When Cal returned to the campus it was early evening.  Knowing he would miss the dinner hour, he stopped for fast food on the way back from downtown.  But instead of eating it, he found himself sitting in the parking lot, staring out the window, trying to process the impact of what he had learned. 

He was still deep in thought as he walked across the quad and sat at his favorite place for contemplation - the gazebo between the library and the dorms. 

The information weighed him down, as if his stomach had been lined with iron.  It was no longer just a story.  The actual fact of the death itself laid unsettled somewhere in his gut.  This was a man he had known, someone who’d had an effect on his life, someone he had counted on to understand the human psyche and share that knowledge with him.  And he was dead.  Actually dead.

Stretching his shoulders and leaning back against the bench, he defaulted to his most reassuring mode - people watching.  He needed to distance himself from the story.  Regroup, take a breather.  It had been all he’d thought about for nearly forty-eight hours.  Time for a redirect.

As dusk obscured the clear images of people and their mannerisms, he was lulled into a surreal, almost dreamlike state.  His mind downshifted, his breathing returned to a normal, steady pace, and his body turned from iron to putty, gently contouring itself into the angles of the bench.

He meandered his gaze slowly across the landscape of buildings and gardens in front of him, not quite sure what he was looking for.  But when he saw it, he knew.

Annie was walking with some friends back from the library.  He wondered if she was still angry with him, still disappointed.  What would he say to her when they next spoke? 

He pondered as he watched her.  This was Annie in her natural habitat - accompanied by what Cal thought of as her ‘misfits’.  He’d seen it time and time again: her rapt attention to them, her innate kindness toward them, her genuine engagement with them.

As she passed the gazebo, she glanced his way.  Would she talk to him like everything was normal, admonish him further for his insensitivity, or just choose to ignore him?

Surprisingly, she touched one of the friends gently on the shoulder, whispered something in her ear, and redirected her steps toward him.  Even the way she excused herself from their company struck him as compassionate, accomplished with the graceful agility of a ballerina.

She sat next to him on the bench.  Having no idea what to say, he instead said the first thing that came into his mind.

“I like how you do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?” she responded, not looking at him.

“Befriend the underdog.  Take the misfits under your wing.”

“Misfits?”

He smiled and let out a long held breath.

“I see you with them,” he grinned weakly.  “The outcasts, the unpopular.”

Annie shrugged, as if oblivious.  Cal continued.

“The girl with the hydrocephalic birth defect people don’t like to look at, the shy, homesick girl who can’t stop crying, the gay guy trying too hard to pass as straight, the insomniac from the Bronx who feels so out of place in this environment, the awkward kid whose front tooth was knocked out in wrestling but who’s still trying to woo the model in the art department.”

He looked at her, hoping she’d turn her head to meet his eyes.

“You befriend them all.  I see you including them, one by one, inviting one to join a pizza run, helping one finish the math she doesn’t quite understand or encouraging one to sing harmony with you when you’re playing your guitar in the lounge.”

She tilted her head, a sly edge to her tone.

“Are you stalking me, or what?”

His nervous laugh brought a modicum of relief, but only for a moment.

“The campus isn’t that big and I watch people.  It’s a hobby.”

“It’s an obsession, apparently.” 

He shook his head slightly, frustrated by the tension.  Nervous, again.

“I’m trying to give you a compliment.  I thought you liked those.”

“No, you’re not,” she corrected, with more aggression.  “You’re about to tell me I befriend them just so I can have a bigger audience.  That’s what Stephen would say.”

“He’d be wrong,” he stated quickly.  “I watch you.  You put the spotlight on them.  It’s one of the things you do to get outside of yourself.”  He nodded, hoping her peripheral vision would see it.  “You do it for the right reasons.”
 
“Do I?”

“Yeah, it’s like you’re keenly aware they’re normally ignored or ridiculed, and you know they don’t deserve to be either.  You want to balance that out by letting them know they have value.  They’re worth attention.  It’s noble.”

“No,” she countered.  “It’s not noble.  It’s just that I like people. You watch them, but I like them.  I don’t pity them or condescend to them.  I just enjoy them, mostly because they have a completely different perspective on the world.  My ‘misfits’ as you call them are really just a joy to be with.”

She rested back against the bench, still looking away, but without any malice in her voice.

“You can choose to make someone feel better about themselves or not,” she concluded, “and under most circumstances, I choose to.” 

Under most circumstances – but not this one, he thought.  Not now, with him. 

Still averting her eyes from his, she added listlessly, “I’ve seen you with a few misfits yourself.  Aren’t your reasons noble? “
 
Cal looked inside to that deep part of himself, a part she had previously shredded and left as an open wound.  Although he knew she was reassessing him, and that what he was about to confess would probably make her think even less of him, he felt full honesty would be the only tolerated answer.
 
“No,” he admitted.  “I do it for selfish reasons. The more people who feel comfortable confiding to me, the broader range of information will be available when I need it.”

She glanced at him briefly, gauging his sincerity or maybe his level of vulnerability.

“Oh,” she prodded.  “So you’re courting sources.”

His rising sense of shame nodded for him.

“For instance?”

Now he avoided her gaze and instead studied his shoe laces.

“There was a strange little guy here a couple of years ago,” he began.  “You wouldn’t know him. Just an oddball.  Walked with his arms stiffly by his sides and his head never moved, like he was gliding somehow.  It freaked people out. He talked incessantly about subjects nobody was interested in and took photos of people when they didn’t welcome it, so they shunned him.”

He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth had gone dry.

“But I befriended him because I saw potential.  And now, he’s working as a photography assistant in the police crime lab.”

Annie swung her chin to face him.

“Cal, you didn’t.”

Still looking down, his voice almost choked.  Was it from the guilt or from the experience?

