The Broken Saint: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  “Good to meet you both,” I said. “Detective Karen Seagate. My partner, Detective Ryan Miner.”

  Mary Dawson waved to the two chairs. Ryan and I sat down. Christine took a chair that was facing Dawson’s desk, turning it so we all formed a rough circle, and settled into it.

  “I’m just going to slip behind my desk,” Mary Dawson said, “so I have access to Maricel’s records if Christine doesn’t have them.”

  Christine waved a folder. “I think I have it all here.”

  Ryan said to Christine, “As Detective Seagate said to Dean Dawson earlier, we’re very sorry this happened.”

  I said, “Yes, of course. We’ve met with our chief of police, and he’s told us this is our highest priority. We’re going to put whatever resources are necessary into this, and we’re going to solve this case.”

  Dean Dawson nodded, apparently taking some comfort from my words. “Was this an accident?”

  No.” I shook my head. “No, this was a homicide.”

  Mary Dawson pulled back at the word.

  Christine Hardtke was expressionless. “What can you tell us about the nature of this crime?”

  I picked up a very slight German accent, the kind that suggested English was her third or fourth language, and that, yes, she probably spoke it better than me. Her glasses had rectangular tortoise-shell frames that set off her light brown hair, which was cut short. She was medium height, athletic and comfortable in her body. Her close-cut pantsuit, dark crimson wool, buttoned just below her significant breasts. An abstract pendant of gold and silver hung on a thin chain around her neck. The lace border on her bra was clearly visible through the pale cream boat-neck blouse.

  “At this point,” I said, looking at her inexpressive face, “we don’t know very much. Her body was recovered near the river, off the Greenpath, a few hundred yards east of campus. We haven’t performed the autopsy yet. But we know she was attacked by one or more persons.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” Mary Dawson leaned in toward me, her elbows on her desk, shaking her head as if this whole thing was unbelievable. I guessed she spent most of her time in a gentler world.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Ryan said, “it’s too early for that. Her body was recovered only a few hours ago. What we’d like to do at this point is collect any information we can. Try to understand who she was, what was going on in her life.”

  “Of course.” Dean Dawson nodded. “Christine, can you sketch in her background?”

  “Certainly.” Christine Hardtke looked down at some papers in a folder on her lap. “Let me begin with the basics. Maricel Salizar, age 21. Born in Manila. Father unknown, mother deceased.”

  Ryan said, “Do you have a date on the mother’s death?”

  “Sorry, no.” She looked up at Ryan and then me. “She graduated from the Manila Regional High School almost two years ago.”

  I held up a finger. Christine saw it and paused. “Let me go back a second,” I said. “No father, mother dead? Do you know who took care of her?”

  Christine Hardtke turned a page over. “St. Mary’s Children’s Home in Manila.” She saw Ryan writing this all down. “No need, Detective. I’ve made you a copy of this file.”

  “Okay,” I said, “how did she get here to CMSU? Are there other students from the Philippines here?”

  “I have been here only three years,” Christine said, “but I am not aware of any.” She paused. “Just a moment,” she said. “I have a list of the forty-nine countries that our students come from.” She shuffled her papers. “Here it is,” she said. “No. Nobody else from the Philippines.” She looked up at me, pleased. It seemed important to her that she could answer all my questions efficiently.

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “Do you do any special recruiting—you know, any people on the ground in the Philippines?”

  “No,” Christine said. “We do not recruit outside the country at all, except in five provinces in Canada. There are no resources for that. However, our Web site contains ample information, and we are listed with the various agencies around the world that showcase U.S. universities. She would have no trouble finding us if she were looking.”

  “What can you tell us about her life here at CMSU?” I said.

  “The International Students Association holds a series of orientation sessions for our new students,” Christine said, this time without looking at her papers, “but the records indicate that she did not attend any of them.”

  Ryan said, “Is that unusual?”

  “Ninety-six percent of the international students attend at least one of our sessions in the first semester. Most of these students are excited to be here, but it can be such a stressful experience for them—the culture, the language, the university system, even the weather—that most of them are eager to participate in any kind of activities we offer. And they form peer groups with the other international students.”

  I said, “I guess they hang out with other kids from their own culture?”

  “Our experience has been that if they come here as a group from a very different culture with a significantly different language system, such as the Asian students, they can have a hard time connecting with our native students, or even with the other international students. These students have high intra-group cohesion.”

  I glanced at Ryan, who nodded to signal that Christine Hardtke had just said yes.

  “How about friends?”

  Christine said, “Part of the program for international students is Big Brothers and Big Sisters. We pair each of the students with a same-sex volunteer from the native-born cohort.” She flipped through the pages in her file. “Maricel’s Big Sister was Amber Cunningham.”

  I said, “Do you know if they were friends?”

  “We send emails to our students periodically to ask them about the process of acclimation, but we have no record of Maricel’s having responded.”

  I sighed. “Have either of you received any reports of conflict between Maricel and other students, either international or regular?”

  I looked at Mary Dawson, who was focused on her screen. She clicked her mouse a couple of times, then shook her head.

