by Lee Harris
“Professor Fallon,” I began, “my name is Christine Bennett and—”
“Do I know you?” he interrupted sharply.
“No, sir. I'm calling from New York State. I went to high school with someone you knew as an undergraduate at Rimson and I wanted to ask you some questions about him. His name was Heinz Gruner.”
“Who?”
“Heinz Gruner. He—”
“Yes, yes, I knew him. We were friends. Who did you say you were?”
I explained again.
“You're looking into his death, is that it?” “Yes, sir.” He sounded so intimidating, I was reduced to sounding like a scared student.
“That's very interesting, very interesting indeed. Heinz Gruner. I must tell you, Miss Bennett, I've been waiting for this call for twenty years.”
I was hardly able to respond. “I'm so glad to hear it,” I said lamely. “I was hoping to find someone who knew him. Do you have time now to discuss some questions about Heinz's death?”
“No, I don't. But I definitely want to talk to you. Give me your number and I'll call you back. Shall we say two hours from now?”
“That will be fine.” I gave him my number, made sure he had my name, and hung up. My heart was banging. However our conversation developed, I had hit the jackpot on my first try. I wanted to call Jack and tell him, but I knew his days were very busy and I didn't want to bother him until I had something definitive to say.
Instead, I took my notebook into the kitchen so that I could workwhile eating, and fixed some egg salad from an egg I had hard-boiled that morning. I added some salad greens and poured a glass of tomato juice. Ordinarily, I eat sandwiches, but Joseph and I had feasted almost every day in Arizona; foregoing the bread for a few weeks could only help the situation.
As I ate, I wrote down questions to ask Professor Fallon. I wanted to know how close their friendship was, what he knew of Heinz's trip to Arizona, who had accompanied him or might have accompanied him. Had Fallon ever met Heinz's parents? The questions filled the page as I ate and wrote. After lunch, I went back to my dining room notes. Perhaps Fallon knew the student whose whereabouts were unknown to the college. Perhaps he knew the man who had no apparent job. Teaching at the college, Fallon would be able to see his classmates every five or ten years when they came to reunions. He might be a gold mine of information. I could hardly believe my good luck.
By the time Fallon called me at a little after two, I was ready for him. “All right,” he said, taking the lead, “what has happened that prompted you to call me?”
I went through my story. He interrupted several times, but allowed me to finish. Apparently, his curiosity was stronger than his desire to control the conversation.
“Then it was just a coincidence that you looked into his death, is that right?”
“That's exactly right. I was going to Tucson and I remembered that that was where Heinz had died. The day after my friend and I walked up the trail he took, I met with the Towers, the people who—”
“Not so fast. How did you find this trail? How do you know you went to the right place?”
I told him about Deputy Warren Gonzales.
“I see. And he was the man on the scene when they found Heinz?”
“Yes, he was. And I was able to locate the couple who first spotted the body.”
“Who were they?”
“A young married couple at the time.” I described our meeting and the crucial new piece of information about the backpack.
“Amazing. And no one knew this for twenty years? What kind of police work was that?”
“Professor Fallon, it looked like an accident, a fall off the trail and down a very steep slope. The Towers said only that they had spotted the backpack and the body without mentioning in which direction they were walking. They didn't even realize until we spoke about it that they hadn't seen the backpack on the way up.”
“And no one asked. No one thought to ask.” He sounded angry and discouraged. “A young man dies and no one considers it anything except an accident.”
“Was there any reason that you know of that they should have considered foul play?” I asked, finally inserting a question of my own into the dialogue.
I could hear him exhale a thousand miles away. “No, I suppose there wasn't, at least nothing obvious.”
“Then what makes you think they should have considered something other than an accident?”
“Because everyone has a surface life and another life below the surface. When something as huge as a sudden fatality happens, investigators shouldn't go for the neat and obvious and close the books. Heinz was a quiet guy. I liked him. I'm a bully; you can tell that by listening to me. Just verbally; I don't hit people. But I'm another person under the argumentative exterior. Heinz was the opposite. He was this quiet guy who hit the books, listened to classical music, enjoyed his own company. But there was something underneath that was explosive.”
“Can you be more specific?” I asked.
“He kept most of his life secret. He had a mother and father. I met them when they came out for a parents’ weekend once. Quiet, scholarly people. You could see he was their son. But I believe there was more to Heinz's life than those two people and the study of history.” He paused. “I think he had friends or acquaintances that no one knew about.”
“If no one knew about them, what makes you think they existed?”
“Partly intuition. Partly—” He stopped again. “Professor Fallon,” I said, “if you know something, I would like you to tell me about it. I have reason to believe that Heinz was not alone on that mountain when he fell to his death.”
Now the silence was complete. I half expected him to hang up. “Are you there?” I asked.
