As I drove to the Mountain West campus, I thought of my father’s unconditional love for me and his unfailing effort to search for Reggie. I took a deep breath and decided to snap out of it. If a small dog could live on rabbits and garbage through four winter weeks, a muscular six-foot-four detective should be able to make it through a two-week mission and come home safe. And I should be able to handle it and believe in his ability to survive whatever came his way.
I shook my head again to ward off the tears. Dammit. I must learn to become more of an optimist. Remember Reggie. Better yet, remember that you found Reggie and brought him home and he lived for sixteen years.
As soon as I got to my office, my first act was to call Sadie. “Can we move our lunch to today? I need a friend.”
“Hold on a moment,” was her response, and I could tell she was covering the receiver with her hand and talking to someone. Curious. Sadie lived alone. Who was there?
She came back on the line. “See you at noon. Everything all right?”
“Not really, but it’s a long story. I’ll tell you at Gormley’s over a glass of wine or two.” I hung up and turned to look out the window. The quad was turning a bright spring green and the trees were budding. But I was not cheered up.
“Two glasses of wine in the middle of the day? That doesn’t sound good.” Nell was behind me with the usual stack of papers to be dealt with that morning.
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I should stick to hot tea today.”
“How’s your stomach?”
“Still a bit queasy, but it got better yesterday afternoon, so I’m hoping I’ll be fine later.”
“Do you think you should see your doctor?”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t I call her and see if I can get you in later today or tomorrow?”
“Thank you, Mother Nell.”
Her protectiveness comforted me. Nell had not been all that warm to me when I had first come to the Journalism School at Mountain West, but since the death of the former dean, she had become a close friend as well as my assistant. Over time, I learned she had one son with a husband who had died when she was in her thirties, and that she had applied for her academic job as soon as her son could be left home by himself. Reserved and mousy when we first met, she had blossomed with the love of Wynan Congers, a former deputy police chief from Las Vegas. Since falling in love with him, Nell had become upbeat and vibrant and so thoughtful to the students and to me. I could only wish her all the luck in the world.
“How did the grade appeal go yesterday?”
“Edwin was tied up so I saw the student. He was sure the professor gave him a low grade because of the opinions he had expressed in his final essay last semester. I read through the essay he had written and pointed out a slew of spelling and grammatical errors, suggesting the low grade reflected the quality of his writing, not the merits of his opinion.”
“Did he accept your judgment?”
“Not at first. For a while he insisted that his writing errors never counted for so much in his other courses. But then he relented when I explained that, in journalism courses—and in life—writing errors matter.”
“Excellent. Is he one of our majors?”
“He was. But since we’re so fussy and demanding, he’s decided to switch his major to a less demanding discipline.”
“Whatever that is.” We both sighed.
Nell carefully arranged the stack of papers on my desk. “There’s something else that won’t help your stomach. You should probably take a look at the online student paper before you start in on the other stuff.”
The headline took over the top of my computer screen. “White Supremacist to Speak at Purist Party.” Below the headline was a picture of Danica Boerum behind a podium, right arm raised, fist clenched around a rifle in unabashed imitation of Charlton Heston addressing the NRA in 2000.
I scrolled down to find several other photos. Most were of the riots that had occurred at the other universities. One was of Boerum with her bodyguard towering over her. The man was standing with his back to the camera and described as Danica’s constant watchdog. Reputed to weigh over two hundred and eighty pounds, the caption described him as a former professional wrestler.
The article was brief, but quoted two of the Mountain West faculty who were urging the university administration to ban Boerum’s appearance. No direct quote from me, but a reference to journalism faculty who supported the Purists’ right to invite any speaker they wanted to their own meeting.
“Perhaps you were never destined to have a moment’s peace,” said Sadie, draining her cup of black tea and giving me her best ironic smile. “Maybe it’s your red hair. Just attracts trouble like static electricity.”
Wilson, the owner of Gormley’s, approached with a china teapot in his hands. Without asking her, he refilled Sadie’s cup. “How about you, Red? Coffee, tea or wine?”
Mindful of my delicate stomach, I chose tea and a turkey sandwich.
Sadie looked sympathetic. “I’ve already had three calls this morning about Danica Boerum, and I’m retired. I can’t imagine how many calls you and the administration have gotten.”
“Too many. I haven’t had as many as Manny Lorenzo, but I have a stack of messages on my desk, a screen full of emails and a meeting with students scheduled for this afternoon.”
Sadie sat back in her chair, letting the dim overhead lamp illuminate her thick white hair. Unlike Danica Boerum’s cropped cut, Sadie’s hair was long and in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. It curled softly around her face, and I often had to resist the impulse to put my hand on her head and pet her as I would a beautiful cat.
After one of her thoughtful pauses, she said, “You’re going to have to be careful of this, you know. Everyone will expect you to be a good First Amendment liberal and defend Boerum’s right to speak.”
“I sense a ‘but…’”
“No ‘but’ to your defense, but there’s been a growing tendency in several departments on campus, and at other universities, to protect students from speech that offends, hurts feelings, raises memories of abuse, etcetera.”
