Stalking Death (8 page)

When I asked if anyone had spoken with Alasdair MacGregor, his "of course not," was as sharp and dismissive as though Alasdair was a taboo subject.

"Are there written reports?"

"We didn't think that was necessary."

I thought of matters I'd dealt with at other schools, of the comings and goings that actually took place, and wondered whether they were being impossibly naïve, simply lazy, or deliberately dishonest in the interest of protecting a major donor's family.

I pulled out my campus map and laid it on his desk, standing beside him so I could see it from his point of view. "Can you show me where Shondra's dorm is?"

He pointed. "She's in Cabot Hall." I circled it in red.

"And where her room is?" He looked puzzled, but complied, and I marked the place where her window would be.

I pulled out a blue marker. "Now, can you show me where Alasdair MacGregor's dorm is?" He circled another building, Pearsall Hall, directly across from hers. "And where his room is?"

Dunham balked. "I'm afraid I have no idea," he said.

And I was born yesterday. I let it go. I'd find out eventually. "Now," I began, and realized that I was beginning too many sentences with the word 'now.' I took a deep breath and forced the inquisitive tone out of my voice. "I don't envy you, having to deal with so many adolescents. It must be a challenge." He smiled and nodded. "Do you have Shondra's file available?"

He patted a thick folder sitting on his desk. "Got it right here."

"Let's double-check the dates she reported finding those pictures in her room. All I've seen is Todd's letter, and they weren't in there."

I peered eagerly over his shoulder as he rifled through, finding the papers he wanted and running his blunt finger down the pages, searching for dates. He read them to me and I jotted them down, wishing there were a way to get him out of the room so I could see what else was in there. For now, unless fate intervened, I'd have to rely on him. Hugging my notes to my chest, I walked around the desk and sat facing him again.

Was I being overly suspicious? Weren't my clients entitled to a presumption of goodwill? Increasingly, though, I was being called in when there was already trouble. Maybe that's why I was becoming more like an investigator than a consultant. But I heard Suzanne's voice in my head. "Kid gloves, Thea. Despite the cutting edge population they serve, this is a very genteel business. At least, it thinks it is."

"Todd says that Shondra has a reputation for being difficult." He nodded. "Can you give me some examples of ways in which that has manifested itself?"

I watched him prepare to disagree and didn't let him get there. "I know we both realize one of the most important aspects of handling this, from a PR standpoint, is to emphasize the school's deep concern for Shondra's welfare, not to identify her as a problem student, but as a student with a problem, and to delineate the steps taken to provide her with the best in support and counseling."

I sounded like such a weasel, like we were all conspiring to play a dirty trick on the girl that would derail her credibility and make us look good. But wasn't that why they'd called me? I was glad there wasn't a mirror in sight. I didn't want to see my sharp nose, pointy teeth or bright, beady eyes.

"That's a good way of putting it," he agreed. "We aren't heartless, whatever the girl may think. She's certainly not the first student with problems." He bent over the file, occasionally removing a sheet and marking the place with a yellow sticky. Then he evened up the edges so it was a neat little stack and passed it across the desk. "This ought to give you some idea," he said.

I took my time going through the papers. This was the first glimpse I'd had of how they kept their records and performed student evaluations. It was all very orderly and professional. Every term, along with her grade, each teacher had written evaluations. So had her coaches. Everyone except her basketball coach felt she had problems with authority. Resisted taking direction. Didn't like to ask for help. They all felt she could do better, that she wasn't working up to her ability.

Words like 'quick-tempered,' 'moody,' 'inattentive,' and 'solitary' also appeared, as well as the wish she would cooperate and participate more. The word 'attitude' didn't appear, but it was always there in the subtext. So she didn't exactly play well with others, off the court at least.

Even her basketball coach, who seemed to like her a lot, noted that she was wary and quick to perceive slights. Had it begun with her feeling that she hadn't gotten into St. Matthews on her own merit? If everyone felt she could do better, what had they done to help her along?

Increasingly, despite the unfavorable picture of the girl I was being given, I found myself curious about her side. Whatever the underlying cause of her behavior was, it was important not to lose sight of the fact that she was the child, the student, the one for whom, presumably, this institution existed. Nothing I'd seen made it clear why everyone believed she had done this herself, but I could see why, faced with so many negative messages, she might engage in a defiantly "in your face" attention getting gesture. I could also see why, if she was a victim and the school refused to believe her, she wouldn't take it lying down.

At least she hadn't folded her tent and fled. That was the other way to go—believe the message and become a failure. In the next hour, I would be meeting her. I wondered what it would be like.

"Alasdair MacGregor," I said. "When did she tell you that he was the one who was stalking her? When she went to her advisor with the first picture?"

"No." He gave a vigorous shake of his head and set a broad hand on the closed file, as though reading something through the cover. Or was he holding something in? "No. Then she said she didn't know. It was later. After the second picture. When we were interviewing her, I asked if she had any idea who might be doing it. She looked me right in the eye and said oh yes, she knew exactly who was doing it. I asked her who and she said Alasdair MacGregor."

"Did she say how she knew?"

"She said she'd recognized his voice. But if he was calling all the time, why did it take so long?"

This next question was tricky, but I had to ask it. "So you didn't believe her. Was her delay in identifying him the only reason?"

