Death Warmed Over

by Kate Flora

  "Where is the computer now?" I asked.

  "The police have it."

  "Personal computer or one that belongs to the school?"

  "Personal."

  That was good, I thought. Good in that it created more distance between the school and the errant employee. Not so good, maybe, in terms of any claims of privacy Dr. Harrington might have. But he had voluntarily given the school's tech access to the computer. In a campus residence. And presumably used the campus internet system to download his porn.

  "Of course, the detective I spoke with said we may have to view the... uh... materials. To see if any of our students are involved."

  "Any idea when?"

  She shook her head. "When they've finished going through them, I guess." Then shook her head again, in a slow, wondering way. "We've been so careful with our hiring. Background checks. Genuine talks with people's last employers, knowing they may tell us things in confidence they wouldn't put it writing. All the things we're supposed to do. And then this! Someone who has been a respected member of the community forever. Someone nobody would ever suspect of something like this."

  She had the tails of her scarf gripped firmly in her hands, holding on like they were a lifeline, endangering the fragile silk.

  I tried to reassure her. "As I said on the phone, they get away with this because they're good at it. At least he's not someone you hired. And it may well be, repulsive as his behavior is, that he doesn't act on what he sees, he only watches it."

  She sighed. "I know. I guess that would be some small relief. I'm worried that it might have gone farther. He's always had such a parade of students in and out of his rooms. Tutoring. Giving advice. Just generally being someone the kids..." She hesitated, "Someone the boys... were comfortable confiding in."

  Another sigh. "Their age, you know. Boys gravitate toward male advisors, girls toward female, so it was never so obvious how most of his contact was with the boys. Ask me last week and I would have said he was one of our stars. His students excel. He's generous with references. Alums come back to visit him..."

  "Excuse me, Dr. Gorham." It was her assistant, from the doorway. "There's that police detective on the phone."

  I listened as she made an appointment to meet with him for a preliminary conversation about what the detectives had found. She looked like the conversation was causing her physical pain. When she was done, she replaced the receiver like it was too hot to handle, and came back to the couch. "Young adolescent boys," she said angrily. "That's what he has on his computer. So of course we have to get some of our longtime faculty to look at the stuff, to see if they recognize anyone. Current or former students. I just hope..."

  She tortured the scarf again, then resolutely let it drop. "I could kill that man, Thea, for doing this to all of us. And if there are any of our students in those photographs... I don't know how we'll recover. Other schools..."

  She didn't need to finish. We both knew how damaging a scandal could be in the competitive world of boarding schools. Image mattered so much, and parents, however neglectful they might be themselves, needed to feel that they were entrusting their children to a safe place. There had been schools that had swept things like this under the rug. Schools that had covered up for their errant faculty. That had once been the genteel thing to do. But increasingly, there was mandatory reporting and public pressure to prosecute child molesters or those who collected and traded pornography. And this was such a bad season for a scandal.

  We spent the next hour working on a damage control plan. What information would be released to the press. What she would say at the all school meeting. How they would stress the fact that the instant inappropriate materials were found, the offending faculty member had been fired and removed from the campus. We debated saying that it appeared no students were involved, and decided it was too soon. Giving false reassurance would only backfire on us if we were wrong. We talked about openly dealing with their bafflement and broken trust. Dr. Harrington had been extremely popular, so the betrayal was that much worse. It was important to acknowledge that.

  Together, we drafted the call script that administrators and faculty would use when they contacted the parents. That would start just as soon as the all school meeting ended. She would gather her people, give them the script and call lists, and every parent would receive a personal call.

  We reviewed the importance of making sure all her faculty and staff were on message. It wasn't only what the students might say that could be damaging. A careless comment by a faculty or staff member would be jumped on by the press and would be extremely difficult to call back. I'd seen it happen. Luckily, Trish had good control of her world, and a great relationship with her staff. She'd made a habit of getting out of her office and into classes, the gyms, the dining halls, and around the grounds. As a result, she knew everyone. But also as a result, because she'd believed she really had a handle on her school and its culture, this devastating discovery made her question everything she thought she knew.

  I talked. Trish made notes. My stomach grumbled. The day wore on as we reviewed the usual details of any boarding school crisis—counselors available and comfort food wherever the students like to congregate. Ensuring that the resident faculty in the dorms kept their doors open and made themselves available. Ensuring that at least one advisor was always in the dorm in case a student needed to talk. I suggested that she issue an open invitation to the students to come and see her if they had any information about Dr. Harrington, or any personal concerns. And no coffee ever appeared.

  I suggested she offer the same open door policy to her faculty. Sometimes faculty members had seen or heard something—received a confidence or entertained a suspicion but hadn't come forward. It could be hard to buck the tide, especially for a newcomer or a junior faculty member, when Dr. Harrington had been such a popular teacher. Sometimes an event like this could also cast something seen or heard and discounted in a new light.

