The Last WORDLE

(A Detective Fowler Story)

by

Wilkinson Riling

Just after midnight, Detective Jeanette Fowler found herself crossing a lamp lit college campus to climb the main steps of the administrative building while trying to put from her mind the man she just left behind in a warm bed before being rudely summoned to respond to a 187; A murder/homicide.

Wearing a black satin slip dress with matching jacket, Fowler knew she might appear overdressed for a crime scene, but this was her ensemble from her earlier date, the same date whom she left hanging back at a Malibu Beach condo, and having not expected to stay over, left her with no change of clothes. She had received the poorly timed call from her partner, Detective Humberto Goyens who provided only two details; a dead man in his late 50’s and the location of the crime, UCLA.

And now, a mere twenty minutes after the call, the heels of her knock-off Jimmy Choos echoed sharply off the marble floor of an empty mezzanine as she followed a security guard toward the murder scene.

Looking past the waddling girth of the guard, Fowler could see a stretch of bright lemon colored crime scene tape blocking the entrance to an office. Two uniformed officers stood watch. Off to the side of the hallway, several people including another security guard huddled by a bench looked anxious as Fowler closed the distance.

Thanks to the little late-night traffic on the 10 freeway, she was able to beat the coroner and the forensics team to the scene. A set of EMTs stood near, but the second security guard who discovered the body had enough sense to secure the area and lock down the crime scene before they arrived.

Fowler opened her jacket revealing her homicide detective badge to one of the uniforms. “You have a pair of gloves I can borrow?” She stepped up and asked. The officer dug into a pocket and removed a pair of blue nitrile latex gloves and handed them to Fowler. “Thanks, I owe ya.”

Fowler stretched the gloves onto her hands as she ducked under the crime scene tape already held up by the second officer. Both cops watch her from behind. Her dress contoured an athletic body she usually kept obscured beneath workday pant suits or sweats and a hoodie when off duty. Her gun was secured to her hip in a small leather holster. The cops exchanged glances that suggested they were both surprised and impressed with Fowler’s visage.

Her partner Detective Goyens, 37, stocky with wisps of hair and of Mexican descent, wearing a suit looking as if it was recently removed from a laundry bag, stood taking notes across the room by a large oak desk. The area was lit by a lone desk lamp and computer laptop screen. Fowler could see the shadowed bulk of a person in the chair, slumped with head on desk. The room itself was large resembling more of a library than an office of administration. Fowler noted shelf upon shelf of academic books and surmised many were first editions. The setting gave off a deep sense of history. She stepped up next to Goyens, who didn’t look up from his note taking. “A bit over dressed aren’t we J.T.?” He said.

“Save it, H. What are we looking at here?” The two had been working together for little over a year and developed nicknames for each other. He called her J.T. because her full name on her police academy diploma read Jeanette Theresa Fowler.

For her, Humberto was just too long a name for her to keep saying but when she tried to just call him “Bert” it tended to get his hackles up, so she left it as simply “H.”

Goyens filled her in. “Professor Dean McShean, age fifty-two, found like this about two hours ago by the janitor. Gunshot. The security guard called us. Oh, and J.T.... Goyens, gave his “can you believe it?” face, “...he’s the college dean.”

“Dean, Dean McShean?” Fowler asked with a half-smile.

H corrected, “Professor Dean Gene McShean, the college Dean, to be exact.”

Fowler crouched to get a better look. The dean lay slumped on his desk, obviously dead. His eyes half-lidded were rimmed red around the sclera. His nose had a dry trickle of blood while white dried saliva caked lavender lips and a discolored tongue indicating encroaching lividity.

One of the dean’s hands hung down; his forefinger hooking an empty coffee mug that had already dripped its contents onto the polyester rug beneath his desk and chair. His other arm pointed to his MacBook laptop.

She checked a small waste basket under the desk. She reached in and pulled out a deformed piece of apple already browning exposed to air. The other half was at the bottom. She couldn’t be sure if she was seeing teeth marks.

