Engineered for Murder
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This page contains a description, reviews, and the first chapter of my first novel.

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ENGINEERED FOR MURDER

by Aileen Schumacher

Tory Travers is a young, widowed, structural engineer, living with her son, on the outskirts of a campus town in New Mexico. Her life changes forever when a scandal erupts regarding the mishandling and structural problems of the new football stadium. From every possible angle, Tory's business is financially threatened if she carries out her duties as inspector. Then things start to escalate when the son-in-law of the stadium contractor disappears, along with the building specs, and the quality control technician is found murdered.

Enter Detective David Alvarez, who soon discovers Tory's connection to the mysterious death. This confirmed bachelor soon finds that she is a handful that she is somehow involved in all of this. He didn't count on her mysterious past, involving a state senator, an underage pregnancy and an even bigger scandal ... which she won't discuss.

Once she starts receiving death threats to stay away from the stadium job, Alvarez and Tory begin to work together to pull the various mysteries together. Suspense builds at the construction site where death awaits and many hidden secrets are revealed. top.gif (626 bytes)

"In many ways, I suppose, Aileen Schumacher, P.E., is a typical consulting firm principal....On the other hand, Aileen is a remarkable example of a civil engineer with the talent and tenacity to accomplish something that most of us only talk about....Aileen is a writer. A mystery writer, no less. The best part is that she's good at it."--Jane Gaboury, Editor, Civil Engineering News

"An intriguing mystery..." -- The Pilot, Southern Pines, NC

Aileen Schumacher is a civil/environmental engineer and President/Co-owner of an engineering firm based in Florida, as well as owner of an export firm dealing in technical materials and supplies. Engineered for Murder is her debut novel.

PAPERBACK: ISBN: 1-885173-43-1; $5.95; 4½ x 7; 328 pages (May 1997)

ENGINEERED FOR MURDER

A Mystery by
Aileen Schumacher

Prologue

It was a cool, dry, clear night, characteristic of summer in El Paso. The night brought only temporary relief from the summer heat, when not even the barest hint of clouds sheltered the parched earth from the sun, shining relentlessly down on this far western part of Texas. The most recent memory of rain might be two, or even three weeks past.

People died on nights like this.

Modern desert dwellers tried to escape the heat inside buildings where the whisper of cool air was continuous and seductive with its empty promise of soothing frustrations exacerbated by rising temperatures. But the heat continued to take its toll, and the effect was cumulative, exceeding some secret threshold when least expected.

People killed on nights like this. top.gif (626 bytes)

Every ambulance driver and police officer in the city knew only too well that summer tempers flared and split-second decisions were made that could alter lives forever. Years of emotion could boil over in one mercurial flash of anger. Feelings normally suppressed could erupt hot and intense, and all the winters to follow would never eradicate the results.

People hid their actions from the light of day on nights like this.

A person acting under the influence of the summer heat might spend years subsequently wondering how he had come to such a juncture. While he wondered, incarcerated by the results of his actions and the unchangeability of the past, the Texas summer would come again, uncaring, seducing still others to actions that were uncharacteristic, even unthinkable, at any other time.

People made irrevocable decisions on nights like this.

Sitting in the late night air-conditioned solitude of a deserted city library, the lone individual left in the Periodical Reference Section compared the image on the computer screen in front of him to a letter sitting on the table next to him. He was a person who measured his frustration not in the hours he spent in the sun, but in years spent pursuing activities he had come to hate. Looking again from screen to letter and back again, he reassured himself that there was no mistake in his conclusions.

He let out a low whistle. This in itself was uncharacteristic for someone so accustomed to fading inconspicuously into any setting in which he was placed, but tonight called for a new expressiveness on his part. Tonight, he had stumbled across a discovery that might provide a way out. Like those heat-crazed individuals committing violent acts in a moment of passion, he did not stop to consider how his discovery might affect anyone else. He craved the belief that he could change his life in the same way early pioneers had craved clear, cool water, crossing through the arid mountain pass that had given El Paso its name. top.gif (626 bytes)

"Victoria Wheatley and Tory Travers are the same person," he repeated to himself like a mantra. Somehow saying it out loud made it more real, more totally his discovery and no one else's. Still, as satisfying as it was to voice his discovery, he couldn't prevent a knee-jerk reaction, immediately glancing around to make sure there was no authority figure nearby to censure the forbidden act of speaking out loud.

