Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  Quiet in the room, everyone waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  I braced myself against the edge of the conference table. “Larry Coleman is in custody. I believe an arraignment is scheduled for later this morning.”

  “Do we know what caused it?” from somewhere in the back of the room.

  Edwin saw the look on my face and came to the rescue. “George and Larry had been quarreling recently over a paper Larry was due to present in December. It seems that George was instrumental in getting the conference chair to change her mind about Larry’s presentation and she cancelled his appearance.”

  A collective groan.

  Another voice. “But is that reason to shoot a guy?”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “But as some of you know, there was a physical fight in the parking lot. And there were threats. You all are aware these two men had a history of animosity, and I guess this latest just pushed both of them over the edge.”

  Poor Larry, I thought. Such a smart, fragile, frightened man. How had he let rage take over so completely? And poor George. I would never have wished so awful a punishment as a gunshot wound.

  “How would you like us to handle this with our students?” asked Phyllis.

  I sighed. “Tell them the truth. They’re journalists in training.”

  After the meeting, I went to my office to prepare for the press conference Philip Lewis and Ezra McCready were planning to give on the lawn in front of the library building.

  I would be lucky to get through the crowd downstairs without giving a statement.

  Nell followed me after gathering a stack of messages from her desk. On the top was Sadie’s. Nell was so wise. She knew Sadie and Joe would be the only people I’d want to talk to, and Joe was tied up at Larry Coleman’s arraignment.

  I called Sadie, whose first words were, “Well, chick, at least no one is trying to take a shot at you these days. At least not literally.” Sadie had been my firm support and faithful friend all during the last year when I was sure my own life had been threatened.

  “Oh, Sadie, I am so sad. I still can’t believe what I saw last night and what this is going to mean for the school.”

  “For the next few weeks it’s going to be perfectly dreadful. Every news outlet from here to New York will want a story, an interview, a piece of you. But then the news cycle will change and gradually, this will fade, at least until Coleman’s trial. And you, my dear friend, will survive that. And the school will too. Count on it.”

  I staggered into my chair and put my head down on my desk. Larry Coleman arrested. George Weinstein in critical condition. Jamie Congers still gone. I felt trapped, no way out, no way to get away from tragedy and bitter and inevitable disappointment.

  I struggled up from my chair and tried to shake off my gathering gloom. Don’t give up. Throw up but don’t give up.

  I walked down the stairs to Edwin Cartwell’s classroom where he taught news writing.

  Edwin can be an awful stuffed shirt in faculty meetings, but he’s vibrant in front of a group of students. I had learned over the past few months that whenever I felt depressed or defeated, the best cure was to watch Edwin teach.

  A small studio room was adjacent to his classroom.

  The studio had a window that looked into Edwin’s class, and if I kept the studio room dark, I could sit there, unobserved, watching and listening as Edwin reminded me of the joys of great teaching. He moved among the students, pausing to look over a shoulder at what a student was writing on the computer, leaning down to whisper help with a problem, applauding a particular effort. They were writing about the shooting of George Weinstein.

  Edwin moved back and forth and then to the head of the room where he raised his voice to remind them about a famous blind editor. Edwin was in full animation as he told how the editor would pound the floor with the tip of his white cane as he commanded his reporters to write vividly. “Make me see. Make me see,” the blind editor would shout. The students were mesmerized.

  Feeling uplifted and reminded of all the good that takes place in a university, I returned to my office. The phone rang just as I resumed my seat and I was grateful to hear Joe’s voice. “Larry Coleman is out on half a million in bail. His wife paid it.”

  “Larry’s wife is a successful attorney. She can manage that. What’s the charge?”

  “At this point, assault with a deadly weapon. But that could change to attempted murder if the evidence shows that Larry premeditated the shooting.”

  “Did he account for how he got the gun?”

  “Well, in a way. He said he has been carrying the gun every day since last year when George and the others were bullying him. It’s small enough to fit in his jacket pocket, and he has a license to carry a concealed weapon and permission from the university.”

  Nevada law permits gun licenses to any adult without a criminal record, and since it was against the law to bring a gun to a school, Larry must have also persuaded authorities that he faced substantial danger to get permission to carry concealed on campus.

  “Is he still claiming self-defense?”

  “He is. He insists George dragged him outside to beat the shit out of him, and that after being knocked down a couple of times, he drew the gun and fired.”

  “But I saw George walking away.”

  “I know. And you’ll probably be called to testify when this thing goes to trial.”

  Great. That undid the revitalization I felt during Edwin’s class.

  “Another thing, hon. Wynan wants to meet later. He has some news about those land maps you found.”

  We agreed Wynan would come for dinner.

  Joe would make lasagna. Joe’s lasagna cheers me up almost as much as Edwin’s teaching.

