Death Warmed Over

by Kate Flora

It's useless trying to talk with someone who refuses to listen, as his last remark made clear. Yesterday he'd treated me like crap. Today he calls for help and he still won't listen. I was wasting my time. I disconnected. Maybe he'd get the message. Maybe he'd think it was a dropped call. I moved on to the rest of my messages, taking the time to listen through Reeve's increasingly anxious calls in case at any point he'd said anything I needed to be concerned about. Nothing.

  By the time I'd made my way through those, Andre was dressed and tying his shoes. There were three discarded shirts on the bed beside him. "I need shirts," he said. "And socks. And new shoes. And pants."

  Being a cop can be hard on a guy's wardrobe. And we both hate to shop.

  My own wardrobe was pretty shabby as well. It looked like it was time to call up some catalog sites and do some hefty ordering. Not that that worked very well. At 5'11" with a full chest and long legs, clothes never fit me. Ordering clothes for Andre works better. A man can buy something and it fits. Many times I've longed for clothes sized by chest width, inseam, and sleeve length.

  "I'll take care of it," I said. I could have told him to do it himself, but then it would never get done. Besides, it didn't take long. If I left it to him, the results might be disastrous. I liked my husband to look good. He might be a brilliant interviewer and able to read crime scenes in a single bound, but he wasn't especially good at knowing what size he was or what looked good on him. And he was impatient, an attribute that had once resulted in him ordering three pink shirts. Tough guy detectives do NOT wear pink shirts.

  Ah. Domestic bliss.

  Having given domestic bliss its moment, I went back to my phone as Andre clattered away down the stairs. A moment later, his engine roared to life and he crunched away down the drive. I'd never learned what happened last night with evil Randy, never mind where Andre was headed off to now. We needed a vacation if only to have some time to talk. Last night, we'd been too tired for talk. I wasn't complaining, though. We'd found the energy for some nonverbal communication.

  I decided I could go to work in jeans, and added a beautiful black, white, and gray ombre scarf to pull the ensemble together. Over coffee and a bowl of the kind of too healthy cereal that takes energy to chew, I went back to my phone and scrolled through the rest of the messages. Nothing but bad news. Lisa needed an hour of my time. Bobby needed to review our strategy for the school that was still withholding their data. Did we move on to another client? Suzanne needed a sit-down to strategize for the next few weeks. Two client schools needed me to walk them through some problems.

  My doctor, dentist, and eye doctor all wanted to remind me that I was overdue for yearly exams.

  Jonetta wanted to talk.

  My mother wanted to talk. My mother still wanted to talk. My father wanted to know why I wasn't returning my mother's calls, didn't I know I was upsetting her? And prize-winning mixed blessing of the day, my brother Michael's hateful wife Sonia was pregnant. Maybe I would finally be off the reproductive hook. Instead, I would be forced to wonder how to be a good aunt to the little devil spawn. Not the kid's fault. I knew that. There was nature as well as nurture. But my brother's form of nurture? Ghastly. And what if the poor little thing also inherited their natures? I had a brief image of my sister-in-law Sonia pregnant. She's one of those affirmatively skinny women—the kind who starve their poor bodies into submission—and she'd look a lot like a vertical snake that had swallowed a rat.

  Yes. I was being unkind. My family, bless their collective souls, brings that out in me. All I can say, in the words of a defiant child, is: they started it.

  I quickly moved on to things I could deal with. It was too early to call Suzanne but early enough to be blissfully quiet at the office, my favorite time to get some work done.

  I zipped my feet into my warm, lined boots, something else I was tossing on the equinoxial fire along with my tired winter jacket and some sweaters I'd seen way too much of, grabbed briefcase and keys, and headed out into the still dark morning. I didn't know of any bad guys who might be lurking, but life has made me wary. I paused on the step to survey the driveway and yard—the stop, look, and listen carried forward from childhood—and checked the backseat and underneath the car before I got in. Better safe than sorry. I was too well acquainted with sorry.