Fowler asked Goyens. “Who called this in as a homicide, could’ve been a suicide or a heart attack. You said he was shot?”

Goyens leaned forward pointing his pen at the back of the corpse. “He took it in the back, so we can rule out suicide.” Fowler’s eyes scanned the dean’s gray tweed jacket, just below the shoulder blade, a small bullet hole was barely noticeable. Add to it no visible signs of blood and it was an easy miss for the homicide detective. Goyens pointed over his shoulder with his pen to the door. “Security guard called it in around 10:50. Any other questions, you’ll have to ask him.”

Fowler stood. “You ask him...” she said, “...To come here.” Her seniority was instantly present.

Goyens closed his eyes, took a breath and headed for the door. “Be right back.”

Fowler approached the desk and with a gloved finger punched the computer’s space bar bringing up the screen. It seemed, she thought, that before the man of letters drew his last breath he had been engaged in a game of WORDLE. Fowler took a glance at his final game guesses:

BIKER

BITER

BAYER

BOWER

BOXER

NICER

With a thumb and forefinger, she pressed the touchpad and scrolled the curser to “HISTORY.” A tab dropped down listing the most recent browser entries. The top three all had the NY Times as the site visited. The earliest of those was the MINI crossword puzzle. The next was for a puzzle called SPANAGRAM and the latest for WORDLE.

The other entries were a Google search for WEB MD. An entry for VERIFY, a people search app, and a search of his own G Mail account. The browser list rounded out with a weather check and movie schedule for the theatre in Westwood for a special screening of the movie “The Graduate.” With a finger tap, Fowler returned the screen to the WORDLE page.

She stood back taking in the scene. “It seems you like puzzles, Professor. You may have left us with one.”

Goyens returned with the security guard who was now also wearing the blue latex gloves. Even at age thirty, the guard’s face was cherubic, his breath short. “I was right, wasn’t I? It’s a murder for sure.” He took another gulp of air. “I’ve seen enough TV shows to know when something’s off. I thought I’d better call it in as a 187.”

Fowler recognized the type of person panting before her. A fan boy. An overzealous, wannabe cop. They usually end up working a mall or on a bank floor. Thing is that this guy was good. Not because he knew his police codes but because he had sense enough to lock down the crime scene. The only part about being a cop he may have taken too far was their legendary love of donuts. There was no chance of him passing an academy physical and most likely no chance of him passing a Dunkin’.

Fowler nodded. “You did great. Your instincts are sharp. Mister?...”

“Security officer McCune, Eric McCune.” His hand snapped up to his forehead.

Jeanette smiled. “No need to salute, Eric. Who are those people in the hallway?”

Detective Goyens interjected. “Those are the last people to see the Dean alive. Before you got here I had Eric pull the security tape. It showed only three people crossed the mezzanine this evening, the only way to get to the Dean’s office, at least without setting off an alarm.”

H continued in a tone letting Fowler know he was on top of things. “Eric, here, identified them and I had Officers Patrick and Lane there bring them here for questioning.”

Almost on cue, Officer Lane poked his head in the door. “Ma’am, coroner’s here.”

Fowler ushered them to the door. “Let’s give him room, everyone to the hallway. I’ll be right with you.”

Goyens assisted. “You heard the boss, everyone out. Let’s go.” They exited and were instantly replaced by the coroner and a forensics team in haz mat suits.

Chief Medical Examiner Albert Buonomo, at 68, was in his thirtieth year with the LA Coroner. People wondered why he just doesn’t retire, and he always answered the same way, “Retire to what?” Jeanette approached him with a smile. “Al, don’t tell me they dragged you out for this?”

“Hey, Jeannie. Good to see you. No, I heard the call on my scanner. I live close by. Believe it or not, this was my Alma Mater, so I took the call.”

They approached the dean’s desk. “The victim’s the Dean. Did you know him?”

“Not personally. Someone mentioned gunshot?” He asked.

