“Nantucket. He was up there for Spring Break.”
At that moment, a tall man in his late fifties, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, marched up to the door. The corridor fell silent.
“The dean of students,” Campbell informed Rex under his breath.
“Thank you for responding so fast,” the man told the officer in charge. “You got here before campus security.”
“We were in the neighborhood.”
“Who’s the student?”
“Dixon Clark. His girlfriend looked in and saw him hanging from the ceiling fan.”
“I’d like to go to the hospital, unless you need me for anything?”
“Go ahead, Dr. Binkley. We got it covered here.”
A second cop closed the dorm room door and posted himself in front of it. Rex signaled to Campbell. It seemed ghoulish to stand around when there was nothing further they could do. They made their way down the corridor past mute faces and weeping girls seeking comfort in each other’s arms.
A boy waylaid Campbell on the stairs. “Did you see anything, bro?”
Campbell shook his head and followed his dad up the steps and into his room.
“Do you know the boy who tried to hang himself?” Rex asked.
“I played soccer with him. That’s about it. He’s an RA.”
“What’s that?”
“A resident assistant. They enforce the rules and give guidance to freshmen, that sort of thing. They get to room for free.”
“How old is he?”
“Don’t know exactly. He’s a sophomore like me. Is he going to be okay?”
“If he survives, he may have brain damage. It just depends how long his brain was deprived of oxygen.”
“Jesus.”
Rex sank onto the narrow bed, thinking about the article on suicide he had read at the motel before dinner.
“Do you want a dram of whisky, Dad? You look like you could use one.”
“You have whisky here?”
“Glenfiddich.”
“In that case, I wouldna say no.” He decided to postpone inquiring how Campbell had procured whisky. Then he dimly remembered the fake identity card.
His son served the single malt to him in the shot glass embossed with a thistle.
“Thanks, lad.” Rex knocked it back in one draught. The two of them sat in silence for a while. “What did that boy mean about Dixon Clark looking ‘spaced out’? Is he on drugs?”
Campbell shrugged. “I don’t know why Justin went and said that.”
“Presumably because that’s the impression he got when he saw Dixon.”
“Yeah, but volunteering information …”
“He was being cooperative. What’s wrong with that?”
“The cops here aren’t like back home, Dad.”
A knock sounded at the door. Campbell went to answer it.
“There’s a candlelight vigil for Dix,” a young male voice said. “On the grounds outside his room. You coming?”
“He didn’t make it,” another voice added. “Kris called Justin from the hospital. DOA.”
Rex let his brow fall into the palm of his hand. Poor sod, he thought. What a waste of a young life. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes before glancing up at Campbell. “Go on. I’ll stay here.”
When the door closed, leaving him alone in the room, he stretched out on the quilt and stared up at the ceiling fan. He imagined Dixon’s parents receiving the call in Nantucket. No doubt the onerous task of notifying parents fell to the university president or the dean of students. It was bad enough losing a son in a climbing or motorcycle accident, Rex reflected, but having him take his own life … The twirling fan grew hypnotic. Mrs. Clark, I regret to inform you that Dixon was found hanging in his dorm room. He was rushed to ER but was pronounced dead on arrival. His girlfriend was by his side. My deepest sympathy for your loss …
The room suddenly depressed him. He should take Campbell back to the Siesta tonight, he decided, looking at his watch. It was almost ten.
Half an hour later, Campbell returned from the vigil with Justin. Rex proposed that Campbell pack what he needed and go with him to Jacksonville Beach.
“I want to stay, Dad.”
“Why?”
“As a show of solidarity.”
“Then I’ll stay. As a show of solidarity to you.”
“But there’s nowhere for you to sleep.”
“I have a rollaway you can borrow,” Justin offered.
He returned with a fold-up bed on wheels, which reminded Rex uncomfortably of the gurney that had whisked Dixon away from his dorm room.
“You take the bed,” Campbell told his father. “This will be way too short for you.”
The bed, once unfolded, left little moveable space in the ten-by-twelve-foot room. Campbell fetched a sheet from the closet and grabbed one of the pillows from his bed, while Justin watched from the door.
“Not exactly the Ritz Carlton,” he said.
“I’ve slept in worse places,” Rex replied. “Do you have your own room or do you share?”
A quick glance passed between the boys.
“I share,” Justin said. “Well, I did before my roommate dropped out.”
“Why did he do that?” Rex asked, sensing there was more to this story.
“Actually, he was expelled.”
“Sounds like a lot goes on in this hall. Are expulsions common?”
“Not really. He got into some trouble. He was cleared, but the faculty made his suspension permanent anyway.”
Campbell in the meantime had grabbed his guitar from its stand and sat on his desk chair tuning the strings.
“Seems a bit harsh,” Rex remarked. “What was he suspended for?”
“Dealing blow.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cocaine, Dad,” Campbell interjected, staring at Justin as though he wanted him to shut up.
“Well, I’ll say goodnight, then.” Justin apparently got the hint.
“Nice lad,” Rex said when he had left.
“Yeah.”
“What’s he studying?”
“Business.”
“What does his dad do?”
“He’s a stockbroker.”
