of his colleagues. None of that mattered now.

Jake typed the headline that would accompany the online story, McKinley English Professor Murdered, No Suspects. Just the facts, he told himself. That's what he had always been taught. Just the facts. He uploaded the headline and the story to the lead position on the online site and filed a copy in the folder for the Thursday street edition. He would rewrite the lead and even the first few paragraphs Wednesday night depending on what new information became available by deadline.

lodge murder

"jake"

page one/online press

The body of controversial English professor Dr. Franklin Lodge, 59, was found in his third-floor office on the campus of McKinley University at 9:33 p.m. Tuesday.

He was pronounced dead at the scene, the cause of death said to be repeated blows to the back of the head with a heavy object. Police believe but have not confirmed the murder weapon to be a heavy trophy found on the floor near Lodge’s body.

According to campus police chief Ron Yardley, Lodge’s body was found by his graduate assistant Shamika Collins who had been assisting him with the final pages of a linguistics text on the Gullah inhabitants of the barrier islands along the southern coast.

Collins said she had been helping Professor Lodge most of the day. The first draft of the book was due at the publisher’s office Friday, she said. "I left around seven to go to dinner and stop by my apartment to pick up some books.

Dr. Lodge was working through the evening and asked me to bring sandwiches and coffee when I returned. It was just after 9:30 p.m. when I found him.

Lodge recently had been involved in a bitter public battle after announcing his opposition to granting tenure to psychology professor Dr. Harold Hunter. Hunter accused Lodge, chair of the University’s tenure and promotions committee, of opposing his tenure application on the basis of racial bias. Hunter is one of only five African-American professors on campus and if approved would be only the second to become tenured.

Yardley said campus police and the county sheriff’s department would be investigating through the night and until the murderer is found. He asks that anyone with information that might be of assistance to the police call his office immediately.

University community relations director Joyce Parker released a statement last night urging the campus community to not be overly alarmed. McKinley continues to be a safe and secure environment, she said, but until this situation is cleared up, everyone should make an extra effort to be extremely careful.

- 30 -

Here, Mary said shoving a cup of coffee in Jake’s face. We’ve already had over 1,000 hits on your murder story. Maybe you’ll want to contact some of the regular advertisers and see if they want in. We could use the cash.

Jake sat up, brushed a hand through his slightly graying shaggy hair, rubbed his eyes and searched the end of the couch and the floor next to it for his glasses. Slipping the gold-rimmed glasses on his face, he took the coffee from Mary and squinted at his watch. It was 7:30 a.m.

You could use a shave, too, Mary said.

Geez, Mary, he said. Do I need a mother?

Apparently, she snapped.
Mary Taylor had been working at the New-Press since graduating from high school nearly 50 years earlier and had outlasted three previous owners.

Thanks for the coffee, Jake acknowledged in an effort to temper the conversation.

You’re welcome, she said. What’s next?

What’s next? Jake repeated. Can I have a minute here to wake up?

Shall I call the radio stations and buy a couple spots promoting the online story?

That would be a good idea, Jake said. And when Ben comes by this morning, ask him to see if he can find a photo of Lodge to add to the story. Ben Poole was a McKinley computer student who worked part-time with the Online Press.

I’m on it! Mary said.

Jake could see Mary was in one of her moods.

I’m going up and take a shower. Then I’m going to get some breakfast and stop by the police station to see if there’s anything new. And, yes I’ll pitch some ads for the web site. I could use a new shirt or two.

And a couple ties, Mary added.

Jake ignored the comment, but paused at the door. I don’t suppose you have any contacts over in the Lutkins Building you might call? he asked Someone who can tell us what the gossip mill is saying about the late and beloved Dr. Franklin Lodge.

I might have a friend or two. I’ll get right on it, boss.

Jake smiled as the door swung closed behind him.

His flat occupied the second floor above the News-Press office and had previously been divided into two student apartments. On arriving in McKinley, he had moved into one of the units until he could find a larger apartment or small house, but had come to like the convenience of living over the office. He had the flat gutted and a bedroom walled off at one end of the rectangular space, the remainder of the flat left open. A casual den-like seating area, a study, and an efficiency-style kitchen and dining room occupied the remainder of the space.

