Death to the Dean by Linda P. Rose

Muriel McGregor had her champions, but they were far outnumbered by her enemies. Both agreed that the university president had made a mistake when he selected Muriel to be dean of the Humanities College. The tenured faculty were noisy or ominously quiet when discussing Muriel. The untenured professors were discreet. They hugged their fears and were vaguely positive.

When Muriel was found dead, covered in her blood, the untenured professors resisted speculating about the murderer. I did not have tenure to protect me. The tenured faculty were confident that the murderer was a staff member or the former acting dean, Muriel’s rival. A few claimed one of the dean’s few doctoral students was the murderer. Some staff identified the dean’s executive assistant as the murderer. Over the years, Muriel had eroded her assistant’s dignity and confidence.

Muriel was reviled for her skin, the texture of a raw yam. Others said her face was the color of library paste. All agreed that her hair was unruly, her voice too deep, her clothing old or ugly.  She conducted faculty meetings with the aplomb of a KGB agent who micromanaged her kills.

Two city police detectives crisscrossed the Humanities Building for a few weeks after the  murder. They were quoted in stories about Muriel’s murder in the campus newspaper, and boosted sales of the city’s newspaper. 

The chair of the Sociology Department agreed to be the interim dean but refused to move into Muriel’s office. No one suspected him of her murder although she had treated him poorly.

A few people admitted seeing the stainless steel letter opener that had sliced into the arteries of Muriel’s neck. They said it had resided on Muriel’s desk blotter next to a wooden container of gift pens. I had seen it.

After three weeks, the city police arrested a homeless woman who babbled and had a history of mental illness. After they released her, they interviewed one of Muriel’s hostages several times. She was a doctoral student from Morocco whom Muriel had advised for six years. Muriel was on the verge of chucking her out. The police finally verified the student’s alibi. When  they interviewed the former acting dean, she had her lawyer in tow, and he advised her to be silent. The detectives retreated and moved on to a custodian.

A professor overheard one of the staff of the student services office say that the murderer deserved an award. She was attractive. The two male investigators enjoyed interviewing her. Her alibi was an anthropology professor who was on his third wife, but was always ready for a new affair. Sometimes, he avoided entanglements with students, and settled for staff whom he could have fired. 

In desperation, the police hired a profiler to describe the murderer. It had to be someone with sufficient strength to plunge the knife into Muriel’s throat, and who Muriel could have allowed into her office after hours. I laughed. They didn’t know the strength I had from boxing classes. I could have pushed the letter opener into Muriel’s neck. I had a motive, but there were dozens of us who feared Muriel and her threats.             

The president’s office hosted the memorial service. The new acting dean attended with obvious distaste. We went to the service out of curiosity. The two police detectives flitted around the edges of the half-full room. A few of us smiled together, picturing someone collapsing and crying out, “I killed her.”

Two university vice-presidents extolled Muriel’s virtues, her research on 19th-century French literature, and the way she eliminated fiscal mismanagement in the Humanities Division. A few of us bemoaned Muriel’s slash-and-burn strategy of fiscal responsibility. We observed a few moments of silence in Muriel’s memory and forced ourselves not to laugh. The wicked witch was dead. We approved the acting dean. He cared more for his publications than responding to faculty or fiscal dilemmas.

After six weeks, the detectives arrested the dean’s former assistant. The poor woman cried and protested. I knew she was innocent. I knew myself too well to believe I’d volunteer my guilt or even feel guilty. I’d have to give the detectives a different suspect and new clues.

Linda P. Rose   

Image: A steel letter opener from Pewter.co.uk advert on the web.