by David Clark
“And what they are probably doing to a few now, and will do to others in the future,” added Jordan. His slap of reality that this was larger than just the three girls whose ghosts were sitting back in their hotel room watching television took Megan’s shine down another notch. He didn’t intend to do that, but he often found reality did that to everyone.
“I need to nail one person,” grumbled Andrew. “If I can link just one person to the girls and something illicit, that might be all I need to get them to sing on the others and start pulling this down one brick at a time.”
“But who?”, asked Jordan.
“Well, I have a wild idea, and it involves Megan,” Andrew said with a side glance in her direction.
Jordan felt a sickening slosh in his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the dumplings that were just placed down in front of him. They looked and smelled wonderful, but the thought of what the detective was suggesting chased his appetite away. He leaned forward across the table to make his point very clear. “We are not using Megan as bait.”
“Oh, no. No way. I wouldn’t do that,” Andrew said with a surprised look on his face. “Never. I am talking about what happened here just a few minutes ago. Her stardom, her show. What would you need to make it appear like you were up here filming an episode?”
“I don’t understand,” questioned Megan.
“Say you came up here to do an episode, what would you have brought with you? How big is your crew? What kind of equipment?”
“Well,” she started as she appeared to make the list in her mind first. “I would have just my cameraman, Charles Lindsey, and my bag of paranormal equipment. My spirit box, E.M.F. meter, E.V.P recorder, and triangle.”
“How quick can you get all that up here?”
“A day or two I think. But Charles is out of town for the weekend, and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday at the earliest,” she said, still bewildered.
Andrew leaned back in his chair. Now it seemed to be his time to think. In fact, they all were as they pushed their food around with their forks. Jordan had no clue where Andrew was going with this. Did he think Megan needed those tools to look into things deeper with the girls? Maybe he needed to explain that it wasn’t necessary. They had a link with the girls and could pretty much ask them anything, just as if they were a living person.
“Maybe a different cameraman, someone from the force,” suggested Andrew. “I have no clue where to find a spirit box, but I think I can find replacements for the rest of your gear.”
“Andrew? What are you talking about?”, Jordan asked. He felt very defensive and protective of Megan at the moment. He didn’t know where this was going, but inside a feeling that Andrew was just there for his fix of stardom had bubbled up.
Detective Kendal took a bite of the rice and greens he had mixed together that came as a side for his curry fried chicken. He chewed slowly while the others looked on, still wondering where all this was going. When he swallowed he said, “Okay, this will sound crazy, but here is what I am thinking.”
24
How did I get talked into this?, Jordan wondered. He was walking behind Megan, carrying a forty-pound camera he had no clue how to use. The only thing he had with him that he knew how to use was his service revolver that was strapped under the black sweatshirt he and Detective Kendal bought at the twenty-four-hour-get-everything store that was just down the road from South-Eastern Fusion. It needed to be bulky to conceal the gun, radio and the related wire that led up to his earpiece, so they bought it three sizes too big. It also added the appearance of an additional forty pounds, all around the gut, to Jordan’s athletic and trim frame.
“Stairs?”, he grumbled under his breath, as Megan opted for the stairs instead of the elevator up to the third floor of the Modlin Center for the Arts on the campus of the University of Richmond.
“I thought you enjoyed taking the stairs. Didn’t you say it was healthy,” she sniped back.
How would you like to carry this camera yourself?, he thought, but avoided saying it. He needed to remember his part and why he was there. He was no longer Jordan Blake FBI agent following his girlfriend up the stairs. He was Joe Black, stand in cameraman for America’s Medium, following the host up to meet the Dean of the University of Richmond to talk about the various paranormal legends in the area, including one that involves the building they were in now. The legend Jordan already had his doubts about. Probably nothing more than just a ghost story told from class to class of students. Since entering the building, he had felt nothing but the weight of the camera, and a new appreciation for Charles Lindsey.
