“Leopold and Loeb. Weren’t they undergraduates when they murdered Bobby Franks?”
Caught in an exaggeration, Blum cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose so. But they were students. If you ask me, that’s who you should be thinking about.”
“Let’s stick to faculty for the moment,” Hallie said. “Was there anyone Westlake didn’t get along with?”
Blum seemed to give this some serious thought. “Not really,” he said eventually. “Oh, I’ll grant that Gunther wasn’t shy about wading into controversy, or adopting a position for the pure joy of demonstrating his intellectual superiority. But he was also enough of a rhetorician to know that ad hominem arguments rarely achieve their purpose, at least among true scholars. When he attacked those with whom he disagreed, it was always by exposing the paucity of their reasoning, unlike the blatant editorializing that passes for most social commentary these days. Even those on the faculty who despised his work respected its thoughtfulness.”
“What about personal conflicts?” Hallie asked.
“There again, I can’t really help you. In person, Westlake was polite and rather withdrawn. Hardly the bullying narcissist painted by his critics. I would have to say he was reasonably well-liked by his peers.”
“‘Reasonably well-liked’?”
“I see that you were well-trained by my brethren across the Midway, Ms. Sanchez. Yes, I can be accused of overqualifying that last remark. Perhaps I should have stated that while Gunther had few friends on the faculty, he wasn’t to my knowledge actively disliked. And before you ask, I wasn’t personally fond of the man. I’m not sure exactly why. Perhaps it was the bowties.”
“When did you last see him?”
“A few days before. Here, in my office.”
“Was there any particular reason?”
“Oh, I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you, seeing as how you’ll find out anyway. Gunther caused an uproar in one of his classes by suggesting that family dysfunction—and in particular, fatherless households—might be responsible for multigenerational crime among African Americans. The theory’s hardly new—or limited to conservative thinkers. Moynihan was saying the same thing fifty years ago. But Gunther exacerbated the matter by ridiculing a student who demanded that he ‘check his privilege.’ The episode was picked up by the Moron—excuse me, the Maroon—and precipitated a heated debate about racist attitudes on campus. I understand there were upward of a thousand comments on the newspaper’s site. I made the modest suggestion that Gunther tender an apology to the student. Not because he was wrong, mind you. But in the interest of calming things down.”
“And did he apologize?”
“No. He wouldn’t even discuss it with me.”
“That must have caused some friction between you.”
“I was . . . disappointed in his decision.”
Judging from his tone, furious was more likely.
“Were any of the Maroon comments of a threatening nature?”
“Not that I recall. Just the usual back-and-forth about victimization—these days, nearly everyone wants to tell you how disadvantaged they are—and anonymous name-calling. You’re welcome to sift through it, though I doubt it will do you any good.”
I waded back into the conversation. “Back when we first met—at the party with Candace McIntyre. You said Westlake was responsible for two PhD students, one of whom left last year. Isn’t that a very small number?”
“When I said earlier that Westlake was well-liked among his peers, I wasn’t referring to his students, naturally.”
Naturally. “Could your department afford that? You must see training future academic leaders as part of your mission.”
Blum let out a studied breath. “You’ve probably heard the expression ‘those who can do, and those who can’t teach.’ Thanks in part to Gunther, we receive enough grant money to accommodate both types, and it’s my job as chair to steer them toward the roles in which they can be most productive. To be perfectly frank, Gunther’s talents did not extend to mentoring the next generation. Not that it mattered.”
“The current PhD candidate,” I pressed. “What’s his name?”
“Adam. Adam Lecht.”
“Would you mind if we talked to him?”
“If he’s willing, I can’t stop you. In fact, he’s the PhD candidate I’m supposed to be meeting in a few minutes. I believe I just heard him speaking to my assistant.”
A knock came on Blum’s door, and I turned toward the sound.
And then a strange thing happened.
The newcomer took two steps into the room, turned on his heel, and fled.
