Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead

by Janice Kay Johnson

  He felt as if he’d been in a car accident, was in shock but had somehow stumbled out of the car. The pain would hit any minute. Right now, the worst was the disbelief.

  Even with all his recent doubts, he had believed Madison loved him, too. Underneath the fear had been a completely unjustified faith that they were meant for each other.

  Troy walked back into the house and straight to the refrigerator. A beer or two or six sounded real good right now.

  Mom, he thought, I am so sorry. Now I get it.

  He tossed his phone on the kitchen counter and carried the first two bottles out to the patio.

  * * *

  HE FELT LIKE shit the next morning when he boarded a twenty-seat commuter plane that took him to Walla Walla, where he caught a flight on a slightly larger plane to Boise.

  There was a good reason why he rarely drank alcohol, aside from the example his parents had set and the fact that he hated feeling out of control. He also didn’t metabolize it well and got hangovers.

  Wouldn’t you know, the airplane bounced and bucked over scattered cumulus clouds like a ride at the county fair, making his stomach lurch. Even at his best, Troy wasn’t a fan of flying. His fingers dug into the armrests and he braced his feet on the floor, as if that would do any good if they went down. He closed his eyes, then slitted them to verify that there actually was a puke bag in the slot on the back of the seat in front of him. Then he shut his eyes again and endured.

  The airplane bounced a couple of times on the runway, too, an appropriate ending to a flight he’d rather not have taken. Head throbbing, stomach rolling, he exited the plane and headed straight for the car rental place.

  Troy made himself stop for lunch before bearding Margaret Berlongieri Chaffee in her place of business. A sandwich settled his stomach enough for him to tolerate a couple of ibuprofen for the headache. At this point, he wasn’t letting himself think about Madison.

  Who had finally left a timid message last night.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk this morning. It was sort of a strange weekend, but good. Um, I don’t think you said where you were going.” Her voice had become more and more hesitant. “Well, I guess I’ll wait until you call.”

  When hell freezes over, he’d thought, his mood savage. She guesses she’ll wait? He guessed she’d eventually get the point when he didn’t call.

  And yeah, Troy knew his behavior wasn’t very mature, and probably he’d get over it, convince himself he’d misinterpreted her end of that last conversation and call. Because he was pathetically in love.

  But right now, he had a job to do.

  He parked and walked into the hospital where Ms. Chaffee worked in the business office. He showed his badge and asked to speak to her. Wide-eyed, the receptionist scuttled away and a moment later a rather plump woman with improbably red hair emerged from one of the small offices. Radiating shock and dismay, she hurried forward.

  “You!” She turned her head sharply when the receptionist returned. Her eyes were so dilated, he’d have suspected a head injury if he hadn’t known better.

  “I’m Detective Troyer,” he agreed. “It’s not very private in here.” The offices were little better than cubicles. “I saw a coffee place across the street.”

  After a moment she nodded jerkily. She collected her purse and excused herself to the now avidly curious receptionist.

  The coffee shop was empty enough; they had it almost to themselves. It wasn’t a Starbucks, but otherwise the ambiance wasn’t that different from the coffee shop in Seattle where he’d sat down with Sally Yee.

  This time he ordered an iced chai tea, Margaret one of those frothy sweet drinks that were really desserts laced with caffeine.

  They sat at the back and looked at each other. Troy saw a woman who looked her age and maybe a little more. He wondered if she really was a redhead. She was buxom, which would have appealed to a womanizer like Stephen Coleman.

  “I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to talk to you.” Margaret’s voice shook with the force of her emotions.

  “You’d be better off if you’d said, ‘yes, I saw Sally Yee and was so embarrassed I ran away, so I don’t know what else I can tell you,’” he said mildly. “I’m afraid you made me curious, Ms. Chaffee.”

  “I don’t understand why.” Her stare was defiant, but the fear was there in her hazel eyes. “I never went into the gym. I did run away.”

  “Did you know Mr. Coleman’s previous lover had been another student?”

  After a moment she shook her head dumbly.

  “But when you saw Ms. Yee, you understood.”

  She bent her head and looked down at her cup. “Yes.”

  Where the hell was this going? His instincts told him she was telling the truth—she hadn’t gone into McKenna. So what could she possibly have seen or done that, thirty-five years later, she still didn’t want to say out loud?

  “What did Mr. Coleman do once you pulled away?” Troy asked.

  “He called after me, but I didn’t stop.”

  “Did he follow you?” Hell, maybe this wasn’t about Mitch King at all. Had the bastard raped this woman?

  She shook her head, still not looking at him.

  “Did he go on into the gym?”

  Her answer was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  A nod.

  He filed that away. Why had no one seen Stephen Coleman once he entered the building?

  Chance. Killers got lucky, like anyone else.

  Refocusing on Margaret, he thought, Okay. Now what?

  “When did you hear about the murder?”

  “The next morning at breakfast.” She didn’t mind telling him that. “Everybody in line at the cafeteria was talking about it.”

  “Did you know Mitchell King?”

  “I sort of knew who he was.”