At 39, Jake had accumulated very little. He had given away all of the furniture he and Collie had collected for their Manhattan apartment, and purchased what he needed after moving to McKinley. Most of it was discounted early American. Lots of dark oak and tweed upholstery. His only extravagance was a growing collection of electronic devices including a MacBook Pro, an iPad Air, an iPhone and a digital collection of music ranging from Bob Dylan to Phil Collins to Hall and Oates. The walls were decorated with black and white posters of southwestern photos by Ansel Adams and from the Route 66 photo series by Andre Feininger.

The silver MacBook Pro and a telephone sat on a library table occupying the space under the flat’s only window. A blinking light on the phone signaled a half-dozen messages. Jake looked at the light, considered listening to the messages, but decided a hot shower and clean clothes were more urgent. He stripped off his clothes, grabbed a razor, shaving cream, and mirror and climbed into the shower. The steamy hot water felt good. He shaved, lathered from head to toe and leaned back into the warm stream, letting the water massage his head and face.

Who had killed Franklin Lodge, he wondered? And, why? What brings a person to hate so much that he or she kills another human being? Jealousy? Greed? People kill for almost any reason these days, he thought? A cheerleader’s mom kills a 16 year-old competitor to keep her daughter’s place on the coveted pom pom squad. A soccer dad pounds another parent to death over a disagreement at a youth soccer game. A motorist stuck in traffic pulls a pistol and shoots the driver of a car attempting to edge into his lane.

What had Franklin Lodge said or done to push someone to commit the crime of murder? A colleague, angered by the professor’s superior demeanor? A student unhappy with a course grade? A girlfriend or angry wife? Jake didn’t know enough about Lodge to speculate beyond the obvious. Harold Hunter was the only obvious suspect. Perhaps too much so. Hunter had been angered by Lodge’s opposition to his tenure application. Assuming the rest of the committee would have gone along with Lodge, Hunter’s academic career at McKinley would have been over.

Hunter had countered Lodge by launching an attack in the campus newspaper, accusing him and most of the university’s faculty and administration of being racist. He had, in fact, asked Jake to run the same letter in the News-Press. Jake refused, but had been looking into the issue of racial diversity at McKinley. He knew his friend, Rube McCutcheon, head of the journalism program, was the only tenured black professor on campus. And his tenure had come as a carrot to lure him away from a successful broadcast news career to an administrative position at McKinley, rather than through the traditional committee process.

Out of the shower Jake toweled off, slipped into a pair of khaki pants and a light blue Oxford-cloth shirt. He glanced at the tie rack, hesitated, and then picked a maroon tie patterned with the faces of children from around the world. Mary would be pleased. Pulling on a weathered brown tweed jacket, he hit the message button on the answering machine. The first couple were surveys, the third at 11:35 p.m. the previous evening was from Annie:

"Jake. Hey, I heard the awful news about Franklin Lodge. You’re probably still in the office. Just wanted to say goodnight and I love you. Call me tomorrow. I need to talk to you."

Annie was Annie Fullerton, McKinley psychology professor, divorced mother of a 12-year-old adopted Korean daughter, and only the second woman Jake had ever loved.

The next message, recorded about 10 minutes after Annie had called, was from Rube. Didn’t anyone go to bed last night, Jake wondered.

"Jake. Looks like you’ve got yourself a circulation builder. Stop by tomorrow if you get a chance."

The fifth message had been recorded at a few minutes after midnight:

"Professor Bertrain. Hi, this is Megan Webster. Zack Harrison and I were in your reporting class last semester. Anyway, we heard the news about Dr. Lodge and just read your story online. Thought you’d like to know. Lodge and his grad assistant, Shamika Collins, were heavy until about a week ago, when she dumped him. Don’t know why. We’ll ask around."

