by James Hayman
Toni smiled. “Hey, there’s nothing like coming home to a man who can make great food. My advice to you is don’t worry about handsome or rich. All you gotta do is marry a man who loves to cook. I mean, Lennie and I have a deal. He cooks. I clean up. Works for both of us. Hey, Lennie, come on out and say hello to Maggie.”
A heavyset man with a round face, a double chin and a pronounced beer belly pushing against a white apron that was spotted with red emerged from the kitchen. Obviously Lennie not only loved to cook, he loved to eat.
Maggie held out her hand. “Maggie Savage.”
“Leonard Bernstein. Delighted to meet you and to answer your question before you ask it, no, I did not write the score to West Side Story.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you anyway. And I’m sure the West Side Story guy could never have made anything that smells that delicious.”
“Good. I hope you’re hungry. Toni will show you your room and dinner can be ready in—” he looked at his watch “—fifteen minutes.”
“I may need a bit more than that. I have to make a few calls that really can’t wait. Why don’t you two go ahead without me?”
Bernstein shook his head. “Not to worry. We’ll wait. I have a nice bottle of Italian red that will keep us company while you make your calls.”
Maggie thanked him and went up to the spare bedroom on the second floor of the duplex. It was big, yet still felt cozy with thick carpeting, a queen-sized bed, a couple of comfy-looking chairs and a large bookcase filled mostly with paperback murder mysteries. Ian Rankin, Tess Gerritsen, Peter Robinson and a bunch more of Maggie’s favorites. Best of all, it had a modern bathroom with one of those showers Maggie had never tried, the ones that hit you from six different directions all at once. She was almost sorry she couldn’t hop in and try it out before doing anything else. But shower time would have to wait. Maggie dropped her duffel by the bed and her computer bag on the desk. Speed dialed McCabe again and left the same message she’d left before. It was unlike him not to respond to voice mail. If she didn’t hear from him soon she’d call Fortier and sound the alarm. In the meantime, she figured she’d better call Landis to make sure she got him before he toddled off to bed.
She punched in the number he’d left on her voice mail. He answered on the first ring.
“Detective Savage?”
“Yes, Margaret Savage, Portland Maine Police Department.”
“Ian Landis. Glad you caught me. I haven’t been able to think about much else since I got the call from President Nixon.”
“I’m glad as well. I should tell you before we start that I’m recording our conversation so that I’ll be able to remember and review whatever you might be able to tell me.”
“Also to use it against me in court?”
“I hope not.”
“So do I. However, since I know I’ve done nothing wrong I won’t worry about it. I hope you don’t mind if I record the conversation as well. If anything comes of this discussion, I’ll probably want to share it with Holden College’s attorneys.”
“Fair enough.”
Landis started speaking before Maggie got a chance to ask a question. He sounded more than a little nervous to her ear. “Ann Nixon said you were investigating the death of one or perhaps even two of our alumni. Charles Loughlin and Joshua Thorne, two members of the Class of 2002. She said you thought Loughlin’s death and Thorne’s disappearance might be related to charges of rape against the two of them brought by a female freshman student in January 2002.”
“Did she tell you that the ‘female freshman’ recently took her own life?”
“Yes, and I’m terribly sorry to hear that. I remember the girl and the incident well and before calling you I took the opportunity to refresh my memory by going over my notes. I took careful notes of everything that was said in the meetings we had. When this kind of thing comes up it’s always a good idea to do that. I also told President Nixon as much of the story as I know. When she heard what I had to say, she asked me to fully cooperate with your investigation.”
“Good. I’m delighted to hear that. Why don’t you start by telling me what you remember about the incident? I’ll interrupt with questions if there’s anything I don’t understand or need clarification on.”