When they pushed open the door to the third floor, it creaked and echoed in the empty stairwell and down the dark hallway ahead of them. The only light was coming from a single door at the end of the hall. A tall grey haired man stood outside with an ascot puffed out of the top of his white shirt. A red pocket square was folded neatly in the pocket of his navy blue sport coat. He stood still as they walked toward him. Haunting echoes of Megan’s heels followed them down the hall.
“Miss Tolliver,” the man said as they approached.
“Dr. Wilson?”, she asked and extended her hand to greet him.
“Call me Robert. Dr. Wilson is too formal.” He said as he took her hand and gave it a gentlemanly shake. “It surprised me to get your call, but more than happy to help you out. I am a fan of the show and a bit of a paranormal buff myself. I have even performed a few of my own ghost hunts on the campus.”
“That is what we heard, and why we sought you out,” Megan said.
“Well, I am glad you did. I will say I am a little surprised you want to talk about Doc Crenshaw. It’s nothing more than some stories. There are other more interesting stories around here, like the iron dog, and some Civil War sites.”
“It might be small, but it is a local legend and will fit perfect in our special on Richmond, and you never know. Maybe I can make contact to prove there is more than just a story.”
Hearing Megan say that appeared to please Doctor Robert Wilson, the Dean of Admissions for the University of Richmond. His eyes twinkled in the light coming through the door and his smile broadened to expose a row of bleached teeth, which annoyed Jordan. The prim and proper dressed distinguished gentleman was in complete fanboy mode over Megan. While he gave off the appearance of being a good-guy, Jordan knew differently. What he knew made his skin crawl.
“Why don’t we go in here. I figured the balcony of the theatre would be a good setting for anything you wanted to record.”
“Good idea,” Megan said. “Come on, Joe.”
The balcony of the Alice Jepson theatre wasn’t huge by any stretch of the imagination, only a few rows of red covered seating. Dr. Wilson had already picked out the perfect spot for them to sit, and even where ‘Joe’ could stand on the second row to capture them with the stage and two of the ornate arches and sconces that covered the side walls of both the ground level and the balcony as the backdrop.
Jordan set up, propping the camera on his shoulder. Megan, ever the professional, came to check the shot, and while doing so, moved Jordan’s finger to the power button to turn the camera on. She rolled her eyes at Jordan, and then pointed out the other important button, the record button. Jordan pressed it, and the red light on the front came on.
Megan sat back down in her designated seat. An adjustment to her long flowing black skirt, and a quick brush of her hair from her face, and then the lights were on for her. “Okay, let’s begin.” Jordan didn’t even try to do a countdown. She didn’t wait.
“We are here with Doctor Robert Wilson at the University of Richmond’s beautiful Alice Jepson theatre in the Modlin Center for the Arts, where there is something of a local ghost story, involving a Doc Crenshaw.” She leaned forward. “What can you tell us about the legend?”
“Well Miss Tolliver,” he started and then stammered embarrassed, “Do I call you Miss Tolliver, Megan, or... I don’t know what to call you.”
“You
can call me Megan,” she said.
“Oh no, I messed things up didn’t I?”, he asked. His voice sounded embarrassed, but his body language gave off a different vibe to Jordan. One that accelerated the crawl of his skin. Dr. Wilson leaned forward and touched Megan on the shoulder. Something that some people might do to apologize for making a mistake. But it was how his hand lingered and then brushed its way down her arm.
“It’s all right, we can cut that out,” Megan said, leaning back to withdraw her arm from his reach. “Go ahead and tell me the story and we will cut things together. It will seem completely natural.”
“Well, Megan, Doc Crenshaw is something of a ghost story here with our student body. Every little odd noise, creak of a door, or incident, like something falling, that happens here in this building is blamed on Doc Crenshaw. Some that have been here rehearsing late at night say they hear her footsteps in the very hall you just walked down.”
“Who is Doc Crenshaw?”, Megan asked, in full on interviewer mode, just like Jordan saw on every episode of her show she recorded.
