When I came out, Deckler was waiting for me in the hall.
“The director of Campus Safety will see you now,” he said, as if we’d had a whole conversation about my wanting that very thing. “Ben LaForde. His office is right there.”
“Meet with me about what?”
Deckler was blocking my way, pointing to an office a few doors down from Price’s. I did need to speak to LaForde. Still, I had the distinct impression that I was being sent to the principal’s office.
“You had questions about campus crime reporting. He’s the one who should answer those. He’s waiting for you.”
Indeed, Ben LaForde seemed to be. He jumped right up when I peeked in his open door. A small man in his sixties with a thick head of salt-and-a-little-pepper hair and a trim matching mustache, he made his way over with an outstretched hand. He had a decidedly unfancy way about him.
“You must be Ms. Sanderson,” LaForde said. “Come, have a seat. Deckler said you had some questions for me?”
“I just wanted to confirm the university’s procedure when there’s a crime on campus, particularly how these crimes are reported to the local police.”
I braced myself for a defensive “Why?” or “What are you suggesting?” But LaForde’s face remained relaxed.
“When the victim comes to us?” he asked, as though he wanted to be sure he’d gotten the question right so he could be as helpful as possible. “Because they can go directly to the police if they want. That’s always their right. They’ll come to us if they want the incident reported as a disciplinary violation in addition to or instead of a crime. Students are entitled to confidentiality, however. We report the crime to the police as a courtesy, but we don’t disclose the students involved. In the case of a sexual assault, no such disclosure would be made at all unless a student requested it.”
“‘As a courtesy’ sounds as though it isn’t legally required.”
“It’s not mandated, but we do typically let the Ridgedale Police know about crimes on campus in real time. Can I promise that it happens with every single missing-iPhone report that later turns out not to be a theft? No, and I’m sure the local police wouldn’t want that.” The procedure sounded a lot more vague than he was making it out to be. “There are federal reporting requirements as well. Some things are so serious that we also handle them as a disciplinary violation even if they were only reported to the police. And in some circumstances, the police are going to get involved regardless of what we do—like this situation with the baby. Confidentiality, though, is always critical. Students need to feel protected.”
Especially the guilty ones, I wanted to add, but didn’t.
“There was another death on that same part of campus years ago, is that right?” I asked instead. It was too early to be getting that aggressive no matter how much I would have liked to. “A high school student?”
He shook his head. “It was a real tragedy. An accident, not a murder, just to be clear, but a terrible coincidence nonetheless. A shame for the boy’s parents if that gets dragged back up.”
“Did campus police participate in the investigation?”
He nodded. “Teenagers drinking. It’s always a recipe for disaster.” He paused, then reached behind him and picked up a pamphlet, slid it across the desk toward me. “If you want to know more about our procedures, they’re all set out in the university charter, which is a matter of public record. Not sure you want to comb through all that. This booklet here is what we give to students; it’ll probably tell you everything you need. But the two-minute version is that there is an involved procedure—an investigation, a hearing before a panel, a verdict—we call it a finding. Finding has to be by majority.”
“Who’s on the panel?”
“Five people appointed by the dean of students. Two professors, one administrator—which would be me at the moment—and two students. We’ve all gone through extensive screening and sensitivity training. The students change every year. The professors do five-year stints. Right now that’s Miles Cooper, who’s an English professor, and Maggie Capitol, biology. They’re both at the end of their five-year tenure. The dean of students presides.”
“And who investigates complaints?”
“Campus Safety officers.”
“Like Deckler?”
“Yes.” LaForde’s face tightened at the mention of Deckler. “Among others. There are ten officers on staff, plus supervisors. It’s all in the pamphlet.”
“Did a student named Rose Gowan ever make a complaint of any kind?”
“Does this have something to do with the baby?”
Lie. This time there was no question in my mind. “No,” I said firmly. “It doesn’t.”
“Oh.” He frowned and looked confused, but also concerned. “Regardless, Ms. Sanderson, I can’t comment on a specific student’s complaints. I’d like to be helpful, but my hands are tied. Confidentiality, I’m sure you understand. The only thing I’d be able to respond to would be a subpoena. And you’d know better than me, but I’m not sure they’re in the business of giving those out to reporters.”
When I came out of LaForde’s office, I caught a glimpse of Deckler, some distance down the hall. He was just standing there, staring in my direction, like he was waiting to see me again. I waved when he kept on staring, then darted for the door, hoping I could avoid him. I didn’t slow down until I was walking through the front gates of the university.
On the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone to check how much time I had before I needed to pick up Ella. A small scrap of paper fluttered to the ground—Justin’s note. I’d forgotten to read it after feeling it in my coat pocket when I was in Steve’s office. I knelt to pick it up, and sure enough, there was Justin’s jagged script.
In order that two imperfect souls might touch perfection. E. M. Forster
I smoothed my fingers over the words, feeling the grooves Justin’s pen had left in the paper. He must have slipped it into my pocket that morning before I left the house, or maybe the night before. Did he wonder why I hadn’t mentioned it at the Black Cat? Did he think I’d read it and not cared? I wouldn’t have said that I needed one of Justin’s notes right then, but it suddenly felt like the only reason I was breathing.