He just shrugged. Perhaps he'd also remembered he was supposed to be charming, that he wanted me on his side, because he followed the shrug with a warm smile. "Ms. Kozak. Thea. May I call you Thea?" I nodded. "Picking him? It just wasn't credible. Alasdair doesn't need to chase girls. He's got them lined up for blocks."

In four short sentences, he undid any good a truckload of smiles and charm might have done. This wasn't about chasing girls, about attraction. This was an allegation of stalking. It was about controlling and harassing girls and shaking their sense of self and safety. About playing on their vulnerabilities and terrorizing them. Stalking was also about refusing to take "no" for an answer. As dean of a population of students that was half female, he should know that.

"Any idea why she would have picked him?"

"Not really. But if she was angry and frustrated and really wanted to get back at St. Matthews, he'd be a good choice. Everyone on campus knows about the capital campaign and his grandfather's contribution... and he's, well... it's a hard term to use for one so young. They're just trying things on at this stage—sexual identity, personal style, political beliefs... but Alasdair has positioned himself as a bit right-wing. Conservative. A bit of a bigot, even, and he's pretty outspoken about it. I expect..."

Dunham's eyes circled the room as he debated the propriety of sharing this with me. "Well, to be frank, he'd be about the last male on this campus to be interested in a minority female."

I appreciated his honesty, but there it was again. He was equating stalking with normal attraction. I forced my hands to unclench and swallowed the lecture rising in my throat, shelving my soapbox with an effort. I needed to wrap my hands around something before they headed toward him in an ungentle way. "Any chance there's a cup of coffee around here?"

I expected him to pick up his phone or push a button. Instead, he shoved back his chair, smiling with what I recognized as relief. On this point, at least, we were simpatico. "I'll get you one," he said. "How do you like it?"

"Cream and sugar?" I didn't add lots of cream and sugar. He didn't need to know that some days I lived on the cream and sugar in my coffee because it was the closest to food I got.

"Mind if I look at her file?"

"Help yourself." He pushed it across the desk.

I opened it and started thumbing through, looking for dates around the end of the previous year, something other than teacher's reports. What I found was a memo from the previous May, from an advisor named Deborah Zucker, reporting that Shondra had approached her about a series of anonymous phone calls she'd received. The phone calls came at all hours, from an unknown male, and the content was sexual and disturbing.

I looked through the adjoining papers but couldn't find any further references to the problem, nor any information about how it had been handled. I made some notes about the date and contents, and when he returned with my coffee, I handed it to him. "I can't find anything in the file, but perhaps you might remember. How was this handled?"

He read through it, put it back in the folder, and closed it. Instead of answering my question, he said, "So I guess this craziness of hers has been going on longer than I thought." Unembarrassed about his earlier statement that there was no prior report, indifferent to the implications.

I was beginning to share Shondra's frustration. "What if there really is a stalker?" I asked. "What if the poor girl is honestly terrified?"

"Wait 'til you meet her," he said. "She's even bigger than you are. Great big girl like that can take care of herself. What's she got to be scared of? It's not like someone's actually touched her or anything. Even if she weren't doing it herself, what's the harm in a few phone calls or pictures? It's no big deal."

"Have you seen those pictures?"

He nodded.

He'd seen the pictures and could still say this? At that moment, it clicked for me. He didn't get it at all. Not about stalking nor about how serious the school's situation was. If she'd created those pictures herself, she was a deeply disturbed person engaged in a battle against St. Matts and they had let things go on far too long without appropriate intervention. If she
was
being stalked—and for the first time, I was entertaining that possibility—they had failed her miserably. It would be hard to repair the damage now.

Either way, the problem went well beyond Shondra Jones. Everything Dunham had said made it obvious he didn't have a clue about stalking and he was the Dean of Students. Whatever I was able to do for them in the present situation, St. Matthews had another serious problem they didn't seem to know they had—a cultural problem of blindness, insensitivity, and carelessness, particularly toward female students.

"This Deborah Zucker, who was her advisor. She's left the campus?"

"She found St. Matthews too isolated, I'm afraid. She was a city girl. Missed the bustle and excitement."

"But you could tell me how to reach her?"

"I suppose she must have left a forwarding address." He didn't offer to find it.

"Who is her advisor this year?"

He opened the file again. "I really don't know."

How could he not remember? Both he and Todd Chambers had told me he'd spoken with her advisor several times in the course of investigating her complaint, yet it hadn't mattered enough to stick in his brain? I knew if I asked what steps they'd taken to give Shondra counseling or support, I'd get another blank stare.

"It must be in your notes—the ones you made when you investigated her complaint," I said sweetly. "I'll have to check with you later for that information. It's time to go meet Shondra. And given her current state of mind, it's probably a bad idea to keep her waiting." As a casual afterthought, I added, "Maybe by then you could also find me contact information for Deborah Zucker?"

I slung my briefcase strap over my shoulder and picked up my coffee. "Where am I meeting Shondra?"

Dunham blinked a few times, like he had something in his eye. "I have no idea," he said, "I'll check." He reached for the phone, then hesitated. "I hope you realize what you're getting yourself into, meeting Shondra."

"What do you mean?"

He rolled his eyes. "You'll see," he said ominously, and made his call.

Chapter 6