  Enroute, I began to make my list of things to do, struggling to push back images of a warm sand beach, drinks with little umbrellas, and having no to-do lists beyond making the choice between paddle boarding in turquoise water or having a hot stones massage. More like a to-enjoy list. At the top, not of the to-enjoy but the to-do list, as soon as it was a civilized hour to make phone calls, was Charlotte Ainsley. I couldn't really deep six Stafford Academy without doing her the courtesy of making sure she was on board with Joel's program. Farther down, after connecting with Bobby and Lisa and Suzanne, was Andre's wardrobe.

  The car still smelled of spilled coffee and the faint remnants of burning that drew me, inevitably, back to Ginger. When I pulled in at my favorite coffee place to grab a coffee and one of their fabulous glorious morning muffins, I pulled up that photograph again and stared at it. Then I dug in my briefcase and pulled out the listing sheet with Ginger's card clipped to it. I held the card next to the phone and looked from one to the other. Even though the photos were small and not high quality, the one from Stafford seemed so much like the one from her business card. I stared at them, wishing she had a mole or a scar or something else indelible. Was I seeing too much in a straight nose, crooked tooth, and freckles?

  I figured that by now the photographer had been inundated by messages from Andre and Roland, but I texted him anyway, reminding him of my call and asking if he remembered the girl's name and anything about her. Looking at the young, happy face depressed me so much I had to go back inside for a second muffin.

  I turned my phone off for the rest of the drive, treating myself to some silence before the day's craziness began. I didn't even turn on music, just listened to the thump and swish of my tires on the wet pavement.

  My desk, as usual, was piled with message slips and things that needed my attention. I worked my way through them, moving from right to left, assessing and assigning. Gradually, the room filled up around me, people murmuring soft greetings as they headed for their own desks. By the time I'd reached the bottom of the stack, the staff was in and it was a decent hour to make a call to Mrs. Ainsley.

  There was just one more thing in that pile. The package from my mother, something she'd mentioned in one of those unreturned calls. A sweater she said was perfect for me. She might be aggravating in most ways, but when she decided to buy me clothing, she was right on the money. Those random packages were her way of admitting something she couldn't come out and say—that she knew she was difficult and we had trouble getting along, but she loved me and wanted me to be happy.

  I decided to postpone it until after a visit to the restroom. If my mother had come through as usual, it would be a bright spot in my frazzled day. When I got back to my desk, as if the independent school universe knew I wanted a break from thoughts of Ginger, there was a missed call and a voice mail and Brianna hovering, waiting to tell me that the Blackwell School had a major emergency and they needed me right now. "I'll get back to you, I promise," I told the package, and reached for the phone.

  I called the head of school, Patricia Gorham, for the details. Their bad situation involved a longtime, and beloved, faculty member, Dr. Charles Harrington, who had been discovered to have child pornography on his computer. So far, dispersal of the news had been controlled, but once other parents heard about the situation, there would be an uproar. This kind of case topped headlines for weeks, even when there wasn't any news. Fox in the chicken house. Beloved professor is secret predator!

  Trish had done the right thing—the man had been immediately fired and he'd been moved out of campus housing within hours of the discovery. But now the trustees wanted a big, tough, trouble-shooter—that would be me—to parachute in and make e
verything nice again. It was not a situation that could be made nice.

  EDGE Consulting specialized in private school issues, and increasingly in public relations emergencies. In a media-obsessed world, damage control couldn't wait. Blackwell's porno-collecting professor was a situation we'd seen before. We'd seen it before because—no surprise—the same people who are attracted to child pornography often situate themselves in jobs that serve children. That didn't make it any less awful for those in charge, but at least it meant I would know what I was doing when I got there.

  We were starting off on a good footing. Trish Gorham hadn't dithered about what to do or whether she had to protect her employee's rights, as sometimes happened. She'd correctly chosen to protect her students and acted promptly and decisively to move the man out of campus housing.

