The Blackbird Papers (7 page)

10

B
y two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, word of the mysterious disappearance of Professor Wilson Bledsoe had spread across the Dartmouth campus through frantic e-mails and whispered phone conversations. Everyone from the regulars in Lou's Diner on Main Street to the senior faculty had heard some part of the story. Like most other rumors, what news was passed on was largely the product of unrestrained imagination. Some stories had the Professor running off with another woman, while others had him skipping town because of gambling debts.

Sterling followed the campus map he had found in his car-rental packet and made a turn down Webster Avenue. Both sides of the street were lined with stately houses belonging to Dartmouth's famous sororities and fraternities. Most of the large brick buildings were badly in need of repair. The lopsided shutters barely clung to their hinges, and the beer cans strewn about the lawns offered evidence that the parties were hard and long. Toward the end of the street sat an enormous yellow mansion resting far back from the road, at least two hundred feet. A tall, black wrought-iron gate with an ornate pattern woven along the top protected the manicured lawn. A large circular driveway led visitors to the front of the house and then conveniently away when it was time to leave. This mansion was the largest, most elegant, and best-maintained house on the street, an appropriate distinction since it served as the official residence of President Wallace Mortimer.

While other schools tended to hide the opulence of their president's home, Mortimer lived like a king, and it was there in the open for everyone to see.

The gate to the driveway was open and two Volvos were parked quietly next to the house. The newer one was a black station wagon with the license plate WM III. The sedan, not more than a couple of years older, was dark green, with the license plate SM I. A Dartmouth Security cruiser was parked behind them. Sterling pulled in behind the cars.

It took a few moments for the door to open after Sterling rang the bell.

“Good afternoon,” a short woman said. She was wearing a black, neatly pressed dress at least a couple of sizes too big and a white apron that wrapped her small frame like a cocoon. Her jet-black hair fell down her back, a perfect complement to her deeply tanned skin and sharp features. She was beautiful, but what immediately struck Sterling were her eyes. They were ocean blue and unforgiving. It was the first time he had seen a Native American—or anyone, for that matter—with eyes that color. For a moment they paralyzed his voice.

“Afternoon,” he finally said, looking deep into her eyes. He could see the waves of the ocean. “Is President Mortimer home?”

“Who is it, Ahote?” a woman's voice reached out from somewhere deep in the house.

“Your name, sir?” the little princess asked. Her voice sounded like two pieces of silk blowing against each other in the wind.

“Sterling Bledsoe, from New York City.”

The door opened wider and Sterling looked into another woman's face. Austere. Gray-tinged blond hair pulled back severely behind a black headband, eyes cold. Sterling found her plain and unremarkable, completely forgettable.

“How can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was strong and to the point. There was a hint of condescension. Ahote took a long look at Sterling and disappeared into the house.

“Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” he said. “I was hoping to see President Mortimer.”

The woman lifted her eyebrows, then wrinkled her forehead. “Please come in, Mr. Bledsoe,” she said, stepping to the side to let Sterling pass. Her voice warmed, but it still wasn't friendly. “I'm Serena Mortimer, Wallace's wife. I just don't know what to say,” she lamented, shaking her head several times.

“It's caught all of us by surprise,” Sterling said. He stepped into the foyer and realized the house looked even bigger from inside. A grand staircase curved up to a mezzanine, then to the second floor. A massive chandelier sprinkled rainbows across the cream-colored walls. The pungent smell of cleaner immediately assaulted his nose.

“Awful,” she said, leading him through a maze of large rooms, mostly decorated with dark, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Old paintings hung in gilded wooden frames. Heavily embroidered curtains shielded the windows from the sun. She spoke with the clipped New England accent of someone who had spent most of her childhood in country clubs. “Wallace is in the back.”

The house was quiet and cold, sending a chill through Sterling that made him shiver. But the coolness didn't seem to bother Serena, who was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and plaid skirt. In the minds of those accustomed to winter temperatures well below zero, a cool spring day was just as warm as the middle of summer.

