Stalking Death (19 page)

He turned to Craig Dunham. "We had Jamison under control, didn't we, Craig?"

Then, almost as an afterthought, to Ivers. "Didn't we?"

Her blank look, followed by the facial expressions accompanying her mental scrambling, told me she hadn't been in the loop. Not a part of the old boy's network. Once again, I wondered about Chambers' approach to returning the school to a more conservative mode. Was he also trying to return to a day when all the principal administrative positions were male? How had Christabel Ivers reacted to that? Other than the subtle twitchings of confusion, her carefully painted face gave little away.

Bushnell cleared his throat. "So, to the best of your knowledge, there was no relationship between Alasdair MacGregor and Shondra Jones, except in her mind. Is that right?" He looked at Dean Ivers.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm the academic dean. If you'd like me to comment on their academic performance, I'd be glad to. I can tell you that she's been struggling this fall, and we've been watching her closely. But in terms of residential and social life, I'm afraid you'll have to ask Dean Dunham or Mr. Margolin. And the residential advisors in her dorm, of course." She looked at Dunham. "Who are they, Craig?"

A neat pass he had to scramble to catch. "Mrs. Leverett and... and... and... uh Maria Santoro."

"And where would I find them?"

"Cabot Hall," Dunham said.

"And that's where I'll find Shondra Jones?" Lavigne passed him the map. He studied it, then pointed. It was my map and Cabot was already circled. So was Pearson. He got it at once. Pointed to Pearson and said, "And this was MacGregor's dorm?"

"That's right," Dunham said.

"Can I assume, from these marking on Ms. Kozak's map, that you've been looking into Shondra's allegations?"

But MacGregor had waited long enough. Longer than I'd expected.
"Was
Alasdair's dorm?" he thundered. "I've asked you before, and I'm asking again, and this time I want a Goddamned answer. What on earth makes you so sure your victim is my grandson?" We all knew he hoped the cops were wrong. He'd probably half-convinced himself that this was so. It explained why he was bombastic rather than sad.

Bushnell shuffled through his notebook, consulted it, and looked at MacGregor. "It's a fair question," he agreed. "We don't have a positive identification. Unfortunately, the victim's... uh... face was both burned and battered, making a visual identification difficult. You're welcome to... uh... of course we'll take you to see him if you'd like. The morgue's not far... but we're expecting to have to use dental records."

"What about fingerprints?" MacGregor interrupted. "Wouldn't that be easier?"

"We're still working on that. Unfortunately, his hands were also rather badly burned."

"If he was so badly burned," MacGregor said, "then how in hell do you have any idea who the victim is?"

"Clothing," Bushnell said. "And his wallet. And also this." Bushnell pulled a plastic envelope out of his pocket, set it on the table with a heavy thump, and pushed it across the table. "We understand he always wore it."

MacGregor snatched up the envelope, unzipped it, and dumped the contents into the palm of his hand. It was a heavy gold ring. He stared at it a long while, then picked it up and studied it more closely, turning it so that he could see the inside. He pulled out a pair of reading glasses, set them on his nose and bent forward, apparently reading an inscription. Everyone else was silent. Finally, he put the ring back in the bag and dropped it heavily on the table.

"My grandfather's ring," he said. "I gave it to Alasdair on his sixteenth birthday."

He shoved his chair back with such force it slammed into the wall, supporting himself with shaky arms planted on the edge of the table. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm afraid... I don't... didn't. I was so certain. Alasdair was too clever, too manipulative, too sure of himself. He isn't... wasn't the type to be a victim."

He lurched toward the door on unsteady legs. Part way there, he had to stop to rest, leaning against the wall, his huge hand flattened against his chest. Chambers stared with horror at his prize donor, in obvious pain, his high color fading to a putty gray.

I snatched up the receiver of the phone on the table in front of me and handed it to Frank Woodson. "Call 911 or whatever you need to call, and get him an ambulance."

The door opened and Wendy Grimm came through, pushing a cart of food and drinks. "Well now," she asked in a falsely cheerful voice, "Who's hungry?"

Chapter 14

The next several hours flew by in the blur I'd longed for. We packed Gregor MacGregor off to the hospital and gulped our sandwiches while Bushnell gathered information. Eventually, given the pressures of our own work, Cullin Margolin was assigned to assist Bushnell, and the rest of us buckled down to managing St. Matthews' crisis. In the midst of the chaos, Suzanne finally called to say that she couldn't come and Bobby was on his way.

We'd had a couple pieces of good luck when we decided to move the business to Maine, and Bobby was one of them. Bobby's significant other, Quinn, who was a chef, had gotten a job at a restaurant not far from where we were setting up shop. Life would have been difficult without him. His good nature balanced Suzanne's mood swings and both of our workaholism. Not that he was a slacker—he had an enormous capacity for work—it was just that he was unflappable and sweet-tempered.

Bobby arrived right after I put down the phone, gathered up the faculty and staff chosen to make phone calls to parents, and herded them back into the Trustee's Room to give them their marching orders. I sat down with Todd Chambers and his publicity staff, went over information control strategies, and drafted a press release.

Then Chambers wanted me with him to meet his faculty. That meeting was long and grueling. The faculty were tense and demanding, looking to us to fill an information gap we were hard-pressed to fill. Chambers' unresponsiveness reminded me that he'd missed our preparation for the morning's assembly. Luckily, Craig Dunham was there.

The recurring theme from the faculty, under pressure from their anxious students, was, "What do we tell them?" They passed along the questions they'd been getting. What's the news? How was Alasdair killed and why would Jamison do such a thing? What was happening with Jamison Jones? Was he okay? Did he really do it? Could they visit him? Would there be a funeral? A memorial service? How could we explain one student killing another and still keep them calm and secure?