“I'm here, yes.” His voice was subdued, as though the bully had been replaced by the calm inner man. “I saw him once on campus, walking with a man. I only saw them from the rear so I have no idea who his companion was, but I sensed he was older than a student. They were engrossed in whatever their conversation was. I slowed down so I wouldn't catch up with them. I didn't want to disturb them. They reached the library, which is where I was heading myself, and they stopped, shook hands, and the other man walked away, at a much quicker pace. I know this sounds vague and insubstantial—I would never accept such a story from a student trying to prove a point—but we're talking about an event that took place two decades ago and all the parties concerned are dispersed or dead. Had there been an investigation when Heinz died, had someone called me for information, I would have contributed what I knew. The images would have been sharper, the recollections stronger. The first I heard of Heinz's death was when I called him late that summer to find out how the trip was and when he was arriving on campus. His mother answered and broke into tears. I'm not sure she even got my name.”
“So you think he had some kind of relationship that he kept secret.”
“Let me be clear. I'm not talking about sex, OK? I'm talking about a business relationship, maybe a friendship based on some political or moral affiliation.”
“Could it have been drugs?” I asked.
“I doubt it. I never saw Heinz under the influence of anything stronger than music.”
I smiled. “You've had twenty years to think about this, Professor. What are your conclusions?”
“I wish I had some. All I have is unanswered questions. But I'm sure there was a part of his life that he kept to himself.”
“And that part of his life took him to Arizona?”
“I didn't say that, but it's possible.”
“Did you know he was making that trip to Arizona?”
“He talked about it. I knew he was going.”
“Was he going alone or with someone?”
“I'm not sure. I think the idea of going was his, and he may have planned originally to go alone. But I don't know how it turned out. Why do you ask?”
“Because there's evidence that he traveled to the mountain with someone who had a car.”
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“But that's not the person who reported finding the body.”
“No. If someone was with him, he disappeared after the accident. Or whatever it was. And Heinz had no luggage with him.”
“Hikers don't carry suitcases. They usually have backpacks.”
“The backpack that was found on the trail was too small to carry anything except water and incidentals. There wasn't even a change of socks in it.”
“So you think he had a larger backpack somewhere.”
“With a toothbrush and some clothes. He could have left it in a hotel room, but then the hotel would have notified his home. But if it was in a car—”
“Then his traveling companion drove away with it.”
“Exactly.”
“After killing him.”
“That's only a possibility,” I said. “The companion may have been overcome when he saw Heinz fall to his death and just run away. It wouldn't be the first time someone's courage deserted him at the wrong moment. But yes, whoever this person was, he could have pushed Heinz off the trail at a dangerous place.”
“This is all very interesting. I seem to remember that someone on our corridor that year was from Arizona.”
I looked down at my notes. “Steven Millman was from Phoenix.”
“Steve. That's the guy. I haven't seen him since…You know what? I think he dropped out that year.”
“Really? You're sure it was that year, the year that Heinz died?”
“I'm positive. There were rumors and gossip that he might have flunked a couple of courses, but I never heard the real story. I'll tell you what. I think I could find his records if you give me a day or two.”
“That would be very helpful. What do you remember about him?”
“Smart guy who didn't apply himself. I have a dozen students just like him this semester. If they take the time to study before the final next week, half of them'll pass. The others—good riddance. They've been warned. I'm not a hand-holder. I give them what they need to pass. The rest is up to them.”
“Was this Steve Millman on drugs? Alcohol?”
“He drank, but only on weekends. As for drugs, I couldn't tell you. I'm sure he smoked a little hash now and then; everyone did. Did he deal? I don't know.”
“I ask because maybe he wanted the contents of Heinz's suitcase. Maybe there was money in there.”
“How much money would a kid like that carry? It was probably all in traveler's checks, nice and neat and secure. Did they find his wallet on him?”
“In his pocket. Not much else. I've seen the police file. There was less than a hundred dollars in the wallet and I think he was at the beginning of his trip. He had just finished his exams. The date of his fall was May fifth, Cinco de Mayo in Arizona.”
“Ah yes, Cinco de Mayo. So he left right after exams. You're right. He must have had early exams and been at the beginning of his trip. It's even possible his grades were good enough that he was excused from some exams. They used to do that here. They've gotten a little stuffy about that recently.”
I was enjoying the professor's candid remarks. “According to the information Dean Hershey sent me, the boy from Phoenix never changed his address.”
“I'm glad you talked to Hershey. He's a good guy, a straight shooter. And Heinz and I took a course with him. About Steve Millman, all I can say is I haven't seen him at a reunion. And I get the list.”
“I have a question about another person on that corridor. His name is Martin McHugh. Do you remember him?”
“Marty, yeah. He lived next door to me. What about him?”
“There's no information on him after graduation, no address, no work, nothing.”
“Interesting. I haven't seen him since we graduated. I don't remember what his major was. I'll ask around.”
“That would be helpful. I was planning to call the last number the college has for him, his parents’ home. If they're still there, maybe they'll tell me where he is.”