  Christine Hardtke said, “No, nothing of that sort.”

  Ryan said, “Do you know what her English skills were?”

  Christine shifted in her chair, her pendant moving across her chest. “Yes, all international students, even from Canada, are required to take the TOEFL test.” She looked down at her folder. “She scored 112 on the Internet version of the test, which is native English fluency. English is one of the several official languages of the Philippines. Anyone from the Philippines who is attending post-secondary schooling—there or anywhere else in the world—would have no problems with English.”

  I said, “How was she doing in her courses?”

  Christine shook her head. “The university has this program for all students called Early Warning. In week six of the semester, if the student is in danger of failing the course, she or he is notified and provided suggestions on how to contact the instructor, as well as some other resources on campus to help them improve their academic performance. This program has been very successful with our international students.”

  I smiled at Christine. “Yes, I’m sure it’s a great program. Do you know if she was notified?”

  Christine looked down at her papers. “Yes,” she said, “in two of her four courses last semester.”

  “And did she pull up her grades?”

  “She earned a 1.75 last semester. She was placed on probation by the university.”

  “And this semester?”

  “It is too early for the Early Warning program this semester. There is no official record yet.”

  “Do you know if she was a weak student in high school?”

  Mary Dawson spoke. “No, she had a 4.1 out of 5. That’s a high B, low A.”

  I paused, then turned to Christine. “How unusual is it for international students to flunk out here?” I
said.

  “Their failure rate is lower than that of the typical student,” Christine said, her chin up. “Most of them work extremely hard, and they have parents at home who are keeping close track of them. They usually do quite well.”

  “Can you give me a list of the courses and her professors this semester?”

  Christine pointed to the folder and passed it to Ryan.

  “Okay,” I said, standing. “Thank you both very much. Again, we’re very sorry about this. Let me give each of you my card.” I passed the cards. “We’ll get back to you if we need any more information, and please contact us if you think of anything we should know.”

  I waved thanks to the secretary as Ryan and I headed out of the suite and into the hall. We walked down the stairs, passing some students coming up, stomping their feet to get the snow off and shaking it off their shoulders.

  “I could do without a foot of snow,” I said.

  Ryan nodded. Couple of weeks ago we got hit with over a foot. We’d just started to see the ground again the end of last week.

  I got in the cruiser and started it up. Ryan grabbed the brush and cleared the windshield and rear window, then got inside.

  “So what have we got?” I said.

  “I looked up the graduation statistics for the whole university,” Ryan said. He had a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “Yeah?”

  “Four years, eleven percent. Six years, thirty-two percent. Eight years, fifty-one percent.”

  “That’s quite shitty, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, “but typically shitty, not extraordinarily shitty—I mean, for a low-tuition state university.”

  “Shitty is shitty,” I said.

  “Just out of curiosity, Karen, did you graduate in four years?”

  I shot him a look. “And you, Mr. Perfect? Four years?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head and looking down at his lap. “Not in four years.”

  “Aha,” I said, beaming. “Feeling a little shitty about yourself, are you, smarty pants?”

  “Three and a half,” he said softly.

  “What was that?”

  “I graduated in three and a half years.”

  I pulled the cruiser over and looked at him. His face was expressionless. “What the fuck?”

  “Excuse me, Karen? I’m not sure I understand what you just said.”

  “I said, ‘What the fuck?’”

  “Advanced Placement courses in high school. The football coach at BYU bet me I couldn’t do eighteen credits a semester.” Now he gave me a small smile. “I won.”

  “Get out of my damn car.”

  “It’s a long walk back to headquarters,” he said, his expression asking me to reconsider. What a flirt this guy must have been. “In the snow,” Ryan said. Then he turned on the big grin.

  Chapter 5

  “I reached two of Maricel’s three professors,” Ryan said as I got back from the ladies’.

  “And?”

  “One looked her up and said she was headed for a C, maybe a D. The other said, ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’”

  “It’s nice to be remembered when you’re gone.”

  “That second one was a lecture class. More than a hundred students.”

  “Still.” I was silent a moment. “Let’s not tell Gerson we know Maricel was going down the drain, okay?”

  “Sure,” Ryan said.

  We had finished lunch in the break room and were headed out to the provost’s house. He lived in the North End, the original residential neighborhood in Rawlings. Most of the houses dated from early in the last century. Prices were still reasonable, there was a short strip with a coffee shop, a Thai restaurant, a little grocery store, and a park, and there were no associations telling you you couldn’t grow tomatoes or you had to mow your lawn every month. As a result, one house would be a tidy two-story Craftsman bungalow with shutters, curtains, and a picket fence. Next door would be the same house, except for the weeds growing out of the gutters, neon Coors signs in the windows, and two-thirds of a motorcycle with a black and red for-sale sign in the front yard.

  We parked outside Gerson’s place. It was a two-story, with weathered unpainted shingles. A porch spanned the width of the house. Off to the side, connected by a walkway, was the two-car garage. As I knocked with the brass knocker in the shape of a bunch of wheat stalks tied together, I noticed a couple of original leaded windows off to the right in what was probably the living room.

