Fulghum and Blackwood drove back to Fulghum’s office in time for their first nightly meeting with Sister Barbara, who was waiting just outside.
Fulghum rolled his captain’s chair around his desk and aligned it with the customer’s chair. Casually, he moved the ashtray within reach of all and sat on the desk facing the two women. He distributed Marlboro cigarettes and matchbooks. Everyone lit up and filled the room with smoke.
“Mr. Fulghum,” Sister Barbara said, “Do you think we could each have a couple of fingers of JD. It’s been a long, busy day.”
Fulghum jumped to liberate a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey from the second drawer on the right of his desk, together with three glasses, which he wiped with his handkerchief. Like a pagan priest, he measured out two fingers of the velvety brown liquid into each glass. He gave two glasses to the ladies and took one himself. “May I offer a toast?” he asked.
“But of course, Mr. Fulghum,” said Sister Barbara.
“Here’s to a good beginning.” No one had an objection, and all drank to that sentiment. Then their discussions began, interrupted only by chain lighting of cigarettes and additional fingers of the brown libation.
“Silvia and I were asked to meet at Starbucks by Professor Clancy. He plainly implied that the Lebetters had been murdered. He offered his help. We’re going to dinner at his place tomorrow. His lover, the English teacher, will be there.”
“Are you taking a taster to the meal?” Sister Barbara asked.
“Whom do you suggest?”
“Me.”
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
“I’ll call the number Clancy gave us and see what I can do.”
“This play, The Seagull, why would he have wanted us to see that with him?”
“Do you know the plot of the play?”
“No, I don’t,” Fulghum answered.
“Part of Clancy’s sick humor is to typecast actors and actresses to cause them maximum stress and embarrassment. The girl who plays the heroine has recently had an abortion. Imagine what playing a character that has been through a similar experience can do to her psychologically.” Sister Barbara shook her head slowly.
“So what is his message for us?” Silvia asked sensibly.
“Perhaps he’s suggesting that you are both typecast in your roles. He’s already guessed that you’re on campus to investigate the murders. Maybe, though, he’d like to think you’re going to replicate the deaths of the Lebetters.”
“I don’t think you’re joking, are you, Sister Barbara?”
“I’m deadly serious. I may be pushing things too far, but I know Clancy. He’s always playing with people’s minds. It makes him feel superior. One student played Raskolnikov in the college’s performance of Crime and Punishment. He did a brilliant job as an actor. The evening of the last performance, he went back to his dorm room and put a bullet through his head.”
“Do you have other instances of this kind of rough play among your faculty and students?”
“Interesting you should ask that question. Last year, two students were returning to the campus after a long night of drinking. They swerved into the opposite lane of traffic and were hit head on by a Mack truck. They had no chance. After that, the dorms erupted with discussions of a curse on the college. Clancy went to the dorm and called the ringleaders of the curse theory together. He asked who among them knew enough about curses to have caused the wreck. The students were terrorized. The rumors stopped. Sister Mercy, an elderly nun who teaches ethics, came to my office to report that there was nothing but sin and depravity in the dorms. She thought Clancy was a warlock because of his power over the students.”
“What do you think of that theory?” Fulghum asked.
“I’ll give you my opinion once you have a chance to observe Clancy at close quarters tomorrow night. With or without my being present, you’ll have a performance that’ll dwarf that of The Seagull.”
After Fulghum called Clancy and got his approval to bring Sister Barbara to dinner, the three decided to call it a night. Sister Barbara drove back to campus while the others drove to their separate apartments.
The next morning, Fulghum walked across campus to meet his ethics class at the theater lecture hall. The hall was filled to capacity. Fulghum stood on the podium and projected on the wall a picture of Adolf Eichmann, a person no student recognized when Fulghum asked them who the figure was. This gave him the entry he needed to discuss the concept of memory and the law.
