Stalking Death (18 page)

"Then do you have any idea why Jamison Jones thought he needed to intervene on his sister's behalf?"

"No."

That was an outright lie. I forced my muscles to relax. If Bushnell was a good detective, he was reading the room, not just listening to what people said.

"Was Jones very touchy? In the habit of picking fights for no reason?"

"No. This was quite out of character. He's usually a pretty easy-going guy. Very popular. Very social."

"And what kind of relationship did Jones have with his sister? Were they close?"

Chambers did answer this one. "Very close. And he worried about her. He was after us almost daily until we agreed to admit her."

"Did any of you speak with him after the fight?"

I knew the security guys had. But would their boss admit it. What would he say?

"Yeah," Woodson said. He was a spare man with a wrinkled, Clint Eastwood face and unrevealing hazel eyes. "We talked to him. Took four men to haul him away. You've seen Jamison. He's a big kid. But once they got him in the car, he calmed right down. Said he'd gone to ask MacGregor to stop bothering his sister, that MacGregor had said some filthy things about Shondra, and he'd lost his temper. He said he should have known better, MacGregor was a predatory bastard and mean straight through and it would take more than asking to get him to stop."

I watched Bushnell write down that damning statement. Watched the senior MacGregor decide not to interrupt.

"But you have no idea why he believed MacGregor was bothering his sister, or what form that bothering took?"

"Just what he said at the time."

"Anyone have anything to add?" Bushnell shifted his eyes to the others. Chambers had every idea. So did several other people at this table. The tension level was climbing with every question. By now, it was almost visible in the room. Chambers looked at Dunham, then at Argenti, and tugged a few times on his ear. Bushnell wasn't the only one who was reading the room, and I read that he was running short on patience.

"Do you have rules against fighting?" Chambers nodded. "Then I expect you spoke with both parties after the fight?" Another nod.

"Then tell me, Mr. Chambers," his voice boomed in the quiet room, "this is a simple question and we have a lot of questions to get through. Why did Jamison Jones believe MacGregor was bothering his sister?"

Chambers was not used to being yelled at. Especially not in front of his staff, his trustees, and his most valuable alum. His pale face reddened in a blotchy, schoolboy way. He swallowed and stared down at the table for a minute. When he raised his head, he was back in Headmaster mode. Calm. Confident. In charge.

"You've got to understand, Lieutenant. We believe Shondra Jones, who is one of our minority scholarship students, is a deeply disturbed young woman. When she first came to St. Matthews, it turned out that she was a thief. We dealt with that, thought we'd gotten her straightened out."

He circled the room with his eyes and launched into the party line. "More recently, she has been coming to us with allegations that Alasdair MacGregor was stalking her, harassing her, disturbing her peace of mind by invading her room and leaving her obscene pictures. We looked into the matter and determined that this was not so. When we told her that we didn't believe Alasdair was stalking her, she became extremely angry and announced she'd handle it her own way."

I was trying to remember if I'd told Chambers about the conversation in which Shondra had said she'd handle this herself, and almost missed his next statement. "So we think she then went to her brother with these absurd claims and got him inflamed with some misguided need to defend the family honor. And now it's come to this." He bowed his head.

The man ought to bow his head, in shame, after a statement like that. In a few sentences, he'd lied to the cops, dismissed all the things I had learned including the evidence of his own records, disclaimed any responsibility for letting the situation get so out of hand, and placed the blame on two of his most vulnerable students. Seeing him puffed up with satisfaction at having gotten his balance back, I wanted to grab him by the scruff of his neck and give a good, hard shake.

Bushnell's questions went on, and Chambers and Dunham took turns providing answers that marginalized and disparaged Shondra and Jamison, laying the blame for the whole incident on her desire for revenge because of Alasdair MacGregor's white supremacist posturing, and Jamison's inability to shake his primitive, inner-city boy's need to ensure that no one showed disrespect for his sister.

There wasn't a hint of understanding or compassion for any of the parties—not for Jamison, or Shondra, or even for Alasdair, in their responses. No attempt to put any of it in context—to place Alasdair, Shondra or Jamison in social groups or explain their interactions, no effort to put faces on the three. No details of their thorough investigation and no acceptance of responsibility for letting the situation get so bad. Chambers was so busy with his destruction of Shondra and Jamison that he showed no signs of recognizing the tragedy that had brought us all to this room.

I thought about the obscene pictures Shondra had found in her bed. Did they still exist or had Miriam Chambers made good on her threat and purged the records? I saw Shondra's fierce, set face as she'd sat in my car, declaring that this was all her fault, that she should have let the harassment go on rather than involving her brother. Her certainty that Jamison would never have done what was done.

The past few minutes had given me a better understanding of her anger and disbelief when I'd said that I'd come to do a job and I would get back to her when I had time. No wonder she hadn't believed me. This slick denial and shallow, lazy characterization, this rewriting of the facts to suit their agenda, was what she was used to. People who would never get back to her and never had the time.

I thought about Jamison Jones in a police lock-up. How did it feel to be scared and alone, charged with murder? The only people he knew were the St. Matthews' people, who'd enticed him to leave his family and his neighborhood and come be their superstar basketball player. Come here and put St. Matts on the map, and we will be your family. Until you really need us. Then we'll flap our hands dismissively and disclaim any responsibility, labeling you a hopeless ghetto kid with an uncontrollable temper.