I was going to send Justin a text, thanking him for the note, when I checked the time: past two thirty, barely enough time to pick up Ella. I also had an unread text from Stella, sent a half hour earlier. You were right, it read. Police are holding Rose for questioning! Call me ASAP!
Tuesdays were always a light day at school pickup because many of the students went on to an after-school swimming program. Barbara and Stella weren’t there, only a dozen or so parents whom I knew by sight but not by name. Waiting in the hallway for Rhea to finish the afternoon meeting, I glimpsed Ella through the little window in the door. She was sitting in the circle with her hand raised, still dressed in her bright green outfit, eyes eager and wide. Whatever Ella said when she was finally called on made Rhea clap her hands and laugh loudly, which sent Ella into a fit of giggles.
She was a happy little girl. Justin was right. However much I had failed her in my darkest moments, I must have done something right.
“Mommy!” Ella shouted when Rhea opened the classroom door.
I crouched down as she ran at me full speed, jumping hard into my open arms. I buried my face in her mass of loopy curls and squeezed. She smelled like blueberry shampoo.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said. “How was the show?”
“It was great, Mommy!” I waited a beat for the but—but you weren’t here, but I missed you, but I was sad. Instead she just squeezed me back, so hard it was difficult to breathe. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Me, too, Peanut.” I took a deep breath. Already I felt so much better, the thoughts that had been weighing on me—the baby, Rose, Stella, my other baby—already floating up and away as if someone had pushed open a vent. “How about you and I go to Scoops and get some ice cream?”
It was past
four by the time Ella and I arrived at Ridgedale’s picture-perfect ice cream shop, which sat on a sunny, tree-lined stretch facing Franklin Street and the university. Scoops had homemade flavors like Cocoa Conniption and Strawberry Slalom, and kids could churn their own ice cream on Saturdays using the shop’s famed bicycle ice cream maker. It was the kind of magical place I couldn’t have imagined as a child.
“What do you want, Ella?” I would have bought her everything in that store if she’d promised to keep on smiling.
“Vanilla!” Ella shouted like she’d never heard of a more thrilling flavor in her entire life. “In a cone!”
“Just vanilla?” I laughed. “Are you sure? No sprinkles, nothing?”
“Nope,” she said, rocking back on her heels as she gripped the edge of the counter. “Vanilla is the best!”
As the sweet-faced teenage girl behind the counter set to work digging out the ice cream, I put my hand on Ella’s head, marveling at how perfectly it still fit in my palm. Through the etched front window, the late-afternoon sun lit up the university gold. The moment was so beautiful and perfect—Ella and the ice cream and the sun. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to me, not in any permanent sense. Happy was my adopted country, not my native land. I was still bracing to be expelled without warning.
I was about to turn from the window when I saw Steve Carlson walking quickly in the direction of the station. He nodded to someone going the other way, but it wasn’t until they’d exchanged brisk pleasantries that I realized the other man was Thomas Price. Neither seemed to want a real chat, understandable under the circumstances. Depending on how things progressed, they could easily be forced to turn against each other.
“Here you go,” said the girl behind the counter, handing a wide-eyed Ella her cone and winking at her. “I’m with you, vanilla is the best.”
We found our way to a bench in front of the shop, where Ella took a huge bite of ice cream with her teeth, which made me shiver. As we snuggled against each other, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. A voicemail, not a text. And from a number that I didn’t recognize.
I tapped on the message and put the phone to my ear, twisting my fingers through Ella’s curls as she pumped her legs back and forth under the bench like she was reaching for extra height on a swing.
“Molly Sanderson, this is Officer Deckler,” the message began. “Just checking to be sure you got everything you needed on campus today.” Deckler paused, breathed loudly into the phone. My stomach tightened. How did he even have my number? Had he looked it up in Justin’s file? “If you, you know, have other questions, you can, um, call me. This is my cell. Okay, bye.”
The second part of the message had been rushed and nervous, like he’d realized halfway through that he shouldn’t have called. And he was right. Deckler was hovering like someone with something to hide.
“Mommy?” Ella asked as I slipped the phone back in my pocket. She paused to take another lick.
“What, sweetheart?”
“What’s a slut?”
I coughed, choking on my own saliva. “My God, Ella, where did you hear that word?”
“From Will,” she said with a shrug as she took another bite. Like where she’d heard it was the least interesting part and also should have been obvious. “His mom said it to Aidan.”
“She called Aidan a slut?”
Stella was bound to lose it on Aidan eventually—it was hard to blame her. But it was weird that she hadn’t mentioned some big fight. Stella confessed compulsively to me. Why not this? Had the argument escalated further? Had something even worse happened, something so terrible that Stella didn’t want even me to know?
“Come on, Mommy. Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“What’s a slut?”
“Oh, Ella,” I said, trying not to sound too horrified. But the way the word kept popping out of her innocent little mouth was making me feel sick. “Please don’t say that again. It’s not a nice word.”
“Then why did Will’s mommy say it?”
“Oh, maybe she was really tired when she said it to Aidan,” I offered. “People sometimes say things that aren’t very nice when they’re tired.”
