by Lisa Mancini
Freya, Neil, and Evangeline sat down to tea and cookies and the nun told Freya the mission of the school. It was St. Bernadette’s mission to educate young women to be future leaders. After a ten-minute commercial for St. Bernadette’s, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Sr. Evangeline.
The door opened and four young girls entered. They each took a seat on the sofa across from Freya. Wearing the school colors of purple and gold, their uniforms consisted of purple and gold plaid pleated skirts that fell just below the knee, white long sleeved blouses and tweed jackets with black ties. They looked very impressive.
Freya had attended public school her entire life. Although her late mother was a college professor and a Catholic, she believed strongly in public education. Baptized a Catholic, Freya was not a churchgoer. But she had made her confirmation and her first holy communion. Her saint’s name at confirmation was St. Bernadette. Freya loved the story of the girl from Lourdes.
Bernadette Soubirous was born in 1844 in Lourdes, France. She was the oldest of nine children and lived in extreme poverty. She was a slow learner and often bullied by the other children for her inability to learn quickly. She was very sickly. At age fourteen, she started having visions of a dazzling light and a white figure or a small woman. After experiencing eighteen visions, Bernadette assumed she was seeing the Blessed Virgin. The townspeople called her crazy and a liar but she never relented. During one vision, Bernadette dug up a spring in the ground and soon after that, people claimed miraculous cures. Eventually many churches were built near this site and pilgrimages are held there even to this day. People still claim to be cured by these miraculous waters.
Bernadette became a nun and died at the age of 35. She was canonized a saint in 1933. Freya loved the story. Bernadette was not smart, rich, or beautiful, but the Blessed Virgin saw something special in her. It was a message for all. Look a little deeper and you’ll find something special in everyone. Freya firmly believed that.
Sr. Evangeline suggested that Freya and Neil visit the conservatory on the south side of the property. She walked them to the door and said goodbye. Freya promised to stop back before she left. Neil took off toward the quad to continue photographing the campus. Freya followed the girls until they reached a glassed in building shaped like an octagon. It looked like a large green house but instead of plants, it was filled with chairs, sofas and even a TV suspended on the wall. Freya stood and waited to see where the girls sat. She let them take the lead.
Each girl sat separately from each other. One sat on the sofa across from where Freya stood; one sat on a large overstuffed chair and leaned back staring straight at her. But, a tall dark-skinned girl sat near Freya and a short, chubby girl who looked to be the youngest sat down beside her. Freya sat near them and waited. Before she could say anything, the girl lounging in the overstuffed chair said the last thing she expected to hear.
“We each have a theory as to who killed Sydney. But we’re not going to talk about that today. We’re going to tell you about something else. Something even worse than death. What’s the worst thing that can happen to a woman?” asked the plain, overly made up girl. Freya guessed her to be about 12 or maybe even 13. She wore too much eye make-up. But that was not her business. Before she could answer, the dark-skinned girl spoke.
“If we tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?” she asked in a shaky voice.
Freya said yes.
The girl took a deep breath and spoke.
“There’s a culture here that is very dangerous. We try to stick together but sometimes that’s not possible. Popularity is everything here. And there are certain things you have to do to be popular.” She swallowed. Freya waited for her to speak again. The other girls looked very anxious now, even the overly made up girl, who seemed to be the leader.
“What is going on that you want me to know? I won’t tell anyone. You have my word,” said Freya.
Finally, the little plump girl spoke. She looked Freya straight in the eyes.
“The boys at Wainsbridge Academy have rape parties. If you don’t go, they spread vicious rumors about you on the internet. And if you do go, they either rape you or try to rape you. Sydney went to a party last July. She was raped. We think the boy who raped her was her killer.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Freya was speechless. She had almost been raped last year by a man who murdered several people in town. She still had nightmares about it. She chose her next words carefully.
“Did Sydney say who raped her?”
The girls nodded.
“Who did it?”
“Brandon Cambridge. He tried to rape me too, but I got away,” said the dark girl beside her.
“Okay, let’s begin again. Can you all introduce yourselves? I remember you Arielle, its Arielle Armstrong, right?”
Arielle gave a little wave from the sofa.
“I’m Anya Andersen, how soon you forget,” said the girl practically lying down in the overstuffed chair.
“I’m sorry Anya. Our initial interview was so quick. I apologize,” said Freya sincerely.
“Apology accepted. For the record, no one has ever tried to rape me. I’d cut off their balls if they did,” she said confidently.
The little chubby girl beside her rolled her eyes. She extended her hand. “We haven’t met before, I’m Megan Monahan. I’m only eleven and I skipped a grade. But, I’m in eighth grade too,” she said seriously. Freya smiled. She liked Megan instantly.
She turned to the dark girl beside her.
“And you are?”
“My name is Molly Raju. I live across the street from Sydney. Last summer, Brandon tried to rape me. But, I was able to get away. Then, he posted all these lies about me online. I almost transferred schools. So, Sydney made a deal with him. She took my place.”
“What do you mean, she took your place?”
