by M. A Wallace
Now, she found herself dreading the future. Everything she had done, every meeting she had endured, every document she had signed, every late night or weekend hour she had put in had all come to nothing. She knew that in a heavily bureaucratized system like PASSHE, her conduct would be judged by her most recent results. Where once she had been sure that she would be a strong candidate to be selected as a permanent president, rather than an interim one, she no longer felt certain that the board of trustees would even give her the time of day. They had not even shown up to the emergency meeting she had called.
The scandal, as the Twitter feed on her phone reported, had gone completely out of proportion. Racist allegations flew about everywhere. The NAACP issued statements and published articles on how America's educational system had once again failed its black students. There was Al Sharpton, using any excuse he could to get in front of a microphone, speaking as if he knew anything at all about what happened at a small school in rural Pennsylvania. There was the governor—the same budget-cutting, tax break rewarding governor—getting in front of a podium to say how much of a tragedy it was that one of the state's best and brightest young minds had perished before her time.
On the edges of the discussion, almost hidden from view, was a growing criticism of Shippensburg University itself. No one mentioned Lorraine by name, for which she felt grateful, but there was nevertheless an undeniable, unmistakable animosity for yet another Pennsylvania school that had got it wrong, just as Penn State had gotten it so very wrong with its football program. During the few times when she could catch the evening news, reporters still sometimes talked about the incident at Penn State, dragging out some small fact or other in order to bring the focus back to an institution that had bumbled its way into shame and ridicule.
Though Lorraine knew Jolanda's death would not have the same effect as other university scandals, she felt the taint of infamy staining everything she did. After two months on the job, she had discovered that there was very little left for her to discover about the inner workings of the college. Everything depended on reputation. How many students came to the university depended on the university's public image. She knew that the public image of a nice, friendly place to learn contrasted greatly with the cold, rainy, sometimes difficult place that Shippensburg was. If the reality of Shippensburg University ever matched up with the public's perception of it, the school could look forward to more budget cuts combined with fewer new enrollments. She knew that many universities hung on by means of student loans, which allowed both traditional and nontraditional students to afford tuition that had become unaffordable. Something was going to give somewhere, and Shippensburg might be one of the first places to feel the brunt of an unsustainable system beginning its collapse.
Lorraine passed a brush through her hair, which did no good. The silver strands stood up again as soon as they were pushed down. She wanted a strawberry daiquiri of the kind she had made when she had been working for the Dean of Student Affairs. Had she known what a perilous, difficult job being president was, she would never have taken it. She had not understood until she got there that the person at the top was the easiest target.
She was in the middle of smoothing down her hair with water when the telephone rang. Not her cell phone, which always played a ringtone that sounded like faeries calling out in a forest, but the actual phone in the kitchen that she never used. She had never given out the number to anyone because she had never been able to tell when she would be at home to use it. She spent so much time on campus that, to her, the president's mansion, for all its finery and elegance, was just a place to sleep. She turned the faucet off and walked out of the bathroom in her pink rabbit slippers. She observed, not for the first time, that the mansion had been well-maintained over the years so that even its most private areas looked as though they belonged on an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
She reached the telephone in the middle of its fourth ring. She picked it up and listened to a woman say in a pleasant voice, “Good afternoon. Is Miss Lorraine Clifton there?”
Lorraine sat down in front of a notepad. This is it, she thought, the call telling me will no longer be retained in her capacity as president of the university. She said, “Yes, speaking.”
The woman's voice took on an even more pleasant aspect, as though she was an old friend from many years, attempting to renew their acquaintance. She said, “Miss Clifton, this is Paula Oulette from the University of Alabama calling. How are you today?”
Lorraine pulled the phone away from her ear to make sure that she really had heard what she had heard. She put the phone up against her ear again and said, “I'm doing well, thank you.” She chose not to add on, “And you?” for fear that the conversation would then revolve around small talk. She hated small talk even while she felt reluctant to share her true thoughts and feelings with those around her. The result left her alone in an expensive home on a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do and no one to see.
“Oh, that's good. Miss Clifton, I'm calling you today because I would like to know if you are interested in being considered for the position of president here at Alabama.”
Lorraine stared into space, her eyes wide with surprise. She had not expected anyone to offer her a job with any kind of responsibility at all. No one applied to be a university president; those openings were not posted on monster.com. Instead, selection committees chose candidates who had been in the public eye, or whom they knew of personally. This required every president of every university across the country to be in the public eye as much as possible, if a different position was desired. Then might come the mention at a social gathering that a vacancy had opened at such-and-such, or that the grand old man was finally deciding to walk off to the comforts that came with privacy and a pension.
