Carom Shot

by JJ Partridge

  My musing was cut short by Maria who rapped at the door and delivered a clutch of message slips. One was from my mother.

  This was as good a time as any to explain last night’s fiasco. Sylvia must have been out because my mother answered the phone; it was quickly evident that Sylvia had already given her a vivid picture of Lavelle Williams’s arrest and Reverend Thomas’s humiliation. My assurances that Williams had a lawyer, that I had met with the lawyer, and Williams was out of any physical danger seemed to satisfy my mother that family obligations had been acquitted. I didn’t get into Williams’s dubious character or my impression of Franks. “You did your best,” she said sympathetically. “That’s all we were asked to do,” and I finished the call somewhat morally lightened but wondering what the old man had told Sylvia and what she would be thinking of me.

  I fussed about that for awhile and then got to work. A priority project was an analysis of the University’s potential financial liability to The Stalker’s victims, to be presented at the Trustees’ December meeting. I found the file on the iMac and read again my draft memo which explained, in layman’s terms, all the theories of potential liability for the University, such as common law negligence, breach of contract, and in loco parentis. The memo was sprinkled with sufficient references to case law, law review notes, articles in University Counsel magazine, and the Chronicles of Higher Education to satisfy even the lawyers among the Trustees, although my conclusion was unsettling. The status of the law in Rhode Island, where the cases would likely be brought, was, not surprisingly, unclear since case law is often a laggard when it deals with societal issues. Was the University liable for student pranks or brushes with booze and drugs or injuries, depression, and suicides or plain, old-fashioned stupidities? And, what if it all happens off-campus? The last few pages contained an analysis of the University’s insurance coverage and two problems I foresaw: first, the University had liability insurance coverage in the millions but the deductibles on the policies were huge, making the University virtually self-insured for the expected large claims; second, the off-campus locations of the assaults created the probability that the insurers would “reserve their rights” under the policies—that is, the insurers might say “maybe we’ll defend you and maybe we’ll pay, and maybe we won’t, but keep us posted.” Nobody, not the President, the Trustees, the Risk Management Office, nor the broker who had earned huge commissions on the insurance premiums, would want to hear that.

  Revising the draft and updating legal research on Lexis/Nexus, a computerized case retrieval system accessed through a terminal in our library-conference room, took an hour or so. As I logged off and walked by Marcie’s office, I remembered her concern as to security for Jesse Kingdom’s rally on Friday. I had better call Tuttle before she reminded me.

  I liked Tuttle. He was resolute, a leader, a person of integrity sorely tested by Sonny Russo. His career with the Providence police had been unblemished, with departmental citations for personal courage, and he had earned a college degree in law enforcement from Salve Regina University in Newport. Blocked from further promotion by his refusal to play ball with Sonny, he had seemed the perfect choice for our Chief of the Security Office, bringing a sterling reputation, knowledge of the local police, and people skills to the job. With some prompting from Tramonti, I managed to push him through the elaborate selection process the University had established for this sensitive position. Yes, he rode in vehicles and his people responded to calls, and some of the campus fringe groups were not to his liking; still, he had patience, common sense, and unlike a lot of ex-cops, was not too full of himself. So far, he seemed able to handle the University’s ambivalence toward security issues—protect me but don’t bother or offend me.

  Tuttle picked up immediately. I asked about the flyer and he said that they still didn’t know the source, that Kingdom had dismissed it as a crank threat, and that the extra cops for the rally was under consideration in McCarthy’s office, “… but I’m not holding my breath.”

  He didn’t have to elaborate. I could imagine how the pouchy, caustic, world-weary veterans that constituted McCarthy’s intimates would react: in a pig’s ass!

  He continued. “I’ve made a few additions to the Event Plan…”—that was a euphemism for a standard campus security plan for potentially unruly crowd events on The Green, everything from reserve units of security officers to the litter pickup—“... and I’ll e-mail it to you and the Provost. We’ll have fifty of our people ready.” Then, he surprised me. With a waiver in his voice, he asked, “Got a few minutes? Mind coming over here?”

