The Cover Story

by Deb Richardson-Moore

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Water? Coffee? Coke?”

  The girls declined, shucking their overcoats to reveal cashmere underneath. “Okay then,” Branigan said as they settled themselves at one end of the conference table. “How can I help you?”

  Emma leaned forward, her blue eyes laser focused on Branigan. “Are the police near an arrest on the man who attacked Catherine? All our sisters are absolutely panicked that he’s still on the loose.”

  Branigan hadn’t expected that. “Your sisters?” she repeated. “Your sorority sisters are panicked?” She let the question dangle.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Two former Gamma Delts have been killed and now Catherine is attacked.”

  Branigan opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned to Catherine. “Catherine, you don’t think it was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Catherine shrugged, her eyes filling with tears.

  “It hurts her to talk,” Emma jumped in. Catherine nodded – gratefully, it seemed to Branigan.

  “To answer your question, no, I don’t think the police are terribly close on this,” Branigan said. “The problem is Catherine’s description. Once you remove the black ski mask and blue jacket, which the guy probably did remove very quickly, you’ve got a white male. That’s half the students, professors and staff at Rutherford Lee. Plus any manner of vendor, cafeteria worker or campus visitor.” She leaned toward Catherine. “Is there nothing else you remember? Age? Voice? Tattoos? Body hair?”

  Tears began to spill down Catherine’s cheeks. Branigan excused herself and walked through the newsroom, where she located a box of tissues on Lou Ann’s desk. “Okay if I steal a couple of these?”

  “Sure,” said Lou Ann. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Something I hadn’t considered before. I’m going to have to think about it.”

  She returned to the conference room and handed Catherine the tissues. “Came… fro… ’hind,” the girl said, moving her face muscles as little as possible. “Coulden … see.”

  “How did you know he was white?”

  Catherine held out her left hand and pointed to it with her right.

  “She saw his hands,” Emma said unnecessarily.

  “Were they smooth? Hairy? Did you scratch him?”

  “Older,” Catherine said. “Rougher… Diden scratch.”

  Emma jerked her head around to look at her friend, whose tears had resumed.

  “Okay,” Branigan said.

  She turned to Emma. “Tell me about the sisters: what they’re thinking, what they’re saying.”

  “Well, when Janie Rose and Maylene died, they had been gone for a year. Nobody really thought anything of it.” She corrected herself. “I mean, we were sad. Of course. But nobody thought it had anything to do with the school or the Gamma Delts.” She took a deep breath, opened her blue eyes wide. “But when Catherine was attacked… I don’t know, it was like it hit close to home, you know? It was like, ‘Geez, does somebody have it in for us?’”

  “I could see how you’d think that if it had happened in the house,” Branigan said. “But over in the student center, in a relatively isolated bathroom, it seems more random.”

  Emma nodded vigorously. “It could be. And I sure hope you’re right. Maybe we’re being paranoid.”

  “What does Marianne think?”

  “She’s worried too, but trying not to show it. Trying to be strong for the younger girls. Lots of their parents called after the school sent out that text alert.”

  “Are any of the parents pulling them out of school?”

  “Not yet. The college is spinning it as the kind of thing that can happen anywhere. They’re saying to make sure we go everywhere in twos or threes.”

  “That’s smart.”

  Emma reached for her coat. “Maybe we are overreacting, Miss Powers. But I hope they catch this guy soon.”

  Catherine reached for her coat, moving gingerly.

  Branigan looked at her with sympathy. “I’m really sorry this happened to you, Catherine.”

  The girl tried to smile, but it came across as a grimace. She nodded and pulled her fedora lower for the walk through the newsroom. As she escorted them out, Branigan considered telling them about Sylvia Eckhart’s impending arrest. The girls entered the elevator and the doors began to close. Branigan reached out an arm, and the doors glided back open. They looked at her expectantly, and she changed her mind.

  “One more thing,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you guys in your Gamma Delt shirts. What are your colors?”

  “Green and white,” said Emma. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Malachi dumped the clothes from his backpack into a laundry basket at Jericho Road. The navy uniform went right in with the white underwear and socks (well, at one time they’d been white). Also, a gray hoodie, jeans, camo pants and two Army green T-shirts faded nearly to the sand color of his old Desert Storm uniform. Dontegan wasn’t big on separating colors. Darks, whites and in between went into the one load a week you got.

  “They be ready in ’bout an hour,” Dontegan said, shoving his clipboard at Malachi to sign. No one else was doing laundry on this Wednesday afternoon, but that Dontegan, he was a stickler for rules. Malachi signed and checked the box for Chore.

  “What kinda chore you need doin’?” he asked.

  Dontegan pointed to the kitchen. “Kitchen need moppin’. That Church o’ God spilled pancake syrup on the flo’ this mornin’ and I ain’t been able to get up th’ stick-y.”

  Malachi headed for the mop closet. “Yo’ got it.”