TWENTY-FOUR
Of course, I didn’t see him. Or the look on his face, which Hallie described as pure panic. But I could hear the alarm in his movements as he skittered back through the door and fled down the corridor, bumping loudly against a wall in his haste to get away. Blum immediately rose from his seat and shouted after him. “Lecht, what in the hell is going on? Are you ill? Come back here at once!” But the PhD student kept running until his footsteps were only a faint patter in the distance.
I raised my eyebrows quizzically at Hallie. In answer, she took my hand and traced a question mark on my palm to signal that she had no idea either.
Blum returned to his seat, grumbling. “The rudeness . . .”
“What was that all about?” Hallie asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Blum said. “Except that the fellow is due to defend his dissertation in two days’ time. I’ve known some of them to get jittery beforehand, but not to such a degree.”
“Does he have any psychiatric problems that you know of?” I asked out of professional interest.
“Again, no idea,” Blum said. “But I suppose I shall have to find out now. God forbid the fellow should go off and drown himself in the Lake. Another headache to deal with,” he muttered to himself.
“Maybe it was me,” I said jokingly to Hallie after we had left Blum and were on our way across campus to the Gender Studies Department. “He wouldn’t be the first person to worry about it rubbing off on them.”
“You’re scary, but not that scary,” Hallie said. “And I don’t think he noticed. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think it was seeing us with Blum.”
“I hate to think we cut such a poor picture as a couple.”
“Not that, silly. He recognized us.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me if he watched the trial. Westlake was his graduate advisor. You’d expect him to follow what was happening. And our faces were all over the news.”
Hallie motioned for me to veer left onto another ice-bound walkway. “So what accounts for him bolting like a hare?”
“Two possibilities. He knows something. Or he’s feeling guilty.”
“Either one puts him on our list of suspects. What about Blum?”
“Do I think he could be our murderer, too? Hard to say. Reading between the lines, there was no love lost between him and his star grant-getter. But why kill the goose who’s laying all the golden eggs?”
“Maybe the goose was kicking up too much dirt in the barnyard.”
“You’re talking about the classroom controversy?”
“Right. These days, nothing cuts off grant money as quickly as charges that an institution is racist. I’m not saying the school is hostile to minorities, but Blum couldn’t have been happy when Westlake refused to apologize. Or the administration. I’m sure the ‘modest suggestion’ came as an order from higher up and that Blum was thoroughly embarrassed—if not in danger of losing control of his department—when he couldn’t get Westlake to comply. If you recall, this would have been the second time in months that Westlake provoked a firestorm on campus.”
I nodded, remembering the news story about Breastageddon. “What about the Maroon message boards? Do you think that’s worth following up on?”
“Yes. But I’ll get Carter to do it. He and the other associates spend ninety-nine percent of their lives gossiping on the Internet, s
o it’ll be right up his alley.”
Arriving at Amanda Pearson’s office, we were disappointed to learn that she had just left—with apologies about missing our 11 a.m. appointment.
“Emergency meeting of the Women’s Alliance,” her assistant reported. “On account of the Supreme Court ruling this morning. If it’s convenient, she said she could meet with you there.”
We obtained directions and crossed the campus again, this time to the Student Center. In contrast to the churchlike quiet elsewhere, it was bustling with activity—the stamp of passing feet, students laughing and calling out to each other, a choral group rehearsing an a cappella number off to one side—all rising in symphonic echoes to the vast ceiling overhead. As we threaded through the crowd, I sniffed coffee and food wrappers, the fusty odor of old wood, and the acetone scent of freshly printed flyers. Hallie said the walls were littered with them, advertising everything from a Court Theatre production of A Doll’s House to free checking at a local savings bank.
