Free Medieval Murders by Aaron Stander

was the nature of our relationship. She came in and performed her duties, but we didn’t talk very often. That’s the way she wanted it.”
    “What time would she have left?”
    “7:25, 7:30 at the latest. It’s a very short service.”
    Elkins slid one of his cards across the desk, “You know where to reach me. If you have any more thoughts about Monday, or anything else that you think might be useful, please give me a call.” He started to rise.
    “Before you go. There’s something I don’t understand,” said Father Bob, his eyes on Elkins’s in a hard stare.
    “What don’t you…?”
    “Why are you going to all this trouble when the woman obviously killed herself?”
    “This is an unexplained death,” answered Ray. “We investigate all such deaths to eliminate the possibility of foul play.”
    “Is there any suggestion...?”
    “No, not at this time,” said Ray, pushing himself out of his chair. He stopped at the door and held Father Bob in his gaze for a long moment, “Thank you for your help.”
    Father Bob nodded, but said nothing more, turning his attention to a stack of papers on his desk.
    Ray was glad to get out into the sun. Father Bob made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the memory of Ellen’s funeral. Father Bob had gone on and on about how glad Ellen was to be with Jesus. Ray wasn’t sure. Ellen was a fallen-away Catholic who, even at the end, showed no interest in renewing her faith. In her final weeks Father Bob visited her at the hospice. Ray had the impression that she found Bob annoying. She said he was, “too pretty” to be a priest. However, at the end Ellen had asked for a Catholic funeral. She said her mother would find comfort in that.

10

    R ay was happy to get back into the sunshine and warmth of the day, away from the dull light and chill of the air-conditioned building. He retrieved his car and drove over to University Maintenance, a complex that occupied a two-block area on the north side of campus that housed the power plant, repair and trade shops, storage facilities, and a management building.
    Ray found John Stockton, the Director of University Maintenance, in his littered office near the main entrance of the one-story cement-block building.
    “I was expecting you a bit earlier,” said Stockton, as he stood and extended his hand.
    “Just running a bit behind,” Ray replied, dropping into a chair. “When I sent you that e-mail yesterday….”
    “Isn’t that always the way. Every afternoon before I leave work I write a to-do list for the next day. Then I get here, and all I do is fight fires, one little crisis after another. At the end of the day I look at the list, and I haven’t accomplished any of those things. Frustrating as hell. So you want to know about the lock and key system.”
    “I want to know how Sheila Benson, the woman who jumped from the carillon, got a key for the building.”
    “How she got a key, that’s an interesting question. The person who can best explain our rather cobbled together system is Ben Beyer. He’s been in charge of keys since the 60s, think he was right out of high school then. In the beginning, he was a university carpenter and looking after keys was just sort of an extra assignment. I think he’s been doing it full-time more than thirty years. Could have retired ten years ago, but he’s stayed on, and I’m damn glad. He knows everything about the locks and keying systems at this place, and none of it is documented. I’ve tried to get him to start writing things down, but he says he’s always too busy, and I think that’s probably true. When he does finally retire, we’ll be in an even bigger mess.” Stockton stood. Come on, I’ll take you over there.”
    Ben Beyer had his back to them when they entered the lock shop. He was cutting a key and didn’t notice them until he switched off the machine and turned to get something off his desk.
    “Didn’t see you boys there,” he said.
    “Just arrived and