“Yes, I’m here. Just a minute, please,” I called out. I hurried into the small bathroom and rinsed my face with cold water, then straightened my mangled hair as best I could. Then I went and unlocked the door. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have dozed off for a minute there.”
“I tried your phone,” said Peggy, “but I think you have it set on DO NOT DISTURB.” She was right.
“Bill, we need to talk,” said the woman with Peggy. It was Amanda Whiting, UT’s general counsel.
“Come in, Amanda,” I said, “have a seat. Thank you, Peggy.” Peggy backed out, looking at me with concern and at Amanda with suspicion. “What’s on your mind?”
“I know you’ve had a rough couple of days,” she said, “and I hate to add to your troubles, but we have two major problems. As I feared, this creationist attorney, Jennings Bryan, has filed a civil suit seeking damages on behalf of his client. Your student Jason Lane.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “I wish I could hit REWIND and do that day’s class over again. I hate it that I upset him so badly, and I hate it that UT is now bearing the burden and the expense of defending against a suit like that.”
“That’s…one of the issues we need to discuss,” she said. “As you know, our policy is to defend academic freedom vigorously-when a professor is making a point relevant to the course material. In this case, it’s been called to my attention that a tirade against creationism is not, in fact, pertinent to a class in forensic anthropology.”
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Are you telling me the university might not stand behind me in this?”
“I’m afraid I am,” she said. “The trustees met in special session yesterday. They spoke with Mr. Bryan, and with the president of the faculty senate-who agrees, by the way, that you overstepped the bounds of academic freedom in this instance. In exchange for a letter from the board of trustees expressing a similar position, Mr. Bryan has agreed to drop the university from his suit.”
“But he’s not dropping the lawsuit altogether?”
“No. He now plans to sue you for actual and punitive damages.”
“How much?”
“One million in actual damages. Three million in punitive.”
“Four million dollars for embarrassing a kid in class?” She nodded grimly. “And the university’s basically cutting me loose to fight this on my own?”
“I’m afraid so, Bill. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”
“Well. When it rains, it pours. Which reminds me, you said there were two big problems. What’s the other big problem?”
“I can’t imagine you’ll be surprised to hear that it’s the murder of Dr. Carter. I’ve been informed that you are considered a suspect in that murder. Bill, we’re a school. Parents entrust their kids to our safekeeping. We have no choice but to suspend you until this is cleared up.”
“Jesus, Amanda, what ever happened to the notion that a man is innocent until proven guilty?”
“Legally, that’s the presumption,” she said, “but we’re a publicly funded educational institution, Bill, and the public holds us accountable to other, stricter standards.” She glanced down at my desk, where I had photos of Jeff ’s boys. “Are those your grandkids?”
“Yes.”
“If one of their teachers were a suspect in a child abuse case, wouldn’t you want that teacher out of the classroom until the matter was resolved?”
If she had picked any other example, I could have argued with her. “Dammit, Amanda, you are taking away one of the last things I am clinging to for sanity right now.” She looked regretful, but not regretful enough to change anything. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack up some things,” I said stiffly. “I’ll be off campus within an hour. Thanks a lot, Amanda. It’s been a swell twenty-five years.” I turned my back on her and began to gather papers.
For months I’d been putting off a project whose deadline had come and gone: I’d promised a textbook publisher to revise and update my osteology handbook, which I’d written right after I began teaching, to help students identify bones in the field. But the combined demands of teaching, research, administrative duties, and forensic cases had made it impossible to set aside enough time to burrow into the revisions. Maybe now-barred from teaching, but not yet behind bars-I could finally get it done. I stuffed all the journal articles and research reports I’d accumulated as reference material into my briefcase, along with a triple-spaced version of the existing edition’s text, then turned out the light in my office and closed the door. As I locked it behind me and headed down the stairs and out the east end of Stadium Hall to my parking space, I wondered if I would ever return.
