The Blackbird Papers (10 page)

Sterling slipped through the sliding glass doors of the kitchen. He looked out back first, then walked around until he reached the garage. Everything seemed normal, but then he saw the door—slightly open, swinging softly in the wind. He took a deep breath, kicked the door open, and crouched with his gun drawn, ready to fire. No one there. He searched around, first looking under Kay's car, then opening the doors and checking inside. Confident that he was alone, he clicked on the safety lock and slid the gun inside his waistband. He turned on the light, then examined the door lock to the garage. The lock had been jammed. Deep grooves cut the steel where it had been forced open. Someone had definitely been there, but why?

Sterling walked back to the house and checked on Kay once more, then headed off to his room at the other end of the hall. He kept his door open when he got in bed and placed his gun on the nightstand beside him. If they were willing to come once, they were willing to come again. It took hours before he finally dozed off. It had been a long time since he felt so much fear for his own safety.

14

S
terling ran hard along the Connecticut River, the sound of waves lapping against the banks following him in the darkness. He preferred to run just before dawn. Three days a week, four if something was bothering him. Hitting the road, however, was not something that had always come easy to him. As a trainee in Quantico he could barely sleep through the night knowing that he had to wake up at the crack of dawn to run miles in the woods and then survive an obstacle course. Several times he had almost quit before his career had even started. He was much better suited for the laboratory, where he could put his mind instead of his muscles to work. Unexpectedly, the exercise slowly became a drug, and by the time he finished basic training, he had fallen in love with the very drills that had caused him so much pain. Long, quiet runs had become the perfect balm for his cluttered mind and tangled nerves. While others required a daily jolt of caffeine in the morning, Sterling only needed to feel his feet pounding the pavement.

The run along the Connecticut River, deep in the cool mountains, was a welcome change. It reminded him of how beautiful nature could be when it was protected from ambitious developers and their gigantic machines of mass destruction. Hearing hundreds of strange, anonymous cries and the unbridled songs of animal joy made it easy to understand why Wilson started so many of his mornings with a nature scout.

Sterling turned onto Deer Run Lane and picked up his speed for the last half mile. He had gone to bed exhausted, but whatever had happened in the garage had made it difficult to sleep. When he was finally able to shut his eyes, the photographer's bright bulb flashed in his dreams, waking him up to darkness. Then the images would start again like a movie reel stuck in a loop—Wilson's body lying under the bushes and the deep letters carved into his chest. Sterling had woken this morning, searching for reasons someone would want to kill a man who had loved life so much. When the answers didn't come, he took to the road to find some peace.

Sterling reached the gravel driveway of the property and ran toward the large house, which looked much more imposing in the low light. He always finished his run where he had started; it gave him a sense of closure. He looked at his watch. Thirty-six minutes. Just over seven minutes a mile. He was pleased, especially for his first run at a higher altitude and on challenging terrain. He walked over to one of the wide birch trees and leaned against it to stretch his muscles before they tightened.

As he stretched, he heard the crunching sound of tires on gravel. A white cruiser pulled slowly along the driveway and came to a rest just in front of the house. Lieutenant Wiley jumped out of the car and walked over toward Sterling. His hard, compact body seemed in danger of exploding.

“G'morning, Agent,” Wiley said, touching his cap slightly.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” Sterling said, pulling his outstretched leg from the tree and meeting Wiley in the middle of the yard. They pumped hands earnestly.

“Supposed to be another warm one,” Wiley said, looking up at the gray sky. “Clouds are gonna move out and give the sun a shot.” He let the thought sink in. “I see you've already taken advantage of the good weather.”

“Great place to jog,” Sterling said. “No one to bother you or cars forcing you off the road. I could run all day on these country roads.”

“One of our hidden secrets,” Wiley said proudly. A rare smile cracked the corner of his mouth. “Yesterday you asked Chief Gaylor about video surveillance on campus.”

“That's right,” Sterling said.

“Well, we got something yesterday, but I'm not sure if it's going to be of any help.”

Sterling stopped in the middle of a bend and straightened up.

“It looks like that camera you spotted by the medical school hasn't been working for years. It got disconnected during a storm, and no one ever bothered to hook it back up.”