“Yeah.”  He took a long intake of air and swallowed to quell the nausea. “I got him to let me see photos from the site.”

“You could get him fired,” she said adamantly.

“No, I won’t reveal the source,” he said wearily.  “I’m only confessing to you to point out that your reasons for championing the underdog are more noble than mine.”

She studied his face and the tone of his voice, assessing the quiet grip of his suffocating introspection.  He couldn’t hide how deeply he’d been disturbed by the photos, nor could he deny the disappointment he felt at his own reaction.  He thought he was tougher.  This was something he would be dealing with in the real world.  He hoped it would get easier.

“You okay?” she asked, gently.

There was a prolonged pause before he nodded.

“Were they awful to look at?”

Another pause, another nod.

She saw again that road-blocked expression, the silent resolution that meant he wouldn’t answer aloud. 

“So…” she redirected softly, “do you court everyone as a source?”

“No.  Sources and friends.  Two different categories entirely.”

“Sources you use, friends you don’t?”

“Right.”

She turned her body fully to face him, forcing his direct eye contact.

“And are you courting me as a source?”

He held her gaze longer than usual, until he felt she might see too deeply into him.  At that moment, his heart was a dark and desolate place, one he didn’t wish her to visit, even to console him.  So he looked away, winced and shook his head.

“No.  If I were, I wouldn’t be confessing my methods to you.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say she was a “friend”.  It seemed too presumptuous.

She couldn’t say it either, but not for the same reason.  Somehow “friend” limited what she had fantasized he felt for her, what his nervousness around her had led her to believe, what her ego had hoped.

They sat in silence, Cal trying to deal with his sudden loss of journalistic innocence and his disappointment in himself, Annie sensing the depth of his discoveries. 

She rested her hand on his arm for a moment.  It was the first time she had touched him.  It was like a lifeline offered to someone mired in quicksand.  He had wanted her touch, longed for it, just as she had longed to touch him.  But she had waited.  Waited until now, when he needed it most.

“Get some sleep,” she whispered, then stood and walked to the dorm alone.

***

He swallowed hard and stared into the growing darkness.

After a fitful night punctuated by short bursts of utterly restless sleep, he rose early Monday morning and prepared himself for battle – the battle with the facts, the battle with the theories, the battle with his own recognition of a weaker stomach for grizzly details.

At 8:00 a.m. precisely, he called the Tillson Foundation and asked to speak to the person coordinating the grant proposals.

“Yes,” came a friendly, if firm, female voice.  “May I help you?’

He used his business tone.

“I’m calling from Haverford University to confirm that the grant proposal materials from Professor Rashad have been received.”

“One moment, I’ll check.”  She placed him on hold. He tapped his fingers on the notebook in front of him. 

After nearly five minutes, she returned to the call.

“I’m sorry, but I have nothing from Haverford University.  Would you spell the professor’s name, please.”

He did, now adding an element of distress to his voice.  She searched, without putting him on hold again.  He could clearly hear the sound of file cabinet drawers being opened, computer keys clicking and her own muffled puffs of frustration.

“I’ve only found one thing under his name,” she said apologetically.  “I have an initial request to send him the application and specifications, but that’s all.”

Now he added a dash of desperation.

“Are you sure?” he panted.  “Not even a preliminary explanation of his research?  I’ll lose my post as his student assistant if he thinks I screwed up.”

“I’ll look again.  Hold on.”

Back on hold, he whistled restlessly.

“I’m sorry, young man,” she replied at last.  “There’s no information from him at all.  But you have another ten days until the deadline.  Can you resend it?”

“I certainly will,” he sighed.  “Thank you so much for your help.”  In his notebook, he wrote ‘not the source’.

At 8:30 he waited at the entrance to the billing office.  His partner in crime handed him an 8 1/2 “ by 11” manila envelope filled to its capacity, along with a smaller envelope containing her photograph.  He smiled and nodded his thanks.

At 8:45 he read the sign on the door of the Abnormal Psych classroom stating the 9:00 class had been cancelled due to the death of Professor Rashad, but that Wednesday’s session would be held and should be attended. 

He looked around the hallways for Annie and not seeing her, headed back to his room to pour over the phone bill.  Using a yellow highlighter, he marked consistent phone numbers, calling on week nights after 6:00 p.m.  There was, indeed, a pattern. 

The results of his research prompted him to make a few phone calls himself – one to Eddie, the patroller who had seen the site, one to Tom Masters, the security control room contact, and finally to two names they had given him who could corroborate the new information they had just provided.  Their answers confirmed his growing equation.  Everything pointed to the same conclusion.  The elusive dots were beginning to connect. 

But could he convince his editor?

The paper’s student editor, a fellow journalism major named Eric Johnson, had consistently been supportive of Cal’s instincts (although not always his methods) and had allowed him free reign in fact finding.  Cal’s adherence to the importance of corroboration created a trust and a sort of unspoken freedom.

His relationship with the faculty advisor to the paper, however, had less of a foundation.  Prior to his position at Haverford, Philip Lancer had been an investigative reporter in Philadelphia. He thought of Cal as a hot-shot: overly confident, overly aggressive.  There was no argument that Cal was a tenacious reporter and an excellent writer, but a palpable tension sizzled between them. 

Cal was hoping Eric would be alone, but unfortunately, Lancer was present as well in the paper’s central office when he arrived to discuss what he had concluded.

Eric greeted him with a respectfully somber tone.

“So your angle on the Rashad story is….?”

Cal glanced at Lancer, took a fortifying breath, and laid it out.

“I think he was murdered, and I think I know by whom.”

Lancer leaned back dramatically, balancing his chair on its back legs.

“This oughta be good,” he spat.

Cal remained standing, but steadied himself by grasping the back of the chair in front of him.