“What if the egregious criminals of the past are simply forgotten? What if Adolf Hitler had lived and was discovered living at the base of the Andes Mountains in a luxurious villa? Would it be just to prosecute him and all those who protected him through his travel to that place and all the years afterward? Millions died because of this one man, who at one time was thought to be the personification of evil. Now he’s just an old man living with a crone called Eva Braun. What’s wrong with this picture? Or is anything wrong at all?”
The lecture hall was silent for almost three minutes. At that point, the hands began to rise. An earnest young man in the front row stood and raised his hand high.
“You in the front. State your name and your question.”
“My name is Albert Hoffmann. I think it’s high time that we call a moratorium on all war crimes committed during World War II and before.”
His schoolmates hooted and booed. He got a guilty look and sat back down.
“Herr Hoffmann, it seems your fellow students have a different opinion. Yet you make my point quite well. Should there be a statute of limitations on crime—any crime? We say that most crimes are closed and become cold cases after seven years if they’re not solved. An exception is made for killing policemen. Yet would it have been a crime in your minds to kill a policeman of the Third Reich in Germany?”
An excited girl waved her hand to the right side of the lecture hall.
“The blonde waving her hand on my right-hand side. Please state your name and your question.”
“My name is Angie Salvatore. Perhaps crime is only what the system wants it to be?” She sat down and looked expectantly at Fulghum.
“Another interesting perspective. Relativism. Maybe a crime to one person is an act of political expression to another. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. Also, we have a system where one party can maintain that certain acts are crimes. Then others come along and say they’re not crimes. What happens to the poor folks who get caught in the gears of these changing perspectives? What, for example, happens to the millions of lives ruined by their having gone to jail for smoking marijuana? Even if we paid some sort of restitution in money, we can’t give those people back their lives now that we’re decriminalizing possession. You in the back corner, who are you and what do you want to ask?”
“My name is Anthony Abruzzi. My question is about the so-called Mob. I don’t think it’s ethical for the government to prosecute people as mobsters when there’s no proof that the Mob exists.”
“Anthony, that sounds like an assertion rather than a question, but it has an interesting conundrum wrapped within it. Permit me to unpack it my way.”
Anthony nodded and gestured for Fulghum to do things his way.
“Conspiracy theories are easily debunked. We’ve been trained to discount anyone who propounds such a theory. Let’s say that someone says that a secret group of people, perhaps the Rosicrucians or the international bankers or the billionaires, has a private agenda that’s criminal. We have a very hard time proving that the group exists, that it has an identifiable motive and that it does harm in a specific way that’s criminal under the law. Do you all know about the so-called Panama Papers? Who does know? You in the middle with the Zeus T-shirt, please enlighten your fellow students about the revelations that have been breaking on the Internet recently.”
“My name is Stanley Bulatto. The Panama Papers, leaked by an anonymous whistleblower, contain evidence of money laundering on such a massive scale that it’ll take years to sift through the million and a half files that were divulged.”
“Well put, Stanley. You may be seated. Ladies and gentlemen, we have ample examples of wrongdoing with legal as well as ethical overtones. I want each of you to go to the Internet and find just one example of this. Write one long paragraph about what you’ve found. Say whether the actions of the individual or group are illegal or immoral and why. I don’t care whether your choice is the Mob or the Council on Foreign Relations or the IMF. Hone in on the fine distinction between law and ethics.
“I’ll expect your papers to be delivered to this desk at our next meeting. Any questions? Well, go forth and think, explore and decide. Most important, write! Use good grammar and diction. Write with conviction. Take a stand. I have drop slips available for anyone not up to the challenge. You’ll not be penalized by me for stepping back from this assignment. Papers will be checked against the class roll. Anyone not submitting a paper will be considered to have dropped the class by default. Have a thoughtful day.”
The students left the lecture hall talking in subdued tones and looking askance at their new professor. At the door was Professor Hal Clancy, silently applauding Fulghum as he had done for Blackwood the day before.
As Fulghum passed him, Clancy said, “Bravo! Now watch your back. You may just reap the whirlwind.” Clancy then began his man-in-the-glass-house mime routine.
Fulghum smiled, shook his head and began his walk towards the administration building. Halfway across the quadrangle, he was met by Father Ignatius.