“She let him do it to her. She let him rape her. She made a deal with him. If she let him have her instead, he’d leave us all alone. And so far, he has,” she said quietly. “That was our deal. She sacrificed herself for the group. She believed it was better that way because it was on her terms.”
Freya looked around the room. These girls were 11-13 years old. This was their social life. My God, what kind of world do we live in?
“Okay, I’m going to presume that no one has ever reported Brandon to the police?”
Anya snorted. “The police? Do you know how raped women are treated in this country? They are vilified.”
Freya was impressed. Not only did this young girl know her statistics, she also used the word vilified correctly. She needed to proceed slowly and carefully.
“Who is Brandon Cambridge?”
“He’s a junior at the prep school a couple miles from here. It’s the old Castleton University. Wainsbridge expanded their school and bought the university after it closed three years ago,” offered Megan.
“How old is he, 16-17?” she asked.
“He just turned 17,” said Arielle. “I know his family. His dad works with my dad. Brandon is a drunk too - a mean drunk.”
“So, does everyone know about these rape parties?”
The girls nodded in unison. Molly explained.
“Brandon is super-rich and super-popular. If he likes you, you are golden. But, if he doesn’t or you piss him off, you might as well be dead. He trolls you on the internet or has his friends do it.” She shivered in the sunny room.
“Have any of you told anyone about this?”
“You mean, like parents or the nuns? Are you serious? We’d either be blamed or called liars. Either way, we’d be screwed.” Once again, Anya hit the nail on the head. Freya was again impressed.
“Do any of you believe he killed Sydney?” she asked.
All the girls but Arielle nodded. Freya looked at the blond girl sitting across the room from her. She knew something. She just felt it. But now was not the time. Megan responded as if reading Freya’s thoughts.
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“Arielle has known Brandon a long time. She doesn’t think he’s a killer,” said Megan.
Arielle spoke rapidly, “Just because some guy drinks too much and acts like a moron, doesn’t mean he’s a killer! I know how bad he gets when he’s drunk, but how could he have waited in the dark at the pond and drowned her? And why now? The rape happened four months ago – why now? And if he did know she was going to be at the pond that would mean Logan was in on it, and I’ll never believe that!” she finished speaking, gulping for air. The girl looked distressed and Freya took control again.
“Hey, what if I ask my friend? He knows a lot about law enforcement and may be able to give us some advice on how to proceed?” offered Freya reasonably.
“What do you mean – us?” asked Anya wisely.
Freya stood up and walked over to the girl slumped back in the overstuffed chair. She stood over her and looked her straight into her kohl-lined eyes.
“Anya, let me help you. We’re all women here. We need to stick together on this. You know, I was almost raped last year, I know what it feels like to still wake up in the middle of the night after a bad dream and think he’s in my house. I haven’t felt safe since. Give me a chance. Let me see what I can do, okay?”
Anya’s eyes glistened. Were those tears? What happened to this young girl to make her so negative and sarcastic? Or was she just an angry and frustrated pre-teen? Freya was still young enough to remember what that felt like. She reached out and squeezed the girl’s shoulder. Anya relaxed and nodded.
“Okay, just one more question – where do these parties happen?”
Again, Anya answered for the group. “Usually at a guy’s house. Like, Logan Bell or Mike Chancellor’s house over the summer. And a couple at Brandon’s house. Their parents are never home – they travel a lot for work. So, it’s just the housekeeper and the kids.”
“So, do you attend in a group or do you go separately?” asked Freya.
“We always go in a group and we stay in a group,” answered Molly. “But, I wasn’t feeling well at the last party so I had to use the bathroom. It was the 4th of July weekend, a big party weekend. I was flattered to be invited. Usually my sister Katie goes but she has a boyfriend, so the guys leave her alone. I thought I’d be safe because there were so many people there. Anyway, Sydney came with me to the bathroom and waited outside the door. But, when I came out, Sydney and I were jumped by Brandon and Mike. They each picked us up, ran into the room across the hall, and threw us on the bed. They jumped on top of us. I couldn’t breathe!”
“Brandon put his hand over my mouth. I was screaming. Then, Mike got up off the bed and put the TV on loud. That’s when Sydney ran off. She ran downstairs and got my sister and her boyfriend. I think if they didn’t show up when they did, Brandon would have either raped or accidentally killed me. I was suffocating! He had his hand over my mouth and my nose at that point. But all the while, he was pulling down my pants with his other hand. Mike was just standing there watching him and goading him on. At one point, Mike told him to stop, but Brandon didn’t. That last thing I remember was the uproarious laughter. They were laughing at me the whole time.”
CHAPTER SIX
Freya left St. Bernadette’s shortly before 3pm. She dropped Neil off at the Beacon and drove to the police station. Right now, she needed to speak with Chief Forensic Investigator, Douglas Mott, or just plain old Duke, as Freya called him. It was purely coincidental, that she ended up moving in across the street from him last summer, after purchasing her first home.
Duke was the former Deputy for Agatha Falls. He recently took a promotion within the town to a forensics investigator. Just friends, she often shared her concerns with him or just bantered with the handsome, rugged former football player, who grew up in town and was raised by a family of lawyers. He chose law enforcement over the legal profession and he was extremely popular with the locals, Freya included. If she could trust anyone, it was Duke.