  The school was an hour and half away. I was hoping I'd be able to get there, get damage control underway, and still drive home tonight. But just in case, I needed to know where there were hotels nearby. I'd leave the logistics to Magda, who loved us all like we were her children and looked after our welfare accordingly. She'd have a list compiled and sent to my phone before I was done here. Brianna was too new, and too timid, to rely on for something like this. And Magda knew what I liked.

  I told Trish I would be on my way soon, and started running the list of issues she needed to be aware of. Trish was one of those women who was so competent she scared me. So competent I tried to talk her out of hiring us. She beat me to the punch.

  "I know what you're going to say, Thea. That I... that we... don't need you. But we do. I want you to handle the PR issues, shaping what we say to the parents and the press, so I can focus on working with local law enforcement and making sure my kids feel safe."

  There was a pause, and then, with deep regret in her voice, "Make sure my kids are safe. Were safe. That he hasn't been..."

  She took a deep breath. Too often, these discoveries were about someone deeply embedded in the community. Someone people have trusted and had faith in, even loved. It was a tremendous blow when that trust and faith were betrayed, when friends and colleagues were torn between loyalty and what had to be done. It was the kind of betrayal that made people question themselves and their judgment, which made it harder to respond quickly and effectively.

  "This is such a shock. I am not naïve. No one could accuse me of it. But I never saw this coming."

  "No one does, Trish. People like Dr. Harrington are good at what they do. They present a credible, decent public face. Become members of the community. They're often brilliant manipulators who assess situations and make connections precisely so they can do this without getting caught. What we hope is that he is only a viewer and a collector and not someone who makes and shares his own pornography."

  Did it sound like I didn't think viewing and sharing was so bad? What I really thought was that by doing viewing and sharing they victimized the victims over again and created the market for the sick people who produced the stuff.

  "Oh, God, Thea. I hope not."

  We both hoped not. The situation was already bad; it would be far worse if any of her students were victims. I had to get on the road, but I decided to collect a few more facts before I let her go. "How did you find out?" I asked.

  "He called our tech services people because his computer had a virus. Can you believe it? All those disgusting images and he asks someone to look at his computer?"

  "Encryption," I said. "They think they're too clever to get caught. They think no one will find the stuff. The longer they get away with it, the more sure they become that they're bulletproof. And they never think that their dirty pictures might bring viruses along. Except..." I hesitated, thinking of one case we'd had. "Except sometimes they feel guilty and want to be caught. To be stopped."

  "I don't think that's the case here," she said. "I doubt guilt is in Harrington's vocabulary."

  The clock was ticking and there were things I had to tie up here. "I've got to go, Trish. I'll call when I'm on the road."

  "Wait," she said. "There's one more thing. One more problem. The tech who went to help him and found the stuff? It was a student. They do that for each other. Students who have computer expertise will acts as techs for the others. We've got... we've got technical people on staff. But none of them were available, so we sent a student. We never thought... It was a student who discovered the images. A sharp, competent boy who spotted those images and said he'd need to take the computer with him to work on it. He got it out of there before Dr. Harrington could object, and brought it straight to me."

  Chapter 21

  A student had found those pornographic images. She was right. That made it much worse. "I'm on my way," I said, grudging the time I'd have to spend on the road, the way I'd get farther behind on everything else. But this was why people called us.

  I shoved some papers into my briefcase and grabbed a fresh pad of paper. Stopped at Bobby's desk and then Lisa's and arranged times to call them when I was underway, my rush toward the door impeded by one thing after another. I called Suzanne, explained our emergency, and told her I'd call her back as soon as I could. All the while, Trish's emergency loomed large as I ran the list of things that needed to be done, hoping she stayed on top of things until I could get there.

  As I rushed back to grab one more thing, I spotted the thick plastic LL Bean envelope still waiting on my desk. I might as well bring it along. Anything new was better than the stuff in my suitcase. I shoved it in my bag. Once it was on my back seat, covered by my coat, I totally forgot it.