  An hour later, he was finished mopping and redressed in his maintenance uniform, toasty from the dryer. He got Dontegan to open the basement so he could fetch his bike, then rode it to the nearby Salvation Army thrift store. Chaining the bike to a rack out front, he made his way to the women’s section, to the shelves that held pocketbooks and shoes. He pulled out the note he’d made when Miz Branigan was explaining a “hobo bag” or “slouch purse”. But “black pebbled”? What the heck was that? He fingered the purses, getting more confused by the minute.

  Finally, he looked around for the tell-tale red apron of an employee. He saw a heavyset black woman hanging up pants, and recognized her from meals at Jericho Road. Kalina. Kamina. Katrina. Something like that. She’d moved from crack house to friend’s house to abandoned house, he knew, but she must be staying in the Salvation Army now. If you moved into the shelter, you best get a job right quick or they’d get one for you.

  “Ma’am,” he said, approaching her.

  “Mr Malachi,” she said. “How you?”

  “You in the Sallie?”

  “Yeah, it got too cold where I been stayin’. Horace, he in jail since October. So I got in. Ain’t too bad.”

  “I need some he’p. Can you show me –” he looked at his paper – “a ‘black pebbled hobo purse or slouch bag’?”

  She looked at him in a way that said Miz Branigan’s description might not be everyone’s, then led the way to the rack where dozens of purses dangled.

  She picked up a red leather bag with a single strap. “I think this here a ‘hobo purse’,” she said. “And that one.” She pointed to a similar black one. “But I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no pebbles. Wha’s tha’ mean anyway?”

  “I dunno. I guess I’ll take tha’ black hobo.”

  She nodded and pulled it free of its hook. “It’s three dollah.”

  Malachi followed her to a cash register.

  His next stop was the outside barrel under the store’s drive-through awning. Folks drove up and unloaded their stuffed trunks into grocery carts. But some things were so worn or tattered or busted that employees tossed them in the discard barrel on the spot. Malachi had heard w
orkers talk about the drivers after they left. Why rich people think anybody want they nasty ol’ crap?

  The two men working with donations weren’t near the barrel. Malachi rummaged through broken toys and stained clothes until he found a few things that would work: a cracked candy dispenser, a filthy baseball with the stitching coming unraveled, two bent forks, and best of all, a floral case with a busted latch that once held glasses. He didn’t care a whole lot what went in the purse. He needed things of a certain size and weight.

  With the discards inside, he hefted the purse onto one shoulder. He’d never carried a woman’s pocketbook, but this must be about right. He stuffed it inside his backpack, settled the pack between his shoulder blades, and jumped on the bike.

  The February day was dreary and freezing. He hadn’t seen the sun in two days, come to think of it. Malachi rode through the cold, eyes watering. He arrived at the college, face near to frozen but his body sweating inside the uniform and coat. He rode under the brick arch, around the fountain, and followed the campus road to the student center. He shoved the bike and coat behind those helpful shrubs, then slipped up the inside stairs.

  The Swan Song office was lit up. He looked through the glass in the door, but could see only two young men. He walked back down the stairs, got his bike and rode to those big houses where all the fraternity and sorority kids stayed. He straddled the bike in front of the house where Miz Branigan had dropped Anna Hester. Should he go inside? He could say somebody had called maintenance. But he’d need to get into her room, and that wasn’t likely to happen. He hadn’t thought this through entirely, he admitted to himself.

  Malachi wheeled around and rode back to the student center. Might as well look through the dining hall. It was half filled with students eating a late lunch. He pulled a baseball cap from his hip pocket and tucked his cornrows under it. That should be enough to keep Anna Hester from recognizing him. It’d been dark on the sidewalk and in Miz Branigan’s car, and she’d never looked directly at him anyway.

  He entered the dining hall hearing his granny shrill in his ear about wearing a hat to the table. He was glad to see a group of maintenance workers seated across the room. Their uniforms were steel gray, but he doubted anyone would notice his was different.

  Walking into the serving area, he picked up a tray and filled a glass with ice and water, giving him time to scout the room. Finally, he spotted her. She was sitting with a girl and three boys at the far end of the table closest to some kind of conveyor belt that carried dirty dishes. He couldn’t see her purse from this angle, but it had to be under the table.

  Anna and the other girl stood and walked toward Malachi. He dropped behind the salad bar as if he’d lost his napkin, and watched as they stood in line at the self-serve ice-cream station. This was his chance. Staying blocked by the salad bar until the last moment, he stood and passed behind the girls, and walked rapidly to their table. The three boys were deep in conversation. Malachi placed his tray on an adjacent table, and dropped a spoon. He crouched as if to get it, sliding the Salvation Army purse from his backpack and across the floor in a single motion, and pulling Anna’s black one from beneath the chair legs. The boys didn’t look down. Malachi slipped Anna’s purse into his backpack, sat down and drank his water.

  His shirt was soaked with nervous sweat, but no one paid any attention to the maintenance man who got up, hoisted a backpack, and put his tray and plastic water glass on the conveyor belt.

  Outside, he pulled on his coat and hopped on his bike, pedaling fast until he was past the college gate. He rode hard, his heart banging against his ribs and his breath coming in gasps, until he reached the insurance office parking lot where Miz Branigan and Miz Charlie had found him yesterday. He stopped with a screech of tires and yanked Anna’s purse from his backpack, feeling its bumpy surface. So that was what “pebbled” meant. He reached a hand inside and found a smart phone, then plunged in again and came out with a cracked and battered flip phone.