I thought about beautiful, troubled, and trouble-making Alasdair MacGregor, lacking the rules and appropriate adult guidance he needed to figure out his place in this world. Forgiven too much. Indulged and excused too readily. The horrible result when he finally tangled with someone more than his match.

The arrogance of these people, believing the situation could be explained away with glib answers. Their complete indifference to the reality of this tragedy and their responsibilities as the grownups in charge enveloped me in a sudden chill. Didn't they understand that someone was dead and three lives ruined?

Driving here, I'd resolved not to let this become personal. This was a job. The client school needed help and I knew how to provide it. Now, less than half a day into it, I was thinking about Alasdair, Shondra, and Jamison and not about my clients at all.

I clenched my fingers around my pen to still their shaking, but it didn't help. If I was going to deal effectively with the rapidly growing list in front of me, I had to get myself back under control. Without asking Bushnell's permission, I shoved back my chair and left the room.

Chapter 13

My attempt to leave quietly had been as subtle as an elephant at a tea party. When I paused in the hall, eyes determinedly shut against my tears, my whole tough girl persona collapsing, a firm hand took my arm, steered me into Chambers' office, and into a chair. Bushnell pulled another chair close and sat down beside me.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Fine," I said. "It's just that..." My voice was embarrassingly shaky.

"Just that what?"

I wished he'd go back in there, conduct his business, and leave me alone. I knew he wouldn't. He was a cop and cops go where the chinks are.

"That none of them seem to understand, or care, about what's going on here."

"And what would you say is going on here?"

It was the cop equivalent of the shrink's infuriating, 'how do you feel about that?' but I answered him anyway. "That one child is dead, and two other children... students... whatever you want to call them, are in serious trouble and the people in there act like it doesn't matter, like the circumstances are insignificant instead of profound and this is just another meeting to get through before they can get back to business as usual."

I was running on at the mouth just like he wanted me to. "They've completely marginalized Shondra and Jamison and ignored the fact that other kids out there are scared and hurting, too. They're talking like there's only one side to this. Like Alasdair's death is tragic without recognizing Jamison's life is ruined, too, and like Shondra is some bad actor who made it all up and now look at all the trouble she's caused."

I shrugged. "I don't mind helping them deal with trouble—that's what I do, but I'd like to see some appropriate responses. Grief, guilt, regret. Something to show they appreciate the magnitude of what's happened."

What was I thinking, criticizing my clients like this? I was being a total fool and doing them a grave disservice. I shut my mouth, and clasped one hand firmly in the other, concentrating on squeezing. If I had concerns, I should discuss them with Argenti, not tattle to a sharp-eyed cop. What about issues like confidentiality and boundaries or the fact that my feelings were irrelevant?

"Look, forget about me, please," I said. "You've got a murder to solve and I'm blithering on like callous behavior shocks me, or the awful things people do to each other. Like I've never seen anything like this before."

"You have?"

I picked up my head and straightened my shoulders. Breathe in. Breathe out. "I told you I was a consultant, right? Well, what I do is deal with serious campus situations like this. So, yes. I mean no, this isn't the first time I've dealt with the sudden, violent death of a student."

His eyebrows rose. "And what's your take on what is going on in there? You said what? They're acting like Shondra made it all up. So you don't think she did?"

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry. These people are my clients."

"Are your clients telling me the truth?"

I squirmed again. Interrogation is very different when you're the subject. There's a sudden feeling of panic and an ugly, squirrelly desire to shade the truth. But R2-D2 was beaming Andre's fiercest face onto the wall, and his message was simple and to the point—tell the truth. Bushnell will know what to do with it.

"Yes," I said. "And no. I believe Alasdair was bothering Shondra and his family has big bucks so they're trying to protect him."

I burrowed deeper into my chair, wishing he'd go back in there, wring what he could from my obfuscating clients, and then go see Jamison and Shondra. At least he'd get both sides. Then I could get to back to work and make myself so busy handling this mess that I'd have no time to think about all the bad stuff this death was bringing back.

"Big surprise," he said. "Guess we'll have to talk further. You coming back in?"

"I have to."

He patted me on the shoulder, which usually raises my feminist hackles. Today, it felt reassuring. "Take your time," he said.

"It's not my time." Maybe he wasn't going to ask questions, but I had some of my own. "Lieutenant, have you talked with Jamison Jones?" He gave me a coolly amused look and didn't answer.

That's how it was with cops—a one-way street. They could ask us all the questions they wanted, but we were only supposed to speak when spoken to.

In Bushnell's absence, Argenti and MacGregor had been having a go at Chambers. If he'd looked bad before, he looked a lot worse now. The blotchy way that anger took him was seriously unattractive. But so was the rest of his behavior, and, to a great extent, he'd brought it on himself. Still, it was hard to think you were king of the castle, building elaborate additions to it in the air, only to find yourself being questioned by people who thought you worked for them and expected you to please.

As I entered, Chambers was saying, "Well, neither did I. Who the hell could have anticipated it would come to this? We thought, and it was a perfectly reasonable assumption, that concern for his college recommendations would keep Jamison in line. It's not exactly normal to find some nutcake Amazon's accusations leading to murder."