“If you’re not in a hurry, let’s sit on a bench and chat.” He coughed uncontrollably for a few minutes but recovered. They sat on a bench under a rowan tree.
“Damn, I wish they’d allow smoking on campus. I’m dying for a smoke,” Father Ignatius said.
“We can shift venues to my car if you like and drive around.”
“I’ve got a class soon. We’d better not. I’ve heard from some of my flock inside the prison that two Mob hit men took out the Lebetters.”
“Have you told the police about this?”
“I can’t. I learned it under the seal. I’m only telling you because I think you need to know. I can’t say who the men who gave me the information are. I can’t tell you who the hit men were.”
“Can you tell me anything you haven’t already told me?”
“The hit men were from the Rhode Island Mob. That’s all.”
“What’s your estimation of the reliability of your sources?”
“Professor Fulghum, what’s said under the seal of confession is usually sacrosanct. Who would lie to God?”
“Madmen, paid informers, the Devil? I’m sure you’ve encountered instances of lying dealing with the flock you’ve chosen.”
“That’s true. For what it’s worth, I believe what I heard. The rest is up to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run to class.”
Father Ignatius stumbled off in the direction of the theater building. Silvia came to sit by Fulghum.
“How did it go in your ethics class?”
“I stirred up all sorts of trouble. Father Ignatius just told me the Mob hit the Lebetters. How’d it go at The Clarion?”
“Robin and I are meeting for lunch off campus at Subway. I’ll let you know what I learn later today. No rest for the weary. Ciao.”
“Ciao.” Fulghum watched Silvia walk towards the media center. Three students intercepted her with questions. She pulled her hair behind her ears and talked with them animatedly, her hands illustrating and emphasizing her ideas as she spoke. Fulghum realized what a tremendous, natural teacher she was. The students were riveted on her, taking in every word she said.
A young girl plopped down on the bench next to him.
“Hello, Professor Fulghum. I’m Marcie Malloy.” She extended her hand, and he shook it.
“Hi, Marcie. How are you today?”
“I’ve been better. I understand you’re a licensed private investigator.”
“That’s right. Why do you ask?”
“If I wanted to find something out and wanted to hire you, would you work for me?”
“What do you want to find out?”
“I can’t talk about it right here. Maybe we can meet somewhere to discuss it?”
“Marcie, when I came here to teach, I crossed a line. If I were not teaching here, I’d have no conflict of interest working for you. Since I am teaching here, I might have a COI. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. You won’t help me. Well, I tried. I hope you have a nice day.”
“The same to you, Marcie. By the way, you’ve got the same last name as the president of the college.”
“That’s because he’s family. He’s my uncle.”
“I see. I wish I could help you. I’d be happy to refer you to others who might find out what you want to know.”
“I’ll think about it and let you know. Bye now.”
Marcie went off in the direction of the media building with her head hanging in disappointment. Fulghum felt like a heel. He wondered why a relative of the college president would want to hire a PI. She could probably discover anything she wanted just by asking a priest, or her uncle for that matter.
Along the path came Clancy, doing his mime routine. He stopped in front of Fulghum and bowed, handing him a third ticket to this evening’s performance of The Seagull. The seat assignment was alongside the two tickets Fulghum already had been given. Clancy continued along the path, heading towards the theater building.
Fulghum turned over the new ticket. On the reverse was scrawled the two words, “The Mob.” Fulghum looked around the quad, scanning faces and looking for any sign of surveillance. Finding none, he rose and walked towards the media center to meet his class in private investigations. As he did so, he mused about the man he replaced teaching a course in being a PI. He decided to ask how that could be so. Nothing he had been told about Max Lebetter suggested he was a licensed PI.
When Fulghum arrived, the lecture hall was only half full. A vast majority of the fifty students were male. They seemed to be determined because their faces were serious and none talked with the others. The two women in the class stuck out like sore thumbs. This was not only because they were women, but they were also knockouts. Only with effort could Fulghum keep his eyes scanning the other faces. Like magnets, the women drew his eyes back to them.