My parking space was empty. Of course: my truck had been seized, and the Taurus I’d rented remained parked in my driveway, five miles away, thanks to my one-way trip downtown in a police car last night. “Dammit!” I shouted. “Is it too much to ask?”
A horn tooted behind me for a fraction of a second. I turned and saw Miranda leaning out the window of her Jetta. “Is what too much to ask?”
Relief swept over me. I nearly cried at the sight of her face, looking at me in the same open and friendly way it had for years. “Is it too much to ask for a ride home,” I said, “and maybe a few kind words along the way?”
“Get in,” she said, “you brilliant, handsome, kindhearted man.”
Now I did cry.
CHAPTER 33
I PULLED THE RENTAL car into the driveway at Jeff’s house, after checking my rearview mirror to make sure no one had followed me here. The double-width garage door was open, and inside, I saw both Jeff ’s Camry and Jenny’s Honda minivan.
The front door was open, and through the glass storm door I saw Tyler and Walker in front of the television. I rapped on the door, then opened it and stuck my head inside. “Hey there,” I called to the boys, “look who’s here!”
Both boys turned in my direction. Walker was the first to scream, but a split second later Tyler joined him. Jenny came rushing out of the kitchen, an onion in one hand, a big knife in the other. When she took in the scene, the knife and the onion fell to the carpet. Jenny hurried over to the boys and knelt down, wrapping an arm around each. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed. “Come in the kitchen with Mommy. Come on. Everything’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
A moment later Jeff emerged from the kitchen, looking embarrassed but angry. “God, Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish you had called before you came.”
Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know that…that I needed to.”
Jeff made a face. “Some of the kids at school…You know how mean kids can be. I guess some of the parents let their kids watch the news. We don’t, but not everybody is as picky as we are about what their kids see. Anyhow. Obviously. They’re…confused about you right now.”
“Terrified of me, I’d say.” He winced, but nodded in acknowledgment. “I guess this is not such a great place for me to take refuge from the media, then, is it?” He blanched, and looked nearly as terrified as the boys had. “I should be going, then.” I turned and went out the front door.
He followed me out. “Dad, wait. Come on, don’t just run away. What do you need? What can I do to help?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Jeff. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot right now. Everything I thought I knew-everything that seemed stable and reliable about my life-has imploded in the past few days. A woman I was starting to fall in love with has been killed, I’m on the verge of being charged with her murder, the university is suddenly treating me like a pariah, and my grandsons think I’m a villain out of some horror movie. I don’t know what I need, or what anybody can do to help. It’s like I’ve stumbled into the Twilight Zone, or some negative-polarity universe where every good thing I had and stood for has gotten twisted into its polar opposite.”
“Tyler and Walker are little kids,” he said. “They don’t understand; they can’t understand. But I can. And
I’d like to help. Let’s think about this for a minute. Do you need a lawyer?”
I shook my head. “I’ve already hired one.”
“Who is it? Somebody good?”
I shrugged. “Yes and no. Burt DeVriess.” He groaned. “I know, I know-he’s the best of lawyers and the worst of lawyers. Believe me, I’m painfully aware what a Faustian bargain I’m making. But somebody has done a damn good job of making me look guilty. Now’s not the time to be squeamish about Grease.”
“Okay, I understand. You need a place to stay?”
“Yeah. I imagine KPD’s forensics unit has moved into my house. And a small fleet of TV trucks has taken up residence in the street.”
“Damn,” he said, “I’m sorry. I know how painful this must be.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” I said. “Even I can’t quite comprehend how awful this is.”
He looked frustrated, and I saw him biting back something, and I felt bad for snapping at him in self-pity. “You’re right, I don’t,” he said, “but I’d like to help. Let’s figure out someplace quiet you could go, someplace off the grid.” He thought for a moment. “You don’t really need computer access or television, do you?”
“No,” I said. “In fact, I’d prefer to be as far from TVs as possible.”
