The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  Darrow hesitated. “Her mother remembers a youthful-sounding white guy calling Angela at home . . .”

  “But not Joe.”

  “She just doesn’t know.” Once again, Darrow marshaled his arguments. “We know Steve had sex with her. But everything else, factually and psychologically, makes Joe as plausible a murderer as Steve Tillman. We know Steve didn’t shoot up Carl Hall. Throw in the diary and the embezzlement, and a web starts tightening around Joe Betts.”

  Farr looked around, as though fearful that they might be overhead. “So what you’re asking me to believe is that, by whatever means, a financial adviser from Columbus subdued Carl Hall inside his home on the outskirts of Wayne, prepared a heroin injection that—for reasons not apparent to me—he knew was lethal, and then put Carl to sleep like a terminally ill house pet.”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Your theory is a house of cards,” Farr said tightly. “Change a single fact or eliminate one assumption, and the whole thing collapses. You become, if not the biggest fool in Caldwell’s history, one of the most arrogant and presumptuous. The man who smeared an innocent man with wild accusations in order to save a guilty friend.” Farr paused, then continued in a tone of deliberate calm: “We’ll pass over all the leaps in logic. I won’t ask you to decipher the baroque description of ‘darkness in the chamber of stone.’ We’ll even forget the incongruity of converting a member of Caldwell’s investment committee into a forger, a specialist in computer fakery, a sadomasochist, and an expert in preparing and administering heroin, all packaged in a man as nerveless as a brain surgeon. Just tell me why the ‘blackmail’ commenced only in the last year.”

  Farr’s self-control, Darrow found, was more daunting than his anger. “It didn’t start this year,” he answered. “Hall opened the safe deposit box over a decade ago, and converting cash to diamonds is a classic technique for laundering money. I’m assuming that’s how the payments began—”

  “When Joe was barely out of school? Where did he get the money?”

  “Inheritance, I’m guessing. His father died in our junior year.”

  Farr scowled. “At least you have him using his own money. So why would he risk embezzling Caldwell’s investment funds?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Joe no longer has the money we think he does. Or, after he got married, perhaps his wife started keeping an eye on their finances.”

  The day was becoming warmer, Darrow realized. He could see the dampness on Farr’s forehead, feel it on his own. “Then take your central assumption,” Farr countered, “that Betts killed Hall. Were that disproven, would you agree that your entire theory evanesces?”

  “It wouldn’t help,” Darrow acknowledged. “But Joe was here in Wayne that night. We had a meeting to discuss our finances.”

  “Which ended when?”

  Darrow tried to remember. “A little before eight, I think.”

  “What time did you find Hall?”

  “Around ten.”

  “So sometime between eight and ten, you posit, Joe drove across town to Hall’s, then subdued and killed him. All while escaping detection.” Farr put his hand on Darrow’s shoulder. “Let me propose an alternative theory. It would have taken less than an hour for Joe to drive back to Columbus. By nine o’clock, rather than killing Carl, Joe was watching the Disney Channel with his kids. Why don’t you ask his wife?” Farr’s tone became softer yet. “Of course, she might wonder why you care.”

  Darrow was silent. “Depending on her answer,” Farr said, “your theory could be in deep trouble. I hope you’ve not been so careless as to share it with anyone else.”

  Darrow shook his head. “No. Not even the police.”

  Farr looked into Darrow’s eyes. “Well, at least you retained the judgment to tell me. So, for all our sakes, hear me well.

  “I understand why Tillman’s conviction troubles you. But there’s no way for you to know what really happened that night. Just as there’s little reason to believe—and no way to prove—that Carl Hall’s possibly accidental death relates to the college’s sad history. My ultimate question is this: Why do you insist that Durbin’s apparent theft must connect to Angela’s murder?” Farr’s grip on Darrow’s shoulder tightened. “Take this fantasy to Chief Garrison, if you must. He can blow it up. But once you do that, you may destroy your presidency and, given all that’s happened, jeopardize Caldwell College itself.