  She’d been a sophomore, he recalled from his notes. No reason she would have gotten to know a senior. Unless, of course, she’d been a blackmail victim. Troy didn’t believe she was, though; if anything, she’d relaxed subtly when he asked about her relationship with King. She felt safe there. So whatever had her wound so tight wasn’t personal between her and this mostly unknown senior.

  “Did you have a final that morning?”

  She visibly tightened up again as she shook her head.

  She really, really didn’t want to meet his eyes, which intrigued Troy.

  “What did you do after breakfast?”

  For a long time, she didn’t move. Maybe a minute passed, second by second. And then she did lift her head, and he saw torment in her eyes. He was careful not to move a muscle.

  “I went to see Stephen. I knew where he lived. I’d...been there.” Shame stained her cheeks, but her voice was growing stronger. “I thought...maybe I had misunderstood Sally’s reaction.”

  “Where did he live, Ms. Chaffee?”

  She named a street and he nodded. “It was only a couple of blocks from my dorm.”

  “Was he home when you got there?”

  “I didn’t think so at first.” All the misery her youthful self had felt was there on her face and in her voice, but something else now, too. Resolution, and maybe relief. “Then I smelled smoke.”

  He must have twitched. Or maybe something happened to his expression because she flinched, retreating until her back must have been pressing painfully against the hard chair.

  “From his chimney?” Troy asked, as if merely curious.

  Margaret eyed him warily for a moment, then shook her head. “It seemed to be coming...over the house. So I went around and saw him in the backyard. He had a rake in his hand, but he wasn’t burning that much. It was weird because, you know, it was almost Christmas. I mean, the leaves would have long since fallen. And the smoke smelled funny. I remember gagging.”

  “Did you look closely at the fire?”

  “I think he was burning clothes,” she said flatly.

  “When he saw you, how did he re
act?”

  “He seemed crazy. His hair was standing on end and his eyes were wild. It was like he’d slept in his clothes. He said, ‘What are you doing here?’ in a rude voice.”

  She was staring into the past. Troy had seen people like this before, reliving an experience they had suppressed for too long. He was careful to speak softly, not to make any big movements.

  “Did you ask him about the night before?”

  “First I said, ‘What was that with Sally Yee?’ And he said nothing, as if he didn’t know what had gotten into me. I asked what he was burning and he said it was trash and none of my business.” Her eyes focused suddenly, intense and burning, on Troy. “I said, ‘Did you hear about Mitchell King? You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you? Like see what happened, or...’” She swallowed. “He started yelling at me—was I nuts, how could I even say something like that? And I clapped a hand over my mouth because the smoke had drifted my way and I gagged. Then I noticed his shoes. They were white athletic shoes, I think pretty new, and they were splashed with something I at first thought was paint, but it was a rust color.”

  “Did he lay a hand on you?”

  She shook her head. “I got scared and turned and ran.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I was in love with him,” she said so quietly he had to lean forward to hear her. “I told myself what I saw couldn’t be what I thought it was. I think I almost believed it.”

  “Did you continue your relationship with him?”

  Shame-faced, she shook her head. “I withdrew from his class the next semester. I avoided him and never talked to him again. I talked to my parents about changing colleges, but I couldn’t tell them why and they patted me and said look what good grades you’re getting, of course you don’t want to leave. When I got back that fall for my junior year, I heard he was gone. I was so relieved.”

  Troy smiled at her. “You have been an enormous help, Ms. Chaffee. Thank you for having the courage to tell me this.”

  “He did it, didn’t he? He killed Mitchell King.”

  “I think it’s possible he did,” Troy said carefully. “I will need corroborating evidence that may be impossible to find, however. But yes. I also think you were very smart to run that morning.”

  Her breath hitched. “I should have told.”

  He didn’t have to say, Yes, you should have. It wasn’t necessary. She knew.

  “Why did he do it? He was a professor. And Mitchell King was only a student.”

  Troy told her about the blackmail scheme, and her expression became even more stricken. “The whole thing happened because of me?”

  “No. It happened because of him.” Troy let his voice grow hard. “Coleman preyed on female students. You weren’t the first, or probably even the second or third. You were a kid. Nineteen years old.”

  “Eighteen.” Her smile twisted. “I graduated high school a year early.”

  “Do you have children? A daughter?”

  “Two, in their twenties.”

  “What if you’d found out one of them was sleeping with a professor?”

  Her mouth tightened. “I’d cut off his balls.”

  Troy grinned at her. “I repeat—not your fault. It was his, and to some extent it was Mitch King’s, because he was a predator, too.”

  He watched as she processed his words and accepted them. Finally, she nodded. When he asked whether she would testify if it became necessary, Margaret Bergonieri Chaffee, now older and wiser, said, “Yes.”

  * * *

  TROY CALLED CHIEF Helmer from the airport and told him what he’d learned.

  “Well, damn.” There was a pause. “Proving it...” the chief said thoughtfully, “that’s another story.”

  “There might be traces in the soil where he burned the clothes and the ledger.”

  They both knew how unlikely that was.

  “You’ll go talk to him?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Troy said grimly. “Tomorrow.”

  “This was a very cold case. I didn’t really think you could do it,” Helmer told him. “You’ve done a hell of a job, Troyer.”