Reassured, he stared off into space for a while, allowing himself to ignore the copious notes and documents that surrounded him. "This could be my big break," he told himself. "If ever anyone had a story drop right into his lap, this is it." For a few minutes he allowed himself to indulge in his fantasy of what life would be like as a "real writer," i.e., someone who didn't have to pursue another line of work to keep the bills paid.

If only he hadn't gotten married right out of college. If only his disabled mother-in-law wasn't such a drain on his financial resources. Going back even further, if only he had better withstood the pressure exerted by his blue-collar family on the first child to be sent to college. "Don't major in journalism or English, major in something reliable, something where you can get a good job," he had been told again and again. But fulfilling his family's expectations, and then his wife's, had done nothing to quench the desire that burned like a summer sun in his soul, through all the seasons of the year. top.gif (626 bytes)

He snapped back to the present, aware of the late hour and that he was expected at work, as usual, in the morning. He would have to figure out how to use this new-found knowledge to the maximum advantage. The story he could milk out of this connection certainly wouldn't be a panacea to his quest for journalistic renown, but it could provide a start. "My days as an engineering technician are numbered," he assured himself, as he started to gather his papers together.

He left the library, striding out into the inky night. He forced himself to whistle as he walked to his car. It still felt really strange, but he decided that making more noise was a habit he was going to get used to.

In other parts of the city, the summer sun continued to work its ancient spell of madness, unimpeded by the brief promise of relief held in the fleeting night. Acts covered by darkness would soon be visible for all to see. Discoveries made in the might would be illuminated by the relentless light of day, and there would be no turning back. top.gif (626 bytes)

CHAPTER ONE:

PRELIMINARY DESIGNS

Tory Travers critically regarded all five feet ten inches of her reflection in the steamy dressing room mirror of the Las Cruces Women's Fitness Club. This was one of the few places with some humidity in the air during the relentlessly arid New Mexican summer. Sometimes, after working up a sweat and stepping outside into the blinding southwestern sun, Tory thought she could feel the moisture being sucked right off her skin. Water was at a premium out here, and Mother Nature had a way of scavenging whatever was in short supply. Moisture would be atmospherically stockpiled until the August rainstorms would drench the parched land, and what appeared to the neophyte desert dweller to be a wasteland would overnight be painted green to the horizon.

But it was appearances, rather than humidity or the lack thereof, that held Tory's attention now. The body was okay. Somewhere around thirty, she had actually become comfortable with her height. The fact that she could eat like a horse and not pay for it on the scales hadn't hurt her coming to terms with the fact that petite would never be an adjective that she would experience. top.gif (626 bytes)

And the face was okay. Without a doubt, her best feature was her startling blue eyes. They contrasted with her pale skin, which was dusted with freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. Her heritage was from the Black Irish, not of the ruddy kind. Her hair, a sleek dark brown verging on black, was blunt cut in bangs across her forehead and curved under a few inches below her chin, hanging a little longer in the back.

No curls, no frills, no concessions to current style. It sometimes seemed that she had looked this way forever, but at thirty-five she realized the advantage of the fact that she would likely look the same in fifteen more years.

So the problem that currently held Tory's attention was wardrobe-related. The moss green silk blouse would have passed muster anywhere as part of a dress-for-success outfit. It coordinated beautifully with her black and green skirt, which, unfortunately, was at home hanging in her closet. It didn't coordinate so well with her beige slip, which currently comprised the rest of her outfit.

"Damn damn damn damn," Tory admonished her reflection, which didn't come up with any snappy answers about why her skirt was at home rather than folded neatly in the bottom of her workout bag. "You get up early and go to work out before a big confrontational meeting so you can be nice and healthy and laid back, instead of nervous and stressed out, and where does it get you? Trying to figure out how to decently get from the dressing room to the parking lot, that's where." top.gif (626 bytes)

She briefly considered putting her leotard and tights back on, but because of their sweaty state, it wasn't a very alluring alternative. With a flash of inspiration, she turned to the locker labeled Lost and Found and began to sort through its contents. Luckily there was no one else in the dressing room to witness her foray. "If only I needed deodorant, I'd be in luck," she muttered to herself, as she sorted through the items that had been left in he locker room and never claimed.