“You never do that. And she didn’t call Aidan a slut, Mommy,” Ella went on, saying it again as if I hadn’t just asked her to stop. She was focused on licking the edges of her cone, catching the drips. “She called his girlfriend a slut.”
A girlfriend? I’d heard about Aidan’s drinking and drugs and stealing money. I’d heard about the time he got arrested and how Stella fantasized about leaving him in jail. These were not good things that Stella had told me, and yet she had done so willingly. Now she was leaving out something innocent, like Aidan having a girlfriend? Why? Who was the girlfriend?
“And then she broke his phone,” Ella added.
“Stella broke Aidan’s phone?”
“Boom!” Ella imitated an explosion with her chubby little hands. “That’s what Will says. But when Daddy’s phone broke, it didn’t blow up like that. I think Will is lying. He lies a lot.”
Except Stella had complained—with great annoyance—about having to replace Aidan’s broken phone. “What’s Aidan’s girlfriend’s name?”
Ella shrugged. “Will calls her the flower girl,” she said, then rolled her eyes. “But I know that’s not her real name. No one’s named that. He’s lying about that, too.”
Rose: the flower girl.
RIDGEDALE READER
ONLINE EDITION
March 17, 2015, 5:03 p.m.
Baby’s Cause of Death Still Unknown
BY MOLLY SANDERSON
The medical examiner has declined to comment on the cause of death of the female infant found at the Essex Bridge. However, police have confirmed that the condition of the infant’s body makes it impossible to rule out homicide at this time.
Once again, the Ridgedale Police Department asks that anyone with information regarding the infant’s identity or cause of death contact their office as soon as possible at 888-526-1899.
COMMENTS:
Mae Koeler
37 min ago
I have a friend who works in admin at the University Hospital. She said that there’s some woman up there who the police were talking to about her missing baby.
Eastern Elijah
36 min ago
Some woman with a missing baby? Are you serious? Isn’t that exactly the kind of the thing the police should be telling us?
Darren C.
30 min ago
Some university kids trashed my car when it was parked overnight on Franklin Avenue last week. I complained to campus security: total runaround. It’s like the NSA over there—everything is one giant cover-up.
Cara Twin
15 min ago
I agree. I have a friend whose son went to Ridgedale and he said that break-ins were rampant on campus. I don’t know if they’re ever reported to the police. Just because they haven’t told the police doesn’t mean the university doesn’t know what happened.
246Barry
12 min ago
YOU’RE NOT GETTING ANY WARMER
OPEN YOUR EYES AND FIND HIM
BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE
James R.
10 min ago
Knock it off, 246Barry. Everyone’s had enough of you. You better hope we don’t find out who you are. People in this town don’t take harassment lightly.
Colleen M.
8 min ago
What is WRONG with you 246Barry? If you actually knew something you’d go to the POLICE. You don’t, so leave us alone.
JENNA
MAY 3, 1994
The Captain sat with me during lunch! I was eating out in the courtyard with Tiffany and Stephanie when he came out all by himself. And like he was LOOKING for me!
Thank God Steph and Tiff took off when he came. They did it real subtle, though, like they just had somewhere to be.
They still think the Captain is a dick and that he’s fucking w
ith me. But now that they’ve said their piece, they’re not going to stand in my way. Because, unlike my parents, those girls actually care about me.
All my parents have ever cared about is “bettering themselves.” Especially now that my dad is the brand-new night manager of the Stanton Hotel, which my mom acts like is the same as president of the United States. And after my mom got that office job at her church? Forget about it. We’ve got to be this picture-perfect family so we can keep “getting somewhere in the community.”
Or really, I’ve got to be perfect. Because my parents already think they are. And if their idea of me being perfect—quiet, girlie, sweet (none of which I am)—makes me feel like crap? Oh well, too bad so sad for me.
But the Captain doesn’t judge people just on the surface like that. Because he isn’t pretending to be something he’s not.
After Tiff and Stephanie were gone, the Captain and I talked for a while. He said his history paper was kicking his ass, which is kind of hard to believe considering how smart he is. I liked that he talked to me about school. Guys always think that all I can talk about is getting wasted and maybe music or something. But I’m interested in lots of things and it shows how smart the Captain is that he can tell I’m pretty damn smart myself.
And that was it. For a whole thirty minutes. Nice, sweet. And at the end the Captain said: Good talking to you. See you around.
I hope that means soon.
Barbara
“Hello?” Barbara called for the kids as she stepped inside.
No one answered—no Hannah, no Cole. But they weren’t technically late yet. Hannah picked up Cole on Tuesdays after swimming, and they’d be even later because Barbara hadn’t canceled his stupid playdate with Will afterward. Really, she should have brought Cole home when The Very Hungry Caterpillar was finished. She’d been right there, it would have been easy enough to do. It wasn’t as if he would have missed something critical. He was only in kindergarten. But Cole loved school, and he loved routine. He would have been upset about leaving without some kind of explanation. It seemed absurd now, but Barbara had also been worried about Cole being disappointed—missing swimming, missing his playdate. That had seemed so much more important a few hours ago. It had felt like the only thing that mattered.