  I glanced out of the window; the taller downtown buildings were wrapped in haze but it wasn’t raining and getting out of the office was better than letting Franks gnaw at my innards.

  * * *

  The University’s Security Office is in a nondescript, yellow brick building in the East Campus on Maxfield Street. Tuttle was waiting for me outside its glass vestibule, next to an aluminum stanchion which supported one of the campus’s ubiquitous call boxes under a purple security light. He wore a brown raincoat with a loosely tied belt; a thin, unlit cigar was clenched in his mouth. There was a rigid set to his face. “Thanks for comin’ over,” he said, removing the cigar. “How about a walk?”

  I nodded as he lit the cigar and started off towards Brook Street in a loping kind of stride, as though his legs needed uncramping. I followed in a wake of cigar smoke because the sidewalks of the side streets were too narrow for both of us to walk side by side, or “side by each” in Rhode Island-ese. Twice we stepped into leaf filled gutters to avoid blackish puddles formed by roots breaching the sidewalk’s asphalt surface; at our approach, skittish squirrels circled the trunks of maples, plane trees, and Bradford pears, fleeing to higher branches black against the gun metal sky.

  Tuttle’s arms swung back and forth, making little whispery noises as his sleeves rubbed the sides of his raincoat. We were a block away from his office, and by now, I had expected him to get to whatever needed airing outside of the office. Since he took the job, I’ve never seen him without a jacket and tie, or totally at ease in a staff meeting, and I’ve wondered what he really thinks of his new chain of command and the people he protects. At Waterman Street, as we waited for the traffic light to change, he squinted over his shoulder, took the cigar out of his mouth, and I sensed he was ready for our talk.

  “I’ve heard from both McCarthy and the Commissioner. Guess you had a busy night,” he said without any inflection indicating approval or disapproval.

  So, I concluded, we were going to talk about me—not him.

  When the “walk” signal flashed, we crossed the street and it took me about a block to get out a coherent summary of what happened. Somehow, I sounded almost apologetic and I expected his practical advice about not getting mixed up in police politics. Instead, with head down and cigar curled in his fingers, he said, “I got a problem. That is, Security’s got a problem. My people are tired. Losing respect. They’re not used to anything like this ..., assaults, rapes, and now a murder. With Kingdom up here, and these marches and rallies, and maybe sit-ins .... I’m still a rookie around here. I don’t have the feel for the job, if you get my meaning. And they know it.” He stopped and looked me squarely in the eyes. “I got to know. Do you guys take me seriously? Or am I just a new pain in the butt.”

  I had my answer as to where his mind was. I responded that he would know if the Provost was on his case, that his efforts were appreciated, and that I honestly thought he retained the full backing of the administration. His expression showed a reluctance to accept my comments.

  “I know her father,” Tuttle said gravely as we crossed Angell Street and continued north. “Know or met most of the family, I guess…, the wife, his brother. He’s a priest down in Warwick. For years, we were in the same parish, St. Michael’s, before I moved the family to Mount Pleasant. Our kids went to the parish school. I probably met her somewhere along the way, at Mass or CYO or something.” He said d
efensively. “I didn’t mention that yesterday. Seemed not to fit there somehow.”

  That explained his hesitation at the Provost’s meeting. The murder was too close to home.

  “Must be rough on her family,” he said. “You know, when I came up here, part of it was getting away from crap like this. But right away, there’s a homicide and I know the family!” He took a last puff on the cigar, flipped it on the sidewalk ahead of us, and stopped to grind it out deliberately with the sole of a shoe. “The wake is tomorrow night. Delayed because of the autopsy. Closed casket, I hear. Half the force will be there, the rest at the funeral Thursday. I’ll go to the wake.”

