Campus Bones (Dead Remaining)

by Vivian Barz

  “You’re absolutely right,” Jake said, stunned to realize that he’d been nodding along, like he’d been hypnotized. Maybe he had.

  “If we keep going the way we are, I can’t imagine what the world will look like in fifty, a hundred years. We’re living in some seriously dark times, man.” Rodent’s eyes traveled over the youthful party attendees. “I mean, have a look at these younger generations. They’re so . . .”

  “Inauthentic? Attention hungry? Desperate?” Jake finished for him. They watched a girl snapping a selfie by a carved marble bust of a long-dead general, her fingers making bunny ears at the back of his head. She checked the photo on her phone and then began frantically tapping away, undoubtedly uploading the image to the same social media Rodent had just ridiculed.

  With a nod, Rodent placed a hand on his shoulder. Normally, this would’ve irked Jake, since little people tended to be handled like children by those who were uncomfortable around them—a pat on the head, words spoken in a singsong voice: you’re sooooo cute!—but he didn’t mind now. Being touched by Rodent felt both unsettling and righteous, he realized with some dismay, as if he’d been granted approval he hadn’t even known he’d been seeking. It was not difficult to imagine how he could hold sway over dozens of sheltered twentysomethings.

  “It’s refreshing to come across someone real, like yourself, Jake. You think you embarrassed yourself the other night?” Rodent made a sputtering sound and tilted his head toward a group of boys shotgunning beers. “No, it’s these fools who are the embarrassment. At least you behave as if you are alive and have some real thoughts and emotions rattling around in your head. You have soul.”

  Once again, Jake found himself nodding. He shook his head, as if to dislodge Rodent’s seductive words from his brain. If you only knew why I was here, he thought in response to the praise. “Does this mean I’ve passed your test, then—are you asking me to join DOTE?” Strange as it was, Jake found that he was seeking approval from the man. But not just seeking it, craving it, and not only because of his clandestine investigation.

  “One thing at a time,” Rodent said easily. “I would like you to go on a little errand with us. Consider it more of an invitation than a test.”

  The message was clear: test or no test, he would need to prove himself, if he wanted to join them. It was exactly what Jake had been striving for, yet he was uneasy. “An errand—where?”

  Rodent shook his head. “Where we’re going, that’s a surprise, my friend! But it’ll be great. I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  Jake held out his hand for Rodent to shake. “Count me in,” he said, feeling as if he’d just made a deal with the devil.

  CHAPTER 19

  At the FBI office, Susan asked Johnathan if she could pick his brain about DOTE for a few minutes. She wanted to know why the group would be interested in a dam, since she’d found evidence of their presence at one inside the birdhouse. “As an environmental group, I mean,” she said. “CliffsNotes version,” she added, knowing that he’d talk her ear off, given half a chance.

  “That’s a fairly easy one,” Johnathan said. His academic background was in environmental science, and he was often asked to consult with other agents on such issues. Susan suspected that he would have probably been given the case she was working on currently, had it initially been more apparent that Chung’s murder might be connected to DOTE or the dam itself. “Dams are notoriously terrible for the environment.”

  Susan shook her head. “I don’t really know much about dams, but I was under the impression that they provide green energy. So wouldn’t that make them a good thing?”

  “Yes and no. Dams do provide renewable energy, but at a great cost to the natural environment. Essentially, it’s only humans who benefit from them—although sometimes humans are also hurt by them, too, because of pollution and home displacement.” Johnathan ticked the list off on his fingers as he spoke. “But, as far as the environment, dams can cause flooding, damage wetlands and oceans, increase sea levels, destroy entire ecosystems, displace and destroy wildlife, impede fish migration . . . I could go on. Nasty stuff. Have you heard of the Condit Hydroelectric Project?”

  “No.”

  “Basically, the Glines Canyon Dam was built in Washington State around, oh, 1920 or ’30. The dam completely destroyed the wildlife system in the area, and did some awful things to the fish population too—pretty much eradicated salmon, as well as other species. So, a few years ago, it was decided that it would be far more expensive to update the dam than to keep in line with new environmental protection acts. So, they demolished it.”

  “The whole dam?”

  “That’s right. I mean, they didn’t just go there one day and blow the whole thing up—that would be disastrous. It was carefully planned demolitions. Anyway, now that the dam is gone, the wildlife is flourishing again. There are all kinds of shellfish—clams and crabs, etcetera—and the birds and salmon are back. It’s easy to see how bad the dam was for the area now that it’s gone.”

  Susan thanked Johnathan for the information and went back to her desk. She checked the time and saw that she was running late for her appointment at Zelman Industries to have a chat with Marcus Zelman about his hiring of Chung Nguygen. It had taken a bit of finagling with Zelman’s admin assistant—and ultimately a veiled threat that had come in the form of Susan reminding the woman that she was speaking with an FBI agent—before an appointment was granted with His Majesty. She could already predict how cooperative Zelman was going to be and anticipated him having his lawyer present. Guys like him always did.