“I understand that you’re in this class to learn what you need to know to pass the licensed PI exam and get your license. May I have a show of hands of those who are here for that purpose? Thank you. You may put your hands down. Now may I see hands of those who don’t intend to get your license but are here for some other purpose? I see three hands. I’m going to call on each of you. I want you to tell me why you’re taking this class. You in the front, please go first. Please state your name and give your reason for being in the class.”
“My name is Harold Riley. I’m called Harry. I’m interested in becoming a policeman. My father is in law enforcement. He told me I should know everything a PI does so I don’t get cross threaded as an officer.”
“Thank you, Harry. That’s an excellent reason to be in this class. Who’s next? Okay, please state your name and the reason for being in the class.”
“My name is Benny Sigilla. Professor Fulghum, I want to know what’s legal and what’s not in performing surveillance. You see, I write software for surveillance camera systems. I figure I’m involved in detection and investigation by default. That’s why I’m interested in the class but not in getting the PI license.”
“That’s a good reason, Benny, and a different perspective on automated surveillance than I’ve heard on the street. Perhaps I can prevail on you to give a presentation on what you do so the other students in the class know what’s possible these days with software. And last we have the gentleman on the right. You know the drill.”
“My name is Cal Hotfield. I’m looking for an elective credit to complement my sociology major. I’m working on a senior thesis in privacy and society with Father Ignatius. I hope this class gives me a list of tools I can use to gauge just how much privacy the law affords us in these times of universal surveillance.”
“Cal, maybe you could give the class a presentation on your thesis when you feel up to it. I’d be very much interested in your findings.
“All right, I now know why you all are here. I’ve got a few things to say so you’ll know where I’m coming from.”
Fulghum walked down from the podium and paced back and forth in front of his students, rocking his head up to scan their faces as he spoke.
“I come to private detection from the military side where being a detective was a matter of life and death every day. No one wore black hats or white hats in our military war zones overseas. You never knew when a person was going to enter your space and try to kill everyone in it. When you walked the streets, you were never sure your body parts weren’t going to be splattered on the walls of the marketplace by an improvised explosive device set off by teenagers with cell phones.
“I lived with fear so long that when I came home, surveillance was so ingrained in my psyche, I couldn’t help myself. I saw things others couldn’t see. Distrusting what I saw, I looked at the world with new eyes. I see a hand in the back. What’s your question? First state your name.”
“My name is Carlo Ponti. Are you suggesting that military service is good preparation for being a PI?”
“Look, Carlo, I didn’t join the army to become a PI. My army experience made me one in spite of myself. When I returned to the States, it’s what I was. So, I took the license exam and set up shop. Does that answer your question?
“If you or anyone else wants to discuss the benefits and drawbacks of military service with me, feel free to catch me at my office. I make no apologies about considering the US Army as the experience of a lifetime. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I was talking about having new eyes. Well, that’s what I want to teach you in this class, in addition to the information you’ll need for your license exam.
“You’re going to have practical experience in all aspects of being a PI. It’ll be fun sometimes, but more often it’ll be deadly boring work. You’ll have to develop a love of boredom. In fact, if you’re ready to fall asleep in my class, you can consider it a test of your endurance to stay awake, in spite of the impulse to doze off.
“Just out of curiosity, how many persons of each traditional gender do we have in this class? This is not a trick question. I want you to write your answer down on a piece of paper and be ready to read the numbers off when I call on you. Raise your hand when you think you’re ready. I think we have a few more hands to go. Now we have only one more hand. Great. Let’s go across the front row. Each person should give the total number and the number of males.”
The students in the first row agreed there were fifty total and forty-eight males. Fulghum shook his head. “All right. The first row struck out. Now let’s try the second row.”
The students in the second row agreed there were fifty total and forty-eight males, except for the woman at the end of the row, who shook her head.
“I see a student shaking her head. What are your numbers? Don’t be shy.”
“There are fifty-one total and forty-nine males.”
The other female in the back row said, “I concur with her.”