She knew immediately that the call also indicated how Alabama perceived her situation at Shippensburg. They knew that either she was looking for an active position, or that she would shortly be relieved of her duties. She did not know why a recruiter would be working on a Saturday, calling up a president who found herself in the middle of a scandal that might ruin her career. That much she did not spend any time thinking about other than to let it register in her mind. Then, her thoughts turned to the interviews and references, phone calls, and excursions to the university. If she could get the position, she would at least have something secure, something stable upon which to build a legacy, however tenuous it might be.
She said, “Yes, I am interested. What do I have to do? I must admit, I'm rather new to all of this.”
The woman said, “That's not a problem. This is a query call to gauge your level of interest in the position. The next step in the process is to schedule a telephone interview with you. We would like to do this sometime next week. Is there an appropriate time we can schedule for you?”
For the first time that day, Lorraine thought about her schedule the following week. So much of it would have to be changed to because of all that had happened. She had an end-of-semester review with the board of trustees Thursday morning; she could think of nothing else that could not be canceled. She said, “Monday will do just fine. Monday morning, the earlier the better.”
“Thank you, Miss Clifton. Then I will put you down for Monday at 9 a.m. Is that acceptable?”
Lorraine forced herself not to breathe a sigh of relief. She said, “Yes, that is acceptable.”
“Very well, thank you for your time. We look forward to speaking with you again.”
The phone then produced a clicking sound followed by a monotone hum. She placed the phone back in its cradle, her mind racing with possibilities. She knew it would be a coup for a conservative southern university, one that lived in a state that was practically a theocracy, to be seen as being progressive by hiring a female president. Though it had sometimes been the case that her sex had helped her advance her career, she had never turned down any chance for advancement. Nor would she now.
She decided that she had to
get a shower and face the music, whatever it might sound like.
2
The ride down to Shippensburg on a Saturday afternoon through the rain had not been as pleasant as the morning ride had been in the freezing cold. The semblance of warmth that came with the afternoon brought people out of their houses to shop, to visit friends, to go drinking, to do anything that required a car. Most of anything that could be done in one's leisure time in Pennsylvania required a car, for there were so little avenues of entertainment available. Those that did exist were spread out across the various counties of the state. Michael had even heard of people taking the bus to Philadelphia just to find entertainment for the weekend. In consequence, traffic of all kinds clogged the streets of both Carlisle and Shippensburg. Michael watched with impatience as Billy became stuck behind two tractor trailers driving side by side, both at sixty-two, when the speed limit was sixty-five. He supposed they were talking to each other, or had spotted the fuzz behind them and had decided to play a prank. He played with the seat belt strap over his chest, trying not to sigh, or make any indication of his exasperation. He knew from experience that Billy took such displays personally as a slight against his driving ability.
While the snow had made Shippensburg seem like a quiet place where nothing of interest ever happened, or ever would, the rain had transformed the town into a slushy, ugly mess. Streams of water flowed downhill towards open grates, many of which were clogged with detritus that caused puddles to form on the streets. The water came both from rain and from melted snow. The puddles grew deeper and deeper until cars had to slow down while they passed through. Water splashed up onto sidewalks and parked cars. At the bottom of the hill on King Street, where a Chevrolet dealership sat across from a pharmacy, a foot and a half of water piled up, unable to flow out into the drainage system that emptied out into the Chesapeake.
Michael observed the water with a growing discomfort. He had the sense that something was wrong in Shippensburg beyond the university, something that went to the core of how the town operated. He did not know what that might be, or even what might be causing it. He watched the crammed-together apartments pass by, then felt his unease grow even greater when Billy brought the car to the university welcome sign and turned left.
Without knowing why, he reached for his gun. Billy pulled over at once. He said, “Hey Mikey, you serious? What's wrong? Your spidey-sense tingling?”
Michael looked into the side-view mirror, then looked left and right. He saw no cars anywhere. No one walked around, either nearby or far off in the distance. All was quiet. Michael pulled his hand off his service weapon and said, “Maybe a little. I don't know, I got a feeling.”
“You want me to call it in, this feeling of yours? I think they got a new code for it. 9185, Michael Ross is seeing things. The code demands the immediate attention of all available officers in addition to any available medical personnel. Officers are directed to respond to a 9185 without delay. Failure to respond will result in–”
Michael held his hands up in mock surrender. He said, “I get it, I get it. You don't have to stop just because I get a funny feeling, okay? The residence is straight ahead of us. Let's go serve our warrant.”
Billy pulled the car back onto the smooth, unmarked road. He said, “Okie dokie. You're the boss.”
3
Michael found the university president in better spirits than she'd been several hours before. Her eyes had become clear. The clothes she wore—no longer rumpled pajamas—fit the image that Michael had of a professional taking a day off. She had taken the coffee pot and the mug off the living room table. A scent reminiscent of flowers hung in the air. Whereas she had looked defeated and withdrawn, now she looked determined and ready. He regretted having met her through professional circumstances; she was exactly the kind of woman he would ask out for a beer.