  Though she did have to go through a fair amount of rigamarole with yet another assistant once she arrived at Zelman Industries, which occupied a sprawling campus with clusters of smaller buildings spread throughout, Zelman surprised her by attending their meeting sans lawyer. His face was unlined with just enough shine to suggest he’d had cosmetic work of some type performed recently, but underneath the artificialness of his appearance, he was a handsome fiftysomething. His eyes were blue and sparkly, his hair sandy with a dash of gray, and his tanned skin hinted at weekends spent on a yacht.

  He sat behind a large floating-top executive desk that looked like teak and as if it weighed five hundred pounds. Once she settled down across from him into a hard leather chair that dug into her back uncomfortably, he offered her a beverage. He made it a point to tell her that it would be no trouble at all for him—as if that was her chief concern, saving him trouble—since he’d have “one of his girls” fetch it. Because, of course, the big boss wouldn’t dare degrade himself with such a menial task.

  She declined. “I don’t plan on taking up too much of your time, Mr. Zelman. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Chung Nguygen.”

  Sometimes, a seemingly innocent person who was not even a blip on Susan’s radar would make the smallest gesture that spurred acute suspicion, and this was one of those times. Had Zelman simply nodded, she would have probably asked him a few questions and then gone on her way. But he didn’t do that, which was a big mistake on his part.

  He leaned forward, squinted. “Who? I’m sorry, that name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Bullshit, she thought. And, just like that, he was on her radar. “You sure, because you only hired him a short time ago.”

  “You sure I can’t get you a drink?” he asked. Stalling.

  “I’m fine. So?”

  His frown was so contrived it was theatrical, a stage actor projecting his emotions for those way back in the cheap seats. “Hmm . . . you know what, hold on a sec.” He raised a finger and made a show of calling his admin assistant. “Hi, Joy, do I know a—what was the name again?” he asked Susan. She told him, and he repeated the name back into the phone. “Right, okay, thanks,” he said and then hung up.

  “Well?” she asked, trying to conceal that she was losing her patience. He hadn’t lawyered up thus far, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  “I hired Mr. Nguygen to conduct a
n environmental survey of Cambridge Downs. It’s a low-income community that my firm had a hand in developing.”

  “Is that what you do here, property development?”

  “Mainly. And some other things.”

  It was strange that he did not elaborate. Usually men like Zelman could not help themselves from tooting their own horns. Perhaps he did not feel as if she were one he needed to impress. “Where is this development, Cambridge Downs?”

  Zelman shifted in his seat. “It sits just below Gruben Dam.”

  Susan kept her expression neutral. “And what was the environmental survey for?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just a question,” she said mildly.

  He provided her a put-out sigh. “If memory serves me correctly, I hired Mr. Nguygen to test the soil for toxins, since it sits below the dam. I don’t know if you are aware, but dams have an astoundingly negative environmental impact.”

  “I’m aware,” she said. “Do you frequently have lapses of memory?”

  A flicker of anger touched his face, but he got himself under control. “I’m not following.”

  “You said if memory served. We’re talking about not even a month ago.”

  He gave her a greasy smile. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the type of job where I can remember the name of every contractor I hire. There’s just too many people I work with, and I’m very busy.”

  Congratulations, she wanted to say. “So, why were you concerned about the toxic soil levels in Cambridge Downs? I can assume you have no interest in acquiring a home in the neighborhood?”

  He gave her a patient look. “As I mentioned, it was one of our developments, so I like to check in.”

  “Do you make it a habit to check in on other projects you’ve developed?”

  He ignored the question. “What do you want from me? I’ve been blessed with the good fortune of wealth. I like to help underprivileged souls by ensuring their neighborhoods are safe from pollution. I had the survey done as an act of community service.” He swept his hands out across his desk. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Underprivileged souls? What a sanctimonious ass, she thought. She believed he was about as charitable as she could throw him. No way was this guy doing anything for the underprivileged out of the kindness of his heart without there being some payoff for him. Tax write-off, perhaps?

  “Were you aware that Chung Nguygen was murdered while on shift at the dam?”

  “Why would I be aware of such a thing? I hired Mr. Nguygen to conduct the survey. He did his job, gave me the information I needed, and I paid him for his time. That was the end of it. I never saw him again.”

  “Aren’t you curious what happened to Nguygen?”

  He shrugged. “Why should I be? I didn’t know the guy. He only worked for me once.”

  A real humanitarian, all right.

  “And, what did the survey reveal?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It revealed nothing. The soil is fine.”

  “That part you remember.”

  “Well, I’d remember it if there were toxins on the land, so it must have been okay.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. She was getting the sense that he was getting riled. Good. Angry people were more likely to slip up. “Could I see a copy of that report?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  She leaned forward and smiled easily. “I’m with the FBI. We keep things pretty confidential.”

  He sighed. “I’ll have to see what I can do. It might take some time to locate the report. And, of course, I’ll need to okay everything through my attorney.”

