Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

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  For Nick

  Who has been there all along

  Prologue

  If, on an early summer’s night, you wanted to kill a man, how would you do it? Would you lay a trap, sharpen a dagger, uncork a poison?

  Personally, I’ve always leaned toward the dramatic. But looking back, I wonder now if the events of last summer didn’t begin with a quieter sort of murder.

  It was the first time he’d killed. He told me that himself. And while he didn’t elaborate, I imagine he might have simply followed, simply walked, tracing the path behind his victim, taking care to keep his footsteps silent.

  And then he would have stopped. Crouched. Listened. An assassin waiting for his moment. He would have been nervous. He would have watched until his mark turned, until he looked away, until the light on that lovely June evening slanted just so.

  And then his blood must have roared and his muscles tensed and he must have known: Now. It is time.

  1

  TUESDAY, JUNE 22

  Thomas Carlyle climbed the bell tower that night without quite planning to.

  He’d arrived back in Cambridge two hours before, stiff and cranky after the long flight crammed in economy class. No one was home at the house on Brattle Street. Old pizza menus were gathering dust on the floor of the front hall, and nothing was in the fridge but a withered apple and several dozen cans of his mother’s Diet Coke. So he’d dumped his bags and headed out. Fifteen minutes’ walk to the local liquor store, and then—some old homing instinct kicking in here—another ten to Eliot House.

  Eliot looked the same. Perhaps the most imposing of Harvard’s dorms, it towered above the Charles River. Red brick, wide double doors, an overflowing bike rack out front. Students lounged outside the doors, smoking and giggling. Summer school must have started.

  Thom caught the open door from one of them, nodded at the familiar-looking security guard, and turned right into the dining hall. It smelled of seafood—fish tacos, maybe—and frying onions. Dinner was in full swing.

  Thom had eaten hundreds of dinners here, and fish tacos were among his favorites. But tonight he clutched his brown paper bag and headed straight for the far doors, through an archway, and toward the stairs marked H-ENTRY.

  He took the stairs two or three at a time, up five flights. Then he cut down a hallway toward the door marked LEONARD BERNSTEIN ’39, MUSIC ROOM AND TOWER.

  He dug in his jeans pocket for the key. It turned. So the lock hadn’t changed either. Two more flights, darker and narrower now. The linoleum was worn thin and stained.

  When he reached the seventh floor, a small metal plaque informed him that Bernstein used to practice here in 1936. Yes, and it didn’t look like they’d bothered to redecorate it since, Thom thought to himself. He smiled. He was in decent spirits, actually, considering the jet lag, and the girl. At the top, one last door. He jiggled the lock and it swung open.

  The tower room was small. Dusty. Low ceilings. Surprising, really, given the grandeur of the Eliot tower and dome from the street. In the fading light Thom took in the grand piano hulking in the middle of the room. He’d always wondered how the hell they’d hauled it up here.

  But the reason he’d come was for the windows. Two huge and perfectly circular windows, each maybe six feet across, one framing each end of the room. The right one was long since painted shut, if it had ever opened. But the left one bore two ancient-looking brass latches. Thom unhooked them and then remembered to kick at the bottom panes, where the paint always stuck a bit. And there it was. The whole window spun open on creaky hinges. He wedged his paper bag into the crack to keep the breeze from slamming it shut again, then hooked a leg over, lowered himself onto the sill, and peered down across the steep slate roof.

  Senior year, he and his roommate, Joe, sometimes crawled right out across the roof, inching along until they could straddle the dormer windows. They would knock back a few beers and watch the girls crossing the courtyard, their laughter and teasing voices floating up from far below.

  Now he looked down at the Charles River, curving toward Boston and glowing golden at this hour. On the far bank rose the dome of Harvard Business School. Thom’s destiny, the way things were going. He shook the thought from his head and cracked open one of the bottles he’d purchased, walking here through Harvard Square. A thick, syrupy oatmeal stout. Not exactly the thing for this summer weather. But studying in England this past year, he’d lost his taste for the watery American lager that had been the staple of his weekends here in Eliot House.