“Just hear me out.”

Eric nodded, one eye brow raised.

Cal sucked in another long breath, as if the added oxygen to his brain would help organize his thoughts.  He tried to infuse his tone with enough confidence to make a convincing case, but not enough to be perceived by Lancer as arrogance.

“Okay.  What you have to prove on a murder case is motive, opportunity and capability.  I think I can do that.”

He swallowed hard, hoping the nausea from yesterday wouldn’t return as he laid out the facts.

“Here’s the back story.  Rashad had come under pressure from a number of sources, which led to insomnia and erratic behavior in class.  The first pressure was from the dean, pushing him to publish or bring some notoriety to the university or else they would defer his tenure, again, and his future employment might be in jeopardy.  He was doing research he was passionate about, and was in the processing of compiling a grant proposal to fund it, which would have reassured the dean of his value. But he couldn’t tell the administration about it, because it was controversial.  It disproved a theory published by a Haverford Professor in the 70’s, a theory that had garnered respect for the university.  Rashad concluded that if they knew the nature of his research, the administration might have stopped him.  So he couldn’t tip his hand.”

Cal took a breath and wished he had brought something to drink.

“In order to meet the grant deadline,” he continued, “he started working late every night in his office, usually until 9:00 or 10:00.  He couldn’t share the info with the secretary, for fear of it reaching the ear of the dean, so he worked only with his student assistant.  Each night, while they were working, Rashad’s wife would call once maybe twice to establish he was actually in his office and to ask how long until he’d come home.  It was his perception that she suspected he was having an affair because he was away from home so many evenings.”

Both Eric and Lancer smiled at the unlikelihood of it.  Cal pushed forward.

“In addition to calls from her, he began receiving calls from an unidentified man – calls of a threatening nature, trying to stop him from continuing his research and applying for the grant.”

He gripped the chair with more strength.

“So you’ve got the dean questioning his value and future, the grant deadline, the weight of the secrecy, his other course work, the pressure from the wife and threats from a mysterious caller.” 

He paused for effect.

“Add to that one crucial fact – the place he had always gone to relax and regroup was suddenly off limits to him.  That place was the pond.  He used to take long walks there at night.  He said the stars reminded him of India.  When access to the pond was restricted, he lost his only source of solace.”
 
Lancer interrupted.

“All you’ve given so far are the reasons he committed suicide.”

Cal looked down to gather his thoughts, hoping he could give the next information without stammering.

“The evidence suggests a possibility of foul play.”  He took a breath.  “There was an abrasion on the back of his skull, perhaps not life threatening in itself, but enough impact for him to have been knocked out prior to drowning.”

Lancer lifted his chin.

“And you know this how?”

“I….I was given access to the police photos of the scene.”

“Cal,” Eric asked, clearly alarmed.  “Have you broken any laws?”

“No, no.  I have a couple of sources at the station.”

Lancer huffed an audible sigh, trying not to sound impressed.  “Go on.”

“The reason his body didn’t float up to the surface was because it was weighted with concrete blocks.”

“Concrete blocks?” Eric echoed.

Cal took another intentional breath, swallowing down the taste that had plagued him all night.

“From the police photos.  Two concrete cinder blocks were secured together with a chain.  A set of handcuffs looped through the chain, with the ends attached to each ankle. That’s why his boots had to come off.  They  were too high to allow access to his ankles.”

Neither Eric nor Lancer spoke, but Cal could sense them picturing it.  What a luxury they had, he thought, to only have to imagine it.

“Although the patrol team didn’t find him until 11:30, the police estimate the time of death to be closer to 10:30.  I have a source that puts him in his office until a little after 9:00.  That means he had to drive from his office in Tenser to where he parked in front of McReynolds Hall.  Then he had to walk the three mile hike, up and down hills, to get  to the pond.  That would have taken 45 minutes, at least.  That would put him there a little before 10:00.”

Eric nodded.

“Rashad was a little Indian guy,” Cal continued.  “Maybe five foot four, no more than 100, maybe 110 pounds.”  He watched as their eyes scanned the air, picturing him.  “Those concrete blocks weigh about 42 pounds each. The chain around them looked pretty sturdy, maybe another five to ten pounds.”

He watched their brows furrow in tandem.

“That means,” he clarified, “he would have had to carry nearly his own body weight, up and down hills, for three miles, in one trip.  He didn’t have time to make two trips.  He only had time for one.  I don’t think that was possible.”

Lancer started to open his mouth, but Cal spoke first.

“This morning I talked to a patrol team member who called in the site as secure at 8:50.  He verified that they checked the full perimeter of the pond.  I asked if there was any place someone could hide something the size of two shoe boxes atop each other.  He said no way.  They saw nothing but the gravel that surrounds the perimeter.” 

He stood taller, releasing the chair.

“Those blocks were not there at 8:50, but they were attached to Rashad by 10:30.  Rashad couldn’t have taken them there.  Which means someone else had to.”

Cal’s eyes met Lancer’s, but neither blinked.

“Go on,” Eric nodded.

“The person who took them there had to know two things – that Rashad would be there and that a patrol team wouldn’t be.”  He closed his eyes briefly before he could say it aloud.  “The only person who would have known both of those facts was security chief McBride.”

“Good Lord,” sighed Lancer.

“McBride assigned the patrol routes, which were kept secret from everyone.  The patrols never knew what route they would take, the guy in the security center didn’t know where they would be.  He only posted the times the teams called in and from where.  He had no prior knowledge.  Only McBride would have known.”

“Oh, so McBride is your murderer?”  Lancer’s laughter sounded more like a wail.
“And he clairvoyantly knew Rashad was gonna take a stroll there?”