“Well, that is something that goes back over a century. This building is built on top of part of the old Westhampton College, the women’s equivalent to our own institution back then. The pool that was filled in for the foundation of this building was named after Dr. Fanny Graves Crenshaw, the first Dean of Physical Education of that college back in 1914. The story goes, she haunts us for filling in her pool.”
“Do you believe she does?”, asked Megan
The distinguished dean was about to answer when a ring from a cell phone in his pocket brought a startled reaction. His hands reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone, but quickly put it back. Then a second phone appeared in his hand, and without even a look at the screen, he silenced it and put it away. “Sorry, I should have silenced them before coming up here.”
“It's okay,” assured Megan.
“Cut,” Jordan called out. “I need to move, I am getting a glare,” he said loudly. Maybe too loudly to communicate to just the two people that were seated no more than ten feet away from him.
“On the way,” said a voice through his earpiece.
Jordan moved just a few feet to complete the illusion and then pressed the record button. His new location blocked the staircase leading up to the door closest to him. In an attempt to look professional, he let go with one hand and pointed at Megan and Dr. Wilson. A move he almost regretted as the weight of the heavy beast of a camera fell on one hand and shoulder. The muscles in his lower back strained to stay straight before the hand returned to help steady it. Inside he groaned, but kept from doing it outwardly.
“Do you believe she does?”, repeated Megan.
“I am not sure. I, myself, love the paranormal, and would love to experience something, anything at all,” he said while hamming it up. “But, so far, nothing. Not even a mysterious sound.”
At that moment, there was more than a mysterious sound in the theatre, and the confident Dr. Wilson was now a picture of pure fear. Two dozen black clad SWAT officers from the Richmond City Police Department flooded the balcony, blocking his access to the stairs behind him. Guns were drawn and focused on the unsuspecting dean. Megan made a quick dash to safety behind Jordan. Detective Andrew Kendal led the way and approached Dr. Wilson from behind. The dean didn’t speak a word, but the surprise on his face spoke plenty.
“Dr. Robert Wilson,” he said as he grabbed the dean’s wrist and forced him to his feet. One arm was forced behind his back with a loud yowl. The other followed, but its participation was more voluntary. “You are a suspect in a murder investigation, and need to come with us. I have restrained you for both yours and our safety.” Detective Kendal passed him off to another officer, who escorted him up the stairs without protest.
25
Jordan and Megan didn’t follow them directly back to the precinct from the campus of the University of Richmond. Jordan wanted to, but Megan had another idea, which made some sense. After picking up the girls from the hotel, they drove to the precinct and found Detective Kendal in the middle of his interrogation.
Dean Wilson was the focus of an interview again, but this one was quite a bit different. The bleak white room with the metal table and chairs was not the glamorous theatre that was his backdrop hours ago. There was a camera present, but it wasn’t the weighty high-definition shoulder unit that Jordan had carried. Just a simple surveillance camera screwed into the top left corner of the room above the door, captured everything that was needed. While the footage Jordan had recorded would never see the light of day, there was already a room full of people sitting around a screen watching the grainy footage being broadcast live from the interrogation room. Unfortunately for Dean Wilson, the interviewer was not that attractive and mesmerizing as Megan Tolliver. Detective Andrew Kendal and his gruff bad cop routine had taken her place.
They had all expected him to lawyer up when they arrived, but he didn’t. Insisting the whole time, he had done nothing wrong. That phone just magically ended up in the pocket of his jacket and was as much a surprise to him as it was to them. Of course, the jacket had been hanging on a rack in his office all day, where many people had access to it, and Dean Wilson had left his office several times without it. Even when Detective Andrew Kendal confronted him with the possibility of pulling school surveillance footage to see who entered and left the office. If Jordan had to guess, the Dean knew there was no camera in his office, just one outside that would show who came in and left, but not what they did.