  “Of course.” Susan had no doubt that Zelman had no intention of ever sending her a thing. He was hiding something, but what? Could it be that the report had not come back as clean as he was claiming?

  He stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work that I need to get back to. I’m—”

  “Yes, you’re very busy. I understand,” she said. “Just one more question.”

  He glanced at his watch. He seemed nervous, as if he couldn’t wait for her to leave. “If it’s quick.”

  “You ever get any threats from environmentalist groups?”

  “No, never.” He answered just a little too quickly. He hadn’t even taken the time to consider the question, which was odd.

  “You familiar with a group called Defenders of the Earth? DOTE for short?”

  “Never heard of them,” he said, but his eyes told a different story.

  Susan made a move to leave and then paused. Along the wall near the door was a series of photographs that celebrated Zelman’s grandness in one fashion or another: standing front and center at a skyrise, cutting a yellow ribbon with ludicrously large scissors that could have doubled as hedge trimmers; shaking hands with some middle-aged blueblood who was undoubtedly a politician; giving a toast at some corporate shindig.

  It was the photo on the bottom right that got Susan’s attention.

  “Who is this that you’re with in the picture?” she asked, though she already knew.

  He hesitated. Why he would over an image he had hanging for everyone to see was odd. She suspected that she’d rattled him, so now he was keeping all his information close to the vest. Or was there some other reason he’d be reluctant to tell her, something shiftier?

  Finally, he said, “That’s Lucy and Don Neville.” He squinted at the photo, as if seeing it for the first time. “I believe we were at a dinner benefit for a cystic fibrosis foundation; fifteen hundred dollars a plate. Or maybe it was prostate cancer. I go to so many of these things I can hardly keep them all straight.” He gave her a look as if to say, You know how it is.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t. High-dollar dinners were far beyond her pay grade. “Do you know the Nevilles?”

  Zelman frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  Susan tapped the frame. “Because you’re sitting by them.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Our relationship is mainly professional. We’ve worked together indirectly on a few developments. And, of course, there’s the charity functions we mutually attend.”

  “You must have heard about their daughter?” Susan asked, watching his face carefully.

  His expression gave away nothing. “Yes, I heard. Very sad,” he said, not sounding sad at all.

  CHAPTER 20

  Eric was in no mood for a visitor, though this was something he could hardly say to the young woman who appeared suddenly in his office doorway. He shook his head to gather himself, having been deep in a daydream prior to the interruption, though what he’d been dreaming about he couldn’t say. Whatever it had been, it had left him feeling cold and shivery, as if he’d just come into a warm house after being outside in the snow for countless hours.

  The girl entered his office without so much as a hello and then continued to linger mutely. He slowly stood and edged around his desk, moving a chair toward her in an invitation for her to sit. He stifled a yawn, wishing very much that he could curl up with a warm blanket and hibernate through the next few seasons.

  “Brrr, it’s cold in here, isn’t it?” he said to the girl offhandedly, though she gave him no reply and only continued to stare back blankly at him. Must not be one for small talk. Shivering, he returned to behind his desk, pulling on the blazer he’d had draped over the back of his chair.

  The girl, he saw, still had not sat down. He realized now that she had no backpack or purse, and she was dressed far too lightly for the chilly weather in an airy sundress that looked a little grimy. Frankly, she could use a shower too. She wore only one sandal, which was caked in mud that had dried in between her toes; there were brown streaks on her ankles, too, where mud had splattered up on her skin. Was she a homeless person, maybe, who’d wandered onto campus? How peculiar it was, then, that it was he who she’d encountered first, in his office, located in the Social Sciences building, which was out of the way from the campus quad, in the most inconvenient of areas, at the end of a l
ong, twisty hallway.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled to life. He closed the blazer over his chest, the room and his body and his bones cold-cold-cold. “What can I do for you?” he asked, or maybe he only thought it, since she said not a word in reply.

  In a gesture that felt like floating, he crossed the room and went to her. His hand seemed as if it was moving through water as he raised it and then let it sink to her shoulder. She turned to face him, and when she opened her mouth to speak, water, not words, came flooding out. He was scarcely aware of the strangled moan that escaped him when pebbles and twigs and small pieces of trash came out in the rush, hitting his shoes and carpet with soft plinking sounds, as if it was raining inside his office. He looked into her eyes, finding nothing, no sign of life, only a black abyss that was as vacant as the expression on her face. His mouth worked, shifting the bones in his jaw, yet he was unable to ask if she was okay. He already knew she wasn’t.

  All he could do was wait for her to tell him why she was there.

  And so he waited, waited, falling deeper into the blackness in her eyes, so cold and so bottomless that if he tumbled into them he would sink forever until the flesh on his body rotted away and all that remained were his old bones, so white and out of place in the soft, muddy graveyard that stank of stagnant water and motor oil and dead insects and oh how he wished he could dive into those eyes—he’d swim down, down until his lungs—

  “Professor Evans, are you okay?” a young voice asked. “I was just on my way to see you . . .”