“He told him to,” Cal said firmly.  “My source was in Rashad’s office a little after 9:00 when a call came in from McBride.  Rashad’s reaction to the call was a sense of relief.   He identified the caller as McBride, said, ‘finally’ and ‘thanks’.  Then he told my source he was leaving and he headed immediately for his car and, as we know, the pond.” 

He steadied himself on the chair-back again, fighting the returning nausea.

“I believe McBride finally gave him the permission he’d been waiting for, permission to violate the curfew – a curfew established by McBride in the first place – and take an uninterrupted walk around the pond.  He may have even suggested he meet him there, so McBride could ward off any patrols.” 

“Rashad and McBride were friends,” Lancer scoffed.  “Maybe he felt sorry for him, wanted to give him a little treat.  Doesn’t mean he killed him.”

Cal looked to Eric, who narrowed his eyes, not in rejection of the idea, but as if he was scrutinizing the logic.

“If McBride was gonna kill him,” he asked, “why set up the patrolling to begin with?”

Cal felt renewed by the question; it was feasible, at least to Eric.

“Two reasons,” he said, confidently.  “First, to ensure no one would be on the grounds after hours except the patrols, which he could track.  He had to make sure the coast would be absolutely clear.”

Lancer shook his head.

“Think about it,” Cal urged.  “Who was the first person to come upon the vandalism?  McBride.  He could have staged it.  Who determined that patrols were needed?  McBride.  Who regulated when they would be near the pond or not?  McBride.  He called Rashad a little after 9:00 pm.  The patrol had just checked it at 8:50 and didn’t check it again until 11:30.  That’s plenty of time to lure him there, do it and get out.”

Lancer pushed himself forward, now resting his chair on all four legs.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, sarcasm dripping like audible drool.  “McBride calls him to tell him he can finally walk around the pond for an hour or so.  He waits for him to get there, knocks him on the head, takes off his coat and boots, puts him on the raft along with himself and the cinder blocks he brought for the occasion, hooks the handcuffs to his ankles, leads the raft out to the center of the pond, drops the concrete blocks over the side, which pulls down the body, and swims back to shore, leaving the raft adrift.  Am I with you so far?”

“I think he rode the raft back to shore, then pushed it adrift with a pole of some kind,”  Cal deadpanned. “It was only 25 - 30 feet from the edge.”

“Cal,” Eric said tentatively, “you said the first reason for the patrols was to secure his window of opportunity.  What’s the second reason?” 

“To ensure that the crime scene would be polluted.  McBride set up the procedure that if a team found any vandalism they were to alert the campus security center, who then was to call him at home.  The five other teams were to join the first team at the site and wait for him there.”

Cal became more animated.

“Can you imagine twelve guys with flashlights, vying for position around the perimeter of the pond to see if they could find a floating body?  Even if they didn’t move anything, at the very least it destroyed any chance for detecting foot prints, and it may have altered other forensic evidence.”

He paused, tilting his head.  “And who would know how to pollute a crime scene better than an ex-cop?”

“Okay,” encouraged Eric.  “So you’ve got opportunity.  You said you could also prove capability.  You actually think he’s capable of this?” 

“One of my sources at the station verified that McBride was forced into early retirement due to a series of incidents of excessive violence.”

“Against criminals,”  Lancer specified.

“I’m saying he has a documented history of violence, enough to get him removed from the police force,” Cal retorted quickly.  “He’s what, six-foot-two maybe, 225 pounds, mostly muscle.  Carrying the 100 pound weight of Rashad’s unconscious body would certainly not have been a strain, nor would carrying two concrete blocks.  And if he arrived in an ATV, those tracks would have been obscured by the twelve patrol members trampling around.”

“But Cal, what’s his motive?” Eric asked.  “These guys were apparently friends.”

“Were they?” Cal posed.  “Go back to the stressors.  The pressure from the dean we know about – we can get those memos.  The deadline for the grant we know about, I can get the grant specs.  But what about the calls?”

He stood taller again, as if that would help make his point.

“What if his wife was calling that often, not because she thought he was having an affair, but because she was and needed to establish when he would be getting home so she could get there first?”

He paused and took a needed breath.

“I believe she was having an affair with McBride.”

“I admire a man with beliefs, Cal,” Lancer countered, sarcastically.  “But I need proof.”

“I have corroboration on the frequency of the calls and the callers, both Rashad’s wife and the threatening caller.  At least once a night from his wife, and more often twice.  It’s a long distance call from the suburb they live in, so most likely she would have used the 800 number.  I checked the university phone bill and Rashad’s home number never appears.”

He swallowed again to calm his rising volume and emphasis.  This had to remain scientific in its basis in fact.

“The phone bill does show repeated calls from one number.  I was looking to see if I could trace a number for the threatening caller, but when I called the number to check it, I got McBride’s home answering machine.”

Eric frowned.

Cal pre-empted what he assumed would be Eric’s question – why wouldn’t it be perfectly normal for McBride to call the school?

“I have corroboration,” he said quickly, “that McBride never called in to the security center in the evenings.  Not once. Their instructions were to only bother him if they found something on patrol, otherwise he was off limits.”

He let that sink in.

“And yet, the university phone bill shows several calls being made to the 800# from McBride’s home number every week night for three weeks prior to Rashad’s death, but not one call from Rashad’s home number.  That would indicate that both the wife’s and the threatening calls came from McBride’s home.”    

“You think he is the mystery caller?” Lancer droned dramatically.

“One of my sources described the voice as gruff, maybe disguised.  I think it was McBride himself.”

“But what was the point of making those calls at all?” Eric wondered aloud.

“Again, two reasons.  First, to scare Rashad and add to the stress that was causing the erratic behavior.  He wanted to make people think he was losing it, so that suicide wouldn’t seem unlikely.”

He directed his comments to Eric, trying not to see Lancer’s skepticism.