Serena walked Sterling through a long back hallway wallpapered in a green print. This finally opened up to a spacious sunroom overlooking the expansive backyard. Long glass panels trapped the sunlight in the room, keeping the air warmer and cozier than in the rest of the house. Two men sat across from each other speaking in low voices. They stopped when Sterling and Serena entered.

“Sterling Bledsoe,” Serena announced. The two men got to their feet.

“I'm Wilson's brother,” Sterling said.

“President Wallace Mortimer,” the patrician man said. He shook Sterling's hand. His carefully combed black hair showed only traces of gray and a small amount of recession at the temples. He was quite a good-looking man, and in great shape for someone his age and in his position. He wore a forest green wool blazer with a white oxford shirt. His freshly ironed khaki pants had been meticulously tailored. His moccasins looked comfortable and expensive. Like most academics Sterling had met in the North, Mortimer didn't wear socks.

“This is Chief Nathaniel Gaylor,” Mortimer said, pointing to the other man. “He's the head of Dartmouth's Security Department.” Even the police officers have aristocratic names, Sterling thought. Gaylor extended a hand. He was a remarkably hairless man, with big ears and large bulbous eyes, exactly like an extraterrestrial in a cartoon. Sterling was fascinated by the perfect roundness of his bald dome.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Sterling said. “I apologize for just popping by like this.”

“Apology completely unnecessary,” President Mortimer said. There was that accent again, northern with a splash of haughtiness, perfect for an Ivy League president. “Please have a seat.” The three men sat down. Serena lingered for a moment, then disappeared through the door.

“I was getting briefed on all that's happened so far,” Mortimer said. He was just what Sterling had expected of the head of one of the most exclusive schools in the country. He spoke with a heavy and deliberate voice, going to great effort to articulate every vowel and consonant, comfortable in his superiority.

“I arrived this morning,” Sterling said. “I've spent all my time so far trying to figure out how Wilson could suddenly slip away on a night that was so special.”

“Yes, the party, of course,” President Mortimer said. “It was quite a successful affair.” He said that proudly. “The biggest scientists from all over the country showed up. Not an easy thing to pull off, I might add. Academics tend to be—well, shall we say, a little self-interested at times.”

“I've been told that Wilson left the party at approximately seven o'clock,” Sterling said.

“There were over two hundred people here, so I don't remember exactly when he left, but it was shortly after his address.” Mortimer looked at the well-appointed garden and squinted from the sun. “I'd say he spoke sometime around a quarter to seven or so.”

“Do you remember him behaving out of character at all? Maybe he said something strange, seemed anxious or nervous?”

“Not at all,” Mortimer said. He shifted his long body in the chair until he found a more comfortable position. Sterling couldn't get over how young he looked for a man approaching his seventies. “Serena and I spoke to him earlier in the evening and again right before he left,” Mortimer said. “He was anxious to get home to Kay. She had been sick, but was still preparing a special meal to commemorate the occasion.”

“Have things been going well here for Wilson?” Sterling asked. Mortimer raised his eyebrows as if the question surprised him. “Sometimes things aren't exactly how they seem. Maybe some tension in his department?”

Mortimer's answer was emphatic. “Wilson is one of our most beloved professors,” he said. “His scholarship has placed him among the giants, not only in our school's history but in the scientific community at large. No complaint or negative comment has ever come across my desk with Wilson's name on it. He was simply loved by all—faculty, student body, and support staff.”

Sterling turned to the chief. “You may or may not know this, but I'm a special agent with the FBI.” Gaylor nodded. “We've been called in to assist, and I'll be leading the investigation from our end.” Sterling allowed his words to register before continuing. “I was hoping you could tell me what kind of video surveillance has been installed in the different campus buildings.”

Chief Gaylor took a moment before responding. It was obvious that he wanted to say the right thing. “Some of our buildings have cameras, but most of them don't. We've been trying to upgrade our security detail over the last few years. To be honest, crime has not been a major concern here at Dartmouth. It's just not that kind of place.”

