by Mike Markel
She didn’t like that idea, but glancing at the detective’s shield around my neck, she said, “She’s in the University Counsel’s office, just down the hall. Room 114.” She pointed.
“Thanks.”
Ryan and I turned and left. “I don’t want her to leave that meeting, then go get some coffee or something.”
“I get it,” he said.
We walked into room 114, where we were greeted by another secretary, who explained that Arthur Vines was unavailable and would likely be unavailable for the rest of the day. The point being, go away. “Thanks,” I said and sat down on the couch to wait. She gave me a dirty look but didn’t respond. Ryan remained standing.
Ryan and I were silent as we waited. Every little while, the secretary looked over at us. She seemed preoccupied. When she looked at Ryan, he offered her his polite smile. When she glanced at me, I gave her my screw-you stare.
After about ten minutes, the door to Mr. Vines’ office opened. President Billingham, grim-faced, came out first. Head bowed, he strode past us and out the door. A moment later, Mary Dawson emerged. She looked like hell. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes, her skin looked blotchy and puffy, and her makeup was flaking in the lines running down from the corners of her mouth.
Right behind her was an attractive, distinguished looking man of fifty-five or sixty, slender, wearing a three-piece suit and super-shiny black dress shoes. His silver hair was thinning on top. He wore silver rimless glasses on his long, thin nose. He carried himself with the kind of self-confidence that comes from decades of deferential treatment. “I’ll keep you informed, Mary.” He nodded, the gesture saying that it will be all right—because he’ll make sure it will be.
When Mary turned back in our direction, she noticed us and stopped abruptly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Detectives, I didn’t notice you there.”
I gave her my best smile. “Dean Dawson, we need to talk to you for a minute.” Then I turned to the guy. “You’re Mr. Vines, right? My name is Detective Karen Seagate. This is my partner, Detective Ryan Miner. We’re the lead investigators on the Virginia Rinaldi case.” I didn’t wait for him to respond. “You know what would be great? If you could give us a minute, too.” I swept my arm toward his office door, signaling for him to go back into his office.
With a pained smile, he turned to head back into his office. He didn’t say anything, which I interpreted to be his way of saying he would comply, but only because I was a cop. His silence suggested he did not care for my manners. That was okay with me, since I didn’t care for how he protected his students.
I sat down at the small conference table in his office. I turned to Ryan and nodded. He sat down, too. Mary Dawson followed.
Arthur Vines remained standing. “I’ve been sitting all morning.” He made a weak show of stretching his torso from side to side, then folded his arms in front of his chest and raised his chin, signaling for me to start talking.
“I’m very sorry to hear about Jennifer Taylor,” I said. Mary Dawson’s eyes teared up. She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her suit jacket. Arthur Vines nodded formally to acknowledge my statement. “Have either of you had a chance to speak with Chief Hynde today?”
Arthur Vines said, “He informed me that the state fire marshal has arranged for all the resources and begun the investigation into the arson—it is now officially an arson case. And I pledged to him all the resources at Central Montana State University’s disposal. President Billingham has authorized me to be the university’s liaison and assured me that we will do everything we can to assist the authorities.” He nodded to me to show that he considered the police department among those authorities.
“Jennifer was never on our radar,” I said. “She wasn’t in Virginia Rinaldi’s class, is that correct?” I knew she wasn’t.
“No, she wasn’t.” Mary Dawson wiped at her eyes.
“And she didn’t have anything to do with Abby Demarest and the porn video, right?”
Mary Dawson shook her head to confirm it. “Jennifer was a marvelous student. Pre-law. Top grades. Just excellent.” She started to cry. “I’m sorry, this is such an unbelievable tragedy. I cannot …” She broke down.
We were all silent for a moment, waiting to see if Mary Dawson wanted to finish her thought. But I didn’t think she could have spoken.
Arthur Vines cleared his throat. “President Billingham and Mary and I will be meeting with her parents this afternoon. They’re driving in now.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That they have our deepest sympathies for the loss of their daughter. That we have three fine agencies that are pledged to solve this case. And that we stand ready to be of whatever assistance we can be as they struggle to cope with their loss.” It came out like talking points for a PowerPoint he had been rehearsing.
“Mr. Vines, is the university planning to publicize that the target was Abby Demarest, and that she had been receiving various threats because of the porn video?”
He shook his head. “At this point, it would be premature to speculate that Abby Demarest was the target. We don’t know that.”
“When the death of Jennifer hits the news tonight—and the state fire marshal announces it as arson—reporters are gonna ask if the marshal figured out a motive for the arson. He knows—Chief Hynde knows—that Abby was in the video. He’s gonna tell the truth. Then they’re gonna want to know where Abby was when her place got torched. There’s no way you’re gonna be able to keep a lid on this. It’ll take Twitter ten minutes to light up with the porn-star student getting her roommate killed.”
“Detective,” he said, “I am aware that this is a very precarious situation—as well as being a terrible personal tragedy, of course. But I cannot formulate a response based on speculation about the motives of an arsonist—”
“You have all the threats, don’t you? The texts, the emails? When reporters ask where Abby was, you’re gonna have to tell them you responded appropriately by arranging for another place for her to live. So how come her roommate’s sitting at her desk in her bedroom when a bottle full of gasoline blows up ten feet away?”