  Thom took another sip and watched the boats gliding along the Charles. Lord knew how many hours he himself had logged on this river. By the time he made varsity crew, the boathouse had felt more central to his college experience than any library, and the blisters across his hands had hardened like tiny stones. A sculler flitted past, then an eight-man crew. Was that Boston University? But why would they be practicing so late, and on summer break at that?

  He squinted and craned forward, trying to make out what colors were painted on the oars. It was at that moment that hands reached from the shadows behind him. The blow landed at the bottom of his skull. A crack of wood against bone. There was a moment of perfect silence, before Thom swung his strong arms, clawing behind him. But the foot was already on his back. One kick, but hard enough to launch him off the sill and onto the roof ten feet down.

  He crashed into the pointed tip of a dormer window and rolled, grabbing for a gutter, a ledge, anything. There was nothing, and he fell, wide-eyed, into the gathering twilight below.

  2

  For me this story begins in a tiny, greasy wine bar in Harvard Square. I was waiting, as usual, for Jess. I checked my watch. Scanned the sidewalk again. Sighed.

  Still, there are worse places to be stuck waiting than the patio of Shays. The service is terrible, old beer rings stain the tables, and you’re not ten feet from the buses crawling up and down JFK Street. But they’re generous with their pours. Any place that gets three glasses from a bottle of wine deserves the benefit of the doubt. And Shays is one of the few places in Cambridge where you can order a drink and sit outside. It was a glorious evening for that: one of the first really warm nights of the year, warm enough to believe the New England winter might finally be over, warm enough to leave your sweater at home.

  I stretched out an ankle and admired my new Louboutin sandals. They’d cost nearly a week’s pay from the Chronicle. Shoes are a weakness of mine. I eyed my empty glass and conceded—not my only one. I inherited a tendency to drink from my mother. That’s not an excuse, just a fact. My mother can knock back the better part of a bottle of single-malt Scotch in a night. I generally stick to gin. Clear, simple. They say that people drink to forget. To numb the pain. But I drink because it tastes good. Because it feels good. I find that nothing numbs the pain. We’ll get to that.

  For the moment, I was focused on looking around for a waiter and a refill. That’s when my phone buzzed. It was the newsroom, an all-staff e-mail. The police scanner had picked up some sort of incident under way on the Harvard campus: 101 Dunster Street. Cops were on the scene, an ambulance dispatched. The Crimson, the college newspaper, had already slapped a “Breaking News” banner across its website and was citing eyewitness accounts of a body. We had a late-shift general-assignment reporter en route, but it could take a while in traffic. Was anybody close? Who could perhaps file a quote or two
for the website?

  I felt a prickle of annoyance. I’d been at work early this morning to finish up a series for the weekend magazine. And it was such a beautiful night. But I had a feeling Dunster Street was the one right around the corner. I looked around. Still no Jess in sight. So I slid a $20 bill on the table, tapped I’m on it into my phone, and grabbed my bag.

  BY THE TIME I ROUNDED the corner from JFK onto South Street, I could already hear sirens. I turned another corner. Followed the flashing lights down to where Dunster Street ended in a neat cul-de-sac and a number of imposing redbrick dorms. Houses, as I knew Harvard modestly called them.

  I could see police already cordoning off the area. I would have to work fast. I strode toward the officer who appeared to be in charge. He was bunched in a group with two other cops in front of a large, white doorway. ELIOT HOUSE, read the neatly painted letters above the arch.

  “Hi, wondering if I could ask you a couple questions. About what’s going on in there? We’re hearing reports of a body . . .”

  The officer raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

  “Alexandra James, with the Chronicle. Can you confirm what kind of call you’re responding to?”

  The officer shook his head and motioned to another cop.

