The Power of Faith: Science Fiction Faith Ferguson Series Book 3

by Andrea M. White

  “I met the dean of arts and sciences last year,” I’m going over to have a talk with him. I want to see the student complaints against Blackett,” Ed said.

  “You’ll need a warrant.”

  “Let’s get those in the works. We should have those records before we pull him in,” Ed said.

  ******

  Dean Daniel Rudolph and Ed exchanged pleasantries. While their interaction the previous year had been cordial, Ed could see the concern in the dean’s eyes which was borne out by what he was about to ask.

  “Are you here about the Isabella Moore shooting?” Dean Rudolph asked.

  “And the possible link between that shooting and Nancy Creighton.”

  “Nancy was an arts and sciences student, but I don’t think that Isabella Moore is one of ours.”

  “No, she’s in the nursing school, but she and Nancy were shot with the same gun. What can you tell me about the Creighton murder?” Ed asked.

  “You probably know more about it than I do. Her body was found in a vacant lot on the edge of our campus,” Dean Rudolph said.

  “I heard that she’d filed sexual assault charges against a teacher here,” Ed said.

  “Not that I know of,” the dean replied as he picked up his phone.

  He was placing a call to the university’s office of student services. Getting the director on the line, he asked Ed’s question and was very unhappy with the response, hanging up with an uncharacteristic show of anger.

  “Apparently, she did, and apparently we didn’t tell the police. I didn’t know because that office doesn’t report to me. This would have been a decision made by the president.”

  “Was the teacher Ethan Blackett?” Ed asked.

  “Yes. What a mess.”

  “Does Ethan Blackett work for you?”

  “No. He’s in drama, that’s fine art. And he’s the president’s brother.”

  Ed laughed.

  “No, really he is.”

  Ed didn’t bother to explain why that kept making him laugh. He just said, “Oh, I see.”

  “Do you know if he and Dr. Dunham were friends.”

  “Dunham’s involved? I thought she’d been hospitalized.”

  “She has. It’s complicated.”

  “Well, I can’t help you with this one, but let me give you all the contact information for student services and the rest. He jotted down a few names and numbers and handed it to Ed. I hope that’s helpful. I wish that I could do more.”

  Upon leaving the dean’s office, Ed called his partner and told him that he was going to make a quick trip to District One and find out what that precinct had on file regarding Nancy Creighton’s murder.

  ******

  The trip to District One confirmed that they had no record of Nancy Creighton’s complaint against Ethan Blackett.

  As Ed drove back, he called Paul and said, “Let’s go talk to the Dean of Fine Arts. Blackett works for him.”

  They met outside the old Tudor building that housed the various departments of the College of Fine Arts.

  As they walked through the building, they were inundated by examples of the arts taught within its walls. There were massive paintings on the walls, sounds of music from the various practice rooms and students rehearsing drama pieces in rehearsal halls.

  “Cool place,” Ed said, as he walked toward the directory on the wall by the elevator. “Dean’s office is on four.”

  The elevator they got into wasn’t actually meant for people, at all. It was, in fact, a freight elevator, but they gamely opened its wooden doors and got in. It took them to the fourth floor where they were pleased to find a space that was decidedly less artistic and looked more like where they might find the administrative staff.

  Seeing a reception desk, they approached and asked for directions to the dean.

  “Oh, we have an acting dean,” she said. “Is that who you want?”

  “I guess so. What happened to the dean?”

  She shrugged and said, “I’m not sure. I’m a freshman, but I think Mr. Morrison has been acting dean for a long time. He was here when I applied last year.”

  “Well,” Paul asked, “Is he here?”

  She asked who they were, and Paul flashed his badge, introducing his partner and himself.

  She went into the suite of offices behind her, and they heard much conversation, along with the opening and closing of various doors. Paul and Ed looked at each other wondering what all the commotion was about.

  “Maybe he has unpaid parking tickets,” Ed said laughing.

  “Or a stash of cocaine. I don’t think I’ve ever caused this much of an uproar without my gun out.”

  They continued to wait until a tall, thin man finally appeared. He introduced himself as Milt Morrison and ushered them into his office.

  “Mr. Morrison, we’re looking into Nancy Creighton’s murder,” Ed said.

  “You are?” he said unable to hide his alarm.

  “Yes, and we understand that she had filed an assault complaint against Ethan Blackett.”

  Milt actually looked as if he was about to pass out, but he rallied enough to ask, “Do you have a warrant?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Well, I can’t discuss confidential matters without a warrant.”

  “Were their complaints against Ethan Blackett?” Paul asked.

  “You’ll need to get a warrant,” Milt said standing, obviously indicating that they should leave.

  “We can’t request a warrant for records that don’t exist.”

  “There is a file,” Milt said.

  “And why weren’t the police told about it when she was murdered,” Ed asked adding, “And you don’t need a warrant to answer that question.”

  “Our office of General Counsel advised us on what to release.”

  “Did they?” Ed asked and, not wanting or expecting an answer, the detectives got up and walked out.