“OK. Look, here's what I'm going to do. I have some numbers of friends from my undergraduate days. I'll give them a ring and ask some questions. You want to know about Steve Millman, the guy from Phoenix; Martin McHugh; and anything I can find out about whom Heinz might have gone to Arizona with.”
“Yes. I don't know if this case can be resolved, but I'd like to give it a try. What his mother is most concerned about is whether her son committed suicide.”
“Suicide,” Fallon said. “He never struck me as depressed or unhappy. He was a quiet guy, but that doesn't mean he was suicidal. And just because I'm loud doesn't mean I'm happy. I'll get back to you, Miss Bennett.”
“Chris,”
I said. “Chris. I'm Herb, Herb the bully. My wife thinks I'm a pussycat, by the way.”
I didn't believe for a moment in the characterization. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I had jotted down several phrases of his as he spoke. He certainly seemed to know the young men on that corridor, and I felt fortunate that I had run into him before I called anyone else. I decided not to call Steve Millman, the student from Phoenix, until Fallon got back to me about why he had dropped out of school. That left six on my list. I dialed the twenty-year-old number for the student who had disappeared, Martin McHugh. It rang and rang. No one answered and no machine picked up, which struck me as odd. Finally I hung up and went on to the next name on my list, the lawyer in New York.
Lawyers know how to insulate themselves. A professionalsounding woman answered with the words, “Law office.” I asked for Barry Woodson and she began to interrogate me. I wondered how this man ever acquired new clients. I might well have given up after the first few questions.
“I want to talk to him about something to do with his alma mater, Rimson College,” I said.
“Mr. Woodson does not take telephone solicitations.”
Gimme a break, I said in my head, echoing my husband—and lately my son. “I am not soliciting. This is an important matter concerning a fellow alumnus of Mr. Woodson.”
“Let me see if he's available.”
I waited through some clicks, and suddenly a man's voice said, “This is Barry Woodson.” He sounded much more friendly than his receptionist, and I began to change my opinion of lawyers.
“Mr. Woodson, my name is Christine Bennett. I went to high school with Heinz Gruner, whom you knew at Rimson College.”
“Heinz, yes. My room was next to his one year. Didn't he die in an accident?”
“He did. I'm looking into the events surrounding his fall in Arizona, and some new information about the accident has surfaced.”
“How can I help you?”
Whew. I gave him some information, then asked, “Did you happen to accompany him to Arizona on that trip?”
“I've never been to Arizona.”
“Do you know whether Heinz made the trip alone or went with a friend?”
“You know, I hardly remember talking about it. I think he wanted to hike somewhere and then during the summer I heard, maybe from a friend, that he'd had an accident and died. When I got back to campus in the fall, no one seemed to know much about what happened.”
“The accident took place on a mountain north of Tucson. Someone on your dormitory corridor that year was from Phoenix. His name was Steve Millman. Do you remember him?”
“Steve, yes, I do remember him. I think he dropped out of school.”
“He did. Do you know if he went to Arizona with Heinz?”
“Miss Bennett, you're asking me to recall a small detail of my college life that must have taken place close to twenty years ago. I hardly remember that Heinz was planning a trip to Arizona. I have no idea whether Steve or anyone else had plans to go with him.”
“Were you friendly with Steve?”
“We had a class together now and then. It's a small school so we all got to know each other. I knew him but I wouldn't characterize our relationship as being friends. And I never saw him after that year.”
“Was there anyone on
that corridor who was your friend?”
“Herb Fallon. We were buddies. He's on the faculty now: History Department. He comes to New York once in a while and we get together. You should give him a call.”
“I've already spoken to him. I'd like to ask you about one other student. His name is Martin McHugh.”
“Marty, yes. I knew him.”
“The college has only his telephone number from the time he was a student, and they've never heard from him. Have you, by any chance?”
“Sorry. We graduated and I never saw him again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woodson. May I call you again if I have some more specific questions?”
“Sure. If something happened to Heinz that wasn't an accident, I'd like to know about it.”
I thanked him and ended the call.
Now I would wait to hear from Herbert Fallon. I had done enough for one day and had plenty of leads to follow.
I had not yet told Jack about my day when the phone rang after dinner and Professor Fallon announced himself.
“Yes,” I said, feeling as eager as I'm sure I sounded. “Do you have something for me?”
“I got over to the records office before they closed this afternoon. This fellow Steven Millman from Phoenix is an interesting story. There's a note in his file that he failed to arrive for the fall semester, and his family called and then wrote to ask for their tuition and other expenses back.”
“Sounds like he made a last-minute decision. I assume they would have had to send a check for the fall term some weeks in advance.”
“Definitely. So whatever changed his mind occurred late in the summer, months after Heinz's death. About a year after that, Steve wrote to the registrar to see if he could reapply for admission. They said he could but he never took the step. That's the last correspondence of record.”
“And there's no explanation of why he failed to show up that fall?”