“I noticed there was some type of camera in the entrance of Burke,” Sterling said. “Where Wilson has his lab.”

Chief Gaylor cocked his perfectly bald head and tightened his thin lips. He reminded Sterling of a hairless sphinx. “There's a library in Burke. That means it would've been one of the first in line for video surveillance installation. We decided to start with all the buildings that had libraries. They have the greatest need since they're open longer and students tend to come and go late into the night.”

President Mortimer nodded approvingly, seemingly at the idea of his students putting the libraries to good use.

“Getting a copy of that tape might tell us something,” Sterling said.

“What are you thinking?” President Mortimer wanted to know. He sat a little straighter in his chair.

“Just trying to cover all the possible places Wilson could've visited that night,” Sterling said. “It probably won't turn up anything, but you never know.”

Mortimer nodded. He did that a lot. “We've already gotten a few inquiries from some of the local press, and the
Boston Globe
,” Mortimer said. “Someone in my office is working with Chief Gaylor's people to prepare a statement. I wanted the family to read it first before we release it.”

“Thanks for the consideration,” Sterling said. He knew the media would be sniffing around soon. There wasn't much in the way of crime in these small towns, so the disappearance of a popular professor was sure to stir some interest. After all of his years at the Bureau, Sterling had learned that the media could be your best friend or your worst enemy. The key was controlling them, before they controlled the investigation. When he moved to the special homicide division, he attended a two-week course on the media—how to speak with the press and how to use it to your advantage. While he was working on his first big case, one of the veterans had cautioned him that it was impossible to avoid ambitious reporters, and the minute it looked like that was what you were trying to do, the public relations game was lost. Go to the press before they come to you. As many crimes have been solved by well-placed leaks in the media as they have been by great detective work.

“One thing we've been discussing is a possible kidnapping,” Mortimer said. “It was no secret that Wilson had just won the Devonshire. Two million dollars is a lot of money, even around here.”

“And we've had a kidnapping in the past,” Gaylor added. “About ten years ago, someone grabbed Pam Dolan. Big oil executive's daughter. No harm, just a couple of scratches. And we got her back within three days.”

Sterling listened closely. He knew that a kidnapping was unlikely but was willing to hear them out. Everything had to be considered early in an investigation. Of course, there had been no ransom demands as of yet.

“This might be an uncomfortable question,” Mortimer began. “But is it possible Wilson was having some type of personal trouble?”

“None that I know of,” Sterling said. “But I guess it's something that has to be considered along with everything else.”

“So many questions and no answers,” Mortimer said. “It's damn frustrating.” He was nodding his head again, and the habit was already bothering Sterling.

Ahote appeared at the entrance carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of water. When she stepped into the sunroom, the light penetrated the depths of her blue eyes. Sterling watched her movements—quick and efficient. He was captured by her beauty—simple but strong. He looked at his watch. It was almost three o'clock. Veronica was probably just pulling herself out of his bed—alone.

11

S
olemn McKenzie Hall stood on the east side of the campus, directly opposite Memorial Field. Students didn't have much business there, since the facilities and operations personnel occupied most of its tiny offices. The dark building stood empty except for a couple of men sitting against the back wall of the lobby. They quickly stamped out their cigarettes as Sterling approached.

“We're closed today,” the old one said. Smoking had turned his teeth a putrid yellow.

“I'm Sterling Bledsoe,” Sterling said, ignoring the dismissive greeting. “I was hoping you could help me figure something out.”

“Try the best I can. But no promises.”

“Who's in charge of cleaning and maintaining the campus buildings?” Sterling asked.

“'Pends on which ones ya talking about,” the old man said. He started to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket but changed his mind. “We're part of the custodial services, but then you have maintenance and the grounds teams.”

“What are the functions of the custodial services?”

The two men looked at each other, then the old man stared hard at Sterling. “What exactly are you after, sir?” he said. His voice was starting to lose its friendliness.

“Just wondering who takes care of what.”