It pushed the limits of probability that someone would have left behind a skirt to match her blouse. A pair of shiny black nylon work-out shorts appeared to be the only functional possibility. And they weren't even Umbros, a fact her son would have immediately pointed out to her if he had been present. She cautiously gave them the sniff test. She was in luck. Either they hadn't been worn before they'd been left behind, or they'd been abandoned so long that they'd had a chance to air out.

Tory pulled off her slip, pulled on the shorts, and took another critical look in the mirror. Combined with her panty hose, black high-heeled shoes, and her silk blouse, the effect was somewhere between that of a highly paid cocktail waitress and a hooker who charged by the hour, she decided. But it should do for a trip through the waiting room to the parking lot. It wasn't like she was going to get cold or anything like that. Murmuring a private apology to the unknown person who would not be finding her shorts in the Lost and Found that day, she packed up the rest of her stuff and walked out. top.gif (626 bytes)

It was unusual for someone to be in the lobby of the Las Cruces Women's Fitness Club so early on a Friday morning, and it was even more unusual for the person to be male. It was really unusual for that person to rise and address Tory by name on the one day she was minus fifty percent of her intended outfit. If she was going to be beating the laws of probability this morning, she would a lot rather have found a green and black skirt in the Lost and Found locker.

"Uh, Tory Travers?" the slight young man standing in front of her repeated his question. He started to drop his eyes, as people usually do after initiating a conversation, but obviously thought better of it. The fact that she was a good bit taller than he was didn't give him a lot of places to look without dropping his eyes. It certainly made for an intense eye-to-eye encounter.

Against mounting evidence to the contrary, Tory decided to act as if this was an everyday encounter. "Yes, I'm Tory Travers," she replied. "Do I know you?"

"No," he said nervously. "We've never met, but I've talked with some of your employees. I'm Billy--Bill Hartman. I'm with Quality Control tech for the El Paso Precast Concrete Company."

Tory knew that she was unconsciously gearing up for the approaching morning meeting when the first response that came to mind was "Oh, yeah, those assholes." The booming international metropolis of El Paso, the western-most Texas city, lay to the south of the small New Mexican town of Las Cruces. Only forty-five minutes away by car, it was another city, another state, another world. But for all its size and industrial character, it was not necessarily a better place for getting precast concrete. Of all the construction-related industries in the two states, Tory had decided that El Paso Precast Concrete was the lowest of the low, but she had thought she would be postponing confronting this issue until her ten o'clock meeting. Until after she retrieved her skirt.

She censured her initial response and changed it to a mild, "Oh, yes, El Paso Precast. You all are doing the precast for the University stadium project. Well, what can I do for you?"

"I want to talk to you."

That much was obvious. That question was, did she need to talk to him? She gravely consulted her watch. "The project status meeting is at ten o'clock over at the University Facilities Planning Division. I'll be there and I'm sure we'll all be talking about the project at great lengths then." Hopefully in a more complete outfit, she thought to herself.

Hartman cleared his throat. "Uh, I'm involved with the stadium project, but I'm not here for the ten o'clock meeting. I really need to talk to you about something else." He glanced furtively around. "Privately," he added. top.gif (626 bytes)

Tory stifled an impulse to blurt out "Give me a break." A private conversation, and her in panty hose, work-out shorts, and high heels? Who ever said that clothes didn't make the man, or woman, or person? The situation was getting more ludicrous by the moment.

Then she thought, maybe this guy was looking to change jobs. In that case, experience had taught her that she could talk to him now or spend a lot of time later trying to avoid him. Besides, it would be a new experience. She had never talked to a prospective employee before while wearing panty hose, and workout shorts. It made her grateful her company didn't have a dress code that she'd have to explain.

"Okay," she said. "But I'm curious. How did you find me?"

"Your secretary told me where you were.

Ah ha, Tory thought to herself, Sylvia must have thought this guy was up here about the stadium project, the same as I did. The office nickname for her in-step-with-the-latest-fashion secretary was Chicana Madonna, but Tory mentally referred to her as the Dragon Lady when Sylvia was on her high horse. Neither love nor money could pry information out of Sylvia when she made her mind not to release it. Everyone in the office was aware of the problems with the stadium project, and everyone, including Tory, fully expected the lid to blow in the project status meeting scheduled for later that morning. Sylvia must have sent Hartman over here because she thought he had some technical information to impart before that happened. Too bad she hadn't dug a little deeper.