“I have reviewed the complete file, I can assure you, Detective Seagate. I have been here since ten pm, when I first was notified of the incident. I have reviewed all the information we had. There were no threats suggesting arson was even a possibility—”
“The threat has to spell out the means?”
“Detective, if you would excuse me. I was speaking.” He paused and tilted his head, as if I was supposed to say I was sorry and would be a good girl. “Perhaps you do not know that when Ms. Demarest brought the threats to our attention, I also told Ms. Taylor that we would be happy to arrange for alternative accommodations for her as well, either with Ms. Demarest or separately.”
“And you told her what the threats were about? About the video?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did Jennifer say when you offered to set her up someplace else?”
“She thanked me and said she would think about it, but that she didn’t think that would be necessary.”
I was shocked, speechless.
I felt Ryan’s eyes fixed on me. He began to speak. “Mr. Vines, Detective Seagate and I interviewed Ms. Taylor—”
I put my hand on Ryan’s arm. He stopped speaking.
“Let’s let Mr. Vines get back to work. He’s got a tough day coming up.” I turned to Arthur Vines. “Sir, I’m sorry about my tone. This has just been so upsetting for all of us, I’m sure. Please accept my apologies.”
“Not at all, Detective. I’m sure we’ll all be able to work together effectively to assist Ms. Taylor’s parents and solve this horrible crime.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I appreciate you saying that.” Ryan followed me out of Mr. Vines’ office. Mary Dawson followed us out.
When the three of us were out in the hall, I turned to Mary Dawson. “We want to walk you back to your office.”
“That’s not necessary
,” she said. “I think I’ve got it under control.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying. We need to talk to you. In your office. Right now.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what you were saying. Of course, let’s go.”
The three of us strode down the hall and went into her office.
“Mary, when Mr. Vines contacted Abby and Jennifer about getting them set up in new places, do you know if he did that in writing?”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t know, but I doubt it. It’s not the kind of thing where you want to leave a paper trail. I assume he phoned them or visited them in person.”
“About the threats: the emails and texts. Have you seen them?”
“Arthur summarized them to me and the president, in a meeting.”
“Have you seen them?”
“No, Arthur has custody of them.” She paused. “What are you getting at?”
I turned to Ryan. “Tell her what you started to say.”
Ryan turned to Mary Dawson. “We interviewed Jennifer Taylor.”
“Why? When?”
“We went to the apartment. We were looking for Abby. It was Wednesday, around 4 pm. Jennifer told us that Abby said she would be gone for a few days.”
Mary Dawson closed her eyes and kept them closed for a few seconds. “I’m sorry.” She looked at me. “I am so exhausted. What are you saying?”
“Jennifer didn’t know why Abby moved out,” I said. “She didn’t know Abby was the girl in the video. She didn’t mention Mr. Vines getting in touch with her at all. Mary, I don’t think he told Jennifer that Abby was in that video. I don’t think he told her about the threats. I don’t think Mr. Vines talked to Jennifer at all.”
“Are you saying Mr. Vines … just lied to us?” She looked at me, then at Ryan.
“Either he was lying just now, or Jennifer lied to us Wednesday afternoon.”
Chapter 25
Ryan said, “Do you think we should repeat our offer to look out for Abby Demarest?” We were sitting in the Charger in the parking lot at the Administration Building.
“I don’t think there’s any point in that.” I shook my head. “Vines wouldn’t let us, even if he wanted to be done with the responsibility of babysitting her.”
“Because he’d see it as criticism of his custody of Jennifer?”
“Yeah, he has to stick with the story that nobody knows why the arsonist chose that apartment. He lets us take over, that’s admitting he screwed up and got Jennifer killed. No, it would be premature—is that the word he used?—to change the plan now.”
“When you asked Mary Dawson if she has copies of the threats Abby received, or even seen them,” Ryan said, “you were suggesting that Vines might have doctored them, right?”
“Well, he did say he was here all night—since ten pm. If he’s gonna double down on the story that he offered both girls new accommodations, he’s also gonna go all the way with the part that there were no arson threats. So if he saw any arson threats, yeah, I think he’d destroy them.” I paused. “I mean, if he’s the total scumbag I think he is.”
“So you don’t see any point in asking Larry whether we can force him to hand over the threats, or at least let us see them.”
“No, Vines is not stupid. If his priority is protecting his job and his reputation, he’s thought this through. I bet there’s no evidence that he didn’t offer the two girls new accommodations. And no evidence that there were any arson threats. With Jennifer dead, who’s gonna say he’s lying to cover his own ass? Nobody. It’s really a pretty good plan. He’s absolutely correct in saying there’s no legal finding linking the arson to any threats against Abby. And since we know Abby gave Vines the authority to look at all her stuff—her email account, text messages, whatever—he can stall us for weeks, by which time the trail to whoever killed Virginia is cold. No, there’s no sense involving Larry. All that would do is tell Vines we know he’s lying, and we’ll lose the element of surprise. That is, if there’s any way we can surprise him.”
