Murder, Take Two. Carol J. Perry

      Chapter 10

      I raised one finger in a “wait a minute while I take this call” signal.

      “Uh, yes, Professor Armstrong. I know you’re very busy, but I wonder if you could spare the time for a short interview.” Pete leaned in a little closer, his arms folded on top of the open window, obviously listening to every word.

      “On TV?”

      “Of course. WICH-TV. Francine and I can arrange to meet you at the university if that’s the most convenient for you. Or if you prefer, we can shoot it at our studio.”

      “Who’s Francine?”

      “My photographer. She was with me yesterday.”

      “Oh, yes.”

      Long pause. Was he thinking it over? I remembered the underlined-in-red “Schedule another interview with Professor Armstrong.” Mr. Doan was serious about this. I had to convince this guy to agree to it. “We’ll keep it as brief as possible,” I promised, “but I’m sure our viewing audience wants to hear more from you, Professor.”

      “All right, but you can drop the ‘Professor.’ Call me Alan, Lee.” It sounded like a smooth, slightly husky, command.

      Francine’s smirk was back.

      “Certainly, Alan,” I said, making a face in Francine’s direction. “When and where would be convenient for you?”

      Another pause. “I suppose the lighting and sound at the TV studio is superior to the outdoor version?”

      “We have more control there, yes.”

      “I can arrange to meet you at the station tomorrow evening then, Lee. Sixish? And Lee, I’m looking forward to it.”

      Pete shook his head, moved away from the window, and made a swinging-a-bat move. “Ball game,” he whispered.

      “Professor—I mean, Alan—can we make it earlier in the day? I have a previous engagement tomorrow evening.”

      Long, heartfelt sigh on the other end of the phone. “Lee, dear, as you’ve already noticed, I am a very busy man. There are so many demands on my time—some from larger media venues, to tell the truth. And I do have a unique slant on this murder. I’d love for your station to be the first to hear about what I know. But, if you can’t make time for me . . .”

      I looked at Pete, shrugging my shoulders. What shall I do?

      He put down his imaginary bat, smiled, and whispered, “It’s okay.”

      I knew he understood. There’ve been times when his work interfered with our plans and other times when mine had. “All right, then, Alan,” I said. “I’ll plan to see you at the station at six tomorrow evening.”

      “Perfect,” he said. “And Lee, you won’t be sorry.”

      I’m sorry already. “Looking forward to it,” I lied. “Goodbye.”

      “Oh, Pete,” said. “I wish I didn’t have to do this. But, Mr. Doan . . .”

      “Don’t worry about it, babe,” he said. “I’ll give the tickets to Marie. She and Donny love the Sox. We’ll go to another game soon. I promise.” Yes, Pete’s sister and brother-in-law are named Donny and Marie.

      “Thanks for understanding,” I said. “I’d better call Rhonda and see if she can schedule Marty for a six o’clock in-studio shoot tomorrow.” I’ve worked with Marty McCarthy since my first day at WICH-TV. She’s a friend as well as a crack videographer. My mind raced, trying to plan ahead. “The news desk will still be working on the five o’clock. Maybe we can use the Saturday Business Hour set. Then we can run the interview on the late news.” I looked back at Pete. “The interview shouldn’t take too long. Maybe we can do something afterward.”

      “I’ve already got Wednesday night off,” he said, then did that silly Groucho Marx thing wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ll think of something. Gotta get back to work. I’ll call you later. So long, Francine.”

      “See ya, Pete,” she said, waving as he left. “Here come some more mobile units. Chief must be about ready to get started.”

      I called Rhonda, quickly explained what was going on, checked hair and makeup in the visor mirror, and climbed out of the van. Together Francine and I organized camera and mic setups and took our positions as close as we could get to the chief’s lectern.

      Media interest in the Samuel Bond murder had clearly grown. I recognized reporters from two of the local Boston stations, along with a FOX network crew, a representative from the History channel, and even a member of a well-known ghost-hunting team. The long-ago murder of Captain White had surely captured the attention of the public far beyond Salem. The chief, tall, distinguished, and handsome in a dress uniform and a chest full of medals, approached the bank of microphones, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

      “Thank you for coming. I’ll attempt to update you briefly on the matter of the recent death of Professor Samuel Bond. As you may know, we have made one arrest. My staff, as well as our state of Massachusetts advisers, are continuing a thorough investigation into the circumstances of Professor Bond’s death. There has been some significant progress in the case, the details of which will be forthcoming later. Certain materials have been turned over to the forensics unit for further analysis. I wish I had more to share with you today, but please be assured that we are moving as swiftly as possible in a forward direction. Thank you for your understanding.”

      The shouted questions began. A guy I recognized from WBZ-TV yelled, “Is it true you’ve got the killer’s shoes?” So someone else has heard about the cops raiding Cody’s locker. I poked Francine’s arm. Her gym-rat contact was right.

      “There have been several items collected and sent to the forensic labs,” the chief said. “I’ll have no further comment on that.” I tried asking a question. “Chief Whaley, since you’ve found the knife, are you looking for two killers now?”

      He frowned in my direction. Then shook his head. “As I just said, a state forensics team is working on evidence we’ve gathered, including some new items of interest.” He stepped back from the podium. “That’s all we have for now. I’ll notify the press as soon as there is any further relevant information. Good afternoon.”

      He answered a few more questions as he moved toward the door of the station—mostly about any connection to the White killing. As usual, he looked relieved when the door closed behind him.

      “That’s kind of a letdown.” Francine stowed our equipment neatly in the side of the van. “Nothing much new there.”

      “I know. The only new thing was the fact that they’ve gathered some more evidence they’re not going to tell us about. How’m I supposed to make a news alert spot out of that?”

      “Beats me,” she said. “What’s a ‘new item of interest’?”

      “Could be darned near anything,” I said. “And ‘items of interest’ mean ‘things,’ not ‘people,’