The detective had told him Price was working on a bust that night. He’d make sure Price was cooperative but warned Rex not to blow his cover.
“I saw Clark’s video. It’s on the Internet,” Rex said, wasting no time. He set the photo of the Phi Beta Kappa fraternity, procured online, on the bar top under a newspaper, which he used to nudge the photo in Price’s direction. “Who was really selling to you?”
The informant picked up his drink. “Top far right,” he muttered, glancing first at the picture and then away again. “The one in the green polo shirt.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’d recognize that cocky asshole anywhere.”
“So why did you testify it was R.J. Wylie?”
“Beecham told me that’s who I bought from. I’m on a suspended sentence courtesy of the JPD. My privileges can be revoked anytime they don’t like what I say. Beecham said to make it stick.”
“Did Wylie ever confess?”
“No, but he never did produce his hoodie neither. The police wanted to test it for coke residue to get a match with the blow I bought off him. The hoodie mysteriously vanished. The cops thought that made him guilty as hell.”
“His girlfriend had it. He was protecting her.”
“Looks like he got shafted both ways, don’t it?”
“Why would there be residue on the jacket?”
“The bag I got was split. The dealer had it in his pocket.”
“It doesn’t bother you that the wrong lad got busted?”
“This cokehead or that one … What difference does it make?”
“One life. Almost two. Wylie didn’t sell.”
“So he’s up for sainthood?”
Rex thought he should leave before he threw the informant across the bar and made him wish he’d gone back to prison. “Thanks for identifying the dealer,” he said tonelessly, preparing to depart.
“It’s the one I pointed out in the photo. For real. Wylie, the student I fingered for the police, was taller, a nice, easy-going kid. He never let the cops push him into a confession. I think that got up Beecham’s nose.”
“Why do you think the police set so much store by what Dixon Clark said?”
“White middle-class boy, doin’ his job monitoring illegal drug activity in the dorms. Beecham wanted a collar.” Price glanced around before murmuring into his glass. “Heard something from my cop pals about the Clark suicide. It’ll cost you a twenty.”
“Is it worth twenty?”
“Pay up and see.”
Rex surreptitiously pushed a bill under the newspaper.
“The Clark kid was loaded with Xanax. The overdose details weren’t released to the press. The school didn’t want reporters shining a spotlight on prescription drug abuse among its students.” Price pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his cheap denim shirt. “Sure been nice talking to you,” he told Rex.
Taking his cue, Rex got up from his stool, retrieved the photograph from off the bar, and walked toward the pub entrance, eager to see if the Elantra was in the campus parking lot. He could not wait to put a lid on this case so he could discharge his promise to the Clarks and take off for the Keys without a care in the world—other than whether Helen would talk to him ever again.
Disappointed to find that Andy Palmer had not returned to campus, Rex wandered back to the dorms. As he entered Keynes Hall, he heard a muted drum cadence topped by a clash of cymbals. He followed the sound to the basement where Campbell and two other band members, including Red, were setting up their instruments.
A black youth with a shaved head and the lithe grace of a panther grabbed an acoustic guitar from its stand and strapped it over his shoulder.
“Dad, meet Dominic.”
“I’m the one with the sex appeal.” Dominic reached over his guitar and clasped Rex’s hand with a smile that lit up the basement with the dazzling whiteness of halogen bulbs.
Rex leaned against a rickety ping pong table, waiting for the band to start. The sagging couches along the walls were already taken, in some cases double occupancy as girls squeezed onto boys’ laps. Other students perched on the industrial-size washers and dryers. A few had brought chairs and mini kegs. The atmosphere grew festive as the electric and base guitarists adjusted their amps and debated the play list.
As the trio launched into a rap version of “Every 1’s a Winner” by Hot Chocolate, the audience responded with ear-splitting whistles and enthusiast applause. Students continued to trickle into the basement, lounging between the ping pong table and the band on its makeshift platform. The backsides of coeds in low-cut jeans swung like pendulums in time to the music. Some of the girls had impressive assets. Rex preferred a big bottom to a skinny one any day of the week and enjoyed the view immensely.
The music was endorphic, pulsing through his veins and striking a chord in his very soul. The audience clapped along in perfect tempo and cheered at the end of the song, including Rex. A boy thrust a plastic mug of beer into his hand and Rex raised it in a toast. The funky aroma of weed blended with body heat, and he began to develop a buzz from the combination of alcoholic and hallucinogenic influences.
He didn’t recognize the next piece, but it had a good beat, with an undertone of reggae, and the musicians played in sync. Red, in a black T-shirt with sleeves shorn at the shoulders, showed off muscles glistening with sweat as he pounded on his drum set. Campbell played a fair accompaniment, but Dom was the star. His voice flowed rich, smooth, and suggestive. Campbell backed him up on vocals. Rex hadn’t known he could sing. He certainly hadn’t inherited that particular talent from his dad.
Rex finished his beer, made sure his camera was on flash, and took a picture. The music and audience had grown so loud that it took a few seconds for the crowd to react when an explosion shook the wall and rattled the panes in the windows. Voices and instruments trailed to a ragged halt as everyone turned toward the noise.