She let him in without a word, just a wave of the hand. He stepped inside and said, “Ms. Clifton, I've come to serve a warrant.”
Even this declaration, which he thought would have been devastating earlier in the day, received only a passing acknowledgment. She stood in front of him, her back straight, her head held high, her arms crossed over her stomach. Confidence seemed to come out of her pores. She said, “Hello again, Detective. Back so soon? Would you mind if I saw the warrant, please?”
Legally, Michael was required to let the woman see the warrant and everything it said. Many police officers, including his partner, often flashed the warrant up, then put it away again. Michael never saw the purpose in this: once a judge put his signature on the document, the designated party or parties had to comply with the instructions therein or face a legal penalty, the severity of which depended on the mood of the judge at the time of sentencing. Since he expected that she would be well acquainted with legal documents in consequence of her position, he handed it over.
Her eyes scanned the page. Then her lips moved while she read the words under her breath. Michael stood in place, thinking that he would let his partner serve the next warrant at the hospital. The man had thus far spent so much time sitting in the car that he would by now be antsy to get involved himself. He was not, after all, a chauffeur to the county's famous detectives. He was a detective himself, qualified and capable, every bit as good as anyone else.
She handed the warrant back to him. She said, “I can agree with letting you have the names and phone numbers and addresses of any students you may wish to question. You'll have to tell me who you want, though. I'm not disposed to give you everybody on the books. I know you won't question them all, and I don't want that information in police hands for future use.”
Michael couldn't help smiling. He liked her spunk better than her misery. He pulled out his notepad and flipped back a few pages. He said, “All right, there's this group on campus called To Write Love on Her Arms. Have you heard of them?”
“Sure, they do free hugs day, sometimes.”
“I've already questioned Shannon Moore, who is the president. I would also like to question Carly Louis, Violet Rasmussen, Zachary Tyler, and anyone else who might be involved in the group. I don't have the full roster of registered members.”
The president shrugged. She said, “Okay, I can give you those three. Finding every member who attended this year might be a little tricky. Membership changes from week to week. All student organizations keep a sign-in sheet if they receive funding through the student senate. You'd either have to wait until Monday to get the names of everyone involved in the group, or you'd have to ask one of the executive board members if a computerized record was kept of attendance. They're not required to do so, you understand. It's usually the case that they take their sign-in sheets and turn them in to the senate.”
Michael remembered the time change the judge had made and cursed inwardly. Instead of waiting until Monday morning, he'd have to come back again Sunday night when all the students returned from their weekend excursions. He'd have to knock on doors and ask resident directors for privileged information. But then, he thought, that might be something Billy could do, as well.
He said, “Okay, that will suffice for now.”
“I have to start up my computer. Would you mind waiting in the living room while I print out the information you require?”
“Sure, if you don't mind me calling my partner in.”
“Of course.”
Michael went back outside and waved Billy to come in. Billy's relief was plain. He got out of the car and pulled his coat up over his head. Michael made a mental note to find out whether the older man was deferential because Michael was the senior partner, or whether it was just easier to get along that way. When he had been partners with Julie Griggs for five years, she had let him do the talking, more often than not. She was a listener, rather than a talker. She said little, but what she did say often kept his attention. She had been invaluable to him, not just as an alternative perspective, but as someone who saw around corners, often five steps ahead.
Billy was diff
erent. Billy always thundered straight ahead, plowing through a case until he got to the heart of the matter. He was neither subtle nor tactful. He spoke his mind at all times, even when doing so was inadvisable. His bluntness, more than anything else, had kept him in a uniform for the majority of his career while other officers got promoted either by keeping their mouths shut or sucking up whenever possible. Billy McGee was not meant for the hierarchical structure of a police department; he did not care who had what rank, or who would be offended by his words. He said what he meant, and nothing else.
As he considered that, Michael began to understand why Billy sometimes saw police work as just a job, instead of a calling. He had gone into it with the utmost respect for the truth. He had always called it like he saw it. In return, he had received the irritation of his superiors, many of whom were stressed out enough without someone in their own department adding to their stress. If he worked in a department that didn't believe in the truth, or couldn't handle it when it was spoken, was it any wonder why he lost his passion for his work?
Billy stomped his shoes before the threshold, shaking off the water he'd stepped in. He entered and said, “Golly gee, Mikey, ain't this a twist? You're inviting me in to help you with an interview. Who'da thunk it?”
Michael gestured to the living room. He said, “I thought you might be getting lonely out there all by yourself. You know, like you might want some company of the female persuasion.”
“Aw, stuff your sarcasm in a sack, mister. You know I got a wife at home who puts up with my shit. I don't want no more than that.”
Michael sat down on the sofa next to Billy. He said, “Yeah, I know. Sorry if I tweaked your nose the wrong way.”