“Here’s an idea,” he said. “What about a cabin up at Norris Dam State Park? Remember that week you and Mom and I spent up there, back when I was about ten? Paddling a canoe around the lake, hiking the trails in the woods? That was great.”
“It was,” I agreed. “Cheapest vacation we ever took. Maybe the best, too.”
“Jenny and I took the boys up there one weekend last fall. I don’t think they’ve done a thing to those cabins since I was ten.”
“Still lit by kerosene lanterns? Nothing but grills to cook on?” He smiled and nodded. “Sounds nice,” I said. “But I probably need to be someplace with a phone. And I can’t use my cellphone-I switched it off after the hundredth media call.”
“That’s easy,” he said. “I’ve got an extra cell at the office; the seasonal tax accountants use it when they’re working off-site at clients’ locations. We can run by and get it, make sure there’s a car charger for it. I’ll go to the grocery store with you, if you want, help you load up a cooler with milk and cereal and sandwich fixings and stuff you can grill.” He seemed to be building genuine enthusiasm for the idea, and I felt at least a bit of that energy flowing into me.
“I like it,” I said. “Do me some good to get out of Knoxville and walk in the woods. Let’s go.”
He went inside to confer with Jenny. Five minutes later Jeff and I pulled our cars into the parking lot of his office, and in another ten we were cruising the aisles of Kroger, arguing the relative merits of hot dogs versus hamburgers, mesquite chicken versus honey ham, whole wheat bread versus seven-grain, and Honey Nut Cheerios versus plain. A hundred fifty bucks after that, we loaded the trunk of the Taurus with a cooler laden with sandwich meat, milk, mayo, mustard, and pickles; bread and cereal; fruits and berries; and various members of the crunchy, salty food group. I thanked Jeff for the idea and the cellphone, and left the suburban McMansions of Farragut for the rustic cabins of Norris.
Jeff had called Norris Dam State Park on the way to the grocery store, and by great good fortune had snagged the only cabin available, which had just come open because of a last-minute cancellation. As I left Knoxville behind, I felt a bit of the weight drop from my heart. I found myself looking forward to a quiet week in a cabin where I could divide my time between revising my book and wandering trails beneath towering oaks.
Between Chattanooga and Knoxville, I-75 angled northeast; beyond Knoxville, though, it veered northwest, forsaking the Tennessee Valley for the Cumberland Plateau. And just at the edge of the plateau where the green waters of the Clinch River threaded deep wooded valleys, TVA had built the first of its network of hydroelectric dams in the 1930s, bringing electricity and industrial jobs to a region of rural subsistence farmers. Norris Dam State Park straddled the slopes on either side of the dam; the south side boasted modern chalets and a swimming pool; the north side, which I greatly preferred, had a rustic tearoom and primitive cabins. Mine, it turned out, was at the back of the loop road, right at the base of a trail leading up the hill into a huge, pristine watershed. I unloaded my groceries, brought in my bulging briefcase, and set off up the hill. By the time I returned two hours later, darkness was falling, my legs were spent, and I crawled into bed without eating a bite.
Next morning at six, I awakened to birdsong, and by seven I was immersed in my revisions. Papers sprawled across the entire top of a picnic table, anchored against the breeze by rocks that sparkled with quartz and glossy black streaks of coal.
DeVriess called at ten; I’d phoned him on the drive up the evening before and left the cellphone number on his voice mail. “I’m heading into court on a bank fraud case,” he said, “so I only have a minute. But I wanted to pass along what I just heard by way of the grapevine. I was wrong about your friend Bob Roper, the DA.”
“You mean when you said he’d prosecute me even if I were innocent, long as he thought he could win.”
“Something like that. I underestimated Roper. He’s recusing himself and his staff from your case-says it represents an irreconcilable conflict of interests and loyalties for the entire office.”
“That’s good news,” I said. “Mighty decent of Bob.”
“Maybe,” said Grease. “Or maybe, next time he’s up for reelection, he just doesn’t want the voters of Knox County to remember him as the guy who nailed Dr. Brockton to the cross.”