The old man ran his eyes down Sterling's body. “Is this business or personal?”

“Both. I'm investigating my brother's disappearance.”

The old man was clearly taken aback. “My sympathies. Professor Bledsoe was a helluva man. Lotta class. Treated us cleaning crews with the same respect he gave the other professors.”

“Thanks,” Sterling said simply.

“Those of us in custodial are in charge of opening and closing buildings, making sure the buildings are clean and safe,” the old man said. “We keep track of lost and found and clear the bulletin boards when students post flyers without permission.”

“We also handle all the recycling,” the younger man said. It was the first time he had spoken, and Sterling quickly regretted that he had. His teeth were no better than the old man's and looked even worse, with oversized gums that were closer to black than to pink.

“How can I find out who cleans which buildings?” Sterling asked.

“Gotta check with the office,” the old man said. “They keep all the assignments and time cards.”

“Is anyone in there now?”

“Nope, nobody's in on the weekends. Gotta wait till Monday or call the troubleshooter.”

“Troubleshooter handles all emergencies on the weekends,” the younger man added.

“How do I reach him?”

“Go over to that white phone and dial 2344,” the old man said. “Somebody will pick up.”

“Thanks for all your help, gentlemen,” Sterling said. He watched the men walk out the front door and jam fresh cigarettes in the corner of their mouths. They were already pulling long drags by the time the door closed behind them.

Sterling dialed the number and waited. “Power plant,” a muffled voice answered. A loud radio cranking out the oldies made it difficult to hear him.

“I'm looking for someone from Facilities,” Sterling said.

“You have an emergency, sir?” the man asked.

“You could say that,” Sterling said.

“Either you do or you don't,” the man snapped.

“Something suspicious has happened in my lab, and I need to talk to someone in charge.”

There was a pause on the other end. The music suddenly cut off. “What do you mean by suspicious?”

“Exactly that. Suspicious. Not right. Something wrong. Do I need to call Safety and Security?”

“If ya just give me a minute, sir, I'm trying to help.” His tone had changed. “What exactly do you need to know?”

“Who cleaned Burke on Friday night?”

“You're talking about Burke labs just down the hill from the observatory?”

“Exactly.”

There was another pause. “Where are you?”

“In the lobby of McKenzie.”

“Is this really important?”

“Important enough for me to call Security if you can't help.”

“I'm at the steam plant. Wait for me and I'll be over in five minutes. What's your name?”

“Sterling Bledsoe.”

T
he rattle of the front door roused Sterling from deep thought. A short man with square metal-framed eyeglasses lumbered across the lobby. He wore dark brown uniform pants and a grease-stained beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His right sleeve secured a box of cigarettes. Probably Marlboros. Sterling stood and intercepted him.

“I'm Sterling Bledsoe,” he said, extending his hand.

“Otto Winter,” the man said, offering a firm handshake. Winter had to be well into his sixties, but his grip was strong and the muscles still bulged in his forearm.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” Sterling said. He didn't want to alarm the man, so he kept things unofficial. At least for now. “I normally wouldn't bother, but I'm concerned about some very expensive equipment that's been moved.”

Otto grunted and shook his gray frizzy top, badly in need of a haircut. “I doubt one of our people would take anything, sir, especially equipment like that. We ain't got no use for those high-tech gizmos.”

“Hopefully they haven't taken it, but maybe they can tell me if it was moved,” Sterling said.

“Maybe.” Otto reached down to his side and pulled up a wad of keys on a circular ring that looked big enough to fit over his head. He fumbled with a couple of keys before finding the one he wanted. He opened the door to an office off the lobby and flicked on the light. “I used to know the schedule by heart,” he said, walking Sterling behind a counter and stopping at a tall metal cabinet along the back wall. “I made the schedule for twenty years before retiring. Now I just fill in on the weekends to get away from the wife.” He let out a strange laugh that sounded like he was choking. Then he pulled open the third drawer.

