Stalking Death (17 page)

We were woefully short of time, and I passed out directions like a cruise ship social director during the mandatory lifeboat drill. Maintain an atmosphere of peace and calm. Act like you're in command to reinforce their sense of security. Emphasize and support their sense of community. Reassure them that there are grownups available to listen. Express an understanding for their conflicting emotions in a situation where both the alleged perpetrator and the victim are their fellow students. I wished our emergency kit included a few spare spines I could give these people.

Beyond the walls, MacGregor's voice rose and fell like a foghorn. Outside, sheets of rain poured from a sky the color of dust.

One of our biggest challenges was that the students were going to be looking for information and we had very little. I summed up what we knew. "A body believed to be Alasdair MacGregor was found in the woods last night, an apparent homicide. Jamison Jones has been arrested. The details are sketchy because the police are still investigating. Tell them you'll update them as details become known. For now, call your security chief. He's the campus cop, works with the local police. He's got to know something. Or call your local police chief." Dunham sighed and lifted the phone.

Margolin and Perry would work with Wendy Grimm and Dunham's secretary to divide the parent list into manageable chunks while I wrote a brief script for callers to use. I'd been at the school a little over two hours. It felt like ten. It was clear I needed my own staff, but Suzanne hadn't called, so I didn't know when I'd have one.

Eventually, they went off with the secretaries, giving me a moment to catch my breath and think about what else needed to be done. When I stared down at my notes, I saw Shondra's frozen face and heard her certain voice. Jamison didn't do it. Wouldn't do it. Yet wasn't that the obvious conclusion? Something had finally pushed him too far.

I thought of him sitting in a cold gray cell, surrounded by people who thought he was a murderer. Did he have anyone to call, and if so, would they be able to give him competent help? Who was going to take care of finding him a lawyer? Would the school take on that responsibility?

There were so many people affected. An event like this, in a close community, was like throwing a stone into a still pond. The ripples spread until they rocked the whole pond. I thought about the students we needed to pay special attention to. Jamison's teammates and friends, MacGregor's teammates and friends, Shondra's. And Shondra herself. So far, although she was at the center of this, no one had mentioned her.

Dunham came back from the assembly beaded with sweat, his face white. Dean Ivers looked better, but only because she'd applied her color to the surface of her skin, where it couldn't drain away. They both dropped silently into chairs and sat staring at opposite walls. The detectives were due in fifteen minutes, but I didn't remind them. They needed the down time.

I left them and went to the other room, where MacGregor and Argenti were still going at it. MacGregor might represent a major donor as well as chief mourner, but Argenti, in Chambers' absence and until we found Dunham more backbone, represented the other 598 students at St. Matthews. I opened the door, knocked perfunctorily on the wood, and spoke before they could dismiss me.

"The police will be here in a few minutes. Do you want to meet with them here or in the Trustees Room, and whom do you want at the meeting?"

"The Trustees Room," he said. "It's more formal." Where he could sit at the head of the imposing table and try to control the seating. "I guess we'd better have Dean Dunham and Dean Ivers. And Woodson, from Security."

MacGregor announced loudly that he was going to the toilet. I took advantage of his absence to raise something I should have thought of earlier. "What about the school's attorneys?" I asked. "Have they been called?"

"Good catch," Argenti said. "I'll ask Wendy. It's a Saturday. I don't know whether we can reach anyone." He went off to do that and I went to find a toilet myself, to "freshen up" as the euphemism goes. I didn't announce my attentions loudly.

Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting around the big table like members of a dysfunctional family, watching Gregor MacGregor going head-to-head with the cops. It was not a pretty sight. MacGregor's interrogation style was early battering ram, and his personal volume control was busted. He was up against a pro, though, and his first volley of barked queries bounced off the lead cop like bullets off Superman.

Lt. Bushnell, the state police detective, was tallish, lean and graying, with the cropped hair that revealed those too naked cop's ears. Behind utilitarian glasses, he had smart eyes. I knew he'd been up all night, and it showed. Even his jacket looked tired, hanging from his shoulders in baggy, dispirited folds. I also knew, even before he opened his mouth, that he'd be in charge. It was there in the certainty of his bearing and the deference shown by the portly town police chief and the younger state cop with him.

