Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [74]
“The newscast makes it sound more serious than that.”
“Trust the press to get it wrong,” Smith said.
He didn’t want to mislead the dean, but also was reluctant to share what he knew. What did he know? Only that despite earlier protests to the contrary, Jeremiah had dated Nadia Zarinski. No crime in that, although denying it could do nothing but raise suspicions. The police had asked whether Jeremiah would participate in a lineup. That could only mean they had someone claiming to have witnessed the murder, or events closely allied with it. And what about obtaining a warrant for Jeremiah’s shoes? Undoubtedly, footprints had been lifted from the scene of the murder, and the police wanted to match sole patterns with those prints. What concerned him most was his conviction that Jeremiah’s shoes were the only ones seized under warrant. He hoped he was wrong. But if he was right, it meant Jeremiah was now the prime suspect in Nadia Zarinski’s killing.
Where had Jeremiah gone? Hopefully, he’d drive around a while to cool off, and return to his father’s house. But if he’d decided to flee, his problems would be compounded. He’d been released to his father’s care. The court would be calling to check on him. The police would undoubtedly want to interview him again. The hole he was digging was getting deeper; soon, it might be too deep to climb out of.
“Mac.”
“Yes?”
“Sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
“No, I’m not sure. I’ve been questioning it ever since I first became involved.”
“My recommendation?”
“Shoot.”
“Leave the matter to Yale Becker. I know you want to help friends, and I admire that. But by bringing in Yale, you’ve already done your friends a huge favor.”
Smith nodded.
“There’s also the question of the university, Mac. Becoming embroiled in a scandalous murder case, especially one involving such high-visibility people, could kick back on us, on our fund-raising efforts, to say the least.”
Smith wished Dean Mackin hadn’t injected fund-raising into the equation. A young woman had been brutally murdered, and a young man, as unpleasant as he might be, faced possible indictment as the murderer. Smith knew, of course, and was respectful of any university’s need to raise funds, and was not reacting personally to Mackin’s comment. Among the dean’s many responsibilities was the need to generate contributions to further the law school’s programs. Mac had taken part in his share of events designed to do that.
But we teach the law here, he thought, not fund-raising. He’d made a commitment to Clarise Emerson and to Yale Becker, and commitments were important to Mackensie Smith.
“Think about it, Mac,” said the dean.
“I will, Ralph. Thanks.”
Dean Mackin left the office, stopped, returned, and said, “I’m getting nothing but positive feedback on your Lincoln course. The Saturday session had to be closed.”
“The Saturday session,” Mac repeated. “That’s tomorrow. I’d almost forgotten.”
“Mustn’t do that, Mac. You’d have a classroom full of very unhappy students.”
Smith realized he wasn’t in the mood for paperwork, packed up, and left the building for home. As he did, Klayman and Johnson were at American University talking again with the student, Joe Cole.
They began by asking a series of questions similar to what they’d asked during their previous visit, and received basically the same answers. Yes, he’d dated her; yes, they’d been together the previous Saturday night; yes, they’d made love at her apartment; and yes, he’d left and returned to his room in the dorm.
“You were pretty pissed, weren’t you?” Johnson said, leaning against the closed door.
Cole displayed his most charming smile from where he sat on his bed. “Why should I be pissed? Come on, guys. We had a great roll in the sack. What would I be mad about?”
“The other guy she talked about,” Klayman said. “That’s what.”
“What other guy?”
“The one she compared you to,” said Johnson. “The one she said was better in bed than you.”
The smile faded. “How do you know that?” Cole asked.
“What’d she do, laugh at your sexual performance?