Our architecture is above all eclectic. It ranges from a Gothic cathedral called Marquis Chapel, much beloved and photographed, to an ultramodern glass and metal edifice that houses the school of business. Every building on our campus has both form and function, regardless of the style, and in no period of history were the architects bound by the need for a “foolish consistency.”
The registrar’s office is in a building with a stone façade on the same quad as the famous chapel. Parking is nonexistent so near to central campus and visitors can expect a long trek from the metered parking at the fringes. Still, the campus fascinates. One catches up on the current college fashions by observing the students who loll about on the grassy plots and benches when the weather is clement. And in autumn it’s a pleasure to see the trees and shrubs changing from cool shades of green to warmer reds and oranges, contrary to the seasonal temperature changes.
A systems programmer named Ellis was assigned to assist me. He looked as though he had stepped out of the 1960s, what with his hair lapping over his ears and collar, and his bellbottomed trousers. I asked for a list of students enrolled in March 1990, with the first names of Tom, Thomas, Dick, Richard, or Harry. I wanted dates of birth, addresses, major subjects and any personal information in the records.
“Man, you must have a major in with the old lady,” said Ellis. “I mean, I can promise you, we don’t do this for just anybody. I guess they gave you the bit about confidentiality, commercial use, all that. But that’s not my job. I’ll need about an hour to offload and print the data, if you don’t mind waiting.”
It’s a pleasure to wile away an hour on Marquis’s beautiful campus. The cathedral and the popular Marquis Gardens are tourist attractions, with the latter noted for its spectacular horticultural displays that span every season except winter. Both places are trendy sites for weddings.
I opted to wait in the chapel, which was close by. Its stained-glass windows, marble columns, carved pews, finely wrought artifacts, and stupendous pipe organ make it an exotic place to visit. On that day an organ concert rehearsal added to the pleasure and made the time pass swiftly.
When I returned to Ellis’s office, he was waiting for me. “You got 33 records of first name Harry, 81 records of first name Richard or Dick, and 216 records of first name Thomas or Tom. Each record’s got the student’s complete personal information, but confidential stuff like whether they got caught cheating or using drugs is withheld. If that sounds okay, I’ll go ahead and print them out.”
“If you wouldn’t mind. I really appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
He sat down at his computer and tap-tapped away while I watched over his shoulder. “This will take around ten minutes. If there’s anything else I can help you with, Dr. Bryan says I’m to give your requests priority.”
“That’s really great, but it looks like I have enough for now. If I think of something later, can I call you?”
He encouraged me to do so. We made small talk for a few minutes. He didn’t ask why I wanted the data, so I didn’t have to make up a story. The printout amounted to more than a ream of paper.
I drove home with my prize. The stack of printouts looked even larger on my desk than it had in Ellis’s office. I poured a glass of white wine, carried it to my desk, took a sip for courage, and drew the pile toward me. I went through the records and set aside those of freshmen, sophomores, anyone 20 years old or under, anyone 30 years old or over (yes, there were several), and women (one named Thomasina). I noticed with some annoyance that I had records in which the middle name, when fully spelled out, was one of the key names. I put those aside too. That got the Toms down to 90, the Dicks to 31 and the Harrys to 17.
The Harrys were the most manageable, so I picked one up and studied it. I was relying on a part of my mind I didn’t fully control but trusted to alert me to noteworthy items. I didn’t have to wait long. The records were alphabetized by last name, and the first record I picked up was that of a Harry Angelica. Two red flags went up. His major subject was film and video; his permanent address was in Plainfield, New Jersey. That would account for the camera equipment that Ashley saw, and she thought Strong might have had a New York or New Jersey accent.
By the afternoon of the next day, Tuesday, I’d examined all 138 records. A Thomas Horton and a Thomas Bienvenu were also listed as film and video majors, along with a Richard Sydnor. Horton’s permanent address was a street in Raleigh that I didn’t recognize. Bienvenu was from Greensboro and had come to Marquis as a junior, having already done two years at a local college. Richard Sydnor’s record placed his family in Richmond, Virginia.