Jeanette pointed out the small hole in the back of the jacket. “You’d miss it, if you weren’t paying attention. I’m guessing .22”

Leaning in, Buonomo agreed. “Small enough.” He touched a finger to the hole. “Hmmm. Not much blood. Maybe when the jacket comes off.”

Fowler nodded. “Al, I’m going to need you to give me the works, ASAP. Time of death, bullet trajectory, and when you dig it out of him, caliber. I’ve got several suspects out there. I’m going to shake a few trees.”

Al motioned to the body. “Okay, Jeannie, let me get him back to the garage, up on a lift and I’ll give him a full inspection.”

“Thanks, Al. We’ll be in touch.” With that Fowler stepped out into the hallway. H, still referencing his notes, stood with the security guards and three strangers by a bench.

Jeanette stepped up to the security guards. “Would you guys mind waiting back at your desk? I’ll be along with some questions shortly.”

Eric looked crestfallen. This was the most action he’s had on campus since the protest over the transgender bathrooms. Jeanette tapped his shoulder. “By the way, great job, officer.” His face relit and he marched away with the other guard, elbowing him and whispering, “Did ya hear that? Huh? Officer.”

The other guard chuckled. “In your dreams, McCune.”

Fowler turned to face the persons of interest. “Now, who do we have here?”

A man standing at the end of the bench said nothing. The woman and other man sitting looked stupefied. Each glancing at the other for who would start.

Goyens spoke as he checked his notepad. “As I told you, these were the last people to see Dean McShean alive. We got a time stamp from the CCTV.” H pointed to the girl. “Amy Eckhardt, 23, student, passed through the Mezzanine at 8:20 pm. She left twenty minutes later at 8:40.”

The girl protested while seeming to weep. “Dean McShean wanted to discuss why I dropped his class in Sociolinguistics. I told him the curriculum was too difficult, and he wasn’t giving me enough time on my dissertation. My decision was final.” Amy didn’t like being accused. Her voice turned bitter. “When I left him he was disappointed, but he was alive.”

“He must’ve been a very involved professor.” Fowler quipped. She turned to a man in his sixties wearing an open collar shirt beneath a wool sweater and matching tweed jacket. A pair of thick glasses and a full head of neatly combed white hair.

“And you are?” Fowler asked.

“Professor Emile Langford. Science department. I’ve been teaching here for nearly ten years.”

Goyens interrupted, “We have him crossing the lobby at 9:15 pm and returning thirty minutes later at 9:45.”

“So, what did you and the Dean discuss for thirty minutes, Professor Langford?” Fowler asked.

Langford removed his glasses and cleaned them with a small cloth. “We were discussing tenure. My tenure to be precise. After ten years of my commitment to excellence, I felt I was due consideration.”

“And the Dean felt...?”

“Why he agreed, of course. His vote insured my selection.” Langford put his glasses on. “He was my colleague. I needed his vote. What motive would I possibly have?”

Fowler listened, assessing the professor’s demeanor.

The professor hammered home his point. “They say he was shot? Feel free to test me for gunshot residue.”

“Well, thank you Mr. Science-man, I think I’ll take you up on that.” Fowler looked at the seated man. “And you?”

Goyens said, “This is Barton Coleman, facility janitor. He was recorded servicing the trash cans along the corridor leading to the Dean’s office at 10:35 pm. Emptying trash cans along the way, I estimate he reached the office by 10:45, returned to security at 10:50.”

“Mr. Coleman, care to share what happened?” Asked Fowler.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin. I want my attorney.” He leaned back on the bench and pulled a pack of red Pall Malls from his shirt pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and hung most of it on his bottom lip.

Fowler turned to Goyens, “What do you think, H? Somebody has something to hide?”

“Yep. And somebody can’t read.” He pointed to a “No Vaping” graphic on the wall above the bench. Goyens took the smoke from Barton’s mouth, crumbled it and let it drop into a waste can. Goyens looked at the crumpled cigarette in the waste can, then looked down the hallway. “You got this J.T.? I’ll be back in a minute.”