  “No reporters. Frank, can you please help this young lady back behind the tape?”

  “Yes, sir, but any guidance at all? Is this an accident or a crime scene?”

  But he was already turning his back. The one named Frank was steering me none too gently back onto Dunster Street.

  I scowled, stepped beneath a tree, and pulled out my phone. No new messages. The other Chronicle reporter must not be here yet. I watched a second ambulance pull up. But its sirens were silent, and the paramedics took their time getting out. No sense of urgency. Clearly whatever had happened here was over. Some poor person had died, and that was that. I hated this kind of reporting. I’ve never been a subscriber to the “if it bleeds, it leads” school of journalism.

  Still, I was here. Worse, the newsroom knew I was here. No point in completely embarrassing myself with the editors. I surveyed the scene again. The police commander and his buddies were still blocking the door marked ELIOT HOUSE. That’s where the action was. And no one who could tell me anything was being allowed to leave. Then I noticed a long, low-slung extension that seemed to connect Eliot House to the next dorm.

  I tracked back. KIRKLAND HOUSE, read a brass plaque on the wall. A guard was posted here too, but he seemed to be letting people inside. I watched them flash cards at him: Harvard IDs, presumably.

  So this might be a way in. I glanced down: I would never pass for a student in these heels. I groped inside my bag and dug out the flip-flops that I wore to ride the subway to and from the office. Then I peeled off my suit jacket. I had on a plain white T-shirt underneath. That was better. I tucked my phone and reporter’s notebook under my arm and stashed my bag under a bush.

  My timing was good. Three girls were just turning up the granite steps toward the guard. Backpacks, jean shorts, long hair. I walked up and touched the closest one’s arm, then began chattering as if we were old friends. The girl started. Stared at me. And then began to chatter back. It was getting dark by now; I could have passed for someone she knew. One of the many advantages I’ve found to being a female reporter is people find you less threatening. They assume you’re friendly, that you won’t hurt them. Sometimes an inaccurate assumption in my case, but useful nonetheless.

  I bunched closer to the girls, ducked my head, and kept talking. They waved their IDs. The guard waved us past. I waited until we were well away from him before I looked up. We had stepped through a black iron gate and under several arches, into a square courtyard.

  “And apparently he just fell, like, dropped right in front of the windows while she was eating,” the girl now clutching my arm was saying. She looked stricken.

  I nodded, only half-listening and eager now to get away. Where was that passageway I’d spotted from outside? Of the doorways on the far side of the courtyard, the one that looked most promising was marked DINING HALL. I waited until a few others joined our circle and then slipped away. Inside, the hall was dimly lit and cool. A few scattered students sat hunched over their dinner trays. I kept moving. The kitchens must be back here. I have a pretty good sense of direction and this felt right.

  I kept expecting to run into another cop, a kitchen supervisor, some sort of official who would demand to know who I was and what I was doing here. But the kitchens were deserted. Whether dinner would normally be over or the meal service had been cut prematurely short by whatever was happening in Eliot House, I wasn’t sure. Steam was still rising from enormous pans of rice and what looked like tacos. I lurched around a wall of cereal dispensers and headed down a short stairway toward a vending machine. This might be right. Another turn. No. Dead end. I was spinning around to retrace my steps when I nearly bumped into a short, droopy-looking man. His name—PEDRO—was embroidered on his gray shirt and he was jangling keys. A janitor. I was caught. But I ventured a question.

  “Sorry, I’m lost. I’m trying to get into Eliot House. Back upstairs?”

  He stared at me. A moment passed. Was he weighing whether to call security? Did he not speak English? To my surprise, he finally nodded. “Yes, back upstairs. This way.”

  He stepped in front of me and led me back up, past a grill area and along a tiled hallway, crammed with serving carts and stacks of cutlery. The floors were slick, dishwater and juice spills. We walked through several rooms, past another set of cereal dispensers, trays of steaming shrimp. How vast could this kitchen be?