“Very well. At the start of the winter trimester in January 2002, a female freshman named Hannah Reindel made an appointment to speak to me about a sexual assault she said she’d suffered. Naturally I agreed to meet with her. A young man—another freshman named Evan Fischer—came with her to the meeting. Apparently he was the one who brought Hannah to the fraternity party where the incident took place. I asked if he was her boyfriend. She said no. Just a friend but she wanted him to attend. I asked if he’d been present during the alleged attack. He said no. He said he wasn’t there but had found her later at the scene, undressed and in a state of shock. He helped her get dressed and brought her back to her dorm. I told them both that Fischer would have to wait outside. Neither of them seemed happy about that. The girl seemed nervous and upset. My guess was she was counting on him to corroborate her story.
“The meeting took place in my office at three P.M. on Tuesday, January 8, 2002. My assistant dean, a woman named Martha Kramer, sat in. I also asked one of our attorneys, a woman named Jocelyn Neal, to attend. It’s standard procedure to have two or more people at conversations regarding accusations of sexual assault. Ideally, at least one and preferably two of them should be women. I had met Hannah once before during freshman week in early September and I was surprised when she arrived at my office that day by the physical changes in her.”
“What sort of changes?”
“When I first met her at a reception for incoming freshmen in September I was struck not just by how pretty and vivacious she was but also how enthusiastic she seemed to be about beginning her studies. She wanted to major in Cultural Anthropology. Most incoming freshmen have never even heard of Cultural Anthropology. Or have much interest in it.”
“Do you remember all the students you meet at a freshmen reception?”
“No. Very few, in fact. But I was an anthropologist myself. Full professor and head of the department before accepting the dean of students job. And at that time I was still teaching one course in Sociolinguistics. I remember how eager and knowledgeable Hannah seemed. She spoke about wanting to someday teach anthropology at the college level. I thought how lucky Holden was to have attracted a student like her. I said perhaps someday she’d teach here. She said she’d be thrilled if things turned out that way.”
“You mentioned physical changes,” said Maggie. “What sort of physical changes?”
“For starters she’d lost a great deal of weight. She wasn’t fat or even chubby when I first met her, but when she came to my office she was much, much thinner. Gaunt, really, with dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t eating. Or taking care of herself in any way. The energy and vitality that had impressed me so much in September was gone. Simply not there.”
“What can you tell me about the meeting?”
“Hannah came in. I made introductions and suggested we sit around a small conference table. When we were seated I asked Hannah what it was about. She said, ‘I want to report a rape. A whole bunch of rapes.’
“I asked her to tell us specifically what she was talking about. She said that she had been forcibly raped by at least two and possibly more male students after being dragged into a locked room at a party at the Alpha Chi Delta house. She only remembered two of the men specifically: Joshua Thorne and Charles Loughlin.
“She said the rapes had taken place in mid-October. I asked why it had taken her so long to come forward. She said it was because she was afraid. I asked her what she was afraid of. I remember she had a hard time looking at me when she spoke. But she did speak. She said she was afraid of being questioned by the police. Of being forced to testify publically in court. Afraid of people not believing what she said. Afraid of how her parents and friends might react. That everybody w
ould blame her.
“Martha asked Hannah what made her decide to come in now. She said she couldn’t live with it anymore. She wasn’t eating. She wasn’t sleeping. She was having nightmares and reliving the whole experience over and over again. She was planning to drop out of Holden anyway but before she did she wanted to make sure she went on the record with the truth about what Thorne and Loughlin had done to her. She said half the campus was whispering about it. Only the whisperers were saying it was her fault. That she got drunk and wanted to—pardon my language but I’m quoting her here—fuck everybody in sight.”
Ian Landis went on for another five minutes or so describing what Hannah Reindel told him and the two women in attendance. “When she’d finished, the lawyer, Jocelyn, asked her if she’d reported the rape to the police. If a rape kit had been taken. She said no. She said Evan Fischer had taken her to the student health center and told the nurse there what happened. The nurse asked her if she had showered since the event. If she had cleaned herself . . . down there. She said she had. It was one of the first things she’d done. The nurse said she still had to go to the Champlain Valley Hospital in Plattsburgh where a rape kit would be collected. Hannah said she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching her like that again and refused to go. She went back to her dorm room instead.”
