ROGER SURRENDERED HIS ticket so Phil could take Lieutenant Stewart to the game. The two attended the pep rally Friday night as well, but Roger did not repine. He was able to keep his appetite for athletics under control and had been to many more games than he had really wanted in order to keep Phil company. After all, Notre Dame athletics had been the decisive point in Phil’s agreeing to move to South Bend when Roger received his unexpected but welcome offer of the Huneker Chair of Catholic Studies. He invited Whelan from the archives to a spaghetti dinner, with wine for Whelan and a huge tossed salad for them both. The associate archivist was delighted. His infernal stammer mysteriously disappeared when he was with Roger Knight, as long as there were no other people around.
“I’ll bring what I’ve found.”
“That is not why I’m asking you.”
“I’ll have it in my brief case anyway.”
“I’ve brought The Book of Kills,” he said when he was settled in a chair with a preprandial glass of wine.
This was the document that had been put together by an amateur researcher who was much in the archives, a list of all the mysterious deaths that had occurred on or near the campus over the years.
“Had she found out about Cruelle, the murderer of Indians?”
“I’ve added that. Information was scattered about.”
It was all Roger could do not to start in on the document immediately, but his duties as a host came first. He added the spaghetti to the boiling water, put in a dash of salt, and gave an unnecessary stir to the salad. Shortly the pasta was al dente and they settled down to eat. Whelan was on his third glass of Chianti when Roger cleared the table, anxious to study The Book of Kills. But his interest was in the new material Whelan had gathered on the murder of Indians, half a dozen over a year’s time, a quarter century after the founding of the university.
After some minutes Roger looked at Whelan, who was refilling his glass. “Are there descendants of Cruelle still about?”
“Not by that name,” Whelan said with a fluency unusual even when he was with Roger. “I am still in the process of tracking them down.”
“If you find any, they are not likely to be happy that all that sad history of the family has been paraded in the newspapers.”
“There was another tonight.” Whelan fished the newspaper from his brief case.
“They all but accuse the university of assassinating Orion Plant,” Roger said as he perused the piece.
“In that I am sure they are wrong.”
“Of course. But a veiled accusation can do more harm than an unequivocal one.”
“It is a chilling thought that there is a murderer at large.”
Whelan used the phrase with the ease of one who claimed to read a thriller every other day. What did he read on the off days? The Western Canon. They had discussed the attacks on the great works of literature rampant now in the English departments of the nation, with inroads of leveling made even locally. Whelan scoffed at classes offered in mystery fiction.
“It is of course possible for a thriller to be more than a thriller. I could give you instances.”
“This is an area where I am completely out of the picture.”
“But even if such a book rose to the level of literature, the genre is far down on the spectrum. It is nonsense to suggest otherwise.”
“Once all current fiction and poetry were absent from curricula. I suppose the idea was that these could be read on one’s own while the verdict on them was slowly formed.”
Whelan was in medio iubilationis when he left, and Phil had not yet returned. Audible from the campus were the rumblings of the gathering crowd, anxious for the morrow’s game. The night air was cold when he saw Whelan off. He watched his friend depart with carefully measured steps, walking becoming in his condition a deliberate act requiring all his attention. Roger looked up at the clear sky and Whelan’s phrase came back to him. A murderer at large. And so there was, and doubtless he was more afraid than anyone who thought of him.
32
QUINLAN HAD HEARD OF the unscheduled descent of the most powerful of the trustees, the news coming from Miss Trafficant via Trepani, and the president of the faculty senate was certain he knew the reason for their visit. The series of episodes and revelations had put the administration in a bad light, but now the light was sinister with the discovery of the body of Orion Plant. The wake was scheduled for Sunday night, and Quinlan intended to be there, to show the flag. It would be interesting to see how the administration handled this. Would they try to ignore the tragic death of this young graduate student?
Quinlan was ensconced at a table in the back bar of the University Club, drinking Guinness from bottles. One more sacrilege among so many. This table was his usual haunt on game weekends, and his companions were his regular table mates on such occasions.