  And then the janitor nodded toward a corner and I saw it: a whiteboard, half-smudged, announcing Eliot Intramural Playoffs—Soccer 9pm v. Mather.

  Eliot playoffs. Eliot House. I was in.

  THE ELIOT HOUSE DINING HALL was entirely predictable. High ceilings, massive carved chandeliers, an oil painting of a man I presumed to be Mr. Eliot himself dominating one wall. I went to Columbia, so I’m no stranger to the Ivy League’s self-important splendor. But Harvard really does take it to another level. A copy editor once slapped the headline “The Patina of Privilege” on a story I’d written about renovations in one of the Harvard libraries. I had winced; it seemed too cutesy. But inside Eliot, taking in the gleaming floors, the mahogany-paneled walls, I had to admit he had a point.

  This elegance—or pretension, depending on your point of view—does not extend to undergraduate fashion. The dress code tonight seemed to range from cutoffs to sweatpants. I glanced down in relief at my own flip-flops and T-shirt and crossed the room.

  Half-eaten trays of food sat abandoned on tables. The action was at the windows. Students were pressed up against eight enormous windows that ran the length of the room. It was strangely quiet, considering there had to be a hundred or so people in here. They were all listening to whatever was happening outside.

  I squeezed into the thickest throng. I couldn’t see a thing.

  “I just got here. What happened?” I whispered to a tall boy who seemed to have a better view.

  “They’re zipping him up.”

  “Who?”

  “Him. The guy who jumped.”

  I wiggled my shoulders and jostled sideways a bit, until the crowd shifted just enough for me to see.

  There it was: A blue plastic body bag. A wheeled gurney. Police and paramedics milling about on a wide terrace. And beyond heavy stone railings, another grassy courtyard.

  “When did he jump? Did you see it?”

  “No. I—I don’t know. Half past six maybe? My roommate’s up there.” The tall boy pointed across the courtyard to a second- or third-floor window. “He keeps texting me. He says he heard it. A big thud. I guess he landed faceup. You know, like, you could see his eyes were open.”

  “Oh. Poor guy.”

  “Yeah. But they covered him up. One of the dining-hall ladies. She ran right out. She had a yellow cardigan and she put it over his face.” />
  I shook my head. Then I pulled out my phone and started typing. It had been an hour since the newsroom first sent out an alert. The editors would be going crazy.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, THE UNIVERSITY released a statement.

  It was with great sadness that they reported the death of Thomas Abbott Carlyle, twenty-three, of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Mr. Carlyle was a magna cum laude graduate of the college and had recently completed a postgraduate year as the Lionel de Jersey Harvard Scholar at Emmanuel College, Cambridge University, in England.

  He was remembered as a gifted student, a talented rower, a generous friend, and a beloved son and brother.

  The family had been contacted and did not wish to comment. The media was asked to respect the family’s privacy at this difficult time.

  I STUCK AROUND UNTIL NEARLY eleven o’clock.

  By then the police had rolled in spotlights to illuminate the courtyard. They combed the grass for anything that might have fallen along with the body. Police tape and a dark stain marked the spot where Thomas Carlyle had fallen.

  I asked around and no one seemed to know Carlyle. Then again, these were summer-school students. They’d only just moved in themselves.

  At one point, the commander who’d tried to throw me off the premises appeared. He cleared his throat and delivered a terse update. There was no cause for alarm. Police officers would be posted outside tonight and at least through tomorrow. They would be interviewing eyewitnesses to piece together exactly what had happened to Thomas Carlyle. Anyone with relevant information was asked to leave his or her name and phone number. The university would release more details as appropriate about this tragic incident. For now, students should return to their rooms.

  I listened to this advice from a back corner, my hair pulled low across my face. I didn’t think he would recognize me from earlier in the evening, but I do tend to stand out, and there was no point in risking it.