Otto knew exactly where to go and which folder to pull. He took it over to one of the desks and carefully pulled out the papers. “Here it is,” he said, showing it to Sterling. “The Friday-night Burke crew was Bretta Winslow and Norma Jean Donnelly.”

Sterling looked at the names and scribbled them in his book. “What time do they clean Burke?”

“Right after the library closes,” Otto said. “Precisely at midnight.”

“And how long does it take?”

Otto bit his bottom lip and tightened his eyes. “I haven't been over there in years, but I suspect three hours tops. That's one of the cleaner buildings, mostly offices and labs. Not a lot of students making a mess. Their biggest cleanup is in the library, where they have to vacuum the rugs and clean the bathrooms. For some reason, those goddamn kids make a helluva mess in the bathrooms. Used to bug the shit outta me when I was cleanin' them.”

Sterling continued to scribble as Otto waited patiently for the next question.

“What are you writing, a book or something?” Otto smirked.

“Just my way of keeping things clear,” Sterling said. “Is it possible that one of them could've called in sick that night?”

“I doubt it. Bretta maybe, but Norma Jean, never. That woman is a workhorse, bless her soul. She hasn't missed a day of work in fifteen years.” Otto shook his head. “They don't make 'em like her anymore.”

Otto walked back to the cabinet and shuffled through another set of papers before finding a thick folder—simply labeled “Time Cards.” He pulled out two long manila cards and brought them to Sterling. “They were working all right,” he said, handing the cards to Sterling.

Each card had a name on top, and underneath that a formatted weekly schedule. Bretta had punched in that day at seven, Norma at six forty-five. They punched out together, Bretta at 3:30:05 and Norma Jean at 3:30:15. Sterling recorded the times and handed the cards back to Otto.

“Is it possible that someone else would've come after they left to help clean up?” Sterling asked.

Otto raised his eyebrows. “I can't imagine why. When we finish cleaning a building, we're finished. No reason for anyone else to come and clean up a cleanup, if you get my drift.”

“Who would have access to the labs and offices at Burke?”

“That's a tough one,” Otto said. He brought his hand to his chin, and exposed a tattoo of a naked mermaid on the underside of his forearm. “The individual custodians that clean Burke would have a key. The custodial office has a master, so does campus security. We have one at the troubleshooter's office in case of an emergency. Beyond that, I can't think of anyone else who would need one.”

“What door would they use to enter and exit the building?” Sterling asked.

“The back,” Otto said. “Always. The cleaning supply room is just inside the back door. No real reason to go through the front.”

Sterling nodded. “One more thing, Otto,” he said. “I notice that you're not wearing an ID. Does everyone carry one?”

Otto pulled out a wallet thicker than a balled fist. Papers and receipts fell to the ground, but eventually he produced a photo ID. “Everyone carries ID on their person. Nonnegotiable. A few years back we got hit by a big theft ring. A bunch of men and women come up from Boston pretending to be college employees and students. Stole us outta house and home. Cleaning supplies, computer equipment, textbooks—anything they could get their hands on, they were taking. Since then, everyone, regardless how long they've worked here, has to carry their identification. Don't do it and you're outta here.”

Sterling gritted his teeth. They had missed a major opportunity when Carlton didn't ask the man leaving the lab for his identification. Didn't he have enough damn sense to be suspicious of someone leaving Wilson's office only hours after he was reported missing? Then the good-looking girl who had come by claiming to be one of his students. Why had she really come to the lab that morning? If she was checking on an experiment, she hadn't put up much of a fight when Carlton denied her access. Wouldn't she at least have asked him to chaperone her inside if what she was doing was that important?

“You've been a big help,” Sterling said, replacing the book inside his breast pocket. “I'll be sure to call the office on Monday if I have any other questions.”

“Ask for Darius Brown,” Otto said. “He's the big boss.”

Sterling left the office and walked into the dark lobby. Whoever went into Wilson's lab between three thirty and five on a dark Saturday morning wasn't making a social call. The clues weren't talking yet, but they were at least starting to hum.