“I didn't have my hopes up too high about that video,” Sterling said. “But it was worth a shot.”

“You got a great eye, Agent Bledsoe,” Wiley said. “And you did hit the nail on the head about there being a camera over at Burke. We just got the tape in a couple of hours ago.”

“Anything on it?”

“We haven't looked at it yet. I figured I'd come get you first.”

“Thanks for waiting, Lieutenant.” There was a sense of hope in Sterling's voice. Maybe their first big break. Getting that first one was always difficult, but when it came, more often than not the others were soon to follow. “Let me run up and change, and I'll be back in a few.”

“No problem. I'll be waiting in the car. By the way, how's Mrs. Bledsoe?”

“Not well at all,” Sterling said. “The news broke her right down. Then hearing that it was likely a race crime just tore her to nothing.”

Wiley winced slightly. “This isn't the spirit of the Upper Valley,” he said in a tone of apology. “Whoever did this is not one of us.”

Sterling accepted Wiley's words without protest. He was more determined than ever to catch the person who had done this to his brother. With his other cases he'd been motivated by the chance to bring the killer to justice; this time he was driven strictly by revenge.

T
he Hanover Police Department was in an inconspicuous single-story building squatting next to the eighth hole of the Dartmouth Country Club golf course. It had a simple entrance just off Lyme Road, mostly hidden by the tall evergreen trees that kept it in perpetual shade. Except for the name across the front of the building, the few cruisers parked in the rear were the only indication that matters inside revolved around police work. As Wiley pulled his car to the back, Sterling parked the Mustang in a spot marked for visitors.

“We'll be using this as headquarters for the investigation,” Wiley said, taking Sterling down a couple of narrow hallways. “We've all agreed that the Norwich department is just too small for all of us to fit.”

Wiley opened a black unmarked door that led to a large room with several small cubicles along the perimeter. A long conference table in the middle of the pit was filled with phones and fax machines. A large map of the Upper Valley had been taped in the center of the far wall. Sterling recognized most of the faces from the previous day. Agent Brusco talked quietly to a group of officers. He stopped when Sterling and Wiley approached.

“Just in time, Agent,” he said; the scratch in his voice sounded like it hurt him to talk.

“So, this could be our first break,” Sterling said. He raised his eyebrows with uncertainty.

Brusco nodded. “Just waiting for you to play it,” he said. He pointed to a woman seated across the room in front of the video player. A screen had been hung on the largest wall. Next to the screen, the beginnings of a time line had been posted. It was mostly blank except for Wilson leaving the Mortimer mansion, his phone calls to Kay, and the discovery of his body.

The woman pushed a couple of buttons and fidgeted with the remote control before the tape finally played. Most of the video was grainy and out of focus. The faces were barely distinguishable. No audio, just the constant flow of bodies, mostly students, passing in and out of the front door. Occasionally someone would walk outside and smoke a cigarette. The best part about the tape was the time code running along the bottom of the frames.

“Let's fast-forward to early yesterday morning,” Sterling instructed the woman running the controls.

“Tell me when,” she said.

The video images raced across the screen. Sterling pulled out the black book from his vest and reviewed his notes. According to Carlton, the officer standing guard at Wilson's laboratory, the cleaning man was just leaving as he began his watch a little after five o'clock.

“Stop it there,” Sterling said. The time code showed 4:00:30.

The room sat in silence for twenty-five minutes, watching a still front door with no movement other than the jumping shadows of tree limbs blowing in the wind. At 4:25:10, action outside. A figure approached the front door, looked around, and quickly entered. They couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, so Sterling had her rewind the tape and play it in slow motion.

The face could barely be seen, but in one frame, just as the door opened, an image could almost be made out. A dark baseball cap hid the eyes, the nose and mouth only slightly visible. “Can you zoom in on that?” Sterling asked the woman.

“Not with this machine,” she answered.

“Can you print from it?” Sterling asked.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Okay, let the tape play,” he said, resigned.

When she released the Pause button, the person quickly disappeared. Then another thirty-five minutes of no activity, until another figure came into view and opened the door. The security uniform was obvious, as was the shield that shone under the lobby light. The time code showed 5:02:03.

“That's Carlton,” Sterling announced to the room, checking his notes.