“Secondly, he needed a smokescreen.  Something to throw the cops off if they did suspect foul play.  He knew the student assistant would hear the calls come in and see Rashad’s reaction. And he knew she would mention it to the cops when they asked her about possible enemies.”
 
“McBride is an ex-cop,” Lancer said, shaking his head again.  “You don’t think he’d know the calls would show up on a phone bill if he called an 800 number?”

“He was a beat cop, not a detective,” Cal said dismissively.

Eric weighed in.

“So if McBride made the threatening calls, how did he know about the research if it all had been kept so secret?”

“That points most directly to the fact that he was having an affair with Rashad’s wife.  The only other person I know for sure, aside from the student assistant, who knew the nature of the research and understood its controversy was Mrs. Rashad.  The secretary didn’t know; the dean didn’t know; even the Institution funding the grant didn’t know.  Only Mrs. Rashad.  She could have told McBride.  She could have been in on the harassment calls, even if she wasn’t complicit in his death.”

“Give me more,” Lancer said calmly.  Was he beginning to agree with the logic? Cal could make the puzzle pieces fall together.  He knew it, so he kept pushing.
 
“The campus security office was instructed to call McBride at home with any irregularities.  So that means he had to be home every night by 8:00 when the patrolling started.  But the night Rashad died, McBride wasn’t at home then.  He was on campus.  He called Rashad on an intercom line, not an outside line.  He was here.”

He took another fortifying breath.  It was so obvious. 

“Why?” Cal asked rhetorically. “Why didn’t he just call him from home? He could have given him the window of opportunity from there.  So why stay on campus?  I believe it was so he could follow or meet him there.  He knew he’d go.”

“More.”

“It makes logical sense. His wife dies eight months ago.  He takes up with Rashad’s wife whom he’s known for years.  She’s open to it because Rashad is working late anyway and ignoring her.  He does the vandalism himself so he has a reason to set up the patrols to clear the grounds of wanderers, alerts Rashad that the coast is clear, follows him to the pond, maybe even joins him for a brief chat – that wouldn’t have alarmed Rashad, does the deed, goes home.  He knows precisely how much time he has to get home before the patrol team finds the coat and boots he left on shore.” 

Cal summarized.

“He had opportunity.  He was the only one who knew when the coast would be clear.  He knew that Rashad loved the pond and would certainly go there when prompted if he’d been denied for awhile.”

He gestured with resolve.

“He had the ability.  He has a history of violence and could easily have carried the unconscious Rashad, at least once he removed that coat. The raft was capable of holding at least three bodies – so it could have easily supported McBride, Rashad and the concrete blocks. And he knew he could effectively guarantee the crime scene would be polluted.”
  
He took a more confident breath.

“He had motive.  He wanted the guy’s wife, and he wanted to prove he could pull it off.”

Cal searched the faces of both editors, wishing they could have seen the photos.  If they had, it would have been clearer, more obviously an act of violence rather than one of desperation.

Lancer drew in a long breath and looked at Cal intensely.

“We’re not gonna print it.”

“What?”

“It’s conjecture,” Lancer said firmly.  “Circumstantial at best.  It can be refuted too easily.”

Cal’s mouth hung open a moment, then he braced for battle.

“Alright, refute it, point by point.  The skull abrasion?”

Lancer played devil’s advocate - a good fit.

“Maybe he hit the back of his head on the raft when the weight of the cement blocks snapped him off.”

“How did the cement blocks get there?”

“Maybe they had been stored somewhere relatively close to the pond all along and Rashad knew it because he spent a lot of time there.  Then he would only have had to carry a chain and handcuffs for the full trip, which, by the way, you don’t have to be a cop to buy.”

“The calls from McBride’s home number, none of which were to the control center?”

“Maybe he was calling someone else on the 800 number.  Maybe he was having phone sex with someone on the janitorial crew, for Christ’s sake.”

“No 800 number calls from the wife?”

“Maybe she’s extravagant and made long distance calls.”

“The threatening caller?” 

“Maybe someone else knew he intended to apply for the grant and was threatening because they wanted the grant funds themselves.”

“The fact that he was still on campus when he called Rashad?”

“Maybe he was concerned about the election victory party getting out of hand.  And since most of the students would be at the party there would be less need to patrol the back forty.  Maybe he called Rashad purely as a friend who knew the guy needed to take a walk.”

“The pollution of the crime scene by his appointed patrollers?”

“Maybe he honestly set up the patrols to control vandalism and didn’t think there would be a need to keep a crime scene pristine because he didn’t foresee a freakin’ suicide.”

Cal shook his head, unable to digest this assault on his logic.  Lancer continued pounding.

“You have no proof of an affair.  You have proof of violence against criminals but that’s a far cry from murdering a colleague.  All you’ve uncovered is a series of pressures that could have a led an erratic, sleep deprived, intellectually failing man to an act of desperation.”

“If we could get her phone bill and prove she didn’t call from her house,” Cal suggested, almost pleading, “we would know she had to have called from McBride’s.”

“Give it up, Cal,” Lancer shouted.

“Bullshit,” Cal shouted back.  “You know I’m right.  You’re enough of a journalist still to know a gut feeling can give you an answer that might not be provable.  What do you need?  Physical evidence?  There won’t be any.  You want DNA from the raft?  Fingerprints from the submerged cement blocks?  All we can go on is motive, ability and opportunity. The logic is sound.  You know it.”

“Cal,” Eric jumped in. “It’s logical but not conclusive.  It’s still just conjecture.”

“We don’t print conjecture,” Lancer added.  “Conjecture which defames someone in print is known as libel.  He could sue the school, you could be expelled, I could be fired.  It’s not gonna happen.”

Cal released the chair and stood up, defiantly.

