“We?”
“Yes, well, but it’s more like a one-cowboy rodeo. My mother died two years after my father. She never recovered and kinda went off the deep end. I have an older brother in California and he hung in for a few years before losing interest. He got tired of the police reporting no progress. We talk occasionally but rarely mention Dad. So, I’m on my own. It’s lonely out here.”
“Sounds awful. It also seems a long way from the crime scene in South Carolina to a courthouse in the Florida Panhandle. What’s the connection?”
“There’s not much, honestly. Just a lot of speculation.”
“You haven’t come this far with nothing but speculation. What about motive?”
“Motive is all I have.”
“Do you plan to share it with me?”
“Hang on, Lacy. You have no idea. I can’t believe I’m sitting here accusing someone of murder, without proof.”
“You’re not accusing anyone, Jeri. You have a potential suspect, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You tell me his name and I tell no one. Not until you authorize it, okay? Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Now, back to motive.”
“Motive has consumed me since the beginning. I’ve found no one in my father’s world who disliked him. He was an academic who drew a nice salary and saved his money. He never invested in deals or land or anything like that. In fact, he was disdainful of developers and speculators. He had a couple of colleagues, other law professors, who lost money in the stock market and condos and other schemes, and he had little sympathy for them. He had no business interests, no partners, no joint ventures, stuff that generally creates conflict and enemies. He hated debt and paid his bills on time. He was faithful to his wife and family, as far as we knew. If you knew Bryan Burke you would have found it impossible to believe that he would be unfaithful to his wife. He was treated fairly by his employers, Stetson, and admired by his students. Four times in thirty years at Stetson he was voted Outstanding Professor of Law. He routinely passed up a promotion to the dean’s office because he considered teaching the highest calling and he wanted to be in the classroom. He wasn’t perfect, Lacy, but he was pretty damned close to it.”
“I wish I had known him.”
“He was a charming, sweet man with no known enemies. It wasn’t a robbery, because his wallet was in the house and nothing was missing from his body. It certainly wasn’t an accident. So, the police have been baffled from the beginning.”
“But.”
“But. There could be more. It’s a long shot but it’s all I have. I’m thirsty. You?”
Lacy shook her head. Jeri walked to a credenza, poured ice water from a pitcher, and returned to her seat. She took a deep breath and continued. “As I’ve said, my father loved the classroom. He loved to lecture. To him it was a performance, and he was the only actor onstage. He loved being in full command of his surroundings, his material, and, especially, his students. There’s a room on the second floor of the law school that was his domain for decades. There’s a plaque there now and it’s named for him. It’s a mini lecture hall with eighty seats in a half moon, and every performance was sold out. His lectures on constitutional law were captivating, challenging, often funny. He had a great sense of humor. Every student wanted Professor Burke—he hated being called Dr. Burke—for constitutional law, and those who didn’t make the cut often audited the class and sat through his lectures. It was not unusual for visiting professors, deans, alumni, and former students to squeeze in for a seat, often in folding chairs in the rear or down the aisles. The president of the university, himself a lawyer, was a frequent visitor. You get the picture?”
“I do, and I can’t imagine it. I can recall, with horror, my con law course.”
“That seems to be the norm. The eighty students, all first year, who were lucky enough to get in, knew that he could be tough. He expected them to be prepared and ready to express themselves.”
Her eyes moistened again as she remembered her father. Lacy smiled and nodded and tried to encourage her.
“Dad loved to lecture, and he also loved the Socratic method of teaching, where he would select a student at random and ask him or her to brief a case for the benefit of the class. If the student made a mistake, or couldn’t hold her ground, then the discussion often became contentious. Over the years I’ve talked to many of his former students, and while all still express admiration, they still shudder at the thought of trying to argue con law with Professor Burke. He was feared, but in the end greatly admired. And every former student was shocked by his murder. Who could possibly want to kill Professor Burke?”