  His face split into a grin. He’d seen this phone before. Had seen it right outside his own tent when Ralph was yakking away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Branigan, Jody and Bert were seated in Tan-4’s plush office overlooking Main Street. It was late afternoon and they were trying to determine the extent of the story they had on Sylvia Eckhart. Without official charges by the police, they had to be careful not to overstate the case and face a retraction.

  But they did have her interrogation as a “person of interest”, and they did have her own admission to Branigan about being at the scene of the wreck, calling 911 and leaving. Branigan had quotes from the college administration (surprise and horror), from a colleague (disbelief), and from Kappa Epsilon president Sophie Long (puzzlement). After a very uncomfortable silence on the phone, Ina Rose Carlton had declined to comment.

  Tan-4 leaned back in his leather chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Powers, the strongest thing we have is your interview. We can go with that. And you think the police are following her now?”

  “That’s what it looked like with that Crown Vic pulling out after her,” Branigan said.

  “Then I’m thinking we go online now with what we’ve got. ‘College professor, Honor Council head, no less, happens upon deadly wreck in which a colleague’s daughter is killed, and flees before the cops arrive.’ That’s weird as hell.

  “Jody, you keep calling Scovoy and that bunch every hour. I want this the minute they move on charging her.

  “Bert, hold room on the front for tomorrow. We’ve got about six hours for something else to break.”

  The reporters headed out the door, but Tan called Branigan back. Closing the door, he said, “I hear you’re dating the lead detective on this story.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is putting a wall between you and him as a source.”

  Branigan hesitated. “Look, I can see why you’d think that. But it really hasn’t risen to the level of ‘dating’ yet. We’ve literally been out for drinks once and dinner twice. I didn’t think it’d reached the level that I needed to tell you or pull back from the story.”

  “That’s not your call to make.”

  Branigan held his gaze for a moment. His face was impassive. “Fine,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want Jody – and only Jody – dealing with this Scovoy. And after we wrap up this story, I don’t want you handling any stories involving the Grambling PD.”

  “That’s a little drastic, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t. Look, Powers, it’s not that I think you’re going to be swayed by him or take it easy on him. But we’ve got to be above reproach when it comes to appearances. You can’t be covering your boyfriend.”

  “I can’t tell you how far off base that is.”

  “Maybe so. But that’s the way it’s got to be. So no more Grambling PD if you’re going to keep seeing him.”

  Branigan walked out of Tan’s office, making a herculean effort not to slam his door. She felt deflated and embarrassed. Not being allowed on police stories would put a serious crimp in her career. She’d have to think this through when she had more time.

  Her ringing phone ended her reverie. It was the assistant to the national director of Kappa Epsilon Chi.

  “Miss Powers, we’ve searched our records and they show that no Sylvia Eckhart has ever been a Kappa Epsilon Chi member – at the University of Michigan or anywhere else.”

  “That can’t be right. What decades did you look at?”

  “All the way back to the founding in 1952. We’ve got a national database. Are you sure you have her maiden name?”

  “Oh, that must be it. Probably not. Let me get back to you.”

  She hung up and dialed her grandparents’ number. When her grandfather answered, she said, “Still on this Sylvia Eckhart angle, Gra
nddad. Do you know what her maiden name was?”

  “It’s Eckhart,” he replied. “She never married.”

  Branigan slowly rolled her chair in a full circle, head back, staring at the ceiling and noticing the loose tiles and water stains from some mysterious leak on the third floor. So Sylvia Eckhart had never been a Kappa Ep. Why in the world would she say she was? And why had she been on the front porch of the Kappa Ep house, talking to Anna Hester?

  Branigan lurched up straight, so quickly the boomeranging chair back almost sent her flying to the floor. Was Dr Eckhart warning Anna Hester about Ralph’s videos? Or was she confronting her?

  She walked over to Jody’s desk. “Sylvia Eckhart lied about being a Kappa Ep,” she said quietly. “Why would she do that?”

  Jody twirled his chair around. “That’s interesting. You think maybe she got blackballed in her undergrad days and has it in for them?”

  “That seems a little extreme.”

  “This whole thing seems a little extreme. Not to mention bizarre.”

  The reporters were silent for a minute. “Okay, how about this?” Branigan said. “Sylvia Eckhart is protecting someone or afraid of someone. Maybe it has nothing to do with the Kappa Eps and that stupid hearse. But the very fact that she lied must mean something.” She threw up her hands in frustration.

  Jody turned his back to her. “Time for my check-in with the Grambling PD. I’ll get back to you in a minute.”

  As he dialed the number, the police scanner beside his desk squawked to life. Scovoy picked up his phone, but Branigan, three feet away, could hear bedlam in the background.

  “What’s going on?” Jody asked, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the noise hitting him from both the phone and the scanner. Branigan untangled the cacophony before he did.

  “Rutherford Lee,” the scanner crackled. “All available units.”