  Today the roads were mercifully clear of both ice and traffic. As soon as I was on the highway, I called Charlotte Ainsley. Joel had not been in touch with her. With a slight sense of the kid tattling to the teacher, I told her about my conversations with Reeve last night and with Joel this morning and the fallout I predicted. "I don't know what actions they have taken, or plan to take. All I know is when I spoke with Joel this morning, he still seemed to be intent on his plan to give them different punishments and ignore the idea of on-campus suspension, despite my warning about the public relations nightmare that will result."

  I waited for her response, got none, and continued, "I made it clear that if he goes ahead, against our advice, Stafford Academy cannot represent that EDGE consulting was involved in this decision. I told him, and now I'm telling you, that we will have to terminate our relationship with the school."

  Again, I waited for her response. Again there was none. Her silence went on so long I wondered if this was a dropped call and I'd been talking to the air instead of to her, but when I said, "Mrs. Ainsley, are you there?" she made an affirmative noise. But only a noise. I had no idea what I was dealing with. Maybe the Crimmonses and their lawyers had gotten to her, too. Maybe all my work had gone to waste. Maybe they really did think they could outgun Jonetta and ignore a rash of negative press.

  Financially, of course, they could. But Jonetta had powerful people in her camp, and knew a thing or two about using the media. I hadn't been engaging in hyperbole when I told Joel he was taking a huge risk.

  I steered around a small car poking along in the passing lane, the driver talking on her cell phone, laughing and gesticulating wildly with the hand that wasn't holding the phone. She had no hands on the wheel. I was on the phone, but I was paying attention and had both hands on the wheel. Someday I'm going to have a car with a lightbar that spells out messages, like: DRIVE MUCH? or HANG UP AND DRIVE. It will also have a harpoon mounted on the hood, which Andre has named the "Carpoon," to spear errant drivers. Someday I'm really going to break loose. Andre might say that I already have.

  Still nothing from Mrs. Ainsley. Her silence unnerved me. What was I missing? Was I making some big mistake here? Maybe Suzanne would have some insight. Outside of work, my life was full of murder and death. I really needed work to go smoothly. No guns, no bodies, no violence, just using my expertise to help clients in difficult situations. I was no Pollyanna. I just needed some arena where thing
s went right.

  "Mrs. Ainsley?"

  Nothing. Maybe she'd put down the phone and gone to get a medicinal sherry. Or someone was holding her at gunpoint. If so, that was not my department. Been there. Done that. Not doing it again.

  I gave up. "I have to go," I said. "Please let me know what you and the Stafford Board decide." I disconnected. The second person I'd hung up on today. To ward off the wave of self-doubt that was threatening to drown me, I quickly moved on to other business.

  Getting back to Bobby, Lisa, and Suzanne kept me on the phone the rest of the trip. Like I've said, the car has simply become another office. Bobby and Lisa's problems took some time, but they were things we all knew how to deal with, we just needed a strategy. In the midst of my conversation with Lisa, a thought hit me. That was how things were happening lately—I'd be doing my job and suddenly something about Ginger would surface. This time it was what Randy had said when we were circling each other down in the basement. That Ginger had given me something, his "stuff" or whatever he'd called it, and he wanted it back. What if that package wasn't a sea green cashmere sweater at all, but despite the packaging saying LL Bean it was something from Ginger?

  I pushed the thought aside. I didn't have time right now. I kept driving and I kept making phone calls. The list of things Suzanne and I need to discuss was long. I saved Charlotte Ainsley and the Stafford situation for last. When I described my latest interactions with Joel and Mrs. Ainsley, Suzanne fell into a silence that mimicked theirs.

  My anxiety cranked up a few more levels.

  Finally she said, "I know what you're thinking. That somehow you've blown it. That you're missing something. You aren't." A pause, and then she said, "We keep seeing this. Client schools thinking their actions don't have real world implications. People lulled into complacency by the insular nature of campus life, forgetting that we live in a world of instant communication, media scrutiny, and greater accountability. Ten years ago, a school could be arbitrary. They could sweep things under the carpet, kowtow to important alums and high-powered parents, and that was just the way it was. They still can and still do. But increasingly, it can have bottom-line repercussions. It's not just the parents who have opinions and politics. The students do and social media gives them a forum."