  I had no sooner ended my conversation with Joe than Dorothy Weinstein called to tell me she was transferring George to a hospital in San Francisco. “The bullet injured his spine and I want a special neurosurgeon in the Bay Area to deal with it.”

  With Larry free on bail and George still alive and well enough to be flown to San Francisco, I felt a bit lighter on my way to the library to what I hoped was the last meeting of the week for the assault policy committee.

  Manny Lorenzo had left a voicemail while I was on the phone, expressing his condolences for our troubles and, like Sadie, assuring me that in a few weeks, this too would pass. He made no reference to our competition for the job. Manny’s call was clearly his way of telling me we were still good friends and he still had my back even as we competed.

  Another surprise waited for me when I ran into my second rival on the path leading from the library. Victor Watts was balancing books and a laptop, but stopped when he saw me.

  I was startled to see him still on our campus, and my face must have shown it. “What brings you back to Nevada?” I asked hoping to sound casual.

  “Oh, I never left. My wife and I have rented a place up at Lake Tahoe. We love September sailing and are hoping for some snow later on so we can ski.” Victor smiled. “However the dean’s job turns out, I plan to enjoy Nevada as much as possible.”

  “Oh, how nice.” A lame rejoinder if ever there was one. I wondered if he knew about Larry and George. He did.

  “Sorry to hear about the shooting last night.”

  “It was awful. I hope it doesn’t make you think badly about our school.” I meant that.

  “It doesn’t. I was a war correspondent for over a decade. I know violence can show up anytime and anywhere.”

  I nodded, uncertain of what else to say.

  He hitched up the books in his arms and turned to go. “On the bright side, Red, last night’s episode may have relieved the school of two of its worst personnel problems.”

  The callousness of his remark stunned me. But as I watched him leave, I had to admit Victor Watts was shockingly right.

  Jamie
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  Jamie’s bedroom door remained locked until early evening. No breakfast and no lunch, and certainly no wandering about the house. She was being punished for the hole in the closet wall. Hungry and scared, she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting to hear the sound of his car in the driveway and wondering what he planned to do next.

  The deadbolt on her door snapped. He was still dressed in a suit and tie. “There’s food on the kitchen counter. Go downstairs and start dinner.” His voice matched the coldness in his eyes.

  Pieces of frying chicken, some potatoes, and broccoli awaited her. She pulled a bag of flour from the cupboard and poured oil into the skillet. The very skillet that she had once thought would gain her freedom was now back on the stove, a dent in the rim the only reminder of her escape plan.

  The two of them sat through another silent dinner. As she cleared the table, she said, “What’s going to happen to me next?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you next,” he said. Dressed again in boots and jeans, he looked large and powerful at his end of the table. “You go back to your normal routine tomorrow. Except, of course, for the closet in the front room. That’s obviously off limits.”

  “Did you repair the hole?”

  “Not yet, but the door is nailed shut, so don’t try anything. Or something else will happen.”

  Not for the first time since she had been abducted from the garage, Jamie felt a painful sadness. Tears filled her eyes and made her voice choke. She grabbed the back of her chair for support. “Why, why, why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why have you taken me?” She swallowed hard. “What is supposed to happen between us? What are you waiting for? What exactly do you expect of me?”

  He stared at her for a moment. “As I’ve told you before, I am waiting for you to get used to living here. To taking care of this house and someday, I hope, to feeling more comfortable with me.”

  She knew it was reckless, but she persisted. Why not? Her escape plan was ruined. What else could she try? “Tell me about your stepmother.”

  His face paled. “Why do you want to know about her?”

  “I look like her, don’t I?”

  “You could be her sister…or her daughter.”

  “What was her name? Tell me about her. How did she come here?” Jamie sat down in her chair and stared back at him. His facial nerves twitched and his eyes widened. He pushed back in his chair and placed his hands flat on the table. His hands were strong but his nails were manicured. Not the hands of a rancher, she thought. What does he do for a living?

  As he talked, some light came into his dark eyes. “My stepmother’s name was Alice. She was hired as a day nurse for my mother, who had suffered a major heart attack and was too weak to care for me or the house.”

  “How old were you when Alice first came?”

  “Ten or eleven. I don’t remember.”

  “And after she came what happened?”

  “In spite of everything Alice and my father did to take care of her, my mother died. Alice left for a while, but then my father hired her back to cook and clean and keep an eye on me during the day while he worked.”

  “How long did that last?”

  “My father fell in love with her, and they were married the next year.”

  “And you loved her too.”

  The man turned away and seemed to be staring at some object in the middle distance, but not at Jamie. “Yes. I loved her too.”

  Jamie took a deep breath. Go for it, she thought. “Did you love Alice as a stepmother, or was there more?”

