Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Bourne Morris

  “I’ll tell you what I remember about hate. It has an ugly face covered in sweat, eyes bulging out and full of rage, teeth bared back to the gum line. Black or white, it’s the face of the primitive, ready to kill you just because you’re different. It’s a face you never want to see on this campus.”

  Phyllis turned on her heel and headed down the hall. She moved swiftly, her bare ebony arms pumping, her hips swinging as if to emphasize her fury. As I watched her, I thought again how little I understood what my friend had endured. My own childhood had been lonely and difficult, but Dr. Phyllis Baker had gone through hell and seen sights no child should ever have witnessed.

  Maybe she was right. What did I know about racism? Cruel, violent racism, not just words hurled across a police line, but a gang of men on camels and horses with swords in their hands and death in their eyes.

  What did I even know about discrimination? I’d been hurt but never excluded, bullied but never denied access. In Phyllis Baker’s mind, was I just some bleeding heart Caucasian defending free speech because I had no idea how much pain some speech could cause?

  My head started to ache. Enough. Go to work. I turned toward my office at the other end of the hall.

  Chapter 2

  The early morning’s good mood did not return, even with the sight of dappled sunlight and tall trees visible through the large windows of my office. The campus of Mountain West is one of the loveliest in America. Wide green lawns, flowering trees in spring and masses of bright annuals all summer and fall. When the thick snow falls in winter, the elegant brick buildings and the frosted trees take on the look of a New England Christmas card. I never ceased congratulating myself on applying for work at this institution.

  My large glass desk in front of the windows was a model of neatness. No thanks to me. That was entirely to Nell’s credit. I had the best dean’s assistant on the campus and was grateful every day.

  The agenda for the deans’ meeting was centered on the blotter flanked by a slim file of letters I was supposed to sign before the day was over. Two upholstered armchairs, a couch and a large glass coffee table completed the room. My mother’s china tea service centered the table. We never used the delicate cups because everyone wanted strong coffee in mugs, but the tea service looked welcoming and it was the only one of my late mother’s possessions I’d ever wanted.

  When I was officially named Dean of Journalism and moved into the two-room suite, I’d been happy to abandon the former dean’s conference table in favor of my own office décor. I wanted people to feel comfortable, not confronted, when they sat opposite me.

  I’d also been happy to order a new desk for Nell’s office next to mine. And we had immediately agreed to put a computer and a coffee pot in the sitting area outside so students could check schedules and work while waiting to see me. My assistant has an unfailing habit of making the well-being of our students her top priority.

  “You have five minutes to drink this and then you need to get going,” said Nell, coming through the door with a steaming cup in her hand. “They’ve moved the deans’ meeting to the administration building across campus.”

  Nell’s gray curls nestled around her face. If Sadie thought I was radiant in love, she should have seen my assistant. A widow in her early sixties, Nell still looked remarkably girlish.

  “How go the wedding plans?” I asked. Nell was about to marry Wynan Congers, a tall retired police chief with a face so handsome it could have taken him to Hollywood instead of into law enforcement.

  “They’re going well. We’re keeping it small. Just family and a few friends.” She smiled. “You and Joe, of course.”

  “We’re looking forward to it.”

  “And Sadie.”

  “I’m glad you’re asking Sadie. She spends too much time alone these days. Is Wynan inviting any single friends of his?”

  “Maybe one.” Nell’s smile became mysterious. Clearly she was keeping a secret and enjoying it thoroughly. She’d better not be planning to introduce Sadie to some old retired cop. Except for Joe, law enforcement types were not Sadie’s preferred companions.

  “Red, you’d better get going. The meeting starts at nine sharp.”

  Back outdoors again into the inviting high desert warmth. The whole campus seemed to be in preparation for the new season. The path to the administration building took me past rose bushes just starting to leaf out and a line of purple hyacinths in front of white narcissus. The Mountain West colors. My mood lit up again. The joy of Nell’s impending marriage had overcome my concerns about Phyllis’s fears and the Purist event to come. I climbed the wide steps to the administration building just as the carillon in the clock tower chimed the hour. I would get to the meeting on time.

  The deans of Mountain West University gathered every second Tuesday of the month to engage in discussions led by our Provost, Manny Lorenzo. The administration conference room was large and comfortably furnished with upholstered leather chairs. It was also abuzz with conversation about Danica Boerum’s impending visit. The cinnamon buns and Danish pastry on their usual silver trays lay undisturbed. No one was eating or sitting down. Everyone was milling about.

  “When the provost gets here I plan to ask him to insist The Purists cancel her. No student group should be allowed to bring a woman like that to a university. And no campus should tolerate hate speech.” Bridget Thomas, Dean of The College of Economics, was holding forth. Loud and opinionated barely described her.

  “Now, Bridget, she doesn’t actually say she hates anyone, including our minorities. She just acts as if they were not part of the deal and talks about America’s proud white European heritage and the 1776 crowd,” said Bill Verden, the Dean of Science. A man I liked better than most, humorous and reasonable.