Jake grinned. Megan and Zack had been his star students during the fall semester and had already signed up for his advanced class in the spring. He taught one course fall and spring, but wasn’t teaching during the abbreviated January term.

The final call was from Annie, a few minutes before 8 a.m. He had just missed her:

"Jake. Good morning. I’m at my office in the counseling center. I ran into Harold Hunter at the Rooster Coop earlier. He looked worried. Said he was afraid everyone would think he had murdered Franklin. I still need to talk to you about something else. It’s not been a great week so far and it’s only Wednesday. Miss you."

Jake wondered why Harold Hunter was so nervous. Yes, he was an obvious suspect, but if he was innocent he had nothing to worry about. And he wondered what Annie was so eager to talk to him about. She sounded upset.

It was 8:40 a.m. when he headed down the stairs to the Rooster. The North Carolina sky was bright blue. The overnight snow had turned the campus landscape into a winter wonderland. And there was a murder to solve. It was going to be a great day!

Chapter Two

On the other darker side of McKinley, far from the affluence that characterized the campus community, a solitary figure huddled against the dirty exterior of a once prosperous convenience store waiting for a turn at possibly the only pay phone left in the county if not the state. Flakes of clean white snow paused against dark hair and a thick cashmere sweater, quickly fading into cold wetness. It was after midnight. She knew he would be waiting. Waiting to hear. Now. The phone was free. Shivering fingers dialed the number. It rang twice. He would be looking out the bay window watching waves crash against the rocks.

"Hello," the voice at the other end whispered tentatively.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"It's done."

"He's dead?"

"Yes, but . . ."

He cut her off. When are you coming home?

"I don’t know. Not yet. Not until the other one’s gone.

The phone clinked at both ends.

The figure turned into the wind, hurried two blocks to where the car was parked, folded into the black Porsche and drove away.

Chapter Three

Mary was standing at the News-Press door, motioning Jake into the office when he came down the stairs.

I’m starving, Mary, make it quick.

Well, excuse me, but I’ve been working. I called Lucille Mueller over in the Lutkins building. She’s secretary to all of the humanities departments, including English. She says Lodge was -- her words, not mine -- ‘a prick.’ He was nice to anybody he considered his equal, the very brightest students, and most any young and attractive female. The rest could take a walk.

I’m assuming your friend was in the latter category.

Says he treated her like a ‘hired hand.’

Anything else?

Yeah, here’s the good stuff. He was involved with . . ..

His graduate student, Shamika Collins, Jake interrupted.

How’d you know that? Mary looked surprised.

You’re not the only one who’s been working! Anything else?

Yeah, get out of here.

Thanks. And, hey, keep working on your friend. See if she knows anything about Lodge’s history. And if you know anyone over in the psych building, find out something about Harold Hunter. There was bad blood between Hunter and Lodge. I wonder why?

Do I get a bonus?

Yeah. You can keep your job for another 50 years.

Aren’t I the lucky one!

The Rooster Coop was next door to the newspaper office, separated only by the stairs to a second floor landing leading to Jake’s apartment on the left, and a storage area over the Rooster on the right.

’Mornin’ darlin’, Lorna Potter greeted from behind a walk-up counter. A Buddy Holly tune on a local Oldies station played in the background. "What can I get you this morning?’ Lorna wore the prescribed Rooster polo, burnt orange, and snug-fitting Old Navy jeans. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail through the back of a McK.U. embroidered baseball cap.

How ‘bout a blueberry muffin and a tall coffee straight?

Coming right up.

The chief been in this morning?

You’re in luck. He and Terry are around the corner in the back booth.

Thanks, Lorna, Jake said, counting out the exact change and taking the muffins and coffee. Chief Ron Yardley and Deputy Terry Russell sat at the back of a large rectangular area furnished with diner-like booths along the left wall and several table-sofa combinations scattered through the remainder of the space. Computer terminals in the corner opposite where Yardley sat provided Internet connections. The walls were decorated with student-faculty art, the current hanging a collection of brightly-colored abstract representations of coffee mugs and burlap bags of coffee beans.