She answered bemused. “Sure thing.”

“I know my rights; You can’t hold me. You got nothin.” Barton started to stand. “Stick around for a sec, Mr. Coleman, won’t you? As a favor to me. Go ahead and have your smoke.” Fowler was trying a new tactic.

Before she got a word out, Chief Medical Examiner Buonomo led the forensics team out of the room with the dead dean on a gurney, zipped tight in a plastic sleeve. “We’re done with the body in there, you want us to log anything else?”

“Thanks Al, we can tag, bag and box the rest. I’m going to have another look.”

“Okay, Jeannie, you’ll be hearing from me soon.” With that, the team left as Goyens returned.

“Check it out, detective, look what I found.” H’s hand was still gloved holding his pen but dangling from the pen was a small .22 caliber revolver. Barton Coleman buried his head.

Goyens sniffed the barrel. “And it’s been fired recently.”

Fowler looked at Goyens, impressed. “Where’d you find that, H?”

“I remember watching the CCTV. Mr. Coleman there was heading to alert security but made a pitstop at a waste can back there.”

Amy leaned away from Goyens. “Is that... the murder weapon?”

Fowler said, “Let’s ask Barton, he seems to recognize it.”

Barton shot up in the seat. “Lady, I ain’t never seen that before. And I want an attorney.”

Fowler gestured to Lane and Patrick. “See to it everyone sticks around.”

“H, let’s tag and bag.” She motioned for Goyens to follow her back into the office. Let’s bag the gun, the coffee mug and there’s a couple of chunks of apple in the waste basket.”

“You getting the laptop?” Goyens asked.

Fowler took a seat. “In a minute I want to check something first.” It bothered her for a brief second that a minute ago there was a corpse seated where she sat. But an ability to focus quickly took her to the keyboard and monitor.

“Dean, Dean, what did you leave at my crime scene?” She closed the WORDLE and brought up the history and pressed BEEN VERIFIED, the people search app.

A list of names came up under the banner; Barton Coleman. There was a Barton Coleman from Baton Rouge, aged 30. A Barton Coleman from Oakland, aged 53. A B. Coleman, age 46, from Chicago and then... Bingo: Barton Coleman, Sun Valley, California. Aged 62. The dean had never logged out, so Fowler pressed “Criminal History.”

It appeared Dean McShean had learned Barton’s secret. Barton Coleman was a registered sex offender originally from Fullerton, CA some twenty years ago. There was also a recent weapons charge in Sun Valley. The dean was planning to let Coleman go. Detective Fowler clicked her tongue and said one word. “Motive.”

Goyens was about to bag the coffee mug. Fowler stepped in. She warned, “Don’t touch that. Leave it. Give me your pen.” Using the pen, she carefully swept it into the evidence bag.

She went back to the computer and checked the ticket purchase for “The Graduate” the following Friday evening at the Westwood Theatre. Fowler asked Goyens, “H, What time did little Miss Eckhardt visit the Dean?”

Goyens answered, “About 10:40 if memory serves me.”

Fowler checked the time of the ticket purchase. “10:35. Leaving the lovers enough time to make out after planning their date.” She scrolled down and shook her head sadly. “Seems Dean, Dean Gene McShean saw himself as a Tinder machine.” She pressed the cursor revealing another purchase for “Graduate” tickets for Saturday. “Someone was interested in more than plastics.” She said.

H looked puzzled.

Fowler clarified, “Our victim was playing teacher/student with more than one girl. Another possible motive, if Miss Eckhardt somehow found out.”

“Depends one whose gun it is, I’d say.” Goyens lifted the bagged the mug and boxed it.

“I have a feeling about that. But let me check up on the Nutty Professor’s tenure story first.” Fowler said.

Fowler checked the dean’s email, sure enough there was a message cc’d to the faculty heads. It was a paragraph long and a glowing recommendation for Professor Emile Langford, head of the chemistry department. There was only one problem, it read “Edit Draft.”

Fowler sat back and blew a strand of hair from her forehead. “Interesting.”