  “That’s not what you came here for, Mark. Angela Hall’s dead; the money’s gone. Your sole responsibility is to secure our future. Just as, after Angela’s death, I did everything in my power to keep this school alive.”

  Darrow met his eyes. “I care about Caldwell, too. Perhaps as much as you.”

  Farr released his shoulder. “This isn’t just about Caldwell,” he said quietly. “You and Taylor are the most important people I have left. For either of you to suffer for this is more than I can bear. Please, tread lightly.”

  Slowly, Darrow nodded. “I will.”

  6

  S

  HORTLY AFTER LUNCH, DARROW RECEIVED A CALL FROM RAY Carrick. Without preface, Carrick demanded, “When are we turning Durbin over to Dave Farragher?”

  “When I know everything I need to know,” Darrow answered simply.

  “What else is there to know?” Carrick said with weary disgust. His voice became flinty. “At this point, Mark, you can either prosecute Durbin or explain why not. The governance committee of the board is meeting next Monday. We look forward to hearing from you.”

  Still raw from his confrontation with Lionel Farr, Darrow briefly wondered if his provost had telephoned Carrick, agreeing on a strategy to force his hand. Perhaps this was paranoid. But whatever the case, Darrow was trapped—he could not explain himself fully without accusing Joe Betts, and Carrick had given him one week. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you,” Darrow said.

  This reply, temperate but uncowed, induced in Carrick a momentary silence. “While we’re on the phone,” Darrow continued, “is there anything else you want to talk about?”

  The question seemed to catch Carrick off guard. “Yes,” he said defensively. “This whole business with the Tillman case—poking around in Farragher’s files. We didn’t hire you to do Dave’s job.”

  Darrow held his temper. “They’re not Dave’s files,” he replied. “They’re public. Steve Tillman was my friend. One reason he’s in jail is that everybody did their job except the lawyer who was defending him. If that bothers me enough to take a second look, that’s my privilege as a citizen. I’m sure you agree that the man serving life for murdering a Caldwell student should actually have killed her.”

  “Dave Farragher has no doubt,” Carrick said testily.

  “He mentioned that—as I think you know.” Darrow softened his tone. “I hope this isn’t an issue for the board, Ray. But if it is, we can make it a subject of Monday’s meeting as well.”

  Carrick’s silence made it clear that he had heard Darrow’s message: Darrow was willing to risk a public confrontation that, perhaps, could spin out of Carrick’s control. “I’ll reflect on that,” Carrick said slowly.

  Darrow wondered again whether, by private agreement, Farr was using Carrick to protect Darrow from his own excesses. But he felt Ray Carrick becoming his adversary. “I’d be happy to discuss this further, Ray,” Darrow said in his most amiable tone. “On the phone or over lunch. I’d hate for us to misunderstand each other.”

  “So would I, Mark. If you have anything else to tell me, please do.”

  Very soon, Darrow knew, he would have to stand on something more concrete than his authority as Caldwell’s president. “I will, Ray.”

  Hanging up, Darrow wondered what else he could learn in seven days.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Darrow called Joe Betts’s office.

  As he expected, Joe’s assistant answered the phone. “Hi, Mr. Darrow. Looking for Joe?”

  “You, actually.” He sat back in his chair. “I’m trying to put together my
expense reports, and I think I’ve scrambled some dates. Including a dinner with Joe.”

  “I’m sure I can help,” Julie said with maternal good cheer. “I’m used to looking after boys.”

  “No doubt. Specifically, I’m showing a meeting with Joe at eight o’clock on the twenty-fifth. But that somehow doesn’t seem right to me. Mind checking Joe’s calendar?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Waiting, Darrow calculated how to maneuver the conversation. At length Julie came back on the line. “The twenty-fifth’s right. But Joe’s calendar shows six o’clock, not eight.”

  “Bizarre,” Darrow said, his voice puzzled. “It couldn’t have been eight o’clock?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m showing that he drove to Cleveland that night, for a client meeting early the next morning.” She gave the knowing but affectionate chuckle of an assistant attuned to her employer’s eccentricities. “Joe doesn’t schedule things late—he’s a stickler for his full eight hours of sleep, especially on the road. I keep telling him to pack his fluffy pillow.”