  We had reached the corner of Veasey Street. Tuttle pointed at the street sign and shrugged again. “Right down there. Seventy-two.” I started to make the turn but Tuttle crossed the street and I followed. “I don’t know if you can really appreciate this, and no offense intended,” he added quickly, “but you’re not trying to make twenty or twenty-five years for the pension, disability, too, if you can finagle it. For Terry Sullivan, his whole life is being a cop. I think his father was a cop. What’s he got besides his family? A house in the city because of these stupid residency requirements, the pension?” He stopped and looked up at me. “That, and your kids. When you’ve got kids, and you’re workin’ a cop’s schedule, you do it for them. You don’t start out like that but that’s what happens. You just suck it up. You take all the bullshit and suck it up. You work the eleven-to-seven shift, angle for the weekend event details and double time, maybe get a part-time job, too. Most everything you do is for them, so they’ll do better ... or at least no worse. I know, I’ve got two grown daughters, just like Sullivan—”

  A beeping noise emanated from Tuttle’s raincoat; he reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a cell phone. “Tuttle,” he said, listened, grunted an acknowledgment, and put the phone back into his coat pocket. “Better be getting back,” he said. “Always something. Some clown blocked the parking lot behind the Physics Building with a truck and nothing can get in or out.” We turned and began to retrace our steps.

  The wind was now at our backs, pushing thick, gray, wet clouds that kept pace with our quickening steps. When we reached Veasey Street, he paused, took out another cigar, cupped his hands, lit it, and eyed me squarely. “I know just how Terry feels. You do everything you can for your kids. Your wife works a job besides the home. You send them to parochial school because the public schools are lousy. When you get time to think of them, in your mind’s eye, they’re like they were when they made First Communion, all dressed up in white lace like little brides, with flowers, and the beads. Then, one day, they’re gettin’ a job or off to college or runnin’ off to the malls or to the beach, and they’re dating and never at home. You wonder what happened. ‘When did they grow up?’ you ask yourself. ‘How did they get to be grown-up women?’ ‘Where the hell was I?’” Then, his tone changed. “Anne Sullivan?” he said, using his cigar as a pointer. “Everything her parents worked for ends up naked in a crappy apartment, killed by someone who thought her life was nothing.” He paused and spat into the gutter, clearly out of disgust.

  Three hours ago, Franks called her erratic and accused her of blackmail; Tuttle, it seemed, also had an opinion.

  “I’ve been wondering about her, why she dropped out after last year. Maybe she needed help. Maybe the University could have made a difference ....”

  Tuttle halted, using his hand to stop me. When he spoke, I heard an unexpected scorn. “What could the school do? She made her own choice, led her own life. Gave up a scholarship! To do what? Hang around with a punk we know is a dealer. Not exactly the family’s pride and joy any longer.” Unpleasant emotions clouded his face. “Her family’s mourning her loss and her shame. She was a cop’s daughter.”

  He turned away from me and I had to walk faster to keep up with him. I recalled a line from somewhere that seemed appropriate: “the dead are always defenseless.”

  “In my experience,” he continued, “more often than not, victims are not very nice human beings. Most get murdered because they hang around vicious people. If it was my investigation, I’d say it was just the usual thing. Drugs, for instance. But no way,” he said with conviction, “no way, is it The Stalker.”

  “Because she’s white ...?”

  “More than that,” he answered. “I seen this before more than once. This guy, he starts off pawing ’em, but that gets him nothing, no satisfaction. He’s Fingers. A joke! He wants an FFFF. Ever hear of that? A “fist full of female flesh.” For some reason, he starts hitting on black women students. There’s some connection to Carter and them, something we can’t guess. He’s paying back, taking his revenge. Maybe, ‘cause he knows what the campus reaction will be if he gets it right. He adds the rough stuff. But still he gets run off. Three times! And he can’t even make the papers! No publicity! Worse than last spring! Then, he gets a knife and rapes Francine Johnson. On the Student Council. That finally does it. All hell breaks loose. Publicity up the wazoo! The three previous victims show up. More publicity. It’s clearly a Carter thing, with the blacks screaming to have him caught. He gets a new name. Forget ‘Fingers’. He’s on to something. He’s getting his kicks outsmarting us. Then, he assaults the Jones girl and better yet, he hits on Latoya Chapin whose father’s a big shot in Congress, a perfect target for more publicity. Cripes, they’re talking about closing the place down! It’s going better than he thought! He’s pretty smug now, what with the reaction on campus, and the dimwits downtown like McCarthy don’t get it. Don’t want to get it. Nothin’ random about this now. He’s pickin’ and choosin’ his victims.”