  One thing that I really needed to know about was what kind of training and guidance they gave the kids who served the community as computer techs. Had they been warned about uncovering illegal things like this and given any strategies for dealing? She said she would have her tech services supervisor in to brief us about that. And she'd get me a copy of the tech's handbook.

  It seemed like things were in good shape. Good enough so that it was possible I could go home tonight, though I would probably have to come back tomorrow and do some more handholding. Ideally, I would be going home to Andre, but that would depend on the status of his investigation. And our relationship—we rarely fought and never like this. But he needed that envelope even if we weren't speaking.

  Before I moved on, though, I had one more question. Something about the situation wasn't ringing quite true. Trish was being straightforward and open with me, but there was a lingering hesitation. Something in her manner that seemed the teeniest bit off.

  It's a risky business to challenge a client. They pay the bills. They call the shots. But one thing I've learned from my years as the girl in the white hat, the one who rides in to save people when they're in trouble—sometimes what they tell me isn't the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Even good people hold things back to protect themselves or their institutions or don't share the small niggles and suspicions that can bloom into trouble later.

  So instead of gathering up my bag and taking a break to check my messages before the school meeting, I looked into Trish's face and said, "There's something you aren't telling me, isn't there?"

  While she struggled with her answer, I supplied it. "Something that should have made you suspicious and you discounted it. Because of who he was. The affection and respect people had for him. Someone tried to clue you in, or something happened to make you wonder, and you brushed it off. Am I right?"

  There was a moment while I watched her struggle with whether she would tell me. Then Trish buried her head in her hands. "Oh, God. Thea. You're so right. This is all my fault." />
  After a few minutes, she dropped her hands and told me the story.

  Chapter 23

  It's one of the hardest things in the world, I've found, to get people to forgive themselves and see that they're only human. Trish's clues had been slight, and her source a notoriously unreliable one—a young female faculty member being sacked for incompetence. During the exit interview, the woman had argued that if she was going to be fired, certain other staff members should be, too. She'd reeled off a list, along with the reasons they should be canned. Harrington had been on that list, the allegation that he was gay.

  As a precaution, Trish had looked into some of the allegations against other faculty, and when they didn't pan out, she'd never finished running the list. Being gay wasn't a firing offense, not that there had ever been any indications that Dr. Harrington was gay. He'd simply been seen as that staple of the private school world, the perennial bachelor devoted to school and students. There had been no other allegations or suggestions of misconduct. Now, in hindsight, Trish worried that somehow she'd failed to do her job. The rest of the world would never know this had happened unless the aggrieved former employee saw an opportunity for revenge. I told Trish that if that happened, we could get out in front of it pretty easily. As far as she knew, no one on campus had ever observed Dr. Harrington behaving improperly, and there had been nothing in his file from before her tenure to suggest others had had any suspicions.

  Trish's tenure was fairly recent, so in the back of both our minds was the fear that others before her had been suspicious but had buried those concerns or not acted on them. That was the elephant in the room—was there something she hadn't been told? It happened too often—the closed community that protected its own rather than protecting the students it served. Private schools can be like small towns where everyone has an interest in protecting the community secrets. Or like the Catholic Church.

  There was little we could do about that now. I knew she would sit down with some of her closest allies on the faculty and explore the question, probing into whether there were suspicions that had been ignored or allegations that had been buried. We would both hope that there would be no ugly surprises.

  Something still felt unfinished, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Just a niggling worry that there was a question I hadn't asked or Trish hadn't fully answered. I reviewed our conversation and nothing popped out. Maybe it would come to me later. Or maybe I was becoming too cop-like for my own good. So cop-like that I was developing that special sense they called cop's gut. An instinct for what lay beneath. My husband would probably disagree.

  Coffee arrived just as I was gathering my things to leave for the meeting, smelling delicious and accompanied by a plate of oatmeal cookies. Trish shrugged, then apologized with a rueful smile. "We're just not ourselves today."

  It was an understatement that fit both our situations perfectly. I snagged two cookies and followed her out. My phone had been jumping all the time I was with Trish so I took some time to check my messages, stepping out of the building for some fresh air and privacy. I regretted the move almost immediately as that longed-for fresh air slid its chilly March fingers inside my coat and wrapped me in a damp chill.

  The first message was from Charlotte Ainsley. I hesitated a moment before I played her voice mail, reluctant to add any more conflict to my day. I was at the point where I was viewing my phone as an evil messenger tasked with bringing me nothing but bad news. But, cherishing the hope that perhaps she had come to her senses and would put Stafford back on the right track, I listened.

  "Thea, it's Charlotte. Charlotte Ainsley. I'm calling to apologize for my behavior earlier. Perhaps you'll understand if I say that I was so shocked by your report about Joel's behavior I was temporarily speechless."

  I realized I'd been holding my breath. I resumed normal breathing as she continued.

  "I'm sure the Board bears much of the responsibility for not keeping closer tabs on him or being clearer about our relationship and who has the final authority. Evidently, he thought..." She left that unfinished. "In any event, I have spoken with him and reaffirmed the Board's decision. I think we can both rest easy about that."