“Who's Carlton?” Brusco asked

“Carlton Gilly,” Sterling answered.“One of the Dartmouth Security officers. He was assigned his post outside of Wilson's lab when he reported in that morning.”

“He was in the middle of his shift when we stopped by yesterday,” Wiley added.

“Let the tape play,” Sterling said.

Another five minutes of the empty lobby before a shadow appeared and the back of a figure temporarily blocked the camera. The person quickly opened the door with his right hand and left the building. In less than a second he had disappeared. Time code: 5:07:24.

“Go back,” Sterling instructed. “Right before that figure appears.”

The woman rewound the tape, then pushed play. “Stop!” Sterling shouted.

Everyone stared at the screen, and then at each other. They weren't seeing what Sterling had seen.

“What is it?” Wiley finally asked.

“The door,” Sterling said, walking over to the screen. He pulled out a pen. “There's a reflection of the face in the door. It's faint, but it's there.”

Everyone gathered around Sterling and took turns looking at the image. They all agreed there was something, but it was too faint to make out.

“It's the cleaning man Carlton mentioned,” Sterling said. He looked down at his notes. “Carlton said as he was taking his post a man was leaving the laboratory. Carlton didn't question him too hard because he looked like he had really been cleaning.”

“I wouldn't've questioned him either,” one of the officers said. “They probably clean those labs early in the morning when less people are around.”

“They do,” Sterling said, turning the pages in his book. “But according to Facilities and Operations, the Burke labs are cleaned between midnight and three.”

“Maybe the janitor got a late start?” someone offered.

“Not on Saturday morning,” Sterling corrected. “Bretta Winslow and Norma Jean Donnelly clean the Burke labs every Friday night. They punched off the clock at three thirty Saturday morning.”

“It's possible they forgot something,” someone else suggested.

“Winslow and Donnelly always enter and exit from the back of Burke,” Sterling said. “I talked to the weekend troubleshooter, Otto Winter. He said all the cleaning supplies are stored in the back. There's no real reason to enter the front.”

Agent Brusco looked at Sterling. “Makes a lot of sense,” he said. “But if that's not a janitor, then someone has some explaining to do.”

Sterling kept his eyes on the still door on the screen. “Let's send this down to Harry's lab in Quantico. The tech guys can work miracles with this footage.” Sterling smelled his first scent of blood.

15

S
terling drove around the Dartmouth Green and parked in front of the newest-looking building in Hanover, the Hopkins Center, or the Hop, as it was better known. Large arcaded windows stood in stark contrast to the antiquated colonial structures that composed most of the campus. People filed in and out of the glass doors, some lugging large instruments, others dressed for the symphony. Small children ran ahead of their parents, disobeying commands to stop.

An old woman sat hunched at the information desk. “I'm looking for the Student Employment Office,” Sterling said. “Is it open today?”

“It's open every day, sir, but you're in the wrong building,” she said, shuffling over to a table covered with glossy brochures. She pulled one out and opened it. “You want to go over to the Thayer Dining Hall, just behind the Collis Center. It's a big brick building, just west of the green.”

As he turned to leave, Sterling noticed a small pile of newspapers stacked carelessly in a metal bin. It was the college paper,
The Dartmouth
. He spotted Wilson's name in one of the headlines. “How much for one of those papers?” he asked.

“Oh, those aren't for sale,” she said. “They're waiting to go to the recycling center. They're over a month old.”

“Can I take one?”

“If old news interests you, be my guest,” she said, straining to bend down and grab the paper.

“Just trying to catch up,” Sterling said, unfolding the thin newspaper. He noted a small article on the front page entitled “A Walk on the Wild Side with Professor Wilson Bledsoe.” In the article, Wilson had described some of his remarkable observations about the behaviors of different species of animals that he had encountered on his long night scouts, everything from the mating behaviors of the red fox to the territorial aggression of the wild snapping turtle. The article ended with Wilson's promise to bring more attention to his recent findings about the blackbird population in the Upper Valley and a mention of the new course he planned on adding to the curriculum next semester.

Sterling carefully tore off the front page, folded the article, and tucked it in his vest pocket. He handed the rest of the paper back to the old woman. “Here's to the recycling efforts.”