  “But her message is clear,” said the Dean of Engineering. “There’s really no mistaking the intent. She wants everyone who looks like me to leave this country and go back to some original home country. I’ve visited my grandparents in Korea, but I have no desire to live there. Danica Boerum doesn’t recognize me as a native-born American, and that’s infuriating.”

  “I understand,” said Bill, putting his hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “But doesn’t Boerum have the right to speak even if her opinion is despicable? What about freedom of speech and the First Amendment?”

  Bridget turned to me. “You’re our resident First Amendment advocate. What do you think?” Down went my mood again.

  “I think we are a university and should encourage the free exchange of opinion whenever possible,” I said, dodging the real thrust of Bridget’s question and her clear intent to involve me in a lengthy argument.

  “And that’s just the point,” said Provost Manny Lorenzo, propelling his sturdy frame into the room through a door that connected to his office. “So don’t bother to ask, because I don’t have any intention of banning Danica Boerum’s speech to a campus group and neither does President Stoddard.” Manny eased his big body into a chair at the head of the table and flashed a wide grin to remind us all how much we liked him.

  “Even if she starts a riot like she did at…”

  “I plan to have heavy security,” said Manny. “And I will meet with all the student leaders and pass the word that all who go should expect to behave like civilized men and women. No shouting her down. No rioting. Remain polite even if you don’t like what you hear. You don’t have to go.”

  “Are you going?”

  Manny’s eyes sparkled. “Of course I’m going. I always take the opportunity to listen to views that oppose mine. Keeps me sharp. Besides, if trouble starts, I’ll add myself to the security force. I can be terrifying when necessary.” A nervous laugh followed. Manny was not just big and beefy, he worked out. “Remember, I’m the Chicano kid, raised on the mean streets and always ready to prove how tough I am.” He busied himself with papers in front of him. “Now, let’s get to work.”
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  We slowly took our seats.

  Back in my office two hours later, I stared at the pile of documents that had been handed out at the deans’ meeting: budget summaries, recommendations for promotion and tenure, proposed changes in Mountain West degree requirements. All the stuff of academic administration that took time away from the joy of teaching my one course in Media Ethics and meeting with my students.

  Fate brought me a distraction.

  “Rosie’s here,” said Nell, standing in my doorway.

  Rosie Jenkins was not quite five feet two inches tall, skin as pale as milk, freckled nose and cheeks under blue eyes that always seemed to penetrate into your head and read your mind when she talked to you. I had known her since her first day as a freshman. She was introduced to me by an old friend, Sonia Ortiz. Sonia was a psychologist who worked with girls who’d been rescued from sex-trafficking rings.

  Rosie was one of the rare escapees who’d been rescued from the sex trade at fourteen and then worked her way through high school and into our university. As part of her therapy, she’d written about her troubled childhood, her time as a child prostitute on the streets of Los Angeles and her recovery, thanks to therapy and the help of a compassionate cop who had arrested her and then persuaded her to go to a rehab facility in another state.

  Rosie had published her story in the student paper, which started her off in journalism. When it came to good writing, all she got was better and better. I liked almost all my students, but I truly loved Rosie, bright and brave with the fighting spirit of a challenged terrier.

  “How’s it goin’, Red?” she said, plopping into the chair in front of my desk. Journalism students call those of us who teach them by our first names. We like it that way.

  “It goes well, thank you. I gather you have recovered from your encounter with the Purists last night.”

  The merry look vanished. “I probably should thank you for coming to my rescue, but I might have enjoyed mixing it up with them, especially that tall broad. I could have taken her in the first round.”

  “Then again, you might not have enjoyed getting hurt.”

  Rosie shifted in her chair. “Yeah, I know. But those people are real pussies, Red. They’re all talk and no muscle. I’m stronger than you think. I know something about street fighting.”

  “I’m still glad your street knowledge did not have to be put to use. So, are you still planning to do a piece on the Danica Boerum speech at the Purist house? Or did last night’s adventure curb your appetite?”

  “Not at all. I’m planning on a story next week even if I have to use a stock photo, dammit.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “Maybe I’ll preview it in the podcast tonight. It will be a better story if I can get a good quote from the always fair-minded Dean of Journalism…” Rosie’s freckles danced with amusement.

  “Oh God, Rosie. Could you let me pass on this one? It’s what the students think that really matters, and the last thing I want to do is stir up more hard feelings.”

  “Faculty opinion matters too. I’m afraid you have to say something, because all the other professors I’ve called this morning either ducked me or ranted on about what a disgrace it was to invite Boerum and how violence was a guaranteed outcome.”

  I decided against mentioning my own encounter with Boerum. I was still ashamed about the handshake. But Rosie was right. I couldn’t very well defend the right of free speech if I refused to speak myself. Rosie pulled a notebook out of her backpack and began to write.

  “Okay, I guess I should step up, like it or not. How about this: The Purists are a legitimate student organization and have been for several years. As such, they can invite any speaker they want. This is an open campus where freedom of expression is encouraged, even if we don’t agree with a particular point of view. How’s that?” The words sounded evenhanded even if the sentiment stuck in my throat. I didn’t tell her about Manny’s security plans. That was his business.