“What about Dixon Clark’s parents?”
“I think his mother’s a teacher. Not sure about his dad. I know they have a large sail boat. Dix mentioned it a few times. I don’t think they’re hurting for money.”
“I saw a photo of a boat on his wall. Lovely lines.”
“Dad,” his son said regarding him with skepticism. “You know sod all about boats.”
“True, but I can appreciate a beautiful shape.” Constructed of polished wood, it bore the name Providence. God, what a horrible irony, Rex thought.
“I have a spare toothbrush,” Campbell told him. “I better warn you—the bathrooms are rank.”
Rex accepted the new toothbrush but didn’t move from the bed. He wanted to ask Campbell if he had tried coke. The fear that he might be on drugs had been his primary motivation for getting on a plane and coming to see him. However, he decided it was a question that would have to be asked obliquely and when the moment was right. He had detected a clamming up in Campbell, and there had been enough drama tonight. “Just tell me one thing,” he asked his son.
Campbell waited—warily, Rex thought.
“Do you think Dixon’s death was a suicide?”
“I guess. What else could it have been?”
“I didn’t see a suicide note, unless it was among the papers on his desk.”
“Maybe he wrote one on his computer.”
“That would seem a bit impersonal, don’t you think? Anyway, his monitor was switched off. And his girlfriend looked stunned, as though his death was totally unexpected.”
“So?”
“People who contemplate suicide often talk it over with those closest to them, assuming they have people who are close to them.” This much he had read in the newspaper article. People who followed through on
their suicidal thoughts often felt isolated and misunderstood.
“That’s true,” Campbell agreed, resting his chin on his guitar. “I pretty much tell Consuela everything, except the fact that I lust after my marine science teacher.”
“Really? Is she that hot?”
“Her picture’s on a website called StudentSpace.com. Someone blogged she worked as a porn star while she was getting her masters.”
Only in America, Rex thought wryly.
“I doubt it’s true, though,” Campbell added.
“Then it’s libel.”
“Oh, you can write whatever you like. The First Amendment and freedom of speech, and all that.”
“She could sue for defamation of character.”
“Sue who?”
“Sue whom,” Rex corrected.
“It’s anonymous.”
“Sue the website—for disseminating libelous information. That’s what I abhor most about the Internet,” Rex bemoaned. “There’s bugger-all control over content.”
“Yeah, it’s way out of control.”
“Did Dixon’s life seem out of control?” Rex asked.
“Not really. He had to have been making decent grades and have a clean record to be selected for the RA program.”
“Was he popular?”
Campbell pulled a face. “Somewhat—I guess. Not as popular as Justin, or some of the other jocks. He played soccer, but he was no star. In fact, he was a bit of a pussy.”
“A pussy?”
“He never took chances.”
Rex lay back on the pillow. Nothing he had heard about Dixon Clark so far made him sound like a candidate for suicide. He had a family, a girlfriend. His position as a resident assistant kept him in contact with other students. He’d just returned from Spring Break with his parents in Nantucket. Rex had never visited New England, but recently he had read Nathaniel Philbrick’s In the Heart of the Sea about the true story that inspired Moby Dick and depicting the close-knit whaling community on the island in the 1800s. Dixon had a whole network of people to reach out to.
Presumably, his mother, grandmother, or sister had knitted the Easter bunny that he had placed by his bedside. A person with such strong family ties would leave a note, he was sure of it. And maybe one for his girlfriend.
Perhaps deeper forces were at work, something stronger than family and community. What was it that Campbell and Justin were not saying? There was a strange atmosphere in the dorm. He had felt it in the corridor, even before he had heard Kris Florek scream. Or was he just imagining it in the light of recent events?
No, he would trust his intuition. Something was going on and whatever it was, he didn’t want his son mixed up in it. He had to get to the bottom of Dixon Clark’s death for his own peace of mind.
Rex woke up early in the stuffy dorm room. The corridor resonated with the banging of doors, putting him in mind of a cell block in a prison. Hoarse voices greeted each other as boys headed for the showers or out to breakfast. Campbell slept through the noise, sprawled over the rollaway, an arm and a foot grazing the rug. Rex got up and foraged in the small refrigerator for bottled water.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Morning. I was trying not to wake you.”
Yawning, Campbell pulled on some jeans. “Be right back.”
He left the room and returned five minutes later looking as though he had dunked his head under the faucet.
“Can we get breakfast in the cafeteria?” Rex asked.
“Not unless you want food poisoning. The eggs are green.”
“What about the ham?”
“Ha, ha.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“I can get us some coffee and bagels from Einstein Bros. Do you need a razor? I have some disposables.”
“Ta.”
Rex turned on the television to CNN before going to freshen up in the boys’ bathroom while Campbell was out getting breakfast. His son returned with Justin. One by one, other boys gathered in the room, perching on whatever furniture was available or else sitting on the floor. Most wore sweats or board shorts and clasped cans of Red Bull energy drink. Rex sat on Campbell’s bed sipping his steaming hot coffee, a wrapped bagel beside him on the plaid quilt.
“How was the rollaway?” Justin asked.
“Great,” Campbell said. “Thanks for the loan.”