“Hi Joan, is Duke here?” asked Freya of the new receptionist.
“Sorry Freya, he’s in Boston for the rest of the week. He’s at a forensics conference.”
Seeing the look on Freya’s face, Joan surprised Freya by sharing a bit of news not released to the public yet. “Freya, you could speak with our new detective from New York City. She’s moving into her office today.”
New detective? Oh, that’s right – Detective Morrison’s replacement. Freya had almost forgotten.
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Oh, she’s very nice. I’ll let her know you’re here. It’s Mike’s old office.”
Freya walked down the hall to the office that once held Detective Michael Morrison who had moved on to practice law, right across the street. Freya knocked on the door gently. She heard a woman’s voice say, “Come in.”
Freya walked in and was immediately shocked at the stark difference in the office. Gone were the slate grey walls and the old metal desk. The walls were now painted an ivory and the desk was a large old-fashioned oak desk. Plants lined the window shelf and a small oval braided rug replaced the old dirty brown rug that was threadbare and smelled like wet dog. It looked and smelled better already.
“Hi, I’m Freya Barrett. Welcome to Agatha Falls,” she said extending her hand.
The detective stood up and Freya noticed her exotic features and adorable short hair. A modern cut that looked like updated shag. Freya had long brown hair that she wore either loose or in a French braid. She wasn’t ready to cut her hair short like so many women do, as they get older. At twenty, she was still very young, so she had time to get used to the idea, if she did decide to go short.
She smiled broadly. “The Freya Barrett?” she asked dramatically.
Freya blushed and the woman laughed.
“I’m just kidding with you, but I have read your articles. You do a great job. I heard a rumor you were writing a book. Is that true?”
Freya sat down across from the detective and explained that she was writing a book about her experience as a local reporter. It was in the early stages but she hoped to have it published next spring.
“Very impressive. I have a hard enough time composing an email,” she joked. “So, Freya, let me begin by introducing myself, I’m Detective Dianna Ramirez.”
“It’s great to have you here and all the way from New York. We’re small scale out here, but we still have our share of crime,” said Freya diplomatically.
“Share? Well, I’d say that you have more than your fair share. I mean, just last year a teen-age girl was strangled to death, then a man was decapitated by piano wire, another man hanged himself in jail, not to mention the former sheriff either fell down the stairs or was pushed to his death. A woman lost her eye in a fight with you, specifically. A country club was set on fire from which you escaped. And I haven’t even mentioned what happened last spring with the college sex cult, the brandings, and the arsenic poisonings. I mean, my God, it’s like one of those villages in Agatha Christie!” she exclaimed.
Freya nodded. Yeah, she was right. She relived everything as she wrote her book, mostly at night and in bed. She wrote either on her lap top or by hand in a spiral note book. After all, JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter on a napkin, if you believed that.
“Detective, I need some advice. I spoke recently with some young girls, and I mean young, like 12 years old and they told me about rape parties that they’ve attended. They believe that one of our local boys killed Sydney Sanders. And they say he raped her last July. Now, let me explain. I can’t reveal their names. I’m sorry but I promised them I wouldn’t until they were willing to come forward.”
Ramirez nodded her head and Freya told her almost everything, leaving out names or anything that might reveal identities.
“Do you know why I left New York City?” she asked Freya.
“I left because I wanted to raise my six-year old daughter in a small town that had values and where the people actually cared about each other. If those girls are being
raped by older boys so they can add a notch to their belt, then I want to get those bastards.”
“Colleges are notorious for having a rape culture on campus. Girls are sometimes even drugged and while they are unconscious, boys have their way with them. It’s still rape, whether they hold them down or not. If the woman doesn’t consent and the man persists, than that’s rape.” She stopped and took a deep breath.
“When you introduce alcohol into the equation, the chances of a rape are more likely. Boys and girls have different expectations at that age. Girls like to wear sexy clothes and flirt but that doesn’t mean they want casual sex. But, that’s what a lot of guys want at that age. I’m not defending the guys, but that’s what I’ve seen in my line of work. Freya, if you really want to help these girls, I need to know everything.”
“I understand,” said Freya, “but the boy accused is from a wealthy local family and his father is very friendly within the New England social circles. His dad has political aspirations too. I don’t want these girls to be attacked in the press or in social media.”
“Why, look at what happened last year to that doctor who accused the Supreme Court nominee of sexually assaulting her in high school? She got death threats and the president went on TV and called her a liar! He mocked her! Can you believe that? Do you want that to happen to 12 and 13 year old girls? Well, I don’t,” responded Freya hotly. “I’m sure you want to help but we have to do it in a way that protects the girls.”
The detective sighed. “Freya, once those girls come forward, life as they know it will be over. If they don’t come forward, there’s nothing I can do. And if they do come forward, it’s their word against the big man on campus. That’s the way it is. I hate it- but that’s the way it is.”
“Now, if they had proof, like forensic evidence or witnesses, we’d be able to bring in the boy for questioning. But just an accusation isn’t enough,” said Ramirez.