"Gary Bushnell," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking at us expectantly. "Why don't you all introduce yourselves, give me names, titles, phone numbers, and then I'd like to get some background about... "

"Hold on a minute there, Detective," MacGregor said. "These people," he glared disdainfully around the table, "say that my grandson has been killed. I want to know just what evidence you have that your victim really is my grandson."

Bushnell cocked an eyebrow at him. "And you are?"

"Gregor MacGregor." Pronounced as though the name was a more than sufficient resume.

"It's a valid question, Mr. MacGregor, and we'll get to it due course." He looked at the rest of us. "Now, if I could get your names?"

"Look," MacGregor said, "I asked you a question. Now, I've been trying to get some answers here for over an hour. I think I've waited long enough."

"In due course," Bushnell repeated. His eyes circled the table. "Names?"

Maybe MacGregor recognized the voice of authority, or maybe he was just biding his time, but for the moment, he held his peace. I reminded myself that despite his bluster and bombast, he was an old man and he'd just had an awful shock. We went around the table and gave up our information. Bushnell made notes, and when I added, "EDGE Consulting," I got a curious glance as well.

The local chief's name was Dennis Porter and the dewy young cop, the only one among us who didn't look slightly gnawed by rats, was Gabriel Lavigne. Once he'd gotten us labeled, Bushnell went to work, diving, with his very first question, right to the heart of the matter. "Where is Todd Chambers?" he asked.

Dunham looked at Argenti, who shrugged, so he took the question. "He may be at his house. I really don't... He... there was a problem with... something about his wife." Dunham looked down at his hands.

"And his house is here on the campus?" Dunham nodded. "Where?"

Dunham uttered directions so fumbling they suggested an inability to find his own ass in a dark room. Sure, cops make us all nervous, but we were supposed to be the grown-ups here, with a job to do. I pulled out my campus map, set it in front of Bushnell, pointed to where we were, and circled Chambers' house. "Here." If someone didn't move this along, we were going to be in this room all day and there were a dozen tasks waiting.

"Thanks." The detective handed the map to Lavigne. "Gabe, you want to scoot over there and find Mr. Chambers for us?"

Lavigne was out the door like a shot. It looked like what Lt. Bushnell wanted, Lt. Bushnell got. He smiled at the rest of us. "Best, I thought. Save time in the long run, not having to go over everything twice. Now, Mr. Dunham, what was the relationship between Alasdair MacGregor and Jamison Jones?"

"There wasn't one, to the best of my knowledge," Dunham said. "They traveled in different circles."

"So I understand. But I also understand the two of them had a fight last Monday. Is that right?" Dunham nodded. "Can you tell me what they were fighting about?"

I wanted to see how much truth—or how much story—Dunham would be willing to reveal. It was criminally unfair of Todd Chambers to leave his staff struggling with this when the calls about what to say were his.

I was sitting next to Bushnell, and the audible rumbling of his stomach reminded me that the sandwiches I'd asked Wendy for had never materialized. The cops were hungry. The staff was hungry, and even though this meeting was pure business, a little courteous hospitality wouldn't hurt.

"Excuse me," I said, pushing my chair back.

"Leaving us already, Ms. Kozak?" Bushnell asked.

"Just to see about coffee and sandwiches, Lieutenant, unless you'd rather I didn't?"

"Go right ahead." His smile was genuine. "I think we'd all be grateful."

Dunham looked as though he wasn't sure he approved since he hadn't suggested it, but Argenti was nodding, so he held his tongue. I hurried to Wendy Grimm's desk. "Mr. Argenti would like coffee and sandwiches in the Trustee's Room as soon as possible."

She was hunched behind her desk like she was under attack. All around her, phones were ringing and a confetti of pink message slips littered the desktop. She looked miserable and confused, which, under the circumstances was understandable. No one was giving her direction or support.