“I suppose they put the sudden arrivals in Moreau Seminary.”
“No,” said Trepani, her teeth exposed. “They’re all in the Morris Inn.”
“Who was evicted, I wonder?”
“The adminstration would not have dared give them other than royal treatment.”
Quinlan’s normal attitude toward trustees was indistinguishable from his attitude toward the administration. He was an ex officio attendant at trustees meetings, without a vote, and from observation he had conceived a deep-seated dislike for the officious Schippers. The multimillionaire had taken on a proprietary air toward the university as his contributions multiplied. It was irksome that Schippers was a collector of rare books and spoke of them as if they were more than commodities, collectibles. But it was a characteristic of trustees that they sought to mimic professional scholars, working up little bits of learned lore to parade at their gatherings. But the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Quinlan’s conception of a university was medieval, a corporation made up of professors, some of whom did administrative duty on short terms to facilitate the essential work. Now there was a professional class of administrators who pretended to an expertise that was independent of any involvement in the teaching and learning that took place on campus. Worse, these parasites behaved as if the faculty were their employees. Public relations people spoke for the university, rehearsed by others who were strangers to the classroom. And there was an infrastructure as well, a pullulating mob who more or less autonomously made decisions that by rights should be made by the faculty. It grieved him to think that students received more direction from these anonymous men and women than they did from the faculty. What image must alumni carry away from the place?
Heidi Aufklarung, a deconstructionist from the English department and a regular at the Quinlan table, had drunk deep and was now repeating the lecture she had given that afternoon. Quinlan tuned her out. It was difficult to champion the faculty when they were before one’s eyes. Sandra Trepani was raking her lower lip with her upper teeth and swiveling her glass of mineral water mindlessly. Heidi’s voice rose as she made a particularly nihilistic point. Raul Calderon and Jacques Nadir were poised to pose difficulties when Heidi paused for breath.
In the club beyond, the level of noise rose as people came in from the pep rally. Two tall men looked in, saw that all the tables were occupied, and stood at the bar. Trepani leaned toward Quinlan.
“The one on the left is the brother of Roger Knight.”
“Don’t tell me he is on the faculty too.”
“He’s a detective.”
Ah. The administration’s man, hired to harass Orion Plant. On another occasion Leif Quinlan might have brooded over the anomalous way in which Roger Knight had been hired. As a university professor he had not come directly under any department’s appointment and tenure committee, though his name had been passed through several in a pro forma way. It did not help that Roger Knight, without any previous teaching experience, had proved to be a popular and innovative teacher. Quinlan had actually toyed with the idea of sitting in on the seminar Knight had offered on Barbey d’Aurevilly, but had thought better
of it. He might have seemed to be spying on a colleague. Roger had listened with wide unblinking eyes when Quinlan explained to him the crucial importance of the faculty senate.
“Do you have power?”
“Largely moral.”
“The best kind.”
Why did he feel that the massive Huneker Professor found him amusing? Quinlan heaved himself to his feet and suddenly felt the impact of the alcohol he had consumed. He stood for a moment, hoping for his head to clear, and then moved to the bar.
“I am Professor Quinlan. I understand you are the brother of Roger Knight.”
“I am Philip Knight,” the other man said. “You are also speaking to Lieutenant Stewart.”
“Lieutenant?”
“South Bend Police.”
“Aha. On duty, I presume.”
“We’ve been to the pep rally.”
“Good God.”
“You don’t go?”
Quinlan let his eyes roll upward and then wished he hadn’t; it had made him dizzy. “Are you investigating our murder?”
“Did you know the victim?”
“Only indirectly. Only indirectly.” Trepani joined them, smiling toothily. Quinlan reluctantly introduced her. “You would do well to speak with Professor Ranke.”
“His daughter once went with Orion,” Sandra said confidingly. “Before he married.”