We repeated the advice we'd given at the morning's assembly, advised them to keep their doors open and stay available to students, and then tried to address their questions. They found, "We really don't know very much yet, but we promise to share it with you when we do," unsatisfactory and were confused by Chambers' insistence that they try to limit contacts—the students and their own—with the outside.

We were trying to strike a delicate balance. We couldn't control the phones, of course. Even if we could have shut down outgoing calls through the campus system, we wouldn't have. We wanted them to have access to their parents under such stressful circumstances, and their parents to have access to them. Although their use was strictly regulated, half the students had cell phones anyway. We knew when something bad happens, people like to diffuse the pressure by talking about it. But we wanted to prevent the press from doing an end-run around our security by trying to interview students.

Ellen Leverett, Shondra's housemother, inquired in a nasal, whiny voice, "What am I supposed to do about Shondra if she asks me to take her to see her brother?"

The answer was obvious. Shondra was the student most affected by all this. If she wanted to see her brother, someone should take her. But Chambers just shrugged, his response so many times today his shoulders must be getting sore. I didn't know if his wife was still missing or what was distracting him, but he wasn't acting like a leader. He was distracted and cranky, like a kid trying to wriggle off his chair and go play.

I was close to the point of taking him into the backroom and kicking him around, but not until he and Argenti had signed a contract. Luckily, Dunham stepped in and asked her to stay after the meeting to discuss Shondra.

As the faculty were filing out, I tapped Dunham's shoulder. "Find out how Shondra's doing, and if Mrs. Leverett is unwilling, tell her I'll take Shondra to see her brother as soon as I can get away." I resisted digging my fingers in and saying, 'make her do her job.'

The phones had rung incessantly and someone was always at my elbow with a question. It was the weekend. I'd given up part of my last weekend for St. Matthews, and worked a long, hard week. If all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl, I was getting duller by the minute, but there are no breaks in a crisis.

Leaving Dunham to deal with Mrs. Leverett, Chambers and I moved on to a sit-down with Jamison's and Shondra's coaches, a meeting they'd insisted on and Chambers had resisted. He was trying to get clear to go to the hospital and check on MacGregor.

Shondra's coach, Jenna Adams, was tall and strong, with a big jaw, calm gray eyes, and heavy, dark eyebrows that went strangely with her tawny ponytail. Her handshake was firm and direct. Jamison's coach, Al Sidaris, loped in behind her with the bent-kneed suggestion of a limp typical of the aging jock. He was an easy 6' 5", a lean, bald black man with a warm smile and worried eyes.

We'd barely settled in our chairs when he explained the worried look. "I know you're busy, Todd, but I've heard a rumor that's got me worried."

"What rumor, Al?" Chambers asked impatiently.

"You know, Todd. I hate to be adding to your troubles..."

Outside, the misty gray afternoon was fading into a deeper gray dusk and a heavy rain was falling. The few students who could be seen through the windows were walking heads down with their hoods pulled up. Around us, the building hummed with voices and ringing phones. I looked at Chambers, expecting to find him bracing for more bad news. He was gazing absently over at the easel displaying the Arts Center plans.

Sidaris followed Chambers' gaze, dropped his eyes, then cleared his throat, loudly. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and then back at Chambers, obviously wondering whether I ought to be hearing this.

When Chambers didn't respond, I said, "You can speak freely in front of me, Mr. Sidaris. I'm from EDGE Consulting, we're troubleshooters for campus crises." Sidaris still hesitated. "I'm working for St. Matthews."

He sighed, looked at Jenna Adams, then bent forward purposefully. "I know you know about Alasdair and his secret society, Todd." It wasn't a question. "I've heard the members may be planning some kind of revenge."

Secret society? I leaned forward, too, curious to hear more about this.

"What can they do, Al?" Chambers said. "Jones is in jail. They can't get at him."

Impatient with Chambers' obtuseness, Sidaris shifted his shoulders, his nylon jacket rustling. "That's right," he agreed, "and that's wrong. Use your head, Todd. What's the best way to get at Jamison Jones right now?"

I knew, and the sharp intake of her breath said Jenna Adams knew, but Chambers still looked blank. "Go after his sister," Sidaris said.

I waited a decent interval for Chambers to start asking questions or consider ways to head off further trouble. All he did was look at his watch. "What is this secret society?" I asked.

Chambers twitched impatiently. "Oh, just a silly idea of Alasdair's. Sort of a junior Skull and Bones, I suppose. He gathered together a group of legatees, boys like himself who are at least third generation St. Matthews. Their goal was to restore some of the old culture, the old dignity of St. Matthews. Things like wearing jackets and the school tie."

"And reintroducing hazing," Jenna Adams added. "And under the guise of free speech, encouraging behavior that made the lives of female and minority students miserable."

"You didn't mention this the other day, Todd." I looked at Chambers. "Is this the 'trouble' Alasdair was in? Has their behavior been out-of-bounds? Have they broken school rules?"

"They're just a bunch of high spirited kids," he said.

"They haven't broken any rules? You haven't had to discipline them?"

"It's never risen to that level."

Chambers was such a bad liar. For a moment, I felt infuriatingly helpless. This sounded like another problem with the potential to explode in our faces and once again he refused to deal with it. I wasn't here to sort Chambers out; I was here to help the school through a genuine crisis. What I didn't know was whether this could precipitate another crisis. That depended on what Sidaris and Adams revealed.