Sterling decided to walk the short distance to Thayer. It gave him more time to think. Despite the accumulating evidence, he still wasn't buying the random hate crime theory. It just didn't make sense. On a campus so intent on proving its openness and tolerance of difference, a star faculty member and its most accomplished African-American professor is killed by racists.

He crossed the green, now full of students lying out in the sun, reading books, and tossing Frisbees. He walked through a cluster of large brick buildings, then asked a group of noisy students for directions to Thayer Dining Hall. They pointed him to a long narrow building in the shadow of its towering neighbors.

Thayer looked like any other college building, with sales notices and student organization bulletins plastered just inside the lobby. The smell of pizza and french fries floated from the cafeteria as students dumped their knapsacks and coats in a makeshift coatroom before heading in for lunch. Sterling descended the narrow staircase and followed SEO signs posted along the dark hall. The small office bristled with eager students reading job offerings on the small index cards tacked to the wall. Others sat at computer terminals, checking e-mail or searching the job database.

“May I help you?” a student called from behind a cluttered desk. Sterling could hardly see him over the stack of papers.

“I was hoping you might help me find someone,” Sterling said. The student got up and came over to him. “Do you keep files on which students get assigned to the various jobs?”

“Absolutely,” the student said. He was tall and thin—a great body for long-distance running, Sterling thought. “We need to keep track of the job matches to make sure the right person gets paid. Also, if someone doesn't show up, we need to know where to send a replacement worker.”

“Then maybe you can help me figure out who was parking cars at the president's house this past Friday night.”

The boy's expression suddenly changed. “I'd like to help you, sir, but I can't just give out information like that to anyone.”

“I'm Agent Sterling Bledsoe.” Sterling flashed his shield. “Brother of Professor Wilson Bledsoe.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know,” he said. “I'll be right back.” The lanky student hurried to the desk and rummaged through a drawer full of loose papers. He returned after a few minutes with a narrow look on his face.

“All the parties at the president's house are serviced by our seniors,” he explained. “Those jobs are always in high demand, because the president pays a little more for student services and his guests usually leave bigger tips. That night there were nine students—two behind the bar, three serving hors d'oeuvres, two checking coats, and two parking cars.”

“I'd like to speak to one of the valets.”

The student traced his finger across the page. “Carlos Sandoza and Michele Leone,” he said.

“I'm looking for Carlos. How can I get ahold of him?”

“Let me call his room.”

Sterling observed the busy office, watching the students scribble down names and phone numbers of potential employers. His undergraduate years were different. Extra money was hard to come by unless you shot a good game of pool or could play a mean hand of poker. Things seemed much easier now.

The student came back in a minute or two. “I talked to one of his roommates. You're in luck. Carlos left the dorm about five minutes ago. He's heading over here to pick up his paycheck.”

“How far away is his dorm?”

“Just on the other side of the green. It won't take him long to get here.” Students continued to file in and out of the office.

“I'll wait for him,” Sterling said, stepping back into the empty hallway and taking a seat on the small bench outside the office. He pulled out his black book and slowly turned the pages. Carlos Sandoza was probably one of the last friendly faces his brother saw.

C
arlos Sandoza was a strongly built kid with dark, wavy hair that had been combed back and gelled into a perfect helmet. His Sean John headband, baggy denims, and black Timberland boots were the clothes of his neighborhood—the South Bronx—and he walked with the swagger of someone familiar with the life of the streets. Sterling had a feeling that he hadn't grown up with the same advantages as the other students, and he wasn't going to make any excuses for it. In an Ivy League town full of privileged prep schoolers, Carlos Sandoza wore his hardened Bronx upbringing defiantly.

“You looking for me?” he asked.

“Carlos Sandoza?”

“Yeah, that's me. Who wants to know?” A long toothpick dangled from the corner of his mouth.

“I'm Sterling Bledsoe, brother of Professor Wilson Bledsoe.”

Carlos sized up Sterling. “Your brother was the shit,” he said. The toothpick seemed like it was about to fall out, but it didn't.

“What part of the Bronx?” Sterling asked.

“You know the city?”

“I can find what I need,” Sterling answered.

“Hundred and Thirty-ninth and Beekman. South Bronx.”

“Mott Haven,” Sterling said. “Number 6 train to Brook Avenue.”