“Burt, you’re too cynical.”
“I defend the scum of the earth. Present company excepted, of course. Not a job for an optimist.”
“Point taken. Practically speaking, what does this mean?”
“For starters,” he said, “it means the Tennessee Conference of District Attorneys General has got to scout around and find some other DA to handle the case. Preferably somebody who hasn’t worked with you.”
“They might have to go to Middle Tennessee or even West Tennessee for that,” I said. “I think I’ve testified for all the DAs here in East Tennessee.”
“So depending on how long it takes to find somebody, we could be in limbo for a while. Weeks, maybe months.”
“Ah. Then that’s not such good news after all,” I said. “I hate limbo. I’m suspended from my teaching job, I’m holed up in a state park, my grandkids think I’m a monster, and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I’ll press the court for a speedy trial, Bill, but I don’t know that I have any influence.”
“Well, do your best.”
“Okay. I’ll call you whenever there’s news.”
I forced myself to refocus on my revisions, and soon I was immersed again. I spent the rest of the morning combing through five years’ worth of research papers on the pubic symphysis-the joint at the midline of the pelvis, where the left and right pubic bones meet-and updating my textbook’s discussion of how features and changes in the bone at that junction could be used to estimate the age of a female skeleton with remarkable accuracy. After lunch, I switched to cranial fractures; one of the department’s graduate students had just completed a fascinating thesis describing a series of experiments with skulls and a “drop tower” in the Engineering Department: a platform attached to a vertical slide which allowed her to subject the skulls to measurable, precisely controlled impacts and compare the results. It was doubtful that a living person would ever be strapped to the drop tower and smashed to death-unless intradepartmental rivalries were far worse in engineering than in anthropology-but the data from the thesis could prove extremely useful in helping determine whether the force inflicted by, say, a baseball bat or a fall down a staircase was sufficient to cause a fatal fracture.
Absorbed in the science, I was blessedly oblivious for hours. Just as the light was fading and I was gathering up my papers for the night, th
e phone rang again. It was DeVriess once more. “There’s good news and bad news,” he said.
“What’s the good news?”
“The good news is, you’re out of limbo. They found a DA who can take the case. New guy down in Polk County. Doesn’t know you from Adam. The Tennessee Highway Patrol actually picked him up in a chopper and set him down on the roof of the City County Building at noon today.”
“I’m afraid to ask, but what’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is, the other shoe has already dropped. The DA pro tem and Evers went to the grand jury this afternoon. I just got a courtesy call from Evers. Bill, the grand jury has issued a warrant for your arrest.”
CHAPTER 34
IT WAS STILL EARLY April, but the midday sun hit me like a slap in the face from a mean streak of late August as I locked the front door of my house and pushed through the driveway’s shimmer to the Taurus. Thirty-six hours after settling into a shady cabin at Norris Dam State Park, I’d been summoned back to Knoxville, back to the world of suits and ties and surveillance cameras and arrest warrants.
In the sweltering heat that engulfed me, the rental car’s vanilla paint looked brilliant rather than boring. The American president might remain unconvinced about global warming, but I was a devout believer. Spring came earlier and earlier to East Tennessee, and fall hung on longer and longer before anything remotely approaching winter weather set in-for what seemed like only a few weeks-and then things began heating up again. By the time I got the car started and the air conditioner blasting, my T-shirt was glued to my skin, my dress shirt was beginning to stick to my T-shirt, and my suit coat was bunched and wrinkled.
Of course, global warming might not have been entirely to blame for the sweat. I was headed to Burt DeVriess’s office, and from there, Burt was driving me to the Knox County Detention Center. I was turning myself in: surrendering voluntarily on charges of first-degree murder and-a charge I hadn’t even thought to worry about-desecrating a corpse. Of course, if I got the death penalty for first-degree murder, there wasn’t much way for the state to up the penalty for the second charge, so maybe it was just as well I hadn’t sweated that one.
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