  A hesitation. A throat clearing. I could picture her squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, taking charge of her wayward headmaster and wayward school. Charlotte Ainsley probably didn't have to apologize very often. "And I hope that you, and EDGE, will reconsider and not terminate your relationship with us. I do not believe we've seen the last of this situation and it is very useful to have your input."

  I felt fifty pounds lighter as I pressed the buttons to call her back.

  There were more calls—this little black rectangle was vying to become the phone that broke the consultant's back, but the meeting would be starting and Trish wanted me there. I put it back on vibrate and went inside. Charlotte Ainsley's call had confirmed that at least something in my life was working. Maybe this was how it was. Sometimes the marriage worked and some days the work worked. Except our marriage always worked. It was only because the lines had gotten so blurred and the personal had become the professional that we were in this mess. Except I didn't exactly know the parameters of this mess.

  Andre was angry with me—angry being a mild term for it—for not calling him the instant I saw that package on my desk. He was cutting me no slack for being busy, or distracted, or running out the door, and thought I was a total idiot for not thinking Ginger instead of mom and sweater and help for my weary wardrobe. Maybe I was an idiot—am an idiot—for not calling him immediately and for not leaving that package on my desk, but I'm not supposed to be able to think like a cop. I have my moments. Some of it has definitely rubbed off. But I'm a consultant with clients to serve and the way my mind works is that when I'm wrapped up in my client's business, I'm not so capable of also solving mysteries. More affirmatively—I do not want to be solving mysteries.

  As I was putting my phone away, I saw there was a text from Andre. "Roland is on his way to get that package."

  Poor Roland. He barely gets off the flight from Florida before he's sent, like a faithful retriever, to pick up something from me.

  Hot on the heels of 'poor Roland' was another thought—Andre could have come himself. What a coward.

  * * *

  The day was fading into gloom. Across the road, the campus pond looked like the cauldron of a black-hearted witch. Fog hung about everywhere, slithering among the rain-darkened tree trunks like it was alive. It was such a spooky scene I practically ran back to Trish's office, arriving out of breath, to find she'd already left for the meeting. I got directions from her assistant and hurried after her.

  It was the usual thing—anxious students needing help processing the news about Dr. Harrington who needed to be calmed, reassured, and given information about where to go for help. Unusually, the faculty, who were supposed to be calm and supportive, were not much better. I made a quick mental note that the next thing Trish and I needed to deal with was her faculty. They needed a strong heads-up about their role and a reminder not to discuss the situation with anyone outside the school, along with acknowledgment of their own concerns and the reminder that Trish's door was always open. There were also two guys in suit coats hanging around in the back, trying to look innocuous and so obviously cops they might as well have been wearing neon signs announcing their purpose.

  Trish and I were supposed to reconvene in her office after the meeting to get on to the stack of issues that still needed attention, but before I could reach the podium from my seat at the back, the two suit coats converged on her, swept her up, and the three of them disappeared. She'd taken a moment to send me a text: Gone with the detectives to look at some pictures.

  My heart sank. If there were students involved, this would be really bad news. Nothing I could do about that. I might as well go back to her office and get some work done.

  As I passed her assistant's desk, he held out an envelope. "It's a copy of our student handbook," he said. "She
asked me to give it to you. And this is the training manual for the computer techs. Trish is really sorry not to be here, but says she'll be back soon. And we have coffee and sandwiches on the way."

  My heart leapt up at that, but it plummeted when he added, "And Thomas's mother is supposed to be arriving from the airport any minute. Trish asked if you could handle her until the detectives are done."

  So the coffee and sandwiches weren't for me. They were to pacify the upset mom.

  "What's her name? His mother?"

  "Adeline. Adeline Savage."

  But Thomas's name wasn't Savage, which prompted another question. "And Thomas's father isn't coming?"

  "I believe the parents are divorced and Mrs. Savage has remarried. There's been no mention of a husband. Or father."

  Something went click in my head. "Has the father been notified?"

  "I believe that he has, Ms. Kozak, but I will check on that." An important thing to check. Situations with divorced parents could get very sticky if one was in the loop and the other was not. Far too often, children became pawns in the game of revenge when a marriage went bad.

  I left him shuffling through some papers, and went into Trish's office to fortify myself with coffee and a sandwich, hoping I'd have time to brush the crumbs off my front and check my teeth for green bits before my duties as nursemaid to an angry mother began. Luckily, the sandwiches were tuna. I still wasn't up for eating meat.

  In the entertaining Mrs. Savage department there was a reprieve. Because of the fog, her plane was delayed and it was likely she wouldn't arrive until the following morning. I could have some fun with the idea of a savage arriving, especially given some of the parents I'd seen, but I reined in my wicked mind. I was here to help Trish with her crisis and this pause would be a good time to catch up on other business so I could focus on her issues when she returned.