Editor, Yardley greeted as Jake approached.

Chief, Terry. Considering the entire McKinley police force is taking a coffee break, who’s writing parking tickets?

Considering I got a murder going on, haven’t had two winks of sleep in more than 24 hours, and the University PR director is breathin’ down my neck, do you have to be a smart ass Bertrain?

You haven't solved that little murder yet?

According’ to the local newspaper in cyberspace, I don’t even have a suspect. Doesn’t that make me look good?

Chief Ron Yardley and recently hired First Deputy Terry Russell could have been twins except for the age difference. Yardley was in his late 40s, bald and wore aviator style-glasses. Terry Russell was ten years younger with a military crew cut that left him with little more hair than the chief. Both were just under six feet, within an inch of each other. Both were in exceptionally good physical condition. Yardley had spent nearly two decades on the cop beat in Atlanta. He had been enrolled in an administrative training program when the McKinley town council had recruited him to head the campus-community police force.

Terry Russell was a local boy who had spent a couple terms in the military and another ten years with the county’s sheriff’s department before becoming Yardley’s chief assistant the previous fall. The department’s only other employees consisted of retirees and part-timers whose hours were staggered to cover the office and meter beat.

Was I wrong? You got suspects? Jake questioned.

I got suspects crawlin’ all over, Yardley said.

Care to mention any of them?

How ‘ bout any number of students whose fall grades didn’t suit them? I understand he gave more failing grades than anyone in the English department if not the entire university?

"Possible, but a long shot. You got anything else?

Harold Hunter? Threatening a man’s livelihood is a killing offense.

Right, he’s an obvious contender. But the most obvious suspect typically is not the killer. Lodge was chair of the tenure committee, not the only vote. There were seven members in all. At least three others would have had to vote against Hunter. Besides, Hunter had a graduate seminar last night 7 - 9:50. He has an alibi during the time Lodge was killed. Anybody else?

Yardley rubbed a hand over his smooth head. You been working I see. If not Hunter, then, how ‘bout a young attractive graduate assistant who had been having a relationship with the good doctor for the past six months?

Until she broke it off a week ago?

Even better. Lover spurned.

Ok, so you got suspects. Anything on the murder weapon?

Yardley looked at his deputy. Terry had county run the trophy we picked up off the floor. He can fill you in on the report.

There’s no doubt, Terry Russell said, Lodge was killed by repeated blows to the back of the head with the trophy. At least two corners of the square base had Lodge’s hair fragments, blood and even traces of his skull. Whoever did it wanted him dead. That trophy was 18 inches tall and weighed over five pounds. The base was solid mahogany.

Fingerprints? Jake asked.

Clean as a whistle.

How’d the murderer get behind him with the trophy in his own office.

Best we can figure, Yardley said. They were talking, maybe arguing, and Lodge started to leave the room. When he turned to walk out the door, his visitor grabbed the trophy off a shelf and hit him. After the first contact, he or she simply kept whacking away.

You talk with Hunter yet? Jake asked.


Yeah, Yardley said. Got a case of bad nerves if you ask me.

Wouldn’t you if you were the prime suspect in a murder investigation.

If I had something to be nervous about.

Sounds like you’re dreaming of a quick arrest. Is Parker putting pressure on you already?

As close to an ultimatum as it gets. To put it in Public Relations Director Parker’s words, ‘The president is eager to have this matter cleared up before the spring semester begins in two weeks.

You talk to the girl yet? Jake asked.

No more than you. Not other than at the scene. She was pretty upset. We thought we’d let her get a good night’s sleep before we question her. She’s not going anywhere.

What’d she see in Lodge, anyway? She’s young and beautiful. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, but he must have been at least 25 years older than she.

He was 59, Terry Russell said, matter of factly, then looking directly at Chief Yardley, Must be that mysterious power some older guys have over young women.

Yardley ignored the tease. I’d guess Miss Collins to be 26, give or take a year or two.

That would make my estimate of 25 years difference on the low side, Jake said. "So, Chief, you’re ignoring Terry’s assertion that