  “A whole shit load of trouble is about to rain down on this place,” Ed said, “when our captain tells District One’s captain what they held back.”

  “And Milt Morrison knows it,” Paul said. “Let’s go get our warrant before we visit the general counsel.”

  A few hours later, their warrant in hand, Ed and Paul were back at Myles University.

  The university’s top lawyer was housed in one of the institutions new and very modern buildings. It was a high rise, and as they entered the general counsel’s office, its large windows offered a panoramic view of the city.

  Their arrival, while it had not been prearranged, was clearly anticipated. With no fanfare, what-so-ever, they were immediately escorted into the office of Attorney Roy Tennant, who was sitting behind a sleek black desk. Unlike Milt Morrison, Roy Tennant was not at all intimidated by their presence, knowing that his knowledge of the law far exceeded their own.

  He stood and extended his hand to them, then gesturing for them to take a seat.

  “I understand you went to see Milt Morrison earlier this afternoon.

  Paul nodded.

  “Well, he was quite right about your needing a warrant,” Roy said.

  Without a word, Paul pulled it from the folder in his hand and put it in front of him.

  “That was fast,” he said.

  He was genuinely surprised. He had intended to brush them off, giving himself and the president time to consider their strategy.

  “This was issued by Judge Blakely,” Roy said more to himself than them.

  He knew that judge was not to be trifled with, and he knew that he had no choice but to comply.

  “May I ask why you’re requesting this today?”

  “No,” was Paul’s succinct reply.

  “It’ll take us some time.”

  “That many complaints, huh,” Ed said.

  “As the warrant says, you’re to provide anything filed against Ethan Blackett,” Paul said adding, “we’ll wait.”

  He brought them back out to the reception area and asked his assistant
to get them some coffee. Then, with no other recourse, he had one of the legal assistants pull together Nancy’s file and download it to a disc for them. The whole process only took half an hour. Downloading the information actually took about five minutes, the rest of the time involved, a call breaking the bad news to the institution’s president. And a call from the president to the police commissioner. After the commissioner refused to give the president cover, Roy brought the disc out to the detectives.

  “The commissioner’s daughter was a victim of rape,” Paul said as he took the disc.

  “What?” Roy asked feigning ignorance.

  “I figured that your boss would be calling our boss’s boss. He doesn’t like rapists. He especially doesn’t like people failing to report them.”

  Once again, they walked out of the office, this time with information that they hoped would help them arrest a rapist and a murderer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We’ll take my car,” Paul said as they walked out of the station, arrest warrant in hand for Mr. Ethan Blackett.

  “I’m really looking forward to this,” Ed said.

  “Me too. Before I left yesterday, I put a car on him. I was afraid that if his brother told him we’d been snooping around, he’d do a runner,” Paul said.

  “Good thinking.”

  “According to his babysitter, so far this morning, he hasn’t moved. Oh,” Paul said, “good news on Bella. As long as she signs a statement and testifies if they need her to, she won’t be prosecuted.”

  “I’m glad. What was that call about, yesterday?”

  “Call?” Paul asked.

  “Your message to the DA about kids making mistakes.”

  “Years ago, when the DA’s son was in high school, he found a few pills in a bottle. Turned out they were Oxycontin. Anyway, there were six pills; he sold four to friends and, as luck would have it, two to an undercover narc. Oxy is serious business, and the feds were going to make him an example. I took care of it. The kid went on to college, and now he’s a navy seal.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Need to know, partner, need to know.”

  Ed was genuinely shocked. As long as he’d known Paul, he had been honest to a fault. They were alike in that, always seeing things very clearly in black and white. With the new complexities of his own life, Ed had begun to develop at least a modicum of tolerance for a touch of gray and would judge a moral transgression less harshly than he had in the past.

  The GPS told them that they were just about to arrive at the home of Ethan Blackett. He lived with his wife Marcella in the northern suburb of Melrose, Massachusetts. Their house was an old Victorian, painted in all the historical detail and colors of the time.

  “Here we are,” Paul said, number forty-seven.” Paul got out of the car and went over to the unmarked vehicle that he assumed, rightly, was doing their surveillance. After a brief conversation, he returned to his partner and said, “Let’s go get him.”

  “I love these old historic homes,” Ed said as he began his ascension up the steep flight of cement steps that led to the Blackett’s front door.

  “I can take them or leave them,” Paul said.

  Before following him up the stairs, Paul took a walk over to the driveway where two cars were parked.

  “Neither of these are any shade of grey, or even dark, and no DRA license plate.”

  “That’s annoying,” Ed said.

  “Nothing’s ever easy,” Paul said as he headed up the stairs behind Ed.

  Marcella Blackett had seen them coming to the door and opened it before they’d had a chance to ring the bell.

  “Morning,” Marcella, a middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and an oxford shirt said through the screen door.

  The detectives showed their badges, introduced themselves and asked to speak with Ethan.