Narrowing down to film and video majors had given me a scant harvest: two Toms, a Dick, and a Harry. These were slim pickings indeed, but I was starved for clues and had to take what meager bounty the data put forth.
CHAPTER 8
I looked Thomas Horton’s street up in my map book of Raleigh. It was about two miles south of my house, on the other side of the Capital. A phone call would have been more efficient, but the stack of printouts had cooped me up all day and I needed some air and some exercise. Another mild, clear day of Carolina blue skies and low humidity further beckoned me outdoors. I chose to walk across town and pay a personal call.
The house at the address given in Thomas Horton’s school record was located in a neighborhood of diverse race and income. It was one of the nicer homes on the block. The lawn in the small front yard was green and close-cropped, and the beds of flowers and shrubs appeared to be well tended. The dwelling itself was a recently painted off-white two-story, with clapboard siding and faux shutters on the windows. A small front porch contained two well-worn, comfortable-looking chairs. Between them stood a table large enough to hold three or four glasses or drink cans. The mailbox in the front showed an address but no name.
I don’t much like walking up to unfamiliar houses and knocking on the door. It reminds me too much of religion peddlers, who by now have almost entirely displaced the Fuller Brush Man. It’s also unwise for a lone woman to do so for obvious reasons—witness the case I was working on—though I can keep one hand in my handbag around the butt of my automatic if I sense danger.
Nobody was to be seen on the street, and inside the house the occupants had drawn the curtains. I chanced a peek in the mailbox. They hadn’t taken in their mail and I glimpsed the name “Horton” on an L.L. Bean catalog. I walked briskly up the driveway and then across a short cement walkway that led to the front porch and door. I slipped my left hand into my handbag, and with the right pressed the ringer button. I heard a loud buzz inside the house.
There was a stirring inside and the curtain on the window by the door parted, affording the person behind the glass a look at me, and vice versa. A man of color in his fifties opened the door and politely asked me what I wanted. I’d prepared a small lie.
“Excuse me for bothering you, sir, but I was told at Marquis University that Mr. Thomas Horton lived here and that he was in the business of making video tapes.”
“Well, miss, they told you wrong. Thomas is an actor and an assistant director.”
“Oh, dear. I seem to have wasted a trip. Wasn’t he a film and video major at Marquis?”
“He was, but that includes acting, directing, producing and all of it.”
“And he doesn’t make videotapes for advertising?”
“No ma’am, he sure don’t.”
“Oh, pity!” I said with a little stamp of my foot. “Anyway, you must be very proud of your, uh, son—is it?—for graduating from Marquis. That’s a fine university.”
He softened at that and, more significantly, didn’t balk at the supposition. I wanted to make sure I had the right Thomas Horton.
“Thomas worked hard to earn his scholarship, because there was no way we could’ve had the money to send him there, no way with three other children.”
A late-model car turned into the driveway, parked, and a sharply dressed woman of African descent, also about
50 years of age, stepped out.
“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I’ll just be on my way,” I said to Mr. Horton. To the woman whose expression was somewhat leery, I said, “You must be Mrs. Horton, Thomas’s mother.”
She nodded.
“I mistakenly thought he made videotapes but Mr. Horton tells me he’s a director. Isn’t it wonderful that after all this time the folks at Marquis still recommend him?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said, as we squeezed past each other on the narrow walkway.
“Y’all have a good evening, then,” I said. “It was nice to meet you both.”
It had been successful outing. I’d gotten some exercise on a splendid day, and I had eliminated one of the Toms. All of Ashley’s attackers were Caucasians.
I called Thomas Bienvenu’s home phone number as given in his student record. A man with some kind of accent answered. He confirmed that it was the Bienvenu residence, and when I asked for Thomas he said he was Thomas. My heartbeat notched up when I thought I recognized the accent to be French. Wasn’t one of those men called Frenchy?