“She seems to have disappeared.”
“What?” Stewart had a way of looking at his interlocutor with great concentration, and Quinlan’s reaction was as much an effort to deflect that gaze as to express surprise, though he was indeed surprised. As was Trepani.
“Oh, I hope nothing has happened to her too!”
“The campus should be swept,” Quinlan said. “God knows what would turn up.”
“Professor Quinlan is president of the faculty senate,” Sandra said.
“I thought I recognized your name,” Philip Knight said, and now his look too was searching. What on earth had his brother told him?
“We are officially very concerned about recent events on campus. As well as startling revelations that have appeared in the public press. And now a murder. May I ask how your investigation is proceeding?” Quinlan said this archly, mindful that the two detectives had been wasting the evening at the pep rally.
“In a routine fashion,” Stewart said in a tone that did not encourage further inquiry.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Philip Knight asked.
It was an indication of Quinlan’s discomfort that he refused. “I must get back to my friends. I only wanted to greet you.”
He bumped into a chair during his return journey, but did not lose his balance. He regained his chair without incident and Sandra slipped into hers.
“Pompous bastards,” Quinlan said in a carrying voice.
“I will bet that Laverne Ranke is lying dead somewhere on this campus at this very minute.”
“Very likely. Very likely. While the constabulary disports itself at the bar.”
Quinlan picked up his glass and drank deep.
33
THE FOUL WEATHER OF THE preceding week lifted as if dragged away from the campus and stadium by one of the little planes hired to tow banners overhead for the edification of spectators before heading out of sight taking their messages with them. Thus, the rain and wind and cold seemed taken away to reveal a blue sky, cottony puffs of cloud and sunshine.
Jimmy was waiting for Phil at the designated spot a full fifteen minutes ahead of time, proving that his enthusiasm for the game was not feigned.
“I haven’t been to one of these since I was a kid and we used to sneak in.”
“Was that possible?”
“Possible but rare.”
They toured the campus, enjoying hot dogs and hamburgers and various other burnt offerings sold by the different residence halls or student organizations in order to raise money for some good cause. Smoke rose from the makeshift grills and the delicious smell of health-threatening foods filled the air. The band was ending its concert when they arrived at Bond Hall, and when the players formed up to march to the stadium, Phil and Stewart fell in behind along with thousands of others. It was impossible not to walk to the beat of the band.
Before they went inside, they resupplied with popcorn and massive soft drinks in a container suitable for keeping. Phil’s seats—his and Rogers—were in the southwest curve of the stadium. Taking their seats as point B and extending from it two legs of a right angle gave one the south goal posts as the terminus of BA while BC pointed to the right of the north goal posts. The perspective on the game was, Phil felt, ideal. From the end zones it was difficult to calculate the yardage won or lost by a play and from the fifty yard line, where the chancellor’s party was ensconced, save for the rare occasions when the teams were at midfield, one had an imperfect view of what went on to the right or left.
“So you picked out these seats with all that in mind?”
Phil smiled. “No, Jimmy. They were issued at random.”
Today’s game between Indiana and the Irish was a novelty, an addition to the schedule in a year when Purdue had unbreakable commitments elsewhere. Of course, games were arranged years in advance and this contest had been greeted with dismay or jocularity when it was first announced, but in the interval Indiana had gradually built the best team in its history. They were tied with Michigan for the lead in the Big Ten and were scheduled to meet their rival for that position the following week. It was the local hope that, in the phrase, Indiana would be looking beyond this game to the great contest that lay ahead of them. Equally rare, the fans seemed equally divided between the two teams, although there were many with divided loyalties. Everyone was prepared for a historic game.
