Following the sound of a scream, history professor Andrew Stanard comes running. In the nearby departmental bathroom at Chesapeake Bay University, a woman has been murdered. She is quickly identified as Jenny Biggio, a graduate student, and she has quite obviously been strangled. The police are quick to suspect someone in the history department-most notably Professor Stanard's protégé Brendan Healy. Everyone knows Brendan was Jenny's boyfriend, but it isn't common knowledge that Jenny checked out three pregnancy books from the university library the day she was murdered. A very public confrontation between Brendan and Jenny early in the day, however, points at the boyfriend's guilt, and Brendan does little to defend himself, admitting he once served time in a juvenile correctional facility. Even so, Stanard knows there's more to this case than meets the eye. He understands the cops want to solve the murder quickly to get it off the front page; in order to save Brendan, Stanard does his own digging. He comes upon several overlooked suspects, including a squirrelly pizza deliveryman, a homeless wino with a felony-prone past, and a philandering professor. The deeper he digs, the more dangerous things get; soon Professor Stanard may be the killer's next target.

Fatal Knowledge

A Collegiate Murder MysteryBy Daniel P. Hennelly

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Daniel P. Hennelly
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-6052-5

Chapter One

I never aspired to be Chair of the History Department. Academicsonly become administrators if they have no other choice; we earned ourPh.D.s to spend our lives pursuing esoteric scholarship not pushingpapers. Rick Hanson, my predecessor, enjoyed being departmentchair and probably would've served indefinitely. His love of baconcheeseburgers and French fries altered my career path. If Rick hadn'tdropped dead during a pickup basketball game at the campus rec center,I would've happily continued as a tenured professor in the departmenttill retirement.

Those outside academia believe being department chair is thepinnacle of a professor's career. They envision a chair mentoringjunior colleagues, nurturing students and moderating scholarlydiscussions. Instead, a chair referees petty squabbles between facultyin the department, resolves problems for clueless students who've neverbothered to read the university catalog and allocates scarce resources tono one's satisfaction.

Emily Worthington, the only other full professor in the department,had already served a stint as chair. During her tenure, she clashedconstantly with Tollie Monroe, the Dean of the College of Arts, SocialSciences and Humanities (abbreviated as CASSH in the university'slexicon). Tollie unceremoniously sacked her like Harry Truman firingDouglas MacArthur, complete with Emily's farewell address at her lastdepartment meeting as chair. As a tenured professor, Emily returned toher former office and conducted guerilla warfare against the university'sadministration. Rick's untimely death coupled with Tollie's visceralhatred of Emily meant I was the logical; make it only, choice to assumethe burden of leadership.

I'd spent Monday at the National Archives in Washingtonresearching my new book on slavery in Southern industry. It hadbeen a productive day; I'd found documents relating to the TannehillIronworks in Alabama. A workforce of almost 600 slaves labored inhellish conditions in the iron works at the height of production duringthe Civil War.

Arriving home late in the evening, I found an e-mail from thedepartment secretary Janet Hodges, indicating her daughter had goneinto labor on Sunday evening and she was in North Carolina awaitingthe birth of her first grandchild. She'd not been in the office on Mondayto photocopy the mid-term exams I'd left her on Friday afternoon.

I went in early on Tuesday morning to get the exams photocopiedbefore my section of American History met at 8:00 AM. Counting thecars in the faculty parking lot, I was the third faculty member to arrive.A trash truck emptying the dumpster blocked my reserved parking spacebehind Russell B. Jordan Hall and I had to wait until it was finished. Dr.Jordan was the first president of Chesapeake Bay College and at the endof his twenty-five year tenure, the board of trustees named the Staliniststyle edifice in his honor. Undoubtedly one of the ugliest buildings inVirginia and a testament to the doctrine of the lowest bid, Jordan Hallwas a ten story office tower flanked by classroom wings of three stories.After starting the college in a shuttered boys' orphanage at the end ofWorld War II, Dr. Jordan perceived the building to be the crowningachievement of his presidential career. During most of the 1950's thecollege had functioned in the aging buildings of the orphanage withsurplus military barracks added to handle surging enrollments. Thecompletion of Russell B. Jordan Hall marked the metamorphosis ofChesapeake Bay College into Chesapeake Bay University.

"You're in early Dr. Stanard," greeted Vivian Underwood, one ofthe housekeeping workers as I exited the elevator on to the 6th floor.Pine cleaner fumes lingered in the corridor from the recent moppingof the floor.

"Good morning Vivian. How are you doing?"

"I don't know how they expect me to get everything cleaned by 8:00AM. Some people take their sweet time doing their business," mutteredVivian as she emptied the trash can next to the copier.

"What's wrong?" I asked thinking I'd offended her.

"Someone is in the women's restroom; I can't clean until shefinishes."

I wondered who else had come in early; Janet was usually the onlyone on the floor this early. Of the female faculty in the department, onlyEmily Worthington had an 8 o'clock class on Tuesday. The last thing Iwanted was a run in with Emily before I'd digested my breakfast.

Vivian moved her cart to the men's restroom and began cleaningit instead. Unlocking the department office, I found the envelopecontaining the exam still sitting on Janet's desk where I'd left it onFriday. I unlocked my office and put my brief case down on the floornext to my desk. Sitting on the corner of my desk were the blue booksfrom the midterm exam for my American history survey class taken onMonday. Leafing through a few of the exams, I cringed at the answersfrom the class composed mostly of freshman. Hopefully today's examwould go better; usually only history majors signed up for America from1880 to 1919. I searched my desk drawer and found my copy card. Afterputting on a pot of coffee in the file room, I went across the hall andturned on the copier to warm it up.

The copier came to life and drowned out Vivian cleaning until thepaper jammed. I spent several frustrating minutes trying to clear thejam in the aging machine, a problem encountered daily by everyone inthe department. Much of the last department meeting involved Emilyhectoring me about when the department would be getting a newmachine, especially since the English Department received a top of theline model the month before. Emily believed Tollie favored the EnglishDepartment when allocating resources because he'd been an Englishprofessor before becoming a dean.

"She's still in there," complained Vivian as she waited impatientlyoutside the women's restroom. "She doesn't care that someone has toclean."

I found the scrap of paper jamming the machine and removed it;the machine gave me the green light to resume copying. As I shuffled thepapers to resume copying, the silence of the deserted floor was piercedby Vivian's scream from the women's restroom. Rushing down the hall,I pushed open the door to the women's restroom to find Vivian frozenin the center of the room.

"What happened?"

"She's dead!" Vivian panted as if trying to scream again.

"Who's dead?"

"She's on the toilet, in the third stall against the wall."

I looked at the stalls and saw a pair of legs behind the third door;the odor of stale urine hung heavily over the room. Slowly I pushed inthe door to the stall with my elbow and found a young woman, fullyclothed, propped up on the toilet. Her bruised neck, bulging eyes andcontorted face indicated she'd died violently. Suppressing the urge tovomit, I helped Vivian, still in shock, out of the restroom. Once inmy office, I seated her in my chair and dialed campus police. "This isProfessor Stanard of the History Department. Send a police unit to thesixth floor of Russell Jordan Hall. One of the housekeeping workersfound a dead woman in the restroom. I think she was strangled. Sheneeds an ambulance."

"If she's dead, why would she need an ambulance?" asked thedispatcher.

"Vivian needs the ambulance."

"Is Vivian the victim?"

"No, she's the housekeeping worker who found the body. She's inshock."

"I've dispatched a unit; they'll be there in a minute. I'll call for anambulance too."

I went over to the coffee maker and poured a cup for Vivian. Sheprobably needed a shot of bourbon but coffee was...