"So how did you figure out who I was out of all the people coming in and out of here?" Tory asked curiously.

Hartman cleared his throat again. "Well, your secretary told me that you were tall, had dark brown hair, and would be dressed for the meeting later this morning." He heard what he was saying, but there was no choice between looking down or keeping his gaze focused on her face, so he continued to look directly at her. God, that must be hard to say with a straight face, thought Tory. "She said that most of the women working out this time of day were people that didn't work, who wouldn't be dressed to go into the office," he concluded miserably, unable to restrain himself from completing is ill-timed explanation.

Tory cleared her throat, and realized that she was beginning to adopt his mannerisms. This prompted her to action. "Let's go next door," she said decisively. "There's a coffee shop there, and I'll be able to sit down with you for few minutes." She gestured to the door, and refused to budge until he preceded her out. She was damned if she was going to give this guy an opportunity to evaluate her professional attire from behind. top.gif (626 bytes)

Once seated, they went through the preliminaries of getting coffee. Now that she was actually sitting down with this guy, Tory was more than a little curious about what he might have to say. It was hard to believe that his presence really had nothing to do with the stadium project. That would be entirely too coincidental.

Hartman engrossed himself with preparing his coffee after they were served, and she refused to help out by asking any conversational questions. She figured she had up to an hour to waste. Retrieving her skirt before the project meeting had become a big goal for her this morning. After all, one had to maintain some kind of standards.

"I never really wanted to be an engineering technician," Hartman blurted suddenly. This was not exactly the kind of opening statement that Tory has anticipated, and it rapidly got even stranger. "I always wanted to be writer," he continued.

"Okay," said Tory. She waited for more explanation, but none was forthcoming. "What does that have to do with me?" she asked after a while. Was this guy a conversationalist or what? There was no point in wasting a whole hour if this wasn't, after all, job-related. She was already beginning to regret agreeing to this conversation.

"I've been doing freelance writing," Hartman started speaking again slowly, and then began to pick up speed. "Political and legal stories are my specialty. I've been doing a series for the El Paso Times on the abortion issue. You know, it's a really hot subject now, in light of the recent Supreme Court decisions."

Tory nodded, to indicate that just because she was an engineer didn't mean that she wasn't aware of national political developments. She even read books totally unrelated to engineering once in a while, but she didn't feel compelled to expound upon the fact. She was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about this whole conversation, and it had nothing to do with what she was (or what she wasn't) wearing.

"The theme I've been using is that different political factions have been drawn together by this issue. One of the most conservative and fanatical is the Christians in Government group that's headed by Mason Barkley out of Florida. They're having a rally in El Paso in three weeks. I'll be you're surprised to hear that El Paso was selected as the site." top.gif (626 bytes)

Tory wasn't surprised, she was dumbfounded. It had been a long time since she'd heard the name Mason Barkley in any conversation she was a part of, although forever wouldn't have been long enough for her. She felt her stomach automatically clench in anxiety. With an effort she resisted an urge to grip the table. She supposed she was now going to have the chance to discover why this person was talking about Jameson Barkley to her. She felt very sure that whatever the reason was, she wasn't going to like it.

"They chose El Paso for their rally to try to emphasize the international nature of their efforts to eliminate abortion." Hartman continued. "Even if it's restricted or outlawed in the US, they're concerned about border communities where women will still have access to abortions. Barley is the leader of this group, which has strong stands on a lot of other issues. He seems to inspire fanatical loyalty from his followers. And that's how I found out about you."

"Exactly how did you find out about me?" Tory's voice sounded flat and unemotional to her own ears.

"I found out that you were Vicky Wheatley, the teenage girl who had an affair with Barkley and ruined his political career years ago."

"No, Mr. Hartman. I am the person who enabled Jim Barkley to rise from the ashes, phoenix-like, transformed into a new and powerful entity; a repentant, well-publicized, born-again Christian politician. But you didn't listen to my question. I didn't ask you what you found out, I asked you how you found this out."