When Indiana took the field, their band struck up, almost drowning out the good-natured derision of Irish fans. And then, after dramatic hesitation in the mouth of the tunnel leading from the locker rooms, the Irish became visible and the just-returned students, who by tradition stood throughout the game, began to cheer. And then the players ran onto the field, led by the cheerleaders, enveloping the coaching staff. The Fighting Irish had long been a misnomer for the team: African-Americans were a majority and the plucky little quarterback, though named Doyle, was a Eurasian. Father Riehle, the team chaplain, on his gimpy legs, trailed the team in a semblance of jogging. Once settled on the sidelines, the teams sent their captains to the center of the field for the coin toss, which Notre Dame lost. Indiana elected to receive and then a hush fell over the stadium for the singing of “America the Beautiful” and, to the raising of the flag, the “Star Spangled Banner.” With Old Glory rippling nicely in a slight breeze, the teams arranged themselves for the initial kick and the tension and noise mounted.
The Irish kicker advanced on the teed-up ball, toe met pig-skin, and the ball soared toward the Indiana goal. It was caught in the end zone. Prudence might have dictated grounding the ball and beginning on the twenty, but after the slightest pause the Indiana special team formed in front of the ball carrier and began the run. The Notre Dame team converging on them were knocked aside like ten pins, and the runner was almost in the clear with nothing between him and the far goal but the Notre Dame kicker. What looked like a perfect tackle proved not to be, the runner lifted one leg free and then the other and was on his way to a touchdown. With less than a minute played, Indiana led 7–0. Notre Dame received, downed the ball in the end zone, and began on its own twenty. Three plays later, they were on their own fifteen, and had to punt. Indiana received the ball on their own twenty-five and advanced it to the middle of the field. Minutes later, they kicked a field goal, bringing the score to 10–0.
The opening provided an omen for the first half. Doyle’s passes were inaccurate or dropped, the Irish running game could not be established, Indiana led 24–0 when the teams left the field at half time. The Irish fans around Phil and Stewart had groaned and complained and finally voices were heard in open criticism of coaches and team. Frailty, th
y name is football fan. Fair weather loyalists turned on their team when the fortunes of the game went against them. But the true fan waited in the hope that the second half would differ from the first. And so it did. But in the meantime, there was apprehension in the chancellor’s box and in the presidential party lest the interruption of the week before be repeated. It was not.
Notre Dame received at the beginning of the second half, the runner taking the ball to the thirty yard line. From there, the Irish marched down the field, mixing passes and runs, and when they were stopped, successfully kicked a field goal. 24–3. The disappearance of that 0 from the scoreboard was a harbinger of things to come. Indiana took possession of the ball, their first play was a pass, and it was gathered in nicely but by an Irish player who scampered toward the goal line with the whole stadium on its feet. When the band’s all but constant rendition of the Notre Dame fight song became audible again, the score was 24–10. An Indiana runaway was turning into a contest.
As if to prove the interception a fluke, the Indiana quarterback connected with his tight end, who advanced the ball to the Notre Dame forty yard line. Minutes later, Indiana was at the Notre Dame four with a first down, four tries to punch the ball across for a touchdown. But for three plays, the Notre Dame defense held, and when Indiana tried a field goal, a Notre Dame defender leapt high in the air and deflected the ball. Notre Dame took over on its own twenty.
The genuine Notre Dame fan is able to recall with apparent accuracy every play in every game he witnessed and of many others besides. The Indiana-Notre Dame game played that Saturday afternoon under a clear sky and comfortable temperatures would enter the annals as one of the top dozen or so games in the history of the school. It was certainly the most exciting and memorable game of the new millennium.
With five minutes to play, the score stood at 27–27. The first teams were weary, but this was no game for substitutions. Doyle had won back the cheers of those who had demanded his removal in the first half. Jefferson had gained more yards running than ever before in his distinguished career and the wide receiver, Toyanga, had gathered in three touchdown passes. As the game approached its end, fans of both teams had ample reason for pride. No matter who won now, both teams had played a game to be remembered. In the event, Indiana won by two points, a safety when Doyle, dodging around desperately in his own end zone, looking for a receiver, could not get a pass off before he was smothered by three Indiana defenders.
The Book of Kills Page 13