Carlos nodded his head in approval. “You know the 'hood. Most people don't.”

“Not many reasons to go to that part of the city.”

“That's right, not unless you got business.”

“I want to ask you some questions about the night you were parking cars.”

“I don't know anything,” Carlos said. “He came out, got in his car, and left. Someone called me this morning and said he was dead.”

“Not just dead,” Sterling said. “Murdered. And it was someone with a grudge against him. Messed him up real bad.”

“That's fucked up!” Carlos said. The toothpick finally escaped his mouth and landed somewhere on the ground between them. “Who would kill the Professor?”

Sterling grabbed Carlos's arm and walked him away from the employment office and into an unlit hallway. “That's why I'm here,” Sterling said. “I think you might be one of the last people he saw.”

Carlos put his large hands on his hips and shook his head. Disappointment and shock wrinkled his forehead, making his hard countenance appear even tougher.

“What can you tell me about that night?” Sterling asked.

Carlos paused. “Everybody wanted to work that party because a lot of big names were coming from across the country. It was a nice set. Bigger than usual. I only went inside a couple of times, because I was parking cars. Most cats have too much pride to park cars, but not me. Parking gets you the biggest tips. By the time people leave President Mortimer's parties drinking all that fancy shit, they ass is tore up. When I bring their cars around, they're so drunk they give me whatever's green in their pocket—fives, tens. I even got a twenty that night. I remember Professor Bledsoe was one of the first to leave.” Carlos stopped and shook his head. “I can't believe he's dead.”

“Try to think back, Carlos. Did Wilson appear to be drunk? Was he acting unusual?”

“Not at all,” Carlos replied. “I've served him at parties before, and he never drank more than one glass of wine. I think he liked red. I was surprised to see him leave so early, you know, because it was his party and all.”

“He never was much of a partier,” Sterling said. “He'd rather be in the classroom or working in the lab.”

“When I saw him getting his coat, I ran and got his car so that it would be waiting when he walked over to the driveway. I have much respect for your brother. A lot of us looked up to him. He might've been the quiet type, but he kicked some serious academic ass at this lily-white school.”

“Did he say anything that was out of the ordinary?”

Carlos squinted hard. “Not really. I asked him to autograph one of his textbooks for me, but he laughed and wouldn't sign it. He said that autographs were for famous people and that he was just a small scientist daring to dream big. He was keeping it real. I'm telling you, your brother was the shit.”

Sterling nodded his head slowly. “Did he say where he was going?”

“Not really. Not that I remember.”

“After he left, did you hear anything funny that night?”

Carlos thought hard. “It was a rainy night. Up here in the boonies you hear all sorts of strange sounds. When the rain started coming down harder, I went in the house to get an umbrella. As soon as I walked back outside, I heard a pop. It sounded familiar. Reminded me of gunshots back home.”

“You think it was a gun?”

“It definitely sounded like one, but it was off in the distance. I heard the same thing a few minutes later. I thought maybe one of the frat houses was setting off firecrackers or something—sounded like an M80.”

“Which direction did the sounds come from?”

“From the back of the house,” Carlos answered. “That's another reason why I didn't hear it too well.”

“Do you remember about what time it was?”

“I remember exactly. Between seven thirty and a quarter to eight.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Right after I heard them, one of my boys hit me on my cell to see if I was going out that night. The Kappas were having a party at Collis, and everyone was leaving Shabazz House together at eight, getting some chow at the Hop, then heading over to the party. He told me the crew would be leaving in about fifteen minutes.”

“Did you go out with them?”

“I couldn't. I didn't finish getting cars till nine thirty, then I had to go over to Baker to study for midterms.”

Sterling closed his book. “You've been a big help, Carlos. Just do me a favor and don't talk about this to anyone. We're still trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

Carlos pounded his chest three times—a street sign for secrecy. He turned back before leaving. “What part of the city do you live in?”

“Upper East Side in the Sixties,” Sterling said.

“High society.” Carlos laughed. “You fuckin' sellout.” He plucked a fresh toothpick out of his pocket and slipped it in his mouth. He slid his hands in the pockets of his jeans and strutted down the hall to collect his paycheck. Attitude back in effect.