Fulghum said, “The two ladies are correct. The first one with the right answer, please explain.”
“I’m Rita Rivanna. Mr. Fulghum, if we count you as a person, we get the number I gave.”
“Thank you, Rita. I presume that the others have learned something valuable. What is it? This is important, so listen up.
“It’s crucial that the PI remains invisible as much as practicable. Only two students realized I was among the persons in this room. When we finish this course, I want you all to know how to become invisible just as I was. Contrariwise, it’ll be important for the women to know how to become invisible too. No one missed the fact that the difference between the total number and the number of males was two. Men seem to notice the women in a room. How to disappear is something females in the broader animal kingdom usually know how to do. Among humans, however, we have the exception that makes the rule.
“Your assignment for next time is to estimate the number of automobiles that are parked in the main parking lot of this campus. I want to know, of that total, how many cars belong to administrators of this institution. I want the make, model, and color of each administrator’s car. Any questions? That’ll be all for today. Thank you.”
Fulghum watched his students file out. The two women eyed him as they departed, one whispering to the other with her hand half-covering her mouth. Fulghum found Sister Barbara dressed in her nun’s habit outside the door.
“Walk with me, Mr. Fulghum. I have news of interest.”
“I did a double take. I almost didn’t recognize you in your habit.”
As they walked along the rowan trees, Sister Barbara told Fulghum, “I’ve just learned the reasons the papal legate is visiting the college. The stated reason is that he’s negotiating the return of a painting in the college collection to Italy. The real reason—and I thought you needed to know this right away—is to deal with the disappearance of my predecessor as VP for Academic Affairs.”
“When did the VP disappear?”
“The same night as the murders.”
“Has the college reported him as a missing person to the police?”
“Informally, yes. Father Malloy has been handling that personally with the Church’s police liaison.”
“Do you think there’s a connection between the VP’s disappearance and the two murders?”
“Mr. Fulghum, I don’t believe in coincidences. I was going to mention the papal connection tonight at your office, but I thought you should know it right away.”
“Sister, we’re in complete agreement about coincidences. I’m glad you told me. In my last class, one of my students mentioned being interested in surveillance camera systems and software.”
“That would be Benny Sigilla. I’ve got a dozen stories about his experiments around campus. He’s notorious. At one point, he planted a surveillance camera in the ladies’ restroom in the main hall of the women’s dorm. As it turned out, the camera was not connected to a network or a computer, but the whole campus was outraged. Rumor has it that Benny has developed a highly profitable moonlighting business installing camera systems for local small businesses and private persons.”
“Does he do any special work for the college administration?”
“I’ll address that with you after the play tonight in your office. Just now I’ve got to rush back to my office for a meeting. Goodbye.”
As Sister Barbara raced off, Fulghum saw Silvia waving at him from across the quad. He waved back at her and walked her way.
“Was that Sister Barbara in full feather?” Silvia asked.
“She’s always full of surprises. The VP she replaced disappeared the same night as the murders.”
“I waved you down because this morning Robin Cavanaugh showed me a thick file of spiked submissions of articles about the Lebetters. They were written in the three days following the murders. She’s making us copies of those articles. I saw a few of them. They apparently run the gamut of conjectures about the way the decedents died.”
Fulghum whistled in amazement. “I think Sister Barbara is in uniform because the papal legate is on campus today. He’s evidently negotiating the return of a painting the college owns to Italy and counseling the president of the college about the missing person. I’ve got my first office hours in five minutes, so I’m off. I’ll pick you up at your apartment at five. We’ll drive together to dinner with the mime.”
Fulghum’s office was in the basement of the theater building. As he approached the door, he saw that Benny Sigilla was waiting for him.
“Professor Fulghum, I wanted to drop by to talk with you about something.”
“You came at the right time, Benny.”
“You remembered my name.”
“That’s such a coincidence. You remembered mine too.”
Benny laughed uncertainly. “You said you wanted me to give a presentation about my surveillance camera work.”
“That’s right. I’d like you to do that as soon as possible.”