“And if I go to the police with my conclusions?”

“Well, then it’s just slander, and he could only go after you.  Of course, the police would insist that you reveal your sources.  And when you refuse, which I know you will, they could charge you with obstructing a police investigation.  Since they haven’t yet ruled out homicide, that makes the case significant.  You might actually do some jail time.”

Cal registered the unforgiving weight of futility.

“It’s not going in the paper,” Eric echoed.

Shaking his head, Cal tried one last appeal.

“It’s. A. Murder,” he barked.  “On campus of a faculty member by a staff member, and you don’t want to pursue it as a news story?”

“Cal, you can’t prove it,” Lancer stated firmly.  “You can’t hang a man for murder based on a phone bill.  The answer is no.  I won’t print the story.  And I don’t wanna know how you found a way to see crime photos and phone bills.  But I’m warning you.  Let the police do their job and you do yours.  Even if you don’t get arrested, you could be forced to stand in front of the Honor Council and potentially face expulsion.  Report the facts as they become apparent.  But only the facts.  Got it?”

He bit his lip in anger.

“You mean what the police spoon-feed me.”

“Exactly.”

The battle lost, Cal turned on his heel and distanced himself from the rejection.  He’d looked at the damned photos, dealt with their effect, chastised himself for not being tougher, regrouped and gotten tougher, laid out a well researched and logically constructed set of events, and for what?  To be told it wasn’t a story.  To be told it was all  for nothing.

And now, he was supposed to be content with press conference rhetoric and non-informative public statements from the police?  Was he being reduced to a clerical secretary, typing up a summary of cop dribble and calling it a press release? 

Jesus, if that’s what the job was in the real world, why the hell did he choose this field in the first place?  Where was the honor behind the search for truth?  Was truth only worth chasing as long as there was no chance for reprisal?  No chance for personal risk?  Was the pursuit of truth to be only conducted as long as it was convenient for the reporter?

The more he questioned, the more angry he got.  This couldn’t be how it was in actual journalism.  He wouldn’t accept the premise.  Lancer was playing it safe.  He’d taken a professor’s job because he lost the balls for digging on the street.  Cal needed the input of a street reporter, somebody who still had a backbone.  And he knew exactly who to call.

Last year’s class on investigative reporting had hosted a speaker named David Foster, a journalist at the Philadelphia Herald.  He had provided a glimpse into the real world, and had impressed Cal with his emphatic devotion to the craft.  Apparently, professor Lancer knew he couldn’t convey to the class what he had misplaced in himself, and brought Foster in as a reality check.

Cal called the paper and asked for Foster, who, surprisingly was at his desk.  When he introduced himself, asking if he remembered speaking at the university, Foster replied, “Is this the same Cal McCaffrey who kept me an hour after class, asking questions?”  Cal admitted to it, somewhat embarrassingly, but Foster laughed and asked what was up.

“I need fifteen minutes of your time for your perspective on a journalistic dilemma.”

“I’m intrigued.  Meet me at the coffee shop next to my office in one hour.”

Cal pummeled his fingers quickly on the keyboard, laying out the article with clear, linear logic and deductive reasoning.  He printed two copies, securing one under a pile of papers on his desk.  He assembled his notes, made copies of each page, blacked out the source names on the copy and put it all together in the manila envelope with a copy of the highlighted phone bill.

Stephen just nodded when Cal asked for the car again.  He had seen this mood before.  It was best to get off the train track before you were run over.

***

“I imagine you’ve heard about the death on campus Friday?” Cal asked, as he sat across the table from Foster.

“Professor Rashad, yes. I’m not the reporter assigned to the story.”
 
“I’ve spent the weekend investigating.  The result of that information indicates, to me, a homicide rather than suicide, and it points to a possible suspect.  I wondered if you would take a look at my piece and my notes and give me your perspective.”

Foster stirred his coffee cup, purposely not extending his hand for the envelope.

“I’ll assume Professor Lancer won’t permit it to be printed in the university paper, so you came to me for my opinion.  But do you want my opinion on the validity of your research and conclusions, or on what should be done with the information?”

“Both.”

“I will also assume then that you want honesty.”

Cal nodded, handing him the envelope.  Foster read the article first, then combed over the notes, reading and re-reading them, and finally read the article a second time.  As he scanned the paragraphs, his expression remained unchanged. 

Cal suddenly felt incredibly insecure, unsure if his writing was up to an acceptable level.  He suspected the professional reporter would just laugh and throw it all back at him. So he braced himself for another disappointment.

Foster took a breath, placed the papers on the table gingerly and leaned back in his chair.
 
“Professor Lancer’s reasons probably have to do with the university’s exposure for libel.  His position requires he protect the school, so he’s right to refuse running it.  If McBride isn’t convicted, he would be able to sue the school, and he certainly would.  Haverford would have some pretty deep pockets.”

Cal held his breath, hoping for some sign of moral outrage from Foster.

“But I don’t have that responsibility, and I still wouldn’t print it.”

Cal felt the ceiling caving in on him.

“It’s the truth,” he pleaded.

“It could well be.”

“I did the due diligence, secured the corroboration, dug for the physical evidence.  Where does it fall short?”

“I wouldn’t print it yet.  It’s a matter of timing.”

“Why wait when it’s the truth? I thought the point of finding the truth was to expose it.  Why else would you chase it down?”

“This happened on Friday, so the police are three days into the investigation.  This article could tip their hand.  At this stage, they may want to keep certain details from the general public - the chains around the blocks, the hand cuffs, the skull abrasion.”

He sat forward in the chair, holding eye contact as he spoke more emphatically.

“You don’t want to undermine their efforts, first because you want them to catch the bastard.  You don’t want to deny justice for the victim just because you want to get the early scoop.  That’s paramount, otherwise you become a tabloid - not concerned with the ultimate outcome, just the short-sighted attention.”