“Did you believe what she told you?”
“I did, yes. I knew Thorne better than I knew Loughlin and had always thought of him as a smug, self-satisfied egotist. But in cases like this, my personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“What happened next?”
“I requested a meeting with Thorne and Loughlin. Kramer and Neal attended that meeting as well. The two men came in looking like the picture of injured innocence. I told them what they’d been accused of. They admitted that they’d both had sex with Hannah but insisted that the sex was consensual. They told me four other boys also had sex with Hannah that night, all of whom would swear, if it came to legal proceedings, that the sex was consensual. That she had said yes. But they adamantly refused to give me the names of the other four. They said they didn’t want to hurt their reputations but that the four were willing to come forward if it proved necessary.”
“In other words, you were faced with one she said versus six he saids?”
“Essentially, yes. Even though only two of the he saids were actually present. I expect the others would have come forward if Thorne and/or Loughlin were actually charged with rape. They also played an audio tape that they claimed proved Hannah had consented to having sex with them.”
“Did you listen to the tape?”
“Of course. Several times. So did Martha and Jocelyn. It was Hannah’s voice or it certainly sounded like it. She was saying things like ‘I want it.’ And ‘Fuck me.’ Again pardon my language. But . . .”
“But what . . .”
“In my view the tape was a phony. The things Hannah said were coerced out of her in bits and pieces while she was under the influence of drugs and the tape later spliced together to sound like it was all one continuous sequence. The breaks and blips were obvious to my ears. And I’m sure would have been obvious to anyone else’s. Frankly I thought Thorne and Loughlin were guilty as sin.”
“Did you tell them that?”
“No. I just thanked them for coming in and told them we’d get back to them.”
“Then what?”
“Kramer, Neal and I discussed what we should do next. I wanted to pursue disciplinary action against the two men. Perhaps legal action as well. Jocelyn Neal said that as the college’s attorney she strongly disagreed. She said too much time had passed. She said there was no physical evidence of rape. She agreed that the audiotape was fishy, that it had almost certainly been spliced together from bits and pieces, but that if we, as an institution, publically supported legal action for rape, it was unlikely we’d get a guilty verdict if the case went to trial or even any agreement to a plea deal if it didn’t. At the same time she said we would be opening ourselves to civil litigation from Thorne and Loughlin and possibly from the others. Reluctantly, I backed down. Knowing what I know now, that Hannah recently took her own life, I have to believe the rapes were a contributing cause. I can’t help but hold myself at least partially responsible for that. We told Hannah there was nothing we could do. That was the last time I saw her.”
“Did you also talk to Evan Fischer about the allegations?”
“Yes. Separately. He told us that he was the first person to see Hannah after the event and that she was very upset and told him she had been raped.”
“But you didn’t do anything about it?”
“No. Neal said Fischer’s testimony was secondhand hearsay. Nobody denied Hannah had had sex with all the men in that room. She reiterated that because of the time that had passed there was no proof of rape and since Hannah was not underage it still came down to a he said, she said situation. That even if the tape was shown to be phony, no wrongdoing could be proved. And, as I said, that would leave the college open to expensive lawsuits from both the Thorne and Loughlin families.”
MAGGIE THANKED LANDIS and went downstairs where she was greeted by Lennie, no longer wearing the splotched apron. He rose from his chair to greet her. “Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
“That’d be very nice, thank you.”
“White or red?”
She looked at the glass of red he was holding. “What are you drinking?”
“It’s a very nice Capezzana Sangiovese. From Tuscany. Only ten bucks and really very good for the price. Here, have a taste.”
Lennie offered Maggie his own glass and she took a small sip. “Mmm, it is good. Works for me.”
He grabbed another glass, poured in at least eight ounces and handed it to her.