  The man’s chest heaved. “This is hard for me to talk about. But, as you seem to have guessed, there was more. Alice was in her twenties and much younger than my father. When I turned sixteen, I was taller than her, big for my age, and…and yes, I fell in love with her.” The man turned to Jamie, his face red with exertion and pain. “And, yes, damn it, I know what you want me to tell you. My father caught us together one afternoon in the front room, which had been my mother’s last bedroom.”

  “What happened after he caught you?” Jamie felt frightened and not so certain she really wanted to know what happened to Alice.

  “My father took me out back and whipped me with his belt until I fainted.” The man looked down at the table, his breathing heavy and labored. He pushed against the edge of the table. “When I came to, it was midnight and I was lying in the grass out back. Alice was gone. Her clothes, her books, everything.”

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  “No. And that’s enough. I understand your curiosity, but I can’t talk about this anymore.” He left her sitting at the table, wondering how she was going to maneuver her way out of the incredible task of replacing Alice.

  Chapter 26

  In addition to her proposal that we adopt the California policy on sexual assault, Karen Milton suggested the university hire a special person to handle all aspects of the process for dealing with that kind of crime. “As director of all student affairs, I am already too busy to cope with this. Other universities and colleges have created a new position and I think we should too. The title would be Director of Assault Prevention and Response.”

  “Would this person handle the entire process?” asked Howard.

  “I think so,” said Karen. “I’m not sure the provost should be the one to determine the appropriate discipline for…” She paused, uncertain as what word to use to describe the accused. “…violating the policy.”

  “Why not?” asked the attorney.

  “The provost is also very busy, too busy to spend time reviewing and evaluating all the facts in an individual case.”

  Bridget jumped in. “Besides, the provost is charged with protecting the university’s reputation. That’s been one of the problems in the past at other universities. It’s just natural for a top administrator to want to soft pedal or minimize events that make us look bad.”

  It was my turn again. “I’m not sure I agree. If we hire a special person to handle this, she or he will have to first receive the victim’s complaint. Then console the victim and offer counseling, maybe even medical help. Then, that same person has to investigate and gather evidence that an assault has occurred…”

  “So?” said Bridget, glaring.

  “So, that person is likely to become an advocate for the survivor somewhere along the way. Which is fine. But someone else should render judgment.”

  “The Dean of Journalism is exactly right,” said Shelby Vane from the other side of the table. “Another person, a neutral party, should decide the punishment if the accused is found guilty.”

  Bridget swung her head toward him. “Granted, Shelby. But, as I said, I don’t get the impression that our particular provost is exactly a neutral party when it comes to this subject.”

  “Not very flattering to the provost,” said Bud Chekovski, who must have wished he had a chairman’s gavel because he slapped his hand on the table to get our attention.

  “Folks, we’re getting close to the time when we have to vote on all this and write it up. I suggest you continue emailing your thoughts to me and I’ll see if I can construct a motion or two for our meeting next week.”

  My turn. “Bud, since you receive all our email, can you tell us where we seem to stand as a committee?”

  Bud winced. “All over the lot, I fear.”

  Great.

  Another chance to be part of a failed effort.

  Howard chimed in. “Maybe we should use Red’s idea and bring some student leaders into this discussion.”

  “Too late,” said Bud. “Too damned late.”

  Karen Milton caught up to me in the hallway. “Red, you may get a call from a rather difficult parent.”

  “I get those calls all the time. What’s up?”

  Karen paused. She looked acutely uncomfortable. “Well,” she
began, “one of your journalism students, a young man, has been accused of assaulting a woman in her dorm room.”

  Disasters come in threes. Or was this four?

  “Oh, Karen. I’m so sorry. Who is the man?”

  “Normally I keep all the names confidential and there would be no reason to tell you this, but it’s Peter Delacroix.”

  “Senator Delacroix’s son?”

  “Afraid so. The senator called me this morning and said she planned to talk to you before she goes to see the provost and the president. She’s on something of a rampage.”

  “But Virginia Delacroix is one of the co-sponsors of legislation to protect female students. She’s been a champion of women’s rights for years.”

  Karen looked miserable. “Exactly. It’s so ironic. And now her darling baby boy is being accused and the female student is demanding a university hearing and says she will file suit if we don’t handle this effectively.”

  I leaned against the wall in the hallway. “I don’t know Peter Delacroix very well, but he was in one of my classes last year. He seemed very shy. Not what I think of as the predator type.”

  “I know,” said Karen. “That’s what struck me when I talked to him. But you never know.”

  “Do you think the young woman is telling the truth?”

  Karen leaned against the wall beside me. “I always think the woman is telling the truth. That’s why I think we should hire someone else to handle these situations more objectively than I can.”

  I patted Karen’s hand. “I’m sure you do your job well.”