Detective Kendal finished up and exited the room. Jordan left the video room to go meet the detective. He appeared frustrated at not being able to crack the arrogant nut, but once again had an idea. One that Jordan jumped at.
Jordan discarded the oversized sweatshirt and walked into the room. There was a quick moment of recognition in Dean Wilson’s eyes followed by a ‘I should have guessed’ look. Jordan was wearing his badge this time and waited until he sat down to properly introduce himself. “Dean Wilson, I am FBI Agent Jordan Blake. Can we chat?”
“Sure,” he said, sounding completely unaffected by sitting across from a federal agent about a murder case. His hands fiddled with the twist-off cap for the soda Detective Kendal had brought him. “Like I told the other officer, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Of course you don’t. You guys never do. What about the phone? What can you tell us about that?”, Jordan asked, knowing he had already been asked that question.
The Dean gave a nonchalant shoulder shrug. “No clue. Thousands of people are on the campus every day. Anyone of them could have walked into my office and put that phone in the pocket while it hung on the coat rack. I suggest you start interviewing them right now.”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” Jordan said without even a blink. “What about Sharon Carter? What can you tell me about her?”
“Not too much. I heard what pretty much anyone else did on the news. A true tragedy.”
“Did you ever meet her? She was a student at Richmond,” pressed Jordan.
“Can’t say if I did or didn’t. There are thousands of students. I probably meet with... oh.... I don’t know, a few hundred a year. I am sure I can have the office pull my appointments for you in the morning. If I did, it would be on there,” Dean Wilson responded dismissively.
“What about Beth Ryan?”
“Can’t say that name is familiar.”
“What about Jennifer Tate or Marie Monroe? I assume those names don’t ring a bell either.”
“Agent Black—-”.
“It’s Blake,” corrected Jordan.
“Agent Blake. Like I said. There are thousands of students, and I probably interact with a couple hundred of them. That is not to say I didn’t pass them on campus, but if I did, I can’t say I would have recognized them.”
“Okay,” Jordan said, and then stood up and left without another word.
Detective Kendal rushed out into the hallway from the room he
and a host of other detectives were monitoring the interview from. The heads of a few popped out the door to watch. “Is that it?”, he asked, sounding impatient.
“Nope. Just letting him stew. I need your help with something.”
“Sure,” Detective Kendal said. “What do you need?”
“Give me five minutes, knock on the door, and hand me a folder with a stack of papers in it.”
“Is that it?”, Detective Kendal asked. He hung on the answer, waiting for something more.
“Yep. That is it.” Jordan turned and headed back into the room and had a seat.
“Is there more?”, Dean Wilson asked.
Jordan felt the urge to laugh. This was rather interesting. This arrogant ass was being questioned about multiple murders, and he seemed to be under the impression that he was now in control. Then it hit Jordan. This was something he had watched before, but always from the other side of the glass or video feed. It never happened to him, and if it had, he didn’t feel like at any time before he was as prepared to counter it as he was at this moment. For the first time, he felt that title of Agent fit. “Just a bit,” he said, keeping his tone straight and dull. “You assume I was asking about meeting them as part of your job. What about away from the school? It seems you have quite a social life. Partying with the upper crust of Richmond.”
“Agent Blake, it isn’t a crime to have a social life, and yes, I will admit, some of my friends are in as you put it, the upper crust of Richmond,” said Dean Wilson. He adjusted himself in the chair and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table and joining his hands. A posture Jordan had seen more than one agent use while doing an interview.
“Nope, Robert, it isn’t a crime,” slapped Jordan. That one landed right across the proverbial bridge of the prim and proper Dean Wilson’s nose. The sting sent him back in the chair and slumped his shoulders. “Even seeing those girls at one of those soirees wouldn’t be. Now what they were doing at one of those get-togethers,” Jordan put air quotes around get-togethers, “would be, and who they were with would be in a lot of trouble. And, we have a few witnesses that put you at more than one party that was, we will call it, attended by all three. Two witnesses said you shared an intimate dance with two of them.”