Sounds of Murder by Patricia Rockwell

he’d
almost taken root in the soft cushions.
    "Detective," she stopped him as he started
for the door, "One question."
    He turned to her. "I was wondering," she
asked, "if your men are still working in the lab? This may sound
callous, but I have data collection scheduled in there and I know
you have the lab screened off. I was just wondering when we--I
mean--the faculty could get back into the lab to work?"
    "They’re not there now," he said. "But we’re
leaving the tape up because we may want to get back in. Also we
need to go over the lab with your Department Head, Dr. Marks, with
his inventory list and confirm that nothing of value is missing.
You’ll have your lab back in a day or two."
    "Thank you, Detective," she said.
    He was at the door. He turned back to her.
"Oh, and Dr. Barnes, I'm serious. Keep a low profile," he said,
"and if you think of something else that might have
anything--anything at all to do with Dr. Clark's death-- contact me
at once." Then he loped down the hall and out of her sight.
    Pamela waited for his disappearance. She
looked at her watch; it was after three o’clock. Other than her
colleagues earlier and Shoop's visit, no students had shown up for
her office hours. That was typical, she noted. Some days it was
barren and other days her office was like a zoo. Today’s lack of
student visitors must be a reaction to Charlotte's murder. She
guessed that she too would find it hard to think about academic
pursuits if one of her instructors had been murdered.
    She glanced out her window at the parking lot
below. Shoop was climbing into his car and heading out of the lot.
The police still had the lab barricaded, he’d said, but no one was
in there now. Reardon was a small town with a small town police
department—not the New York City Crime Unit. Just how sophisticated
could Reardon’s little police department be and what could they
possibly have found?
    No time like the present, she thought.
Quickly, she grabbed her jacket and purse and headed out her office
door, locking it securely as she left. As she walked down the hall,
she noticed that Joan's and Willard's offices were closed. They
were either in class or had left for the day. Hopefully, the
situation would be the same on the main floor. As she headed down
the stairs, she felt her heart start to beat faster. At the bottom
of the steps, she opened the stairwell doors and peeked through.
The coast was clear; she could see no one in the side hallway that
led to the lab. Quickly she slipped through the doors and down the
hall. Shoop was right. The yellow tape was visible at eye level,
barring the lab door. The door was securely locked, too, forcing
her to fumble in her purse for her keys. As she unlocked the door,
stooping carefully under the tape, and went inside, she thought,
what are you doing? This is probably exactly what Charlotte did
yesterday, and look where it got her.
    She looked around the lab. She noted the sign
plastered above the check-in table. It’s large font stated, “Only
graduate students and faculty are allowed keys to this laboratory.
Please do not leave the lab unattended.”
    At the far end of the room were some storage
compartments where they kept replacement parts for the computers,
microphones, and headphones. She walked to the back of the room and
surveyed the entire laboratory.
    Taking up almost the entire room were four
rows of computer carrels, each with a computer terminal. The second
through fourth rows had computer terminals only. The carrels in the
first row had computer terminals, free-standing microphones,
headphones, and control panels immediately to the right of the
free-standing microphones. The front-row booths were all separated
by acoustic paneling that rose to a height of eight feet and
extended out a width of five feet on both sides.
    Pamela walked up the side of the lab and down
the first row of carrels. When she arrived at Carrel #4, where the
murder had occurred, she saw that the police had