"Oh dear. I forgot all about... I guess you'd never believe I'm usually efficient."

"A situation like this is hard on everyone," I said. "But I think things will go better with the cops if we feed everyone, don't you?"

She was so relieved that I didn't yell that I wondered if she'd been conditioned by Chambers' wife into expecting abuse. "Twenty minutes, max," she said. "You want chips and fruit and cookies?"

"And sodas, if you can. That would be fabulous."

"Food I can handle." She waved a hand at her cluttered desk. "It's the rest of this... that poor boy dead and that other one locked up, and everyone calling and needing things and answers, and all these reporters... and I don't know what I'm supposed... to do."

EDGE could have helped with this, but Suzanne still hadn't called. "Grab some people to help with the phones. Dean Ivers' secretary, maybe? As soon as we're done with this meeting, we can help you. Meanwhile, explain that everyone's in a meeting and take messages. Don't give out any information until we agree on what we will release."

Damn! Things were slipping through the cracks already. I was sure, in the pre-dawn list I'd given Dunham, that I'd told him what to do about the press, but no one had been on hand when I arrived.

"Is there a press office, or someone who does PR?" She nodded. "Get them over here, then, let them handle the calls. I'll need to see them as soon as we're done anyway."

She hesitated. I couldn't blame her. She didn't know who was supposed to be in charge. Well, no one had told me, either, but where there's a void, I fill it. "We need to control this, Wendy, okay?" She nodded, overwhelmed but still agreeable.

Reluctantly, I ducked back into the conference room and mouthed twenty minutes at Argenti. This was so frustrating. I needed to be in here, but I also needed to be out there, making sure no one talked with the press, making sure Security was keeping reporters off the campus. I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the discussion. I hadn't missed much. Bushnell was still walking Dunham and Frank Woodson, the campus security chief, through a description of the fight.

"Why were they fighting?"

"Jones thought MacGregor had been bothering his sister," Woodson said.

"My grandson wouldn't..." MacGregor began.

Bushnell held up a hand. "Tell me about that. The sister, she's a student here?"

"A junior," Dunham said.

"Her name?"

"Shondra. Shondra Jones."

"Was there a relationship between Shondra Jones and Alasdair MacGregor?"

"None that we know of," Dunham said, sliding his eyes at me. Bushnell didn't miss the look.

"As far as you know, had Alasdair MacGregor said or done anything insulting toward Shondra Jones?"

Under the circumstances, it was a question my father, the lawyer, could have parsed for hours. I was curious to see how Dunham would answer, but before he could, we were interrupted by the return of Gabriel Lavigne, herding Todd Chambers before him like a wayward sheep.

"Todd. How nice you could join us," Argenti said.

Bushnell waited for Chambers to sit. "Lt. Gary Bushnell, New Hampshire State Police," he said. "You are the headmaster?"

Chambers nodded. He looked like hell. He hadn't shaved, and the white-blond stubble made him look seedy. Coupled with his rumpled clothes and shaking hands, he looked more like an alkie coming off a bender than the preppie head of a prestigious New England boarding school.

"We're talking about the fight last Monday between MacGregor and Jones," the detective said. "Mr. Woodson says the cause of the fight was that MacGregor was bothering Jones's sister. My question is, as far as you know," his eyes circled the room, "and by you, I mean everyone here, of course, did Alasdair MacGregor say or do anything insulting toward Shondra Jones? Was he bothering her?"

The air was electric. Chambers shot a worried look at MacGregor and said, "As far as I know, there was no relationship of any sort between Alasdair and Shondra."

It was an interesting answer. I supposed that as he interpreted "relationship," stalking didn't constitute one; it was Dunham who thought stalking was one way a guy pursued a relationship. Surely Chambers understood that the police needed to know what had been going on. One young man was dead, another arrested for murder, and it was all about Shondra Jones and her accusations. I struggled to keep my mouth shut and practiced Andre's skill of keeping my thoughts off my face. To me, violent death changed the rules and mandated truth-telling, but it was up to my clients how they wanted to tell their story.