  “You mean, so why kill a white girl, somebody not even at the school?”

  He almost snorted with impatience. “Look, this time there was no knife, far as we know, and she was suffocated. Yeah, lots of bruises and raped, sure, but before, he had the knife. And fingerprints, enough for ten investigations, some good, some blurred, and maybe wiped. Can you imagine The Stalker wiping fingerprints? It’s not The Stalker but it makes no difference to McCarthy. McCarthy wants it to be The Stalker. It would be The Stalker making McCarthy’s point: ‘White girls, don’t fool around with black dudes.’ Fits into McCarthy’s view of life. And, he needs to protect Sullivan and his family. It’s not such an embarrassment to the family if she was The Stalker’s random victim—”

  He stopped but kept his head down and his shoulders hunched forward, as though his thoughts had gotten too intimate; then, he gave me a flinty look. “It’s personal now for Sonny and McCarthy. The Stalker is the Carter Stalker. In their twisted logic, he’s Carter’s creation, so Carter is the problem. It’s all Carter’s fault. Especially now. They didn’t like you…, us…, before, and they’re steamin’ now because of last night. The President gives the go ahead to Kingdom for his rally and they’ve got you pegged as an interfering busybody who’s buddy-buddy with Tramonti. So no matter what, they’ll keep The Stalker in it to stick it to the University. Funny, but to do that, McCarthy’s got to give us more tactical support this weekend.” I must have looked quizzical. “To get The Stalker. The Sullivan’s kid’s murderer. We’ll get a load of cops on double time Saturday night.”

  We waited at the corner of Brook Street and Waterman for the traffic streaming towards Wayland Square. “As for The Stalker, my bet is he’s been stoked up by the publicity on the murder. Somebody else is getting his coverage. The guy is a serial, even if he takes a Saturday night off now and again. He’ll make up for this one. I think it’ll get worse. He’s going to be back to make his mark.”

  With that, he threw the cigar into a puddle; it sputtered out and we walked the next few minutes in silence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was after four-thirty, with darkness only a few minutes away and the on-and-off drizzle starting again. As I shook Tuttle’s hand in front of the Security Office building, I lamented that I hadn’t brought an umbrella. He responded, “No problem” and ushe
red me into the Security Office’s waiting area where a dozen or more of his officers were pulling on greenish raincoats and flat brown hats over gray shirts, gray ties, and gray trousers with belts loaded with cell phones, walkie-talkies, key rings, and flashlights. There was little camaraderie in their conversation and only a few nods or other dry acknowledgements to Tuttle as we made our way through the room. “Shift change,” Tuttle remarked and signaled the duty officer behind a Plexiglas enclosure to buzz us through a door marked “Personnel Only.”

  We walked down a corridor to its end where he produced a key on a ring that would have made any janitor jealous and unlocked a door. Fluorescent lights revealed a storeroom, its walls lined with shelves filled with wire baskets marked by black enamel numbers, its floor covered by canvas bins overflowing with what could only be lost or abandoned property. “We keep everything but the bikes and the really big stuff in here. Should have umbrellas up the yin-yang.”

  He poked around in one bin, then another, and another, and even a fourth, but he was wrong. I thanked him for the thought and turned to leave when Tuttle reached to a top shelf and pulled down a scruffy, wide-brimmed, brown fedora adorned with a black ribbon at its crown. “Try it on.” he said. “Better than gettin’ soaked.” He gave it a buff with his coat sleeve, snapped its brim, and pinched the crown. Somehow, I was not surprised when it fit nicely. Tuttle smiled as he checked me out. “Makes you look like a regular shamus.”