“No problem. It’s not often we have parents staying in the dorm.”
“Is there a rule against it?” Rex asked.
“Not sure,” answered a gangly redhead slumped against the wooden closet. “Parents usually stay in motels.”
“I have a motel room, but it was more convenient to stay here last night as I don’t have a rental car.”
The boys stared at him with good-natured interest. Rex got the impression they regarded him as though he were a rare and exotic species at the zoo. They were probably intrigued by his accent, which was more guttural than Campbell’s.
“Campbell said you were a lawyer,” ventured a bespectacled boy in a wrinkled Miami Dolphins jersey.
“A barrister,” Rex qualified. “Or as we call them in Scotland, an advocate. We make a distinction between advocates, who are trial lawyers, and those who mainly engage in legal matters outside of court or in the lower courts, whom we term solicitors.”
“Cool.”
“So what are you lads studying?”
“Engineering,” said the redhead, who introduced himself as Matt Simmons. “But everybody calls me Red.”
In Scotland, where redheads such as Rex were common, the nickname would not have been so appropriate. “And where do you hail from, Red?”
“Boulder, Colorado.”
“Must have been quite a change for you coming here.”
“I guess. I like rock climbing, but I enjoy water sports too. I came mainly because of the climate.”
“And what about you?” Rex asked a tow-headed boy.
“I’m from Indiana. Go Colts!” He pointed to his white thermal long-sleeve top with a blue horseshoe on the front, the significance of which Rex had totally missed, since he knew next to nothing about American football. “Business Studies, same as Justin,” the boy added. “I’m Mike.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. And what was Dixon Clark majoring in?”
“Public Relations.”
“Did anyone here take classes with him?”
The students shook their heads. None of them seemed truly despondent about Dixon Clark’s death, but then Rex didn’t know what their usual demeanor was like. Maybe they felt it wasn’t “cool” to display their emotions.
“I took Computer Science with him last year,” Campbell responded with a trace of reluctance.
“Who were Dixon’s close friends?”
The question met with a collection of shrugs and blank looks.
“He was in my fraternity,” Justin replied. “But Phi Beta Kappa is not a real active society, and we’re small. We mainly trade term papers and organize barbecues to raise funds for beer.”
“Klepto, his ex-roommie, I guess,” said the bookish one in the teal-on-white Dolphins jersey—or perhaps it was his glasses that made him look studious. “They were tight.”
“Klepto? Is that his real name?”
“Nuh,” Red replied. “His real name is Ty Clapham.”
“We call him Klepto ’cause he likes to lift stuff,” Mike from Indiana explained.
“He’s a kleptomaniac?”
“He takes iPods, digital cameras, watches, designer sunglasses, even rims off cars, and sells them on eBay.”
“Yeah, he’s got really light fingers,” Red elaborated. “He took my student I.D. one time. My fake one. Not that he looks anything like me. He probably sold it.”
Rex had the curious sensation that he was talking to a bunch of conmen.
“One time I couldn’t find my brand-new chemistry textbook,” the boy with glasses chimed in. “I paid over a hundred bucks for that puppy. Turns out he listed it on
line.”
“Did you make an official complaint?”
“We were going to once we got proof, but Dix persuaded us not to, saying Klepto had problems at home. We said okay, if he paid us back and agreed to move out of the dorm.”
“That was very magnanimous of you. Where does Klepto live now?”
“In the hood, back of the college,” Mike said.
“He’ll be at Dix’s memorial service, for sure,” Red added. “He owes that dude big time.”
“Yeah, Dix always had his back,” Justin agreed.
Rex glanced quizzically at Campbell.
“Looked out for him,” his son interpreted, picking up his books. “I have to get to class. Later, guys.”
Matt Simmons, AKA Red, groaned as he staggered up from the floor. “I got an assignment due in this morning. I better go start it.”
“Wanna work out?” Mike asked the chemistry student.
“Maybe later. I have to burn some CDs.”
They all trooped out, leaving Rex on the bed chewing on his bagel and wondering what had happened to discussions on existentialism. These kids seemed a bit adrift.
He decided to consume the rest of his breakfast outside and made for the quad between the dorms, where two trestle tables stood among a cluster of mature oak trees. He sat in the shade of one and watched gray squirrels dart up and down the gnarled trunks, twittering among themselves.
Students, singly and in pairs, headed toward the faculty buildings across the berm dividing the six-story brick residence halls from the rest of the campus. According to the prospectus, as Rex recalled, Hilliard University had been established in the fifties and had added a theater and new labs since then, yet remained a four-year institution of fewer than three thousand students.
A jeans-clad coed split off from a trio of girls and approached him. Rex recognized Dixon’s girlfriend Kris Florek from the previous evening. This morning, her profusion of auburn hair was confined in a ponytail. Her freckles, even more pronounced in bright daylight, matched the amber of her eyes.
“Hi,” she said. “Did you sleep over?”
“Aye. In my son’s room. How are you feeling?”
“Hard to say. I’m in shock, obviously. My academic advisor told me to take as much time as I needed, but I can’t afford to miss class. Anyway, it’s better to keep busy.”
Phi Beta Murder Page 3