The office of the Women’s Alliance was to the rear of the lobby, behind a modern, plate-glass door that whooshed on hydraulic hinges as we entered. The floors were carpeted in a bouncy material that smelled brand-new. Subdued lighting shone from overhead, and chamber music emanated discreetly from a speaker system, muting the bustle outside. Student activism had evidently undergone a change since my college days: the place felt more like an upscale corporate headquarters than a gathering place for the politically motivated.
“Wow,” Hallie said, echoing my thoughts. “This is a lot nicer than the closet we used to meet in.”
“Professor Pearson’s doing,” came a bright female voice from what I deduced was the reception desk. “She shamed the administration into it after they spent twenty-five million dollars on an upgrade to a locker room for the football team. Like people actually come to this school to watch football. So you’re an alum,” she said to Hallie.
“Just of the law school. My name is Hallie Sanchez. And this is Mark Angelotti.”
“And I’m Taylor. Fourth-year at the college. I know who you are. You’re the lawyer who defended Olivia’s mom. And you’re the psychiatrist who testified for her. Amanda said you might be coming here this morning. We were all so thrilled.” She stopped awkwardly. “Do you think . . . would you mind giving me your autographs? I mean, if that’s possible,” she added in reference to me.
Hallie answered for us, “We’d be glad to—if we knew the reason.”
“Are you serious? You guys are total heroes around here. I mean, even though you lost. Not just because of what you did, but also because it was Olivia’s mom. A group of us came here every day to watch the trial with her. Amanda organized it and was here every day too. She said Olivia needed the support, to know we were all a hundred percent behind her. And her mom. Olivia’s a friend, so I wouldn’t have missed it. That prosecutor—what a pig! I don’t know how you can stand dealing with him. I mean, it’s your job and all, but still. The system’s so sexist!”
I raised an eyebrow at Hallie. She caught my meaning and said, “Taylor, can we talk somewhere? If it’s all right, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh sure, of course. Hang your coats on the hooks over there. And I’ll get one of the other volunteers to cover the front desk.”
We retired to another room containing a television, a kitchen area, and from what I could tell, an abundance of sofas and chairs whose occupants were too absorbed in their laptops to pay us any attention. Taylor offered us cans of soda from the fridge and brought us over to a corner where we might have a little privacy. “This is where we watched, on the DVR, with Olivia.”
“Tell us more about that,” Hallie said. “To be honest with you, I was surprised that Olivia never came to court. Didn’t she want to?”
“Oh, more than anything. But they told her not to.”
“Who told her not to?”
“Her mom. And Amanda.”
“Do you know why?”
“I only know what Amanda thought—that it would be too upsetting for Olivia to be there. And that she’d just be a show for the TV reporters who’d be shoving microphones in her face all the time. They’re a bunch of pigs, too. Did you know that male anchormen on television outnumber women two to one? Amanda just did an amazing course on gender stereotypes in the media. It’s all part of the culture of oppression and belittlement women face. And the LGBT community. And persons with disabilities,” Taylor added after a moment’s thought.
Hallie gently brought her back to the subject of Olivia’s absence at the trial. “It wasn’t because Olivia and her mom were on bad terms?”
“Who told you that?” Taylor exclaimed heatedly.
Hallie paused, as if trying to decide just how forthright she could be. “Someone close to the family,” she ended up saying.
“Well, I don’t know where they were coming from. It’s not true. I mean, Olivia and her mom were like sisters. That’s why this separation’s been so hard on her—on them both. And now that her mom’s going to prison for, like, forever . . .” Taylor stopped, sounding tearful. “There isn’t anything you can do to help her now, is there?”
Hallie said soothingly, “There’s still a possibility of overturning the verdict if people are honest with us. You said you’re Olivia’s friend. Have you known her a long time?”
“Just since first year. We were in the same house together, in South Campus. Not roomies, but only one suite away. I don’t live there anymore. It’s considered very uncool to stay in one of the dorms after second year. I’m over in what they call the ‘campus ghetto’—on Woodlawn just north of Fifty-Fifth. I share an apartment with three other students. Pretty big and we all have our own rooms. Olivia wanted to rent with us, but her father wouldn’t pay for it. It costs more than a dorm room, but still.”