  “You don’t think she’ll cause trouble?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Boerum is all about trouble. But I do know that an American campus should be able to withstand the expression of unpopular opinion without starting a riot. Tell your readers to stay away if they don’t approve of what she has to say. The last thing we need around here is a protest that starts a fight.”

  “No dice, Red. Seems to me I recall you teaching us in ethics class to value the opinion of those who oppose us. To seek out those with whom we disagree and listen to their ideas even if we are not persuaded. You said it would improve the quality of our thinking.”

  “I did, and it does. But, at the same time, I want to be sensitive to those faculty and students who would find it very hard to listen to Boerum’s brand of undiluted bigotry.”

  “Would you call her views hate speech?”

  “If you listen to her, she doesn’t say she hates anyone or that we should hate anyone. She doesn’t use derogatory terms or epithets. She outlines her theory that the best government is an all-white government. She believes our minority citizens are—how does she put it?—‘talented and industrious, but not ready for leadership positions.’ She’s careful and keeps her voice well-modulated. Unlike most dogmatists, she never shouts.”

  “She ignores the fact that a majority of children entering kindergarten this year are non-white. Someday soon minority is going to mean white people.”

  “And that’s what makes her speeches so appealing to those who are afraid of the very change you describe.”

  “Well, okay. But I think she’s a fanatic and her speech is just hate speech in a soft voice, which doesn’t make it less virulent. I spent a lot of time on the internet doing research on her talks as well as staring at pictures of her this morning.”

  “I’ve studied her too.”

  A shadow passed over Rosie’s face. “Danica Boerum reminds me of someone. There was a girl I knew back in LA when I was in the life. She was a bottom bitch in another gang and she had the same hard eyes as Boerum does in her photographs.”

  “A bottom bitch?”

  The shadow deepened. “A bottom bitch is an older girl who manages all the younger ones in the gang. Keeps them in line, almost a substitute for the pimp when he’s away. Some I knew were as mean as rattlesnakes.”

  Whenever Rosie told me something about her previous life, it made my blood pressure mount thinking about what she must have gone through from the age of twelve until she was rescued at fourteen.

  “Chances are Boerum lives far away from anything as disreputable as the sex trade. Purity is, after all, her mantra.”

  Rosie closed her notebook and, for a minute, her eyes. “Did I tell you I saw my cousin at the mall in Reno last week?”

  “No. The younger cousin who lived with you in LA?”

  Rosie nodded. “Cathy. I think I told you she had run away from my mom’s house last year. No big surprise there. The prince of darkness who married my mother probably made a move on her after I left.”

  “Oh, Rosie. What happened to you just sickens me.”

  “Me too. But now I’m worried about Cathy. In spite of all my warnings about men who say they’ll help, I now discover she’s being trafficked by a pimp who renamed her Snowbird. She’s only thirteen. Her hair’s dyed silver blonde and she wears about a half-gallon of makeup.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to her?”

  “For a little while. Mostly she talked about this guy she met at a bus station and what he’d promised her. But just as I was going to try to set her straight, persuade her to come with me, her pimp—a really nasty mother—showed up and dragged her away.” Rosie drew a deep breath. She had once told me her cousin Cathy was the only member of her family she loved. She still felt guilty about leaving Cathy behind to suffer abuse from a deeply depressed mother and a predatory stepfather. Her plan was to find an apartment for herself
and Cathy after she graduated and found a job to support both of them. Sounded like that plan was in jeopardy.

  Rosie put her notebook into her backpack and walked over to one of the tall windows. Her shoulders shook under her thick sweater and for a moment, I thought she was crying. Still facing the window, she said, “Red, I need a favor.”

  “You know I’ll do whatever I can. How can I help?”

  “After I saw Cathy at the mall, I went to the Reno police to see if they had anyone who specialized in rescuing underage kids from sex trafficking. They do have a special squad, but yesterday they told me no one on the squad was able to find her or anyone who knows anything about a girl called Snowbird.” Rosie turned from the window. “So the other reason I’m here this morning is I was wondering if your Detective Morgan could…”

  “I’ll talk to Joe tonight.”

  Rosie walked to my desk and stretched her small hand to mine. “Thank you so much. You’re the best.” She reached into her backpack and produced a small color photo, obviously a school picture. “This is what Cathy looked like when she was eleven, before she ran away.” The photo showed a dark-haired girl with the same freckles and milky skin she shared with Rosie.

  “She looks like you. She could be your little sister.”

  “I loved her as my little sister. That’s why I have to get her out.”

  Chapter 3

  Joe had a particular empathy for criminalized children, and I knew he would help Rosie if he could. He was different from a number of the law enforcement people I had met in Ohio when I worked for the newspaper. For that matter, he was different from many in Nevada. It made him angry when members of his profession described prostitution as a petty crime. Or a victimless crime. It made me angry that most of the good citizens I knew thought all prostitution in Nevada was legal and wondered what the fuss was about. The true fact: prostitution is legal in Nevada only in counties of fewer than four hundred thousand and only in legal brothels. That eliminated my county, as well as Washoe County, where Reno is located.