“What was that?”
“Thunder, I guess.”
“An earthquake?”
“This ain’ California, bro.”
“Power’s still on.”
Students gathered at the windows while others made for the door.
“See those fires over by the admin buildings?” an observer at the window declared. “What’s up with that?”
The band remained in position, hampered by their instruments and waiting to see if they should resume playing. Rex’s gaze crossed Campbell’s.
“I’ll go check it out.”
“I’m coming with you.” Campbell zipped up his guitar in its carrying case and scrambled after his dad.
Outside, twilight was falling. An eerie silence reigned, punctured by shouts on the far side of the campus. Police sirens wailed in the distance. As Rex and Campbell crossed the berm dividing the residence halls from the faculty buildings, flames shot out in front of the administrative tower up ahead. Campbell stowed his guitar in the SUV while Rex went to investigate.
Dashing through Parking C, he spotted a yellow Hyundai Elantra. A human shadow flitted into the oak trees. Rex ran on. The chants of protest intensified as he skirted the building that housed the main offices. Torched vehicles blazed in the front parking lot, spewing plumes of black smoke. Someone had spray-painted “HO” in white letters across Al Cormack’s green Saturn. Rex knew enough American slang to realize that they weren’t simply misspelling a gardening implement. Nor did it require a stretch of the imagination to figure out that the slut referred to must be the math professor’s girlfriend, Bethany Johnson.
A crowd of two hundred students waved placards defending the right to free speech on cyberspace. Others condemned StudentSpace.com for causing Dixon Clark’s death. One sign depicted a noose. Rex recognized a brushed leather jacket among the throng.
“Might have known,” he said in Klepto’s ear.
The psych major spun around to face him. “Did you hear about my suspension? Whatever happened to freedom of expression?”
“I suppose
it got abused. Who set fire to the cars?”
Klepto hoisted his shoulders. “Beats me. The Molotovs were lobbed from those trees over there. A faculty meeting is taking place inside the auditorium to decide how to handle the Clarks’ lawsuit. The dean of students came out before all hell broke loose and threatened to call the cops if we didn’t disperse. Then the vice president’s car got hit, as did a couple of others.”
“Did you incite this riot?”
“I never suggested we resort to violence. I just wanted to save my website. It was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration.”
“Well, someone stole your thunder.”
At that moment a bottle whizzed over their heads and smashed through a second-story window. Flames leaped up from the darkness within the office. Suddenly, illuminated by a burning car, two dark figures exchanged punches. An all-out fight erupted, rippling to the farthest reaches of the crowd. A few students dropped their signs and ran. More followed as police and fire truck sirens drew near. The diehard protesters merged, falling upon each other with bloodcurdling screams. Rex raced back toward the SUV, yanking Campbell along with him.
“If we don’t get out of here now, we’ll get stuck in a police road block,” he said, panting.
“There’s a mud track along the river bank. It’s bumpy, but it’ll take us to the main road two miles farther down.”
“Let’s go.”
The yellow Elantra was gone from the student parking lot, leaving tell-tale white paint drips in its vacated space.
“He beat us to it.”
“Who did?” Campbell asked.
“The graffiti artist.”
Rex let Campbell drive, since he knew the way. The headlights set at low beam barely emitted enough light to guide them over the rough terrain.
“You weren’t joking about the bumpy ride,” Rex remarked, jolted about in the passenger seat.
“You couldn’t do this in your Mini Cooper,” Campbell pointed out smugly.
“It’s not every day I try to evade the police.”
Twenty minutes later they were headed downtown. Campbell took a turn onto Interstate 95.
“Back to the Siesta?” he asked.
“Aye, but let’s stop by the Publix deli on the way. We can picnic on the bed and watch a movie.”
“I told you something was up on SS.com. I should call Red, find out what’s new.” Campbell reached into his jeans pocket.
“You’re not phoning and driving at the same time.”
“Da-ad!”
“Wait ’til we stop. By the way, sorry your gig got interrupted. It seemed to be a huge success.”
“But don’t give up my degree?” Campbell inquired with a devilish grin.
“Get your degree, and then you’re on your own. I’ll wish you the best in whatever you decide to do, as long as it’s legal and nothing that would make your grandmother blush.”
“How does she feel about male strippers?”
“She probably thinks they renovate furniture.”
“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” Campbell joked.
By the time they reached the motel room, loaded with groceries, news of the university riot had hit the local news station. A female reporter was talking excitedly into a mike with the administrative building behind her and a posse of police cars flashing red and blue lights in the foreground. The fires had been extinguished, and wreaths of smoke spiraled skyward from the parking lot.
“A frenzied mob of students torched the vice president’s car and went on a rampage, destroying college property,” she announced. “Police quelled the uprising with tear gas. A dozen undergraduates have been taken into custody. The riot ostensibly arose out of a threat by the university to shut down a student website, but at the heart of the matter appears to be a controversy involving the expulsion of a sophomore earlier this year.