“So there were money issues between Olivia and her father?”
“OMG, yeah. Olivia’s mom had to pay all her expenses. Except for her tuition, which was practically free because he was a professor. Books, clothes, everything. Olivia said it was because her dad hated her.”
This was news. “Hated Olivia?”
“Uh-huh. She hated him too.”
“Do you know why?”
Taylor was on the verge of answering when Amanda suddenly appeared.
“I don’t wish to interrupt, Taylor, but I think your help is needed with the press statement we’ll be putting out later. Thank you for keeping our guests company, but I’ll take over now.”
It wasn’t an overt rebuke, but I thought I caught a whiff of disapproval in her tone. “Sure, Amanda,” Taylor said meekly. Then to Hallie and me: “You won’t forget about the autographs?”
After Taylor took herself off, I got up from my seat and introduced Hallie.
“I’m so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Sanchez,” Amanda said. “You have been such an inspiration for the young women here. And even more so for coming from the bastion of male privilege that is our law school. I commend you on your closing statement. It literally brought tears to my eyes. And thank you, Mark. I hope I may call you that. I feel we share some camaraderie after that awful episode at the dean’s party. It’s not often that a male member of the psychiatric community speaks up in support of women’s rights.”
I wondered if I shouldn’t say “aw shucks.”
“Though I might take just a tiny bit of issue with your paternalistic dismissal of Battered Woman Syndrome,” Amanda continued. “I see that Taylor has offered you refreshments. But how else can I help you? To be frank, I was surprised to get Candace’s call. I thought the trial was over and that Rachel had decided not to appeal.”
There was no other choice but to level with her. Amanda sat down, and Hallie and I took turns explaining what we had learned about Brad Stephens’s report, the missing police notes, and the ME’s findings, leading us to believe that Lazarus might not have been her husband’s killer.
“Why, that’s wonderful news,” Amanda sa
id, though her enthusiasm sounded forced. “Have you made any progress in identifying the killer?”
“We were hoping you might be able to help us with that.”
“Me?” Amanda said, a little too surprised. “I don’t see how. Unless you think I had something to do with Gunther’s murder.”
I was beginning to wonder. “We’re not here to wring a confession out of you. Just background information. Back at the dean’s party in December, you seemed to know something about the family.”
“If I gave you that impression, it was certainly false. No doubt a result of having had too much to drink.”
“I think you said Olivia was one of your students?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And that you knew both parents?”
“Yes, but only well enough to say hello to. In this kind of small community—as in any other I imagine—you can’t help becoming acquainted with colleagues and their partners.”
This was not the chatty Amanda I remembered. “You also said you thought Westlake had abused both his wife and his daughter. Was that based on something in particular?”
“As I said at the party, it was merely a guess on my part. Primarily from the kind of man Gunther was and . . .”
“Go on,” I prodded.
“. . . It’s nothing. I didn’t—don’t—know Olivia all that well. As I said, she was extremely shy, hardly spoke a word in my class, although I’d made it clear that class participation would count for a third of the grade.”
“Was Olivia admitted to the college through the usual process?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that she isn’t up to the work, if that’s what you’re asking. No, intellectually she is very much her father’s daughter. Her work on paper was thorough, well-researched, and in some respects brilliant.”
I thought Amanda was doing a pretty brilliant job herself—of shoveling a load of manure at us.
“So you didn’t have any kind of special relationship with her?”
“None, other than the fact that she came here to the Women’s Alliance often, for the companionship, I suppose, and also to study. I’ve tried to make this a haven for the young women, who still unfortunately suffer from the fear that intellectual ability and a desire to succeed will be considered unfeminine. This lounge, for example, frees them from having to do all their study in the residence halls or the library, where unwanted attention from male students is all too common.”
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