  I heard Al Gerson’s big footsteps as he clumped his way toward the door, which was painted eggplant and had a winter wreath hanging from it. The floor squeaked as he opened the door.

  I almost didn’t recognize him. He looked ten years older than he had this morning. His posture was slumped, and his face was all pale and doughy. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Detectives.” His voice was soft as he stood aside for me and Ryan to come in. It was a simple entry parlor, a braided rug over slate flooring, with the staircase centered in front of the door. Everything was heavy, dark wood that I took to be cherry. “Thank you for stopping by,” he said as he led us into the living room. He gestured for us to sit in any of the various unmatched chairs and sofas in the cramped room. There was a Victorian mahogany couch with wooden arms, a pair of mid-century oak Scandinavian modern chairs, an overstuffed cloth loveseat, half a dozen end tables and coffee tables, and a black baby-grand piano. There were some paintings on the wall. None of them looked like anything I could recognize. The focus of the room was a brick-bordered fireplace, with all sorts of family photos on the mantle.

  He called into the kitchen, “Honey, the detectives are here.”

  Ryan and I remained standing, expecting his wife to come into the living room. We stood there for a good half-minute. I glanced at Gerson, who was looking down at the tattered fringe on a Persian rug, his hands in his pockets, trying to look patient.

  Finally, she appeared. Her face was deeply lined, her posture bowed. Her medium-length hair was gray, halfway to white. She wore glasses, no makeup or earrings or anything. She had on blue jeans, baggy, and a hideous hand-knit sweater as thick as a horse blanket, the kind you put on only when the crazy aunt who knit it stops by.

  She walked with quick, jerky movements, like a bird, her head pointed toward the floor. She looked up only to navigate her way through the cluttered room. I could tell she had been crying. She didn’t make eye contact with any of the three of us in the room.

  “Andrea, this is Detective … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names,” Gerson said, his hands out in apology.

  “I understand.” I turned to Andrea Gerson, who was standing near the doorway from the kitchen. “My name is Karen Seagate. My partner, Ryan Miner.”

  “Very glad to meet you.” She looked at me for just an instant, then shifted her gaze back to the floor. She did not look at Ryan.

  “As I told your husband earlier today, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  I paused, to see if one of them was going to say something. Finally, Gerson invited us all to sit, which we did. Andrea didn’t walk across the room to be closer to her husband. She just lowered herself quickly onto the piano bench.

  Gerson sighed. “We can’t … we can’t really process what you told me this morning.” His hand came up to his right eye to control the twitching.

  “It must have been a terrible shock.” I paused. “Maricel was living with you since August, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Al Gerson said. “We’d had some contact with her—written some emails, a few Skype conversations—over the summer, but we had never met her until we picked her up at the airport.”

  I heard muffled sobs coming from Andrea Gerson’s direction. She had started to weep. Everyone paused, as if she was going to say something, but she didn’t. Al Gerson turned back to me, which I read as him telling me to keep going.

  “This must have been quite an adjustment for Maricel, from an orphanage in the Philippines to Montana.”r />
  “Absolutely, but you know, it was less of a culture shock than I expected.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I think I mentioned to you this morning that we have hosted a number of exchange students over the years, and each successive one seems to know a lot more about the U.S. It’s as if our culture is the rest of the world’s second culture. Our movies, music, fashion, everything about our culture is so well known—and emulated. A girl like Maricel, who’s grown up with the Web, she knew more about American pop stars than I do—and that’s before she got here.”

  I turned to face Andrea, who was still weeping. “Ms. Gerson, did you get close to Maricel?”

  She just looked at me, buried her head in her hands, and started to moan. She stood and walked quickly across the room. By the time Ryan had stood up, she was already out to the entryway and starting up the stairs.

  “I’m very sorry, Detective Seagate.” Al Gerson gazed off in the distance. Then, after a moment, he turned to look at me. “It’s not relevant to your visit, but I feel I owe you an explanation.” He took a deep breath. “Andrea and I have two children. Judy is a freshman at the University of Connecticut. Very good student. And our son, Mark. Eight years ago, Mark’s twin, Mitch, died in a snowboarding accident.” He paused, took a deep breath to collect himself. “Andrea suffered a nervous breakdown. After all these years, she has not succeeded in moving beyond that tragedy.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear about that, Provost Gerson.”

  He nodded to thank me. “Before, she was quite a happy woman. A joyous woman. She was very successful, a business analyst for a software startup here in town.” He paused. His eye was twitching out of control, but this time he didn’t bring his hand up to try to control it.

  I looked at Ryan, who was scanning the books in a bookcase behind Al Gerson.

  “Now, she stays at home.”

  “With Mark?”

  Gerson looked down at his hands, then raised his eyes. “Mark struggles with his own challenges. He dropped out of high school several years ago.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “Officially, yes, I guess he does. But we’re never sure where he is minute-to-minute, day-to-day.”