Cal furrowed his brow.

“But ultimately,” Foster continued,  “the more damaging result would be pissing off the cops.  You don’t want to do that.  You need them long term.  You build relationships with them, then you share information with each other.  If you piss them off, the information flow from their end stops.”

He reviewed the notes again, his face now showing almost a fatherly pride.

“I applaud your access to the photos and time of death report. I see you have a talent for cultivating sources, so I know you’ll understand that the cops are indispensible in that regard.  You need to give this investigation a little time.”
 
Cal suddenly felt confronted by an undeniable feeling that maybe he’d chosen the wrong career path.  His instincts seemed to be wrong.  He was running full speed into walls.  Had he wasted the last three days, and more importantly, these last four years at Haverford?  Defeat encased him.  Exhaustion caught up to him and laid him bare.

“Look,” he rubbed his eyes, “maybe I don’t have what it takes, you know?”

Foster shrugged.

“I mean,” Cal’s voice began to falter.  “My first priority is searching for and revealing truth as soon as you discover it.  How do you temper that instinct?  What if I don’t have the judgment needed to understand the timing?” 

“You’ll learn.  In the meantime, that’s what an editor is for.”

Foster read Cal’s face and saw something akin to despair in his eyes.

“Your judgment isn’t your only concern, is it?”

Cal shook his head slowly.

“The photos….they were….I can’t seem to…they were…”

“Hard to look at?” Foster acknowledged.  “Were these the first crime scene photos you’ve seen?”

“Of someone I knew,” he evaded, not wanting to look entirely naïve.  “Does it… does it get easier?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Foster nodded. “You won’t believe how quickly you’ll become desensitized to that.” 

“Unfortunately?” Cal echoed.

“In order to be unaffected by them, you have to lose some of your humanity, in a way.  And once it’s gone, it’s gone.  I would encourage you to hold onto that as long as you can.  If it bothered you to see those photos, I’d be proud of that, not ashamed.”

Cal took a moment to process that thought, which Foster read as self doubt.

“Cal,” he said, reassuringly, “you’ve got it..  You have the talent for cultivating sources and an understanding of corroboration.  You have a crisp, clear writing style.  You can smell when a lead needs to be followed, and you have the fire in the belly and tenacity it takes to pursue a story to its conclusion. You’ve got it.  Judgment and patience can be learned.”

“So what do I do with this?”  He gestured toward the envelope.

Foster leaned thoughtfully back into his chair.

“What I would suggest you consider is letting me pass your information on to the reporter assigned to the story, without naming you as the source.  He’ll use it to compare with what the police are telling him and if it doesn’t match up, he’ll find a way to feed it to them.  He’s a good reporter.  He’s spent years building the kind of relationships I was talking about.  Your work won’t go to waste.  It will be followed up on.”

“I’m certain if the police come sniffing as a result, Professor Lancer will give me up to protect the school.  He said they’d try to force me to reveal my sources.”

He cleared his throat so he could speak with conviction. 

“I won’t do that.”
 
Foster nodded with the resolution of a fellow colleague.

“I wouldn’t have any respect for you if you did.”

“He said if I refused, they could charge me with obstruction of an investigation.”

Foster’s eyes crinkled almost completely shut as he laughed.

“Well, in my experience,” he chuckled, “the cops don’t like to give credit to journalists for any leads.  So they certainly wouldn’t admit that a university journalism student cracked the case.  It’s in their best interest to minimize your involvement.  But even if you were charged, it’s basically a one-night stay.  It’s actually a sort of badge of honor for a reporter and a carrying card for courting future sources.  ‘I’ve done jail time rather than reveal…blah, blah, blah.’  But your chance of incarceration is highly remote.”

“I’d rather not risk expulsion.”

“It’s possible.  If you’re not comfortable, I completely understand.   We can stop this here.”  Foster slid the papers back into the envelope and edged it toward Cal, who tried to process the implications.

Weighing the pursuit of truth against possible personal cost had only been a vague measurement before, one which he had always, rather cavalierly, believed he would face with courage and no hesitation.  Now it was a stark reality, a decision to be made, the measure of a man.  There was hesitation, but not for long.

He pushed the envelope back toward Foster, who smiled, knowingly.

“Have you kept your own copy?”

He nodded.

Foster furrowed his brow.

“Tell me, Cal.  If you worked for the paper and had contacts everywhere, what would your next step be?”

Cal let out a slow breath as he gathered his thoughts.

“I’d get a copy of Mrs. Rashad’s home phone bill, to see if she called long distance to the school.  I’d get a copy of the autopsy to see if there was water in his lungs or whether the blow to the head killed him before he went under.  I’d want to check with the police if they found cinder block residue or dust in Rashad’s car or at his home, same with McBride.  I’d want to know if those cinder blocks could be found somewhere else on campus, a place in the open that Rashad would have had access to, or locked in a place McBride would have had keys to.  I’d want to check for evidence that Mrs. Rashad had been at McBride’s – finger prints in the kitchen, hair samples in the bedroom.”  He took another breath.  “That’s off the top of my head.”

A quick flash of that fatherly pride spread across Foster’s face, which was almost instantly replaced by a look of concern.

“You haven’t had much sleep since the body was found, have you?”

Cal shook his head, a glint of resentment in his eyes.

“You asked that because you think my logic’s flawed?”

“No, I asked because the dark circles under your eyes don’t look quite right on a twenty-one-year-old.”

“Twenty-two,” he corrected.

Foster drew Cal in with an intensity in his eyes that held him captive.

“I’m going to give you some advice you won’t like,” he said firmly, “but I urge you to take it.”

Cal tilted his head, skeptically.

“Let go of the story for now.”
 