  It was possible, Darrow saw at once, for Joe to have murdered Carl Hall before driving to Cleveland. As Farr had suggested, all that would require was some very surprising skills and the nerve of an assassin. “Thanks for the help,” Darrow told Julie.

  “You’re welcome.” Swiftly, she added, “Hold on, Mr. Darrow.” There was a brief pause, then Julie explained, “Joe was passing by. When he heard it was you, he wanted to say hello.”

  Darrow hesitated. “Great. Please put him on.”

  “Hey, Mark,” Joe said cheerfully, “Guess you need Julie to tell you where you’ve been.”

  “Yup. And all I need now is for her to tell me where I’m going.”

  “All of us could use that.” Betts’s voice changed pitch. “Anything new that I should know about?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  Joe hesitated. “Ray Carrick called me today, checking on the whole Durbin fiasco. He was wondering if we’d learned anything new that would keep us from seeking prosecution.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “So do we? You were going to see your forensics guy, I know. Ray seems to want this buttoned up.”

  “We’re all on the same page, Joe.” Darrow’s tone became placating. “It’s been three weeks since I told Durbin that he should come to Jesus. His time is running out.”

  The brief silence that followed suggested that Betts had caught Darrow’s evasion. “And your guy in Boston,” he prodded.

  “Can’t say that Durbin didn’t do it.”

  The small equivocation seemed to unsettle Joe still more. “So I guess you’ve got nothing more to tell governance next Monday.”

  Darrow gave a short laugh. “News travels fast. Ray’s not bashful, is he?”

  “Not when something sticks in his craw. And Durbin does.” Joe’s tone became sympathetic. “This may be a time to give Ray what he wants. Still, if you think prosecuting Clark would hurt Caldwell more than help us, I’m more open to that argument. For whatever my opinion might be worth to Ray.”

  Darrow noted this change of attitude. Suspicion followed at once: if Joe had murdered Carl Hall, perhaps he no longer wanted the police or prosecutor to dig more deeply into the embezzlement. If so, Joe and Darrow were both ensnared in the crosscurrents of what might be an agreement between Farr and Carrick to prosecute Clark Durbin. But Darrow’s confrontation with Farr had jarred him—he had a shade less confidence in the logic of his intuitions, and his interpretations of behaviors with multiple explanations.

  “I’ll let you know,” Darrow said easily. “There’s a decent argument that indicting Durbin would shake loose where the money went.”

  “It could,” Joe agreed. “Or we could shut this down and let Clark just go quietly. You have to weigh recovering the money against ongoing negative publicity if Durbin goes to trial. For Caldwell’s sake, I’m now willing to swallow my pride.”

  “Thanks, Joe. And I’m sorry to have bothered Julie.”

  “No problem,” Joe said amiably. “Except on weekends, that was my only dinner out the entire month.”

  “Even with clients? You’re leading a quiet life, Joe.”

  “By design. Dinner with Katie and the kids is pretty close to sacred.” Joe’s voice became serious. “In college, I told you about the old man. He’d come home on the train from Wall Street, spending a good hour in the bar car. I don’t know who was more scared when Dad came through the door—Mother or my sisters and me.

  “It stays with you, Mark. Once the kids were born, Katie and I agreed that dinner would be a time for us and the kids to enjoy each other, talk about the day, or just hear what’s on everyone’s mind. I can’t change my childhood, but I can make theirs different.”

  However gratuitous in context, Joe’s tribute to family life sounded heartfelt. Joe might be sincere or an extremely practiced actor—in either case, he very much wanted Darrow to know how completely he had changed, and how much his family relied on him. “As I said before,” Darrow said, “I envy you.”

  “It’ll come,” Joe said almost gently. “Someday.”

  Deeply reflective, Darrow said good-bye.

  Turning, he gazed out the window at the tree-shaded lawn in front of College Hall, recalling, as he did, walking with Joe across this lawn on the day of Joe’s confession. HE was a psychopath, Jerry Seitz had surmised—amoral, adaptive, attuned to danger, gifted at outwitting others, able to restrain his deepest desires in order to survive. If Joe was guilty, these were among his attributes. In that case, Joe’s claim of familial closeness was a complete and utter fraud.