“Well, a lot of what I do is confidential.”
“Like planting a surveillance camera in the ladies’ of the women’s dorm?”
“So you heard about that already. It was a practical joke that went horribly wrong. I paid for that trick. Are you going to get on my case about it?”
Fulghum smiled and shook his head. “Benny, if you level with me about your surveillance business, I’ll forget I know anything about your planting that camera in the restroom.”
Benny breathed a sigh of relief. The two went into Fulghum’s office and sat on opposite sides of the desk.
“Benny, tell me about the surveillance work you do for the college, particularly for the administration.”
“I designed the system that keeps watch on campus.”
“Who does the monitoring?”
“The campus police have a large security office in the basement of the administration building. One part of the office is a sort of command center with monitors for displaying camera imagery. Another part of the office is devoted to network monitoring for all the computers on campus.”
“How large is the police unit in terms of staff?”
“The operation is 24/7. Six police are on a rotation. Two are on duty at any one time.”
“How does your software work?”
“The cameras are always monitoring. They aren’t always recording. I built software that detects movement that triggers a time-stamped recording that stops when the movement ends.”
“That saves memory, I guess.”
“Yes, it does. It also allows you to search easily.”
“I guess you mean search by time stamp?”
“Also by the imagery itself.”
“Is that possible without metadata?”
“That depends on what you’re looking for.”
“Do you have access to the stored imagery?”
“Is this conversation on the record?”
“Benny, everything we discuss is strictly off the record.”
The young man brightened up. “I built backdoors into the software. What do you want to know?”
“How far back do the saved images go?”
“The protocol is to save the images for one semester. The data is copied off the networked computers and stored on an external hard drive that’s placed in the safe.”
“While images are still available on the network, can you review them remotely?”
“Well, yes.”
“Could we do that right from this room?”
“What do you want to see?”
“Do you have a camera trained on the administration’s reserved parking spaces?”
“Funny you should ask that. Professor Lebetter asked me the same question. The answer’s yes.”
“I’m interested in the space reserved for the VP for Academic Affairs.”
“So was Dr. Lebetter. I’ve got all that data on a saved file already.”
“Do you know what the professor was looking for in the data?”
“He wanted to know about any persons associated with that space or the VP’s vehicle.”
“Did you prepare any reports analyzing the data?”
“I emailed him weekly reports right up until last week.”
“Did you do any other camera work for Dr. Lebetter?”
“Yes. He asked me to do a special installation at the retreat building back in the woods.”
“What building’s that?”
“It’s where the administration has meetings with visiting dignitaries, like the cardinal who’s here today. Do you want to see the meeting live right now?”
“Thanks, Benny, but I’ll take a pass on that. Could you do me a favor?”
“Whatever you want, Professor Fulghum.”
“Copy your reports to Lebetter—and the images of persons associated with the VP’s car—to a thumb drive and give it to me. When can I have the thumb drive with the data?”
“Are you going to see the play tonight?”
“Yes. I’ll be sitting in the front row.”
“I’ll give you the thumb tonight.”
“Thanks, Benny.”
“Professor, please don’t tell about the camera security system. I could be expelled for telling you this stuff.”
“Relax, Benny. You’re a champ. I’ll have to talk with the other students who’ve lined up at the door now.”
“Bye for now, Professor. By the way, I really need an A in your course. Can the thumb drive be considered extra credit? I’m not very good at memorization.”
“We have a deal, Benny, if you’ll just get me the drive.”
Fulghum spent the next two hours in his office talking with his other students. He was excited about the information Benny was slated to bring him, but he kept his ears open for other leads. An insight came to him as he finished his office hours. What he had acquired, in effect, was an intelligence unit comprised entirely of students. He realized in a flash that this unit was not of his own devising. It had been formed purposely by Dr. Max Lebetter, who had been killed along with his wife, to ferret out details that he personally could not obtain.
Dinner with Professors Clancy and Sturbridge was like meeting with Edward Albee all over again, only with the addition of one nun sans habit. When Fulghum and Blackwood arrived, Hal, Meg and Sister Barbara, all dressed for an evening event, were already on their second drinks.