  Troy hardly noticed the turbulence on the flight to Portland.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “TROY?” MADISON’S VOICE was dignified but somehow...diminished. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?” That was all she said. Her message was the only one in Troy’s voice mail, which he checked as he walked from the gate to the board that listed Portland hotels.

  He knew he should call her, but he was weary to the bone. It was lucky he’d brought a duffel bag with a change of clothes in case he had to overnight in Boise. As it was, he’d stay at an airport hotel in Portland, then catch the first morning flight to Medford. He hoped like hell Coleman hadn’t suddenly jumped ship, but he was still listed among the faculty of the two-year Rogue Community College.

  After checking into the closest hotel, Troy ate a late dinner at a chain restaurant, then returned to his room to shower and lay in bed with the intention of plotting his strategy for breaking Coleman once they were face-to-face. Usually, at this point in a case, he would be consumed by a fierce sense of satisfaction that the pieces were all coming together.

  Instead, all he could think about was Madison.

  He knew he’d overreacted to being sidelined by her, but he couldn’t seem to get past the hurt. At the same time, he was ashamed to know he was responsible for whatever she’d been feeling earlier when she left that message. The longer he thought about it, the more ashamed he was. What was he, one of those possessive jerks who was jealous of his woman’s friends and family because she was supposed to be entirely focused on him?

  God, he hoped not. He didn’t think he’d ever felt jealous in his life before. And yes, he thought, he would like to believe that he could heal some of her insecurities. Love her enough she’d know she was lovable. But he’d been a fool.

  He loved his mother. There were times she’d have to come first, and he knew Madison would understand. So why hadn’t he understood that this was one of those times she had needed to treasure the rare experience of a weekend with her father?

  He groaned, punched the pillow and wadded it up under his head.

  Because, where she was concerned, he was insecure. He really didn’t know whether she felt as much for him as he did for her. The answer was that simple. If they’d both said “I love you” and he believed her, Troy wouldn’t have had any problem with a single distracted phone call or a few days of silence when she had family visiting. There wouldn’t have been any trouble understanding why, under the circumstances, she wanted to avoid the awkwardness of talking to him while her father was there.

  As he lay looking at the streetlights leaking in around the drapes, a lot of things came together in his head. He’d been telling himself jealousy was a foreign emotion to him, but he remembered the time Madison had suggested he was jealous because his mother was so utterly focused on her loss, she seemed to have forgotten her son. He’d known then she was right, and had let her prod him into moving past that unacknowledged resentment to be the son his mother needed.

  What he hadn’t done was understand that, maybe, he’d always felt a little excluded by his parents’ intense love for each other.

  Troy groaned again and laid a forearm over his face. Was that why he and Dad so often saw each other during the day, separate from Mom? Had he suggested lunch so often, not because it was simply convenient, but because he was hungry to have his father all to himself?

  His chest filled with a whole lot of complicated and not very comfortable feelings. How could something so obvious have passed under his radar? Because I didn’t want to know? Yeah, had to be. Because now he was smacked in the face by the truth. While he’d felt loved and supported by his parents, he’d also known he wasn’t essential to either of them, not in the way they were to each other.

  Yes, he wanted a marriage as committed as theirs, as passionate, as happy—but he was going to be damn sure his kids never felt left out.

&
nbsp; There was a real irony in discovering that he was as screwed up about his parents as Madison was about hers, and her excuse was a hell of a lot better.

  Man, he wished he was home. That he could drop by her office tomorrow morning to persuade her to take a break and go for a walk with him or out for a coffee. He wanted in the worst way to say, “I’m sorry.” To ask what her father had told her, whether she’d resolved any of her issues with him.

  He grunted aloud. He wanted to give her what she needed from him, which right now might simply be understanding. So why had he been thinking only about himself and what he needed from her? Why hadn’t he’d learned his lesson when he had discovered his mother did need him and that he’d been letting her down?

  I’m better than that, he thought, and hoped it was true.

  * * *

  IN PERSON, STEPHEN COLEMAN didn’t look anything like the photo Troy had seen of him in a Wakefield College alumni magazine published back when he’d taught there. A weight lifter then, he’d let his muscles go to fat. He had to be carrying an extra hundred pounds or more on a large frame. Drooping bags under his eyes changed the contours of his face. The beard was familiar but graying, and Troy suspected it now was grown to hide the jowls.

  After calling, “Come in,” Coleman half stood from his chair behind the desk in his faculty office, but when he realized Troy was a stranger he froze halfway. “I was expecting a student.” The chair creaked as it accepted his weight when he sank back down. “What can I do for you?”

  Remaining on his feet, Troy took his badge from his belt and held it out. He watched as a flush crept up Coleman’s neck to his cheeks.

  “Frenchman Lake P.D.” Coleman sounded hoarse. “Why would you want to talk to me?”

  “We’ve reopened the investigation into the murder of Mitchell King.” Troy paused. “You do remember Mr. King?”

  Coleman seemed unaware of the beads of sweat that had popped out on his forehead. “No one who was there then could forget.” His eyes met Troy’s with clear reluctance. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here. I never even had him in a class, as I’m sure you can verify.”