Serious Sylvester

 

Before I went back to my own office, I stopped next door at Popcorn’s to catch up on anything that might have happened while I was gone.

I wasn’t surprised to find a tall, skinny, African-American kid sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair in front of her desk. He was absorbed in applying a yellow highlighter to a fat textbook with George Washington on the cover. Then he saw me.

“I left a message that I’d be waiting for you, Mr. Cody,” he said in a “shame-shame” voice as he hurriedly stuck the book and highlighter under the chair.

Sylvester Link, only a sophomore and already the best reporter on The Spectator, is easy to underestimate. He wears glasses, his mustache is so slight it looks like the peach fuzz on a kid still looking forward to his first shave, and he appears underfed.

But Sylvester doesn’t take crap from anybody. He’s serious. Today he was dressed in khaki slacks, a light blue shirt, and a darker blue sport jacket. In all the time I’ve been at St. Benignus, including student days, I’ve only known four kids who wore a sport coat to classes. The other three were ROTC students. I could imagine Sylvester growing up to be Frank Woodford, Lynda’s three-piece-suited boss.

I try to avoid Sylvester when there’s something I don’t want to tell him, but he’s about as hard to avoid as foredoom at a Faculty Senate meeting.

“Come on into the office,” I told him. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll take thirty.”

Without a word Popcorn thrust another batch of yellow phone messages into my hand. “You’ll get fifteen for now,” I told Sylvester. “Your rag isn’t the only one demanding my attention.” I’d once been the editor of that rag, but that was long ago.

In my office Sylvester sat down on the threadbare couch and made himself at home. And why shouldn’t he? Sylvester had been one of my work-study students for a semester until he and I agreed that his interests and talents lay elsewhere - like exposing things instead of writing news releases and campus calendars. He was one of the few work-student types I could remember. We parted friends, but friends don’t count in journalism - or shouldn’t. Lynda had that down pat.

“I want to ask you about the murder,” Sylvester said, pulling out a notebook.

Really? Wow, didn’t see that one coming! “I think maybe you should be talking to the Erin police, not to me.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Mr. Cody. Chief Hummel isn’t going to tell me anything I won’t see on TV4 Action News. And he wasn’t there during the murder - but you were. Plus, you’re the official spokesman for the college. I have a right as a member of the campus media to ask you questions and get truthful answers.”

“Any answers you get will be truthful, Sylvester, you can be sure of that. Maybe I can help you get a story that will make you look good when you try to get a job as an intern reporter instead of a clerk at the Hammond Times next summer.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t hurt,” he acknowledged with a rare grin. “Now, what was the purpose of this dinner with the man who purported to be Peter Gerard?”

“Social. Gerard is speaking on campus tonight and he arrived early - or so we thought. It seemed that a nice dinner would be a classy way to welcome him to campus.”

“And who’s idea was that?”

I had to think a minute before I could say, “Professor McCabe.”

Sylvester didn’t have to ask who that was. Sometimes I thought everybody on campus knew my bagpipe-playing brother-in-law. “And what was Professor McCabe’s connection with Peter Gerard?”

I didn’t like the way he pounced on that, but there wasn’t much I could do with the question but answer it.

“The popular culture program and the film society are sponsoring Mr. Gerard’s lecture tonight. Besides, Professor McCabe and Mr. Gerard are old friends.”

“And yet the professor didn’t spot this Rodney Stonecipher as a phony right away?”

“Old friends from graduate school,” I explained. “They don’t go bowling every week.” It would be amusing to see Mac try it, though.

“You realize an incident like this is bound to raise anxieties on campus - a murderer on the loose, potentially someone from outside the St. Benignus community. What has the administration done -”

Da da da DA, DA da da. Indiana Jones again. I pulled out my iPhone and, seeing Sebastian McCabe’s picture filling the screen, decided to answer it.

“Cody here.”

“McCabe here, Jefferson. I am in my office. Sitting in front of me is a visitor I am confident you will wish to meet.”

“Not now, Mac. I’m a little busy with the murder.” I was trying to be patient, not my strong suit.

“This is an old friend of mine from Bloomington.”

I almost missed it. Bloomington is the home of Indiana University, where Mac went to grad school with -

Peter Gerard.

“I see. Well, if it’s that important to you, I’ll be over.”

I disconnected and stood up, paying no attention to the little symbol indicating I had a message waiting for me. “Sorry, Sylvester, but I have to go. Your fifteen minutes was up five minutes ago anyway.”

“It’s not up until you answer me, Mr. Cody. What is the administration doing to ensure that nothing like this happens again? The real Peter Gerard is still alive. Another attempt on his life could result in somebody else getting killed in the crossfire.”

The first thing a spokesman has to do in a situation where people are hurting is to show empathy. But it can’t be phony. If you don’t mean what you say that will be about as obvious as a cheap toupee.

“Father Pirelli and everyone in the administration are deeply upset about Mr. Stonecipher’s death,” I said, edging toward the door. “Our prayers are with him, his family, and his friends. And we recognize the concern that this tragedy has caused everyone on campus. You can be sure that Campus Security has been tightened and will be especially stringent for Mr. Gerard’s lecture this evening, with additional support from the Erin police.”

Sylvester gave a wry look. “Sounds good, anyway.”

I thought so, too. Now all I had to do was get in touch with Campus Security and make sure it was also true.