  “My husband’s out back winterizing our gardens,” Marcella said, opening the door, and as she took her first few steps to show them the way, they could tell something was off. Marcella was weaving ever so slightly. They followed her through to the rear of her house, and, exited through the kitchen to see Ethan Blackett, as advertised, putting mulch over some of his flowerbeds.

  After she’d closed the door behind them, Ed whispered, “Parkinson’s?”

  “Booze,” Paul said. “I saw the bottle on the counter.”

  “It’s eight-thirty in the morning.”

  “I suspect,” Paul said, “that Mrs. Blackett has had a hard life and that, last night, she might have learned her husband was a killer.”

  “Mr. Blackett,” Paul said as they approached him.

  He looked up, not entirely surprised to see them, as Paul had been correct, Ethan’s brother had given him a heads up about their visit to the general counsel’s office. He got up off his knees and walked over to where they were standing.

  “What brings you to my home?” Ethan asked with feigned civility.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Nancy Creighton and the attempted murder of Isabella Moore.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Absurd, or not,” Ed said, “you’re under arrest.”

  Paul read him his rights, and as they escorted Ethan back through his house, Marcella watched him go, without comment.

  “Mrs. Blackett a forensic team will be arriving any minute with a warrant to search the house,” Ed said.

  She made no response.

  “Call James,” Ethan said without making eye contact.

  As they walked down the stairs, the forensic team was pulling into the driveway.

  “There’s nothing here for them to find,” Ethan said.

  “Well, they’ll have a look, anyway,” Ed said.

  ******

  As they dropped Ethan off in an interrogation room, he informed them that he wouldn’t be saying anything until his lawyer arrived.

  “I was hoping that he wouldn’t insist on an attorney,” Ed said.

  “There’s no way that a lawyer wouldn’t insist on representation.”

  “He was really calm about the search,” Ed said.

  “He was really calm overall,” Paul replied. “I get the feeling that he has some trick up his sleeve.”

  “Or, he didn’t do it,” Ed said.

  “Oh, he did it,” Paul said.

  While they waited, Ed pulled up the complaints against Ethan they’d retrieved the day before. After an hour-long review of the files, he said, “Over the past eighteen years, there were fifteen separate complaints. Most of them are for harassment. Things like groping students during rehearsals under the guise of loosening them up, but there are four rape complaints.”

  “I’m surprised that none of them ever went to the police.”

  “I’m surprised that the complaints weren’t destroyed,” Ed said.

  “I guess the president and his general counsel just never expected Ethan to start killing people,” Ed said.

  Upon being informed that Ethan’s lawyer had arrived, Ed picked up the Myles University files he’d printed out and went to interrogate Ethan.

  They entered the room, and after the obligatory introductions, Paul started the tape.

  “My client has nothing to say,” Ethan’s lawyer said. “Just book him so that I can go about the business of getting him bail.”

  Paul nodded and was about to get up when Ed said, “Fine, but we’ve got eighteen years of documented violence against young women here, and if I were your client, I’d be looking for a deal.”

  “There is most certainly no violence,” his attorney said. Mr. Blackett is a respected attorney and teacher.

  Ed showed him a picture of one of Ethan’s badly bruised rape victims and said, “No? Sorry counselor, but your client is a slug,”

  The two detectives got up and walked out the door.

  Ethan’s lawyer was a friend of Ethan’s brother, James, who had failed to inform him that his client was in actual fact a slug. That said, he was a criminal defense attorney so he wou
ld continue to represent Ethan.

  “You did this?” he asked.

  “No, of course not,” Ethan said. “Those complaints were all false.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them,” Ethan said.

  “You may have a problem.”

  “I don’t. You’ll see,” Ethan said.

  ******

  “We should interview these women,” Ed said holding up the file from Myles University.

  “They don’t have any information on this case,” Paul said.

  “They might actually have information about the Creighton case, and they speak to his character. Of course, it’d be up to the judge whether not he’d allow that.”

  “These days, they might. But you know who we really want to interview,” Paul said.

  “Mrs. Blackett,” Ed said.

  “Let’s go back to the house,” Paul said, and in no time, they were back inside the Blackett’s Victorian home.

  The forensic team was still hard at work, and Paul pulled one of them aside.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing much, so far. No guns, no bullets and no knife we could find blood on.”

  “He said that we wouldn’t find anything,” Paul said.

  “We’re not done. Still have some work to do.”

  “We have his phone, but do you have his computer?” Paul asked.

  “It’s over there in the small pile of things we are taking.”

  Paul walked back to his partner who was sitting in a three-season room off the kitchen with Marcella Blackett.

  “Mrs. Blackett,” Paul said. “Looks like they’ll be out of your hair pretty soon. I’m sure this has been difficult.”

  Mrs. Blackett, coherent but not strictly sober, just shrugged.

  “I’m sorry, but we have to ask you some difficult questions,” Paul said. “Did you know that four students at Myles University have accused your husband of harassment or rape?”

  “Four?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard something about them when Ethan would be talking to his brother. He said they were lying. I guess that happens a lot with students.”