“Professors John Fulghum and Silvia Blackwood, greetings. You both know Sister Barbara. Please let me introduce Professor Meg Sturbridge of the English Department, my significant other, sub rosa of course. What will you have to drink? I’ve got almost anything you’d like—anything, that is, that can be afforded on a teacher’s meager salary.”
“How about Jack Daniels Number 7?” Silvia said.
“I have that,” Hal said proudly.
“Make it two, with three fingers in mine,” Fulghum added.
Once he had fetched the drinks and topped off the others, Hal raised his glass for a toast. “To the new faculty, may their enlightenment overtake their disillusionment and bring them to Nirvana!”
They all drank. Meg said, “Sister Barbara was just telling us about the cardinal’s visit today. Apparently, it wasn’t all pomp and circumstance.”
“Well, actually, it was all that, and more, but the ‘more’ was almost imperceptible for all the surface show.”
“Imagine,” Hal said, “a proceeding conducted entirely in modern Latin! I wrote my dissertation in Latin at Johns Hopkins years ago just because it was still permitted. I never dreamed I’d be teaching in a place where the old language was actually still spoken in a direct line of—what? - almost seventeen hundred years?”
“What did the cardinal have to say?” Fulghum asked.
“He had an update on the Tintoretto. That was the advertised reason for his visit.”
“The Tintoretto?” asked Silvia.
“It’s a genuine painting by the master himself now in possession of our college. It hung above the meeting table like the heavens opening above, with all the usual clouds and angels hovering.” Meg rolled her eyes as she said this.
“How did the college obtain this rarity?” asked Fulghum.
“It was a spoil of war, my dear detective, along with untold multitudes of others of similar Old Master stature.” Hal winked and set about refilling everyone’s glass.
“How many other paintings are involved?” Silvia asked.
Sister Barbara reddened and said, “It’s not for the record, but forty-odd large master paintings and six dozen master prints.”
“That’s got to be one of the largest unsung caches discovered since World War II.” Silvia opined.
“Well, it would be if it had been discovered. We’re all under seal to be sure it’s not discovered.” Sister Barbara placed a particular emphasis on the word ‘seal’ with her finger across her lips to signify silence.
“In all likelihood,” Hal said, waving his hand like a magician’s magic wand, “the paintings and prints that are not at the retreat will vanish and miraculously reappear in the musty old Italian castle they came from, compliments of the Sicilian Mafia in the closing days of the war.”
“Negotiations have been underway for the last thirty years. There’s no guarantee they’ll conclude any time soon,” Meg declared.
“For some reason, His Holiness wants the matter resolved post haste, along with some other matters,” Sister Barbara said.
“Like the vanishing act of the now missing vice president?” Hal asked with his head cocked to one side. “Don’t answer that. It’s time to eat. If everyone will migrate to the dining room, please. Mr. Fulghum, will you please pour the wine? We’ve only time for the cabernet tonight. It’ll go well with the filet mignon, which I’ll pass lightly over the fire and bring right in.”
While Fulghum poured the wine and Clancy cooked, Sturbridge served the salad on salad plates. Sister Barbara and Blackwood took their places at the table to keep out of the way.
“Sister, will the cardinal be staying for a while or rush right back to the Vatican?” Silvia asked.
“He’ll be here overnight at the president’s estate and depart at first light tomorrow. There’s a grand dinner being served with Bishop Le Grande in attendance right now.”
“They can’t be eating any better than we,” Hal announced as he arrived to install a platter of steaks in the middle of the table. “Sister, will you please administer the grace?”
“Dear Lord, look down on our first meal with new guests. Bless this food to our use and us to Your service. Amen.”
“This wine has been breathing for forty-five minutes. It’s the house cab, but I hope ‘twill serve. Here’s to good food and good fellowship! May God save the souls of colleagues past.”
Everyone drank with the host. Fulghum was impressed by how simple and elegant the grace, the setting, and food were. The mime and jester had transformed into the perfect, intellectual host.