“What’s the plan, then?” Ryan said.
“Haven’t figured that out yet. But I do know it doesn’t go through Arthur Vines. It goes around him.”
“Mary Dawson?”
“That’s right. She’s the key. We need to figure out how to use Mary to get at what really happened. She’s the one who gives a shit about the students. Arthur Vines gives a shit about Arthur Vines.”
“Okay, I understand. But what do you want to do—right here, right now?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind if you’d get off your ass and come up with a plan. I’ve done the hard part: telling you the lawyer is the scumbag.”
Ryan smiled. “You always tell me the lawyer’s the scumbag. I don’t think you deserve credit each time.”
“I deserve credit every damn time I’m right about lawyers. And I’m right about lawyers every damn time.”
“The obvious suspect for the arson is Richard Albright. We could interview him again, see if he’s got an alibi for last night. But the chief was really clear about how he doesn’t want us stepping on the fire marshal’s toes.”
I was silent a moment. “Any way we can spin this so that it’s about the Virginia Rinaldi case?”
“Robin told us it’s not his tissue under Virginia’s fingernails.”
“Doesn’t matter. He could’ve had one of his buddies kill her.”
“I almost forgot.” Ryan snapped his fingers. “I did a little digging about the guy who threw the bottle that hit Richard Albright.” He pulled his notebook out of his jacket pocket and thumbed through it. “His name is Justin Carney. Turns out he’s a member of Students for Decency and Morality. He co-signed a letter to the editor that Albright sent to the school newspaper.”
“Albright wrote it as president of that group?”
“That’s right. It was protesting the university discriminating against them because they wouldn’t let non-Christians into the group. About a dozen members signed it, including Justin Carney.”
I looked at him. “He threw the bottle at his own guy? Now, why the hell would he do that?”
He smiled. “That’s what we can ask him about. If the conversation drifts toward the arson, we can’t control that.”
I nodded and reached into the back seat to retrieve my cell phone from my bag. I handed Ryan the phone. “Dial Mr. Albright for me.”
He found the number in his notebook and punched it in, then handed me the phone.
“Mr. Albright, Detective Seagate. We need to talk to you a couple minutes.”
“It wasn’t me did the arson.”
“Didn’t say it was. We need to talk about something else.”
“Yeah, what?”
“In person. Tell me where you are, we’ll come to you.”
“I’m at On Target.”
“The shooting range?”
“That’s right. I should be done in ten minutes.”
“Then that’s where we’ll be in ten minutes. Don’t stand me up, okay?”
“Wouldn’t think of it, Detective.”
We headed out Veteran’s Parkway, just outside the city limits, home to lots of low-overhead businesses: high-mileage used-car dealers, RV storage lots, body shops, exterminators, and low-end consignment stores. That’s where On Target Shooting Range was, and had been for about fifty years.
We pulled into the unpaved parking lot, which served both the shooting range and the windowless Harry’s Hideaway, where the sign out front said “Hot Wings” and “Topless Tuesdays.”
“That’s so unclear,” I said. “Can you get wings any night?”
“Not sure. I only come on Tuesdays.”
We walked into the lobby of On Target. A stocky guy with glasses on a chain around his neck was studying his old computer screen. A lit cigarette next to the keyboard was polluting the unventilated room. When he saw my detective’s shield, he slid down off his stool to show me the proper respect.
“Like I told the ot
her police officers, I’m working on it.”
“Good morning,” I said to him. “And what are you talking about?” A muffled popping sound drifted in from the range on the other side of the wall behind him.
“The lanes inside. I gotta make one of them ADA compliant. I know that. I’m working on it.”
“You think that’s why we stopped by? To check to see that you got an ADA-compliant lane?”
“Yeah, that’s what I assumed.”
“No, we’re here to check a report that someone’s been smoking in the office.”
Before the guy could respond, Ryan said, “We’re here to talk to a man named Richard Albright.” Ryan gestured toward the range. “He inside?”
“He’s in there.” The guy looked relieved. “Go on in. You need earmuffs or safety glasses?”
Ryan thanked him and we walked through the door to the range. It had six lanes, lit bright by fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. The floor was littered with shell casings.
Richard Albright was the only person shooting. With his earmuffs on, he didn’t hear us come in, and he squeezed off another round. His target, a paper thug with a hoodie and a goatee, was about twenty yards away. He had already taken four rounds in his chest and one in an arm. He took another one, this one to his windpipe.
I slapped the divider between Albright’s lane and the next one. Albright looked at me, nodded, and took off his earmuffs. He laid his .45 pistol down. The cut on his cheek was coming along nicely, with most of the scabbing gone, leaving a raised pink scar.
“Planning on doing some shooting, Mr. Albright?”
“I hunt.”
“With a pistol?”
“I’ve gotten some threats.”
“Tell us about those.”
“After that rally, a few days ago. Some people were upset with my position on Virginia Rinaldi.”
“People like Justin Carney?”
He paused. “Who?”
“The guy who gave you that cut. Remember, the bottle?”
“Oh.” He made a show of putting it together. “That his name?”
“You change your mind about pressing charges?”
Richard Albright shook his head. “No, I’m good.”