“I know. Manny and I were just on that subject. People call them ‘triggers.’ I worry we try to protect students too much. College is supposed to be a place where you encounter upsetting ideas and theories. And learn to deal with them.”
Sadie nodded. “I’m with you. I think we infantilize students when we protect them from events and ideas they may abhor but should know about. Nonetheless…”
“Nonetheless, I could get on the wrong side of a number of faculty, not to mention students, who will accuse me of defending the indefensible.”
“As noted, no peace for you, my friend.” She took another sip. “Now, how goes it with you and Joe?”
Sadie loved Joe almost as much as I did. She may have been seventy, but she still had an eye for a man with a strong face and broad shoulders. Especially one who told her jokes and enchanted her by reciting poetry from memory. Sadie’s favorite poet was William Blake, and Joe had surprised her by knowing most of Blake’s major works. Some by heart.
“Joe’s fine, but gone for two weeks or so.”
“Oh?”
“I have a student who wanted his help finding her cousin who is being trafficked by a pimp in Reno.”
“Naturally Joe said yes.”
“Naturally, and more than that, he’s agreed to help the Reno police by going undercover to penetrate one of the sex-trafficking rings that infest tourist destinations like Reno. You have to keep all this a secret, you know.”
“Of course. I always keep your secrets. And his. Sex trafficking. How painful. And Joe undercover and away for two weeks. How depressing. And scary.”
“Sadie, I am absolutely terrified of what he’s trying to do. Traffickers are often ex-drug dealers, and we know what they do
to anyone they suspect of betrayal. Those photographs from villages in Latin America…”
“Stop it. You’ll make both of us sick.”
Chapter 6
I left Sadie having a third cup of tea with Wilson and walked back to my office. Gormley’s was just off the west side of Mountain West campus and a short distance from the journalism school. I savored my campus treks as the time I had to myself. Time to think things through. Sadie was right. Joe’s mission was dangerous, but somehow I felt better just for having shared my fear with her. All in all, life was good, and once again, I resolved to stop conjuring up potential tragedy.
Back in my office, I checked my cell phone. Damn, a message from Joe. He had called during my lunch with Sadie. “Probably won’t call again tonight. Reno PD has set me up with a job as a pit boss at a local casino where I might run into my targets. Please don’t call my cell. I love you.”
I love you too, I said to the window and the trees outside. I love your long beautiful body and your dark green eyes and the rare off-kilter smile that takes over your face. I love your caring so much about those young girls that you are willing to put your own important work on hold and go to another city to help out.
Nell entered with a tray of soft drinks. I turned from the window, hoping she could not read my melancholy. But she just smiled and worked her particular magic at dragging me back into the present. “We’re expecting a dozen or so students in a few minutes to discuss the Purist meeting. Leaders from the j-school and some from the university Student Council.”
As if on cue, one stood in my doorway. Rosie Jenkins.
“I don’t have any news from Joe,” I said as she made her way to the couch.
“I understand. It’s too soon. I’m just grateful he’s on the job. Anyway, I’m here for the meeting on Danica Boerum.” She scrunched her face up. “The more research I do on that woman the more I think she’s nothing like the bitch I knew in LA. She’s too straitlaced and much too conservative. Also, she speaks with a soft voice and the women pimps I knew in LA were all shouters.”
“I didn’t think there were any women pimps.”
“Oh, yeah. Some of the meanest pimps around are women. They usually have no sexual interest in the girls so they’re all business and discipline. The woman whose eyes remind me of Danica’s started out as a bottom bitch. Then her pimp got killed and she took over his business in LA and later in Vegas.”
“Vegas?” said Nell. “I wonder if Wynan ever ran into her.”
“C’mon, you two. We’re talking about Danica Boerum’s political horror show. Let’s not digress into a discussion of sex trafficking.”
“You’re right. Except that I find both of them equally hateful,” said Rosie. “The woman I remember from LA was younger and had long black hair, not white. But those eyes do get to me. There’s something familiar.” Rosie giggled. “Maybe they’re related. Do you think maybe Danica Boerum might have had a younger sister who strayed off the proper Purist reservation and went over to the dark side?”
“Boerum’s already on the dark side as far as I’m concerned,” said Nell.
Five students arrived at the same time and took seats in chairs around my office. A moment later, another group of six walked in. Nell had been right. A dozen squeezed into my sofa and chairs or sat on the floor. The president of the student council, a tall doe-eyed boy with a soft southern accent, spoke first. “Dean Solaris, we’ve talked to the provost and he’s said he doesn’t plan to ban Danica Boerum’s appearance next week, and that you agree with him.”
“I do.”
“We believe in free speech too, but we’re really worried. We were hoping we could persuade you to change your mind. And that you could change the provost’s mind.” A slight frown creased his brow.
“I doubt I can change Manny Lorenzo’s mind about anything, much less this.”