  Darrow tried to untangle his thoughts, let them lead wherever they would. But they kept gravitating to Laurie Shilts, the bondage magazine, the pathology detailed in Angela’s diary. There is such darkness in the chamber of stone.

  It was early evening, Darrow realized. He picked up the telephone and called Fred Bender’s office.

  The chief of security was in. “Mind if I walk over?” Darrow asked.

  “Sure,” Bender said laconically. “Been wanting to discuss our budget.”

  WHEN DARROW ARRIVED, Bender was leaning against the building near the doorway, smoking a Camel. Darrow joined him, looking across campus toward the sandstone base of the Spire.

  “I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” Darrow said.

  “About Steve Tillman?” Bender moved his shoulders. “So have I, to no great purpose. What’s bothering you now?”

  “It’s more a question. Back at the time of Angela’s murder, who had access to the Spire?”

  Bender gave him a curious glance. “Far as I know, things were pretty much the same as they are now. And had been ever since some drunken fool took a swan dive from the bell tower.” Bender took a drag on his cigarette. “Security is supposed to have the only keys. But the president, administrators, trustees, and faculty members can borrow one to show alumni or special guests—anyone dumb enough to risk a heart attack by climbing a couple hundred steps.”

  “I recall each step,” Darrow said with a smile.

  “I bet you do. The day you climbed there, Durbin got a key from security to open the door himself. By tradition, that’s the president’s job whenever we beat Ohio Lutheran.”

  Darrow nodded. Facing him, Bender said, “I guess you’re wondering if someone got inside there the night Angela Hall was murdered.”

  Darrow kept his face blank. “I’ve been grasping for a reason why I found her near the Spire.”

  Bender gave him a skeptical smile. “It’s like a prison in there. Who’d want to be inside the Spire at night? Anyhow, once you came back down, Durbin locked it and gave the key back to security.”

  “You asked him?”

  “Yeah. You weren’t in any shape to notice, but it was locked when we showed up in response to Lionel’s call.”

  A fragment of memory surfaced in Darrow’s mind: Taylor’s amusing account of how a prep school friend lost h
er virginity in the chapel, supposedly sacrosanct, when her boyfriend managed to obtain a key. “Were students ever allowed to borrow a key?” he asked.

  “Not without an authorized person.” Puffing his cigarette, Bender added with a note of humor, “I don’t claim it never happened. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to respect the enterprise of college students in the face of adult obstacles.”

  Darrow nodded. “I remember well.”

  Bender’s eyes grew serious. Softly, he said, “Can’t say we asked Tillman if he had a duplicate key. Or, for that matter, Joe Betts. If that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t know what I mean, Fred.”

  Bender finished his cigarette. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Quitting time.”

  “For both of us,” Darrow said. “Thanks.”

  He started back to his office. Over his shoulder, Bender said, “About the budget. You going to give me the extra man I need?”

  Turning, Darrow smiled, giving a careless wave of the hand. “Anything you want, Fred. Fuck the English Department.”

  Bender emitted a skeptical laugh, and ground out the Camel with the heel of his shoe.

  7

  I

  N PLACE OF AN ELABORATE DINNER, TAYLOR AND DARROW prepared a picnic of red wine, Gruyère cheese, bruschetta, and cold shrimp. They ate at a wrought iron table behind the President’s House, the twilight gathering around them.

  “You look tired,” Taylor said.

  And also preoccupied, Darrow reflected, with both the burden of his secrets and the strain of withholding them from Taylor. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

  “Care to talk about it?”

  “Maybe later. I’m curious about your final answer to the museum.”

  Taylor’s brow knit, her expression becoming abstracted. “I’m accepting the position tomorrow,” she said. “Or the next day. The salary’s decent and the acquisition budget is more than that. Having sniffed around in the last couple of days, I can’t see anything else where I’d have this kind of autonomy.”