Always prepared though never a Girl Scout, I pretended to be a fundraiser from Marquis. “Good to catch you home, Thomas. This is Nan calling from the Marquis University alumni office. Are you the Thomas Bienvenu who graduated with a major in film and video in 1990?”
“Yes I am, but you people, you called last week. I already made the pledge.”
“Yes, well, I’m awfully sorry to bother you again but I’m afraid your address was misplaced. Would you mind giving it to me so I can send you your, uh, pledge package?”
He grumbled about how he’d been receiving mail from Marquis for ten years and it seemed to him awfully careless to lose the address of people who promised them money, but in the end he gave it to me. I really wanted to hear him speak enough to be sure of the French accent. It was not strong but it was distinctive.
I had good reason for making sure of his current address. While Ashley hadn’t mentioned a foreign accent, if I asked her specifically and she recalled one, then Monsieur Bienvenu would merit further investigation. This Thomas wasn’t as easily eliminated as Thomas Horton.
There were no Sydnors at the Sydnor’s phone number supplied by Marquis. I punched in 4-1-1, asked for Richmond, Virginia, the number for a Richard or a Dick Sydnor, S-y-d-n-o-r. A human voice thanked me and an automated voice gave me the number for a Dick, and even dialed it for me. A man picked up on the second ring. I introduced myself as Susan Radford. Susan attended Marquis about ten years ago and remembered that a certain Dick Sydnor was a film and video major. Susan wondered if this was that same Dick, and if he was still making videos—if so, she had a job for him.
I half expected him to say “Huh?”, as Susan tends toward a stream of consciousness style of speaking. Instead, he said, “Well, this is Dick, but actually, all I do now is editing. That keeps me pretty much busy fulltime. I’m sorry but I don’t think I can be of much help.” His tone of voice reflected an inner battle in which politeness barely won over skepticism.
I said, “That gives me an idea. I have several old videotapes that I once used for advertising. What are the chances of editing them into something new? That might be less expensive than starting from scratch.”
“I’m not sure about that. I certainly can’t give you an answer over the phone. If you want to ship the tapes to me, I’ll take a look at them. I’ll have to charge you for my time.”
“What if I brought them to you? I have to be in the Richmond area anyway. I have no problem paying your fee.”
He agreed to the arrangement with a reluctant “I can only give you half an hour,” and gave me directions to his studio in Richmond where we could meet the next day.
I was on a roll with these phone calls and I didn’t want to quit. I called Harry Angelica’s number in Plainfield, New Jersey. An elderly sounding lady answered who claimed she didn’t know any Angelicas, in response to my inquiry. I tried the local number in Raleigh, the one Harry had had when he was a student. An answering machine speaking for Laurie, Suzie and Katie said none of them could come to the phone. That was far too long of a long shot anyway.
Three Angelicas—Annie, Michael and the Angelica Bakery—were coughed up by directory services for Plainfield. I dutifully copied down the numbers and—surprise, surprise!—Annie’s was the one in Plainfield I’d already called: Harry’s “permanent” number from his school record. I contemplated this oddity. Electronic phone books are nearly always current and do not become gradually outdated like paper ones. The possibility that someone had moved into the house and kept the Angelicas’ phone number seemed remote. And even if they had, why would they deny knowing the family? It didn’t add up.
I considered calling back and confronting whoever answered. Maybe that would coax out information about Harry Angelica. It might have the opposite effect, too. I was going to have to sleep on it. I had Dick Sydnor to check out, in any event.
I didn’t fancy driving to Richmond and back in one day. It’s two and a half to three hours one way, depending on traffic. But I needed to meet Dick Sydnor in person to see if he fit any of the thinly described assaulters of Ashley. He spoke the flat kind of English that met Ashley’s description of Little’s speech.
In case he was a candidate, I needed work for him so I could follow up. My brother John advertised his private investigation firm in Santa Barbara on late-night television. I had copies of his tapes from the past several years. I’d ask Sydnor if he could edit them into something that would suit my business in Raleigh.