“Lennie knows more about Italian food and wines than any other Jewish guy I’ve ever met. He actually went over and took a month-long cooking course in Florence . . .”
“Firenze,” he said, correcting his wife. “I think the English and by extension we Americans have a lot of gall thinking we can change the names of cities in other people’s countries. The one that bugs me most is Livorno. It’s a lovely city on the west coast of Tuscany that the Brits, in the glory years of the empire, decided they would call Leghorn. And if you look at old British maps that’s just what they called it for centuries. It’s an Italian city and the Italians named it Livorno. Where the hell did the Brits get Leghorn? That’s a name for a rooster not a city. A cartoon rooster, in fact.”
“Foghorn Leghorn?”
“Exactly. Anyway, dinner’s ready. Nothing fancy. Just a basic lasagna and a green salad.”
“Sounds perfect.”
While they ate generous helpings of lasagna and salad, Maggie filled Toni Bernstein in on her conversation with Ian Landis. She said she didn’t think a nine-hour round trip up to Willardville and back made sense at this point.
When Lennie headed into the kitchen to make three double espressos Maggie also mentioned to Bernstein how she’d been unable to reach her boss and was beginning to worry. She said it was unlike McCabe not to return her calls. “I don’t mean to be rude but I think I better take my coffee upstairs with me and try to find out what’s going on up in Portland now. Aside from anything else I want to see if we’ve got any meaningful leads on Joshua Thorne.”
“Or maybe even a meaningful body.”
“Maybe even. I also want to see what more I can find out about this Evan Fischer character.”
“Yeah. I’ll call my boss as well,” said Toni. “Let him know about both Fischer and Thorne and that cute little sign he had on his chest. Maybe that’ll be enough to convince the DA to get off his skinny ass and let us treat the Loughlin case as a murder.”
Maggie thanked Lennie Bernstein for a fabulous dinner, excused herself and took her espresso upstairs to her room. She sat at the desk, took out her phone and tried McCabe again.
Chapter 27
AS MCCABE WALKED back to his car he heard the familia
r strains of Ellington’s “Take the A Train” emerging from the edge of Baxter Woods just to his right. He followed the sound, saw a light in the grass, bent down and found his phone just as the sound stopped and the call went to voice mail. The killer must have thrown the phone from the car window as he was driving away. McCabe checked recents and found three calls from Maggie. Figuring it had to be something important he called her right back.
“McCabe? Jesus Christ, where in hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I’ve called you a bunch of times and all I got was voice mail. I thought maybe you were dead or something.”
“Nope. Not dead. Just a little beat up. Is there something urgent you’ve got to tell me right now or can you give me a little time to get back to my car and check something out?”
“Something important?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a feeling it could be.”
Maggie hesitated for a few seconds, debated whether she should let him hang up on her now that she finally had him on the phone. “How long?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll call you soon as I can.”
She finally said, “All right. Soon as you can.”
“Scout’s honor.”
McCabe ended the call, went back to the house, found Willetts, gave her her phone back and then returned to his car.
He started the engine. Turned the heater up to high. Flipped on the interior lights and took Norah Wilcox’s Day Runner from his pocket. He unzipped the well-thumbed book and started reading.
Basically the pages contained a bunch of men’s names. At least, he assumed they were all men’s, though a few could have gone either way. There were a couple of Chris’s. One Alex. One Sam, who was probably not a Samantha. After each name was a notation of place, time and date. A sum of money was written in at the end of each entry. Most of the names had phone numbers or e-mail addresses scrawled next to them. Regular customers? It seemed likely. McCabe quickly scanned a couple of pages of names and the amounts of money she’d charged them for her favors, which ranged from fifteen hundred to ten thousand dollars. It seemed like Ms. Wilcox, the Gillian Anderson lookalike, must have been very, very good at what she did for a living. He wondered again how much she’d been paid to pick up Joshua Thorne in the Port Grill bar and lure him to this crummy little house on this modest little street in Portland, Maine.