“Another student whose memorial service was held at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church yesterday afternoon is said to have been instrumental in the expulsion. Dixon Clark’s death in his dorm room at the weekend was ruled a suicide. The website, StudentSpace.com, incited the passions of supporters of both undergraduates, culminating in a clash of violence this evening.”
The next clip showed the dean of students in his academic gown standing by the entrance. “Of course we at Hilliard believe in the First Amendment,” he said grimly, “but there comes a point where we must consider the well-being of our students. This is not about freedom of speech but violation of university policy, as this recent demonstration has shown. We are carefully looking into the matter and will take appropriate action.”
“Where’s the president of Hilliard in all this?” Rex asked as he brought the wrapped subs to the bed.
“He’s on a fund-raising tour of alumni. Justin saw a janitor carry Dix’s PC out of his dorm late yesterday afternoon.”
“They won’t have found anything if you wiped it clean, but the Clarks might have informed the college they were now in receipt of emails their son sent to the faculty. That might explain why Hilliard finally took steps to shut down the website. Did Red say who was arrested when you spoke on the phone?”
“Klepto, for one. Nobody I know personally.”
“Then they haven’t got the ringleader.”
Rex wondered if news of the riot would reach the Clarks. He could not help but think the university had mishandled the whole situation from start to finish. But then, Dr. Binkley hadn’t reckoned on an evil, elusive force being at work all that time, a force still at large.
By the time Rex and Campbell returned to Hilliard early the next morning, police had cordoned off the administrative area with yellow crime tape. Charred skeletons of cars bore witness to the previous night’s violence. The window on the second floor was boarded up and mimicked a closed eye. Students huddled in groups about the perimeter gawking at the scene.
“What a mess,” Rex said as he drove to the residential blocks on the west side of campus.
He was relieved to see the yellow Elantra parked in its spot. He followed his son into Keynes Hall and, turning off on the second floor, continued to the far end of the corridor where he had waited the day before. He prayed he would have better luck this time.
Unable to detect any sound through the door, he knocked discreetly. At this point he heard scuffling and the opening and shutting of drawers. He knocked louder and again encountered silence.
“I know you’re in there, Andy,” he called. “It’s Campbell’s dad. Open up.”
The door opened a fraction, and a mousy-haired boy with glasses askew on his nose appeared in the gap, dressed in a wrinkled white T-shirt half hanging out of his jeans.
“Let me in, lad. This is not the sort of conversation you want everyone in the corridor to hear.”
Palmer shut the door behind them. Clothes, textbooks, CDs, fast food containers, and loose sheets of paper were scattered across the linoleum floor and piled up on the shelf beneath the window and over part of the bed. Rex leaned against the wooden closet, arms folded, while Palmer sank on the navy blue comforter, hands hanging between his bony knees.
“I didn’t catch your name when you were in Campbell’s room Monday morning with Red, Mike, and Justin. It is Andy, isn’t it?”
The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Or Four-Eyes.”
“Where did you pick up that nickname?”
“Middle school. I’ll get contacts as soon as I can afford them.”
Rex thought there was nothing wrong with glasses, although Palmer’s heavy frames made him look like Woody Allen. “Andy, I have proof you wrote the infamous Nantucket poem.”
“What proof?”
“Your name is inside the chemistry book Klepto stole, which has revisions of the poem all over it. ‘There once was a man from Nantucket who kept all his stash in a bucket.’ So, Dix wouldn’t share his stash?”
“I wasn’t in his clique. He sold two milligrams of Xanax for four bucks a bar. He’d been stockpiling it since high school.
D’you know how much those mothers cost online without a prescription? Dix was a hypocrite and a snitch. I just wanted to party. I mixed them with alcohol. And then I got hooked.”
“Drugs will impair brain function, lad. Is that what made you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Let’s start with that nude picture of Ms. Johnson. Did you post it?”
“Why would I do that?”
“To embarrass her. You couldn’t come right out and tell people she was having an affair with R.J. because he swore you to secrecy. So you got back at her anonymously for not coming to your friend’s defense.”
“Wha-what do you want?” The boy’s fingers clawed at his hands. Rex noticed he had a bad case of eczema.
“Have you got something for that rash?” he asked.
Palmer looked at his hands. “I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“You must have had a tough time in school. It’s not easy being picked on. R.J. protected you from the bullies. So you decided to come to Hilliard with him. I met R.J. His heart is in the right place.”
“He always had my back. I got respect because he was my friend.”
Rex nodded, remembering his school days. “I knew someone like that: Kevin McVie. Captain of just about every sport. All the girls fancied him because he had the looks and the charm.”
“What happened to him?”
“He became a member of Parliament. He’s on his third expensive divorce now, according to the tabloid news.”
“Women will get you every time.”
“That’s a right cynical attitude, young man. Do you speak from experience?”
Palmer shrugged weakly.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“There was someone, or so I thought. She confided in me about her problems with Dix over coffee one time. But it didn’t work out.”
“She’s dating someone else?”
“Yeah. It happened so fast. You met him—Mike.”
“Oh, aye. The Colts fan from Indiana.”
“That’s him.”
“That’s not why you killed Dixon, though, is it? Because of Kris?”
Phi Beta Murder Page 14