A second email was just between the two. Professor Langford was vouching for Barton Coleman and asking McShean not to fire him. He argued Coleman had paid his debt to society and deserved a second chance. The dean responded tersely that he couldn’t risk having a pedophile on staff, this wasn’t Notre Dame, this was UCLA.

Fowler raised an eyebrow. “More interesting.”

“Why am I retrieving this apple?” Goyens stood pinching the stem and holding an apple half over the waste can.”

“I think it’s tied to the murder.” She said.

“The dean was shot for stealing an apple?” Goyens asked.

“Look here.” Fowler leaned forward and tapped the keyboard and the Wordle puzzle popped up. “Read these answers the dean gave trying to guess today’s Wordle;

BIKER

BITER

BAYER

BOWER

BOXER

NICER

Goyens shrugged. “So what?“

Fowler drummed her fingers on the desk. ”We’re talking about a very intelligent man here. An educated man, a man of letters, if you will.”

“So, he goofed.” Goyens said.

Fowler waved him off. “He was a Sociolinguistic Professor for Chrissakes. He worked with language, cultural codes, he loved words. Just look around at the books on puzzles, anagrams, code words. There’s a book about the enigma machine on his coffee table!”

Goyens said, “I sense you’re going somewhere with all of this...”

Fowler nodded. “BIKER…BITER…BAYER…BOWER…BOXER…NICER… Nicer!? NICER? You can see the B, E and R are green, meaning confirmed.”

“I can?” H asked.

Fowler pointed to the puzzle. “Yes. It’s right there! So why use N? For NICER? BAKER would’ve been my guess. Heck, I would’ve tried BONER before NICER.”

Goyens wasn’t getting it. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the dean left us a clue. An anagram. I’m saying I know who the murder is.” Fowler answered.

“Tell me.”

“Bring them in.”

Goyens sighed again, aware of his place in the pecking order. “Yes, Boss.” He set down the evidence bags and went to get the suspects.

Fowler turned in the chair and moved the laptop to where it could be visible by all. The trio entered led by Goyens and backed by the two officers.

Fowler spoke, “Sorry we had to drag you all out of bed this evening. Actually, we only need to apologize to two of you. Not the murderer.” She looked at Coleman.

“I didn’t shoot the man.” Barton stepped back but Kane and Patrick blocked the exit.

Fowler agreed, “No, you didn’t. In fact, the gun, if it turns out to be yours, which I believe it will, was not the murder weapon. The only mistake you made was eliciting Professor Langford’s help in interceding with Dean McShean on your behalf.”

Barton looked shocked that Fowler knew this.

She explained. “As janitor, Langford counted on you cleaning up some of his chemical messes in secret. The good professor was working on a new compound for methamphetamine. You thought you could trust him and vice versa.”

Barton Coleman stood, mouth agape.

Fowler continued, “Don’t fear, Mister Coleman, your gun did not kill the dean. The dean was already dead when he was shot.” Fowler tapped the keyboard and the WORDLE puzzle came up. “No, sir, the dean was poisoned.” She looked directly at Amy.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t poison him. I loved him.” she protested.

Fowler waved a finger. “Yes, but you were angry with him, you learned he was cheating on you when he gave you the ticket for the wrong evening to see The Graduate. Your date was planned for Friday not Saturday. When you got the Saturday night ticket, you figured out teacher must have another pet.”

Amy snapped back. “He lied to me. I don’t like being lied to. But I don’t kill because of it. I broke it off. Simple as that.”

“I believe you. And I bet when you broke it off, you couldn’t have been nicer.” Fowler turned everyone’s attention to the WORDLE puzzle.

“Speaking of NICER, why would the dean, a professor of language, a veritable wordsmith, use NICER as his final guess?” Jeanette looked at Professor Langford. “Care to take a guess, Prof?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He replied.