"Oh," he swallowed audibly, nervous again. "That was pure coincidence. There have been all those problems with our part in the stadium project, and Mr. Lester, the owner of our precast plant, figures that you're probably going to come down pretty hard on us. Anyhow, he had heard that you'd published a couple of articles in some professional journals about quality control programs for structural integrity. He figured that if we researched the articles and adopted some of your recommended procedures, it might help out."

"You mean, he thought that if you made a few cosmetic changes to your operation, especially after what happened during the last pour, I might be so flattered that you had considered me an expert that I would let bygones be bygones." top.gif (626 bytes)

"Well, I wouldn't put it exactly that way."

I'm sure you wouldn't. I still don't see the connection between quality control of precast concrete structures and Jim Barkley."

"You really are Vicky Wheatley, aren't you?" Hartman started to look animated again. "Up to this point I've had a hard time believing it myself. But I just realized that you called Barkley "Jim." Not many people remember that Barkley's real name is Jameson, and that he used to be called Jim. He's known as Mason now, not Jim. Probably part of him putting his past behind him, don't you think?"

"Mr. Hartman, I am trying very hard to understand the point of this conversation. It might help if you would finish answering my question. How did you find out about this connection between Barkley and me?"

"Well, when I went to dig up the articles you had written, I went to the University library. The one in El Paso, that is. They have a computer system for literature searches. You enter a name, and the system pulls up all the articles or books written under that name. For women, it cross-references and searches for publications under a maiden name, which is displayed on the screen. So I got a screen which displayed your maiden name, which stuck in my mind for some reason. Later I was doing some of my own research for my newspaper series, specifically on Mason Barkley, the man. I started scanning some old news clippings, and you were in all the headlines, seventeen, eighteen years ago, as Vicky Wheatley."

"The wonders of modern technology," said Tory dryly. "So what do you want?"

"An interview, of course. Preferably an exclusive one. How you felt about Barkley then, and how you feel about him now. Whether or not you agree with the political principles that he endorses. Whether, after all this time, you think he's really changed." Hartman's voice rose with the last statement.

This was probably as close to exhibiting excitement as this guy ever got, thought Tory. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" He actually looked dumbfounded at her refusal.

"Because I have no desire to have anything to do with resurrecting that part of my past." top.gif (626 bytes)

"But how have you managed to keep it quiet for so long?"

"Keep what quiet? The events that you're talking about happened over eighteen years ago, to a very young girl and a very minor politician, in another state half a continent away. When I came here to college, some people were aware of the connection, of course. But two years after I came here, I gave everyone something else to talk about. I married one of my professors. I was nineteen and he was forty. How's that for a human-interest angle? But since then, I've proceeded to live a rather ordinary, mundane life. I doubt that there are more than three or four people around here who still connect me with the man you say is coming to El Paso."

"What can I do to change your mind?"

"Mr. Hartman, I've negotiated a lot tougher situations than this. What part of no is it that you don't understand?" Tory doubted if Hartman would realize that this was one of the main negotiating phrases she used in dealing with her fifteen-year-old son.

"You can't expect me to keep quiet about this." Hartman's face had gone all splotchy, and he was looking really upset. Tory briefly wondered what she would do if he broke into tears. This simply couldn't be happening, at least not on a morning that she was supposed to be obsessed with her ten o'clock meeting. Surely things would be going differently if only she had all her clothes on.

Tory gave Hartman a long, considering look. "No, Mr. Hartman, I don't expect you will keep quiet about this. But I will never, with you or anyone else, consent to talk about Jameson Barkley and the person I was eighteen years ago. You'll have to excuse me now, I have real work to do."

"You'll be sorry if I have to write this without your input. You have to talk to me. I'm the one that found out about this first ..." Hartman actually started to rise, but sat back down quickly when Tory got to her feet. She looked down at him and shook her head for emphasis. top.gif (626 bytes)

Later, the she was asked if she had been threatened by Bill Hartman, she would only remember feeling upset, and disgusted, and saddened that his need was so great, and so base. And later she would remember her last glimpse of Hartman's pale, disappointed face and sloping shoulders. But at least one thing had been accomplished. She didn't think once about what she was wearing all the way back to her car.

End of Chapter One

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© 2001 Aileen Schumacher. All Rights Reserved.