The next morning I drove to Richmond. Dick Sydnor lived in the Huguenot suburb northwest of the downtown area. I found his house with no difficulty. Per his directions, I followed the driveway around to the back where his studio stood.
A modest sign hung above the half-open door: Sydnor Video Edit, Inc. I parked and keyed off. John’s videotapes were on the passenger seat. I grabbed them and got out of the car. I was stretching and yawning away the effects of the long drive when a twisted little man in an electric wheelchair rolled out of the studio.
“Hello. You must be Susan Radford.”
“And you’re Mr. Sydnor, I believe,” I said, trying to hold the pitch of my voice steady and contain my surprise.
We shook hands. He had the full use of his right arm and his grip was strong. The left arm lay motionless on the armrest of the chair. I couldn’t see his legs but I imagined they were atrophied. His torso was somehow off-center vis-à-vis his head and neck, giving the contorted appearance. He invited me into the studio. It was ingeniously outfitted so that he could reach every bit of electronic hardware from his chair. It was as clever an arrangement as I’d ever seen. He noticed my awe.
“My wife and I designed the layout,” he said with undisguised pride. “When I was at Marquis learning to produce and edit videos, I couldn’t reach the equipment. This was a breach of the Americans with Disabilities Act and other statutes. Rather than sue over it, I asked them to let me refit the lab to make it wheelchair accessible. They loved the idea. I collaborated with a woman majoring in design, now my wife, and we tried out all sorts of configurations. Some worked and some didn’t. I was the guinea pig and ultimate arbiter. We came up with many innovations and we both wrote our master’s degree theses on the topic. What you see here is the quintessence of our work.”
Of course that settled it for me and my hidden agenda, but I was so impressed with his setup that I thought I’d see what he could do with the tapes anyway. I explained, truthfully, that I worked for John during the summer months. Then not so truthfully, that John had asked me to have several years’ worth of video advertising coalesced into one brilliant 60-second spot. Actually, if Sydnor could do it then I’d have a surprise birthday present for my elder bro’.
Meeting a person who had overcome extreme adversity put me in a good mood for the long drive home. I used the time to ponder the strange call to Harry Angelica’s supposed address of ten years
ago. I needed to find the underlying cause of the funny business in Plainfield. I couldn’t afford to let a single thread slip, as I had so few. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought, repeating Alice’s words about Wonderland, long remembered from my childhood reading. But this wasn’t Wonderland; it was New Jersey, and curious matters were suspect.
I was just inside the Raleigh city limits when my mobile chimed. It was KC. He had good news and bad news. Good was that he’d already transferred the data from tape to hard drive. It had run overnight. Bad was that there were well over a thousand dark-blue Dodge vans registered in 1990 between two and five years old.
“Basically, I didn’t print anything because I wanted to know if you could, like, narrow the search,” said KC.
I could make a stab at it. “KC, how long would it take to see if one of the owners was named Harry Angelica, that’s A-n-g-e-l-i-c-a?”
“No problemo. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”
When the phone chimed precisely ten minutes later, it was with an anticipatory shiver of excitement that I pressed the talk button. This time KC had only good news.
“You hit the jackpot, Dagny. Angelica was the owner of record of a 1987 Dodge van.”
CHAPTER 9
Harry Angelica had both owned a Dodge van and been a film and video major at Marquis University. I had the name of one of Ashley’s rapists and I was hungry like a wolf to have the man.
I remained in an excited state for several minutes before the cold rain of reason dampened my parade. The identification of Harry Angelica was circumstantial. It was based on four inferences. First, that the men were Marquis students—inferred from the belt buckle. Second, that one of them was a film and video major—inferred from the photographic gear that Ashley had observed in the van. Third, that one of them had owned a dark-blue Dodge van, as opposed to having rented, borrowed, or stolen it. Fourth, that the name was Tom, Dick, or Harry. The deductions were consistent with the hypothesis that Harry Angelica was one of the men, but they didn’t prove it. Brother John had something to say about this in How to be a Private Eye:
Where Evil Lurks Page 6