“Well, you should. You came here to murder him and succeeded. Go to the head of the class.” Fowler pulled the wrapped coffee mug out of the evidence box. “You came here to beg him for his vote for tenure. When he refused because of your extracurricular chemistry experiments, you put something into his coffee. A caffeine Mickey. After which, what did he do? He continue to play WORDLE right in front of you.” She held up the mug. “Oh, and sip your poisoned coffee.”

Fowler was in her element. “What did it take? A few minutes before his organs began to fail? Abdominal pain became unbearable? Nose started bleeding?” Is that when you told him he was going to die? You probably even boasted and told him what you poisoned him with.”

Langford said coldly, “You’re speculating.”

“The dean went to WEB MD for answers, researching the symptoms, but the pain stopped him. He knew he was going to die. He wanted to leave a clue, but one you wouldn’t understand. He turned to his game of WORDLE and typed in five letters. But NICIR isn’t a real word, so it was rejected by the game. With his last bit of cognitive reasoning, he typed in “NICER.””

Langford shook his head. “You’re babbling. What’s your point?”

Fowler stood. “The word he wanted to type, but WORDLE rejected, was NICIR. An anagram for Ricin, a highly toxic protein extracted from castor beans. Fatal with no known cure. As a chemistry professor, you have the expertise to synthesize ricin from castor beans, a substance that’s nearly undetectable in small amounts. The dean had to use a word the game would accept. Hence, NICER.”

“You’ve seen too many bad Agatha Christie movies.” Langford scoffed.

“I’m not finished.” Fowler got up into Langford’s face. “You college boys think you’re so smart. You knew why McShean was going to fire Coleman. He discovered he was a Ped... ...that he liked them young.

"You read he also had a weapons charge. That weapons charge gave you an idea. You told Barton if he had any guns he’d have to turn it over to prove he’s gone straight. You offered to help and turn it in for him. Now you had a gun, and you had a patsy.”

Barton shot forward but was held back by the two cops. “You son of a bitch!”

Fowler shook her head in agreement. “A clever son of a bitch. He fired a bullet into the dead dean’s back using an apple stuck to the barrel as a silencer. He shot Dean Dean Gene McShean in the spleen and left your gun here as evidence.”

Fowler smiled at Barton. “He planted the gun not knowing you made you janitorial rounds late at night. You must have shit yourself when you saw the dead body and your gun laying there. You scooped it up and dumped it in the first trash can you passed when you saw security doing their rounds.”

Fowler held the mug up to Langford’s face. He leaned back as if facing a viper. “H, do me a favor and call Al at the coroner’s and ask him to test the dean for traces of ricin.”

Goyens looked at his partner, impressed. “I’m on it, J.T.” He whipped out his cellphone to call.

Fowler motioned for the cops. “Officers, escort the Professor here to the precinct. Book him on first degree murder and drug manufacturing and be sure to read him his rights.”

Officers Kane and Patrick, cuffed and led Langford out.

Fowler turned to Amy. “You’re free to go Miss Eckhardt. Please remember this as part of your continuing education. As for you Mr. Coleman, I’m guessing you’ll be talking to your parole officer soon enough.”

Goyens finished his call. “Buonomo said he’s got you covered, J.T.”

“Thanks, H.”

“Goyens looked around the room. “We wrapped that up rather quickly, we make a pretty good team J.T. What do you say to a drink?”

Fowler’s cell buzzed. “Wait, got to take this. It’s the captain.”

"Captain Brandt? He only sticks his nose in the big cases. This is good exposure."

“Hey, chief. Yeah. The Dean. Yeah. No, we caught the guy. I’ll give you a full report as soon as possible.” Fowler clicked off and turned to Goyens.

“Sorry, H. Raincheck. I’m going straight to bed. Can you take care of the evidence box?”

Goyens hated the pecking order moments. “You got it, boss.”

Detective Jeanette Fowler crossed the campus toward her car in the parking garage. She couldn’t help thinking if she wasn’t playing with fire knowing she was on her way to a condo in Malibu to finish her tryst with a married man who happened to be her district captain.

Life was never dull for Detective Jeanette Fowler.