An African-American girl I recognized as one of my ethics students two years ago raised her hand. “The thing is, we have minority students on campus who are already planning protests…”
Another girl sitting on the couch next to Rosie interrupted, “And some are football players who are always ready for a fight. I mean big guys who like to mess it up.” She made two fists and simulated boxing moves in the air.
I took a deep breath and moved closer to my desk. “I understand why you’ve come to me about this, but I still believe that the Purists have a right to invite their own speaker to their own party. And I’m sure the provost told you he plans tight security.”
A tall boy with a shock of blond hair spilling onto his forehead stood up from the other end of the couch. “We all support free speech and the First Amendment, but we also want a safe campus.” He rubbed what were probably sweaty palms on his jeans. “Believe me, Dean Solaris, if this woman starts mouthing her racist bullshit, private party or no, we’ll have serious trouble. We may not be allowed to carry guns on campus, but most of my fraternity brothers own guns and they’ll bring them to the speech. You can be damn sure.”
Guns. Good Lord.
“You know that’s against the law.”
“We all know it. But, c’mon, this is Nevada, and it’s legal for us to keep guns at home. Most of these guys do and many live very near campus. I mean, we’re talking a block away from the Purists’ party.”
Visions of the riot at an east coast campus last year began to form in my mind. And that particular riot had happened in a New England state that had strict gun control laws. If memory served, three students and one police officer had been shot and knives and rocks had wounded many more.
“Why can’t you persuade your friends not to go? If no one shows up except a small group of Purists, there will be no violence.”
The tall blond boy again. “Because this is our campus…”
A girl on the side of the room. “Yeah, and if some students have a right to sponsor a racist, we have the right to sponsor a protest and shout them down.”
The student council president raised and lowered his hand, signaling the room to calm down. “Look, the point is we can’t persuade people not to go. Too many are already heated up about this. Some are spoiling for a fight. At the very least the Purists should be forced to move the party to an off-campus location, some meeting room in town…”
Rosie looked up from her notebook. “Or better yet, some other town. Reno has a lot of places they could rent.”
Nervous laughter.
Then it was so quiet you could hear the trees rustling outside my window.
I leaned against my desk. “I’ll talk to the provost again, but I don’t think either of us will change on this.”
Someone groaned.
I stood up straight. “Look, you are the leaders of the students on this campus and you may have much more persuasive power than you realize. You also have as much responsibility for student conduct and student safety as the administration does. Why don’t you hold a rally before the Purist party? Urge common sense. Tell your friends that if they go, they should keep absolutely silent. Silence can be a powerful rebuke to a speaker who expects response, even negative response.”
The disappointment on their faces told me what they thought of that idea. They solemnly filed toward the door, dutifully dumping their soda cans in the wastebasket Nell had put by the door. Good people. Righteous kids. Damn, I wished I had a better message for them.
Rosie stayed behind. “I’m thinking of trying for a phone interview with Boerum this week. Any helpful hints?”
“Not right now. But if you get the interview and want to call me before publishing, I would gladly be your editor.”
Rosie smiled. “My editor? Or my censor? You just want to be sure I don’t publish anything that starts this firestorm sooner.”
“I’m as scared as they are,” said Manny an hour later when I reached him by phone. “And actually, since our talk, I have appro
ached the student leaders of the Purists and asked if they would consider moving to an off-campus venue.”
“And the answer was…”
“A ten-minute diatribe on their First Amendment rights plus my cowardice at being unwilling to defend them against their fellow students.”
“Well, their house is on our campus.”
“Indeed, and I got an earful about another student group inviting Michael Moore here five years ago even though some major donors had vigorously objected and threatened to stop donating.”
“I remember that. Moore came, spoke to a raucous crowd and left without any serious problems. We did lose one donor who insisted to the end that we were all Communist sympathizers, but the others hung in there. Grudgingly, perhaps.”
“Let’s hope we survive Danica Boerum.” I heard him sigh. “Did they really say some students might bring guns to campus?”
Chapter 7
I slept badly that night. A spring rainstorm was howling outside my window and shaking the climbing rose trellis below. Joe’s phone call had come in late, brief and uninformative. No news, good or bad. In addition to my anxiety for him, I worried about the student prediction for guns and violence. I felt sorry for Manny and Fred Stoddard, the university president. I suspected their phones had been ringing most of the evening.
By six o’clock in the morning I gave up and decided to watch the sun rise, feed Charlie and then go to see my doctor who had agreed to a seven-thirty appointment. My stomach was still bothering me, and I wanted to be sure it was not some flu bug instead of stress brought on by the prospect of bloodshed on my campus. Charlie was thrilled with an earlier-than-usual bowl of chow, but breakfast for me was out of the question. My one cup of coffee barely stayed down as I walked to my car.
It was still unseasonably warm and the night’s rain had left a trace of humidity in our normally dry high desert air. A lilac near my garage had started to bloom. I held my breath to avoid the heavy fragrance I usually cherished. I thought it might aggravate the instability in my stomach.
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 51