Cal sighed a tired laugh, looked down and shook his head.  Foster persisted.

“Print the official blurb from the police at this point.  Give the cops, and our paper, some time.  Move on and get your life back.”

Cal met his eyes again, narrowing his own.  “Could you let go of it?”

Foster’s smile was answer enough.

“Well, then at least step back from it for a couple of days.” 

Cal rose from the table and pushed the chair in.

“Thanks for your time.  Can you let me know what comes of this, if anything?”

“You’d better contact me,” Foster said, handing him his card.  “Give me a week.”

Cal nodded and tried not to sulk as he walked to the car.

***

“Cal.”  Annie’s voice, though smooth and calm, jolted him out of his half-stupor.  He wondered if he’d actually been asleep in class.  She laid the new issue on the desk in front of him.

“Your story on Rashad,” she said, “it’s so…well, you won’t like this word, but it’s touching.  It pulled me into his world.  I had no idea of the kind of life he had lived, what he had to overcome in India, his achievements even before he came here.” 

She touched his shoulder.  “It wasn’t at all the article I expected.  I expected a microscopic scrutiny of his death, but instead it’s a wonderful tribute to his life.”

Cal stood slowly, steadying himself on the desk as he rose.

“I was surprised,” Annie continued.  “No reference to the photos or the information you got from your sources.  It’s not the article you intended to write, is it?” she asked gently. 

“Not originally.”

“What made you change angles?”

“Lancer wouldn’t print it,” he admitted.  “But more importantly, I’ve had a lot of time to think this past week,” he grinned wearily, “instead of sleeping.”

His eyes were almost slits from exhaustion, as if the lids themselves were too heavy to raise any higher.

“You know when you said I wrote just to spoon-feed inside information to the ignorant masses?”

She dipped her head in mild protest, wishing she hadn’t said it.

“I think that might have been what I was doing.  I wanted people to know the conclusions I’d come to.  It was ego driven.” 

He steadied himself with a tentative grip on the chair.

“But I sought some advice from someone in the real world.  And he pointed out that what I intended to write might actually hurt the police investigation.  I’ve given it a lot of thought and ultimately, what I want is justice for Rashad.  I don’t want to interfere with it.”

He cleared his throat to minimize the rasp.

“I want people to think of him as more than just some crazy guy who offed himself.  I want them to know the life he had lived.  That he was a real…”  Cal’s voice faltered and he swallowed hard.  “He was a real person who lived a life worth commemorating.”

He cleared his throat again, now embarrassed. 

“There will be plenty of time to talk about his death, as information gets released.”

Annie cupped his elbow, afraid he might actually drop.

“Cal, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he said, with little conviction.  “It’s just been a long week.  And I’ve learned some things that are weighing me down.”

“What things?”

She saw a depth in his gaze, as if he was searching inward for an answer she would understand.

“Well, I’m not as tough as I thought.  My judgment isn’t as sound and my reasons for writing aren’t as noble as I’d hoped. It’s been a hard lesson to learn.” 

He shook his head in frustration.  He wasn’t diving deeply enough.

“The most important thing is that it’s clarified my understanding of the timing of truth. I thought truth was something you expose as soon as you find it.  But I’ve learned that if you reveal a small piece of the truth too soon, it can impede the discovery of the full story.” 

He tried to read her face.  Did she understand?  He didn’t see it.

“So now I think,” he summarized, “I think there’s a proper time for truth.” 

She caressed his arm slowly, consoling but not comprehending.

“Do you understand?” he pleaded.  “A proper time for truth.”

She sensed that this was a concept found only at the end of a journey, something that could be understood only if you’d travelled it yourself.  What she could fully comprehend, however, was his level of exhaustion.

“You’re eyes look so tired,” she whispered, moving closer to him.  “Have you gotten any sleep this week at all?”

“Oh, in bits and pieces.  Just never any length of time or to any great depth. I think my mind has forgotten how to sleep,” he said wistfully.

He attempted a laugh, but it felt forced. 

“I’ve been spending my nights in the library.  Literally.  The cleaning crew lets me hang out in the microfilm room while they work.  I was researching Rashad’s life.”

“Maybe you should see the campus nurse.  Get some sleeping pills.”

Cal waved off the idea.

“Stephen’s going home for the weekend after his last class today,” he grinned.  “So I won’t have to listen to his snoring.  I have great hopes for tonight.”

He noticed her hand was still gripping his elbow.  He moved away from her, too tired to revel in her touch.

“I’ll be fine,” he said dismissively.

“Cal.”  She looked deeply into him and smiled.  “Your article is a wonderful gift to his family.  You did a good thing and I’m very proud of you.”

“I just wrote the facts.”  He turned from her and plodded back toward the dorm.  “That’s what I do,” he said, under his breath.

***

That evening, Annie knocked on his dorm room door.  When he opened it, she put two envelopes in his hand, one a lumpy business-sized and the other a standard manila.  Then she simply smiled and left. 

The writing on the outside of the lumpy one read: “To help you sleep.”  Inside was a cassette tape with the word “Lullabies” written by hand.

The manila envelope was marked: “To make being awake more enjoyable.”  Inside was an issue of Hustler magazine.  He laughed out loud as he tried to picture Annie buying  pornography.

Fully clothed, he laid down on his unmade bed, popped the cassette into his player and put the headphones on.  The soothing, deeply resonant tone of Annie’s voice drifted into his consciousness, loosening the knots in his neck, relieving the tension in his shoulders, unwinding the relentless tangles of logic in his mind.  Delicate tones of the guitar strings circled around inside him, gentle as an angel’s harp.  Slowly, he melted into the bed and drifted along with the rich, meandering melodies to a refuge of softness and peace. 

And with Annie’s essence calming every part of him, at last he slept.