“Mr. Fulghum, your reputation precedes you. I salute your acumen on having solved the case of the blue-blooded centenarian.”
“Let’s give credit where it’s due. Officer Pounce of Boston Police cracked that case. I was a mere bystander. When the butler does the crime, where’s the mystery?”
“Does anyone ever graduate from the clandestine service?” Hal asked with a wink.
“That’s a question for mine host as well as his guests,” Sturbridge replied with a knowing smile.
“Professor Amanda Lebetter was in the English Department, wasn’t she?” Silvia asked.
“It was all so sad,” Sturbridge said. “We had no warning whatsoever. Then they were gone.”
“Please pass the pepper mill, Fulghum. Be sure to use some first. I wonder whether you’d have come to the same conclusion as the police and coroner.”
“Forensic analysis is for the experts if you can find any,” Fulghum replied.
“They didn’t have much to go on. By the time the police arrived at the scene of the crime, the bodies were gone. All they had left to go on were the telltale signs.”
“What?” The others said with a single voice.
“Don’t be surprised. The Agency was all over the scene even before anyone at the college called 911. They cordoned off the area and declared the incident a matter of national security.”
“What could the Lebetters have been into?” Silvia asked quietly, almost to herself.
“Silvia, Hal’s been combing through his memories of the Lebetters back to their arrival. Tell them what you think,” Sturbridge looked at her host.
“Well, I’m not a licensed detective, but I think the deaths were a Mob hit. Specifically, the Rhode Island Mob.” He ate another bite of his rare filet mignon and sipped his wine.
“What makes you say that, Professor Clancy?” Silvia asked innocently.
“When you want to kill, why not send the very best?” Clancy answered her question with one of his own.
“What would have been their motive? Usually, Mob hits are done within the organization’s home territory.” As a Globe reporter, Silvia knew what she was saying was accurate.
“That’s true—when the Mob is taking care of its own business.” Clancy was busy examining the luster and body of his wine.
“So, Hal, you think the Mob was committing two murders for some other organization?” Sister Barbara asked.
“Aye, there’s the rub, Sister Barbara. Hal suspects everyone of giving the order. He only thinks the Rhode Island Mob pulled the triggers. So maybe it was the Bilderberg Group, the Masons, or perhaps the Holy See itself.” Fulghum could see that Sturbridge was now running her foot up and down Clancy’s calf as she spoke.
“We’d better hurry right along,” Clancy said. “We’ve just got time to have our tulip custard and a rhyton of Cognac before we have to drive.”
“I’ll help clear the table,” Sister Barbara said.
“Thank you, Sister, but we’ll take care of that. Finish your wine and talk. We won’t be long. Don’t forget that the walls have ears, and my friend is a most litigious lady.”
Sister Barbara was delighting in the color of her wine. Fulghum looked at her for a long time before he spoke. “Sister Barbara, you mentioned that the cardinal is here, in part, to take care of business regarding the disappearance of the vice president.”
“I did. He’s doing that. We’ll discuss it when I know more.”
“Here are the tulips, one for each.” Hal set the desserts at each place. The chocolate tulip cups held custard with raspberries and a sprig of mint on top. A little silver spoon lay on each plate. Hal then placed a large snifter at each place and poured cognac around.
“Bon appétit!” he said. Everyone savored the dessert.
Sister Barbara said, “Hal, this is magnificent. Did you cook it yourself?”
“I do what I can, Sister. I’m glad you like it. Now the cognac, I did not make myself. It’s fifty years old and my favorite. I first had a taste of this in Belgium in another life.” He raised his glass and toasted, “To our other lives, whatever they may be!” They all drank.
“It is odd how these times create people with such many layers of lives,” Fulghum said, looking at Sturbridge. “A nun surely had a former life before she entered orders; she assumed the life of a teacher and, more recently, an administrator. Our host also had a former life before he went into the theater, though to be sure acting has a lot to do with success in either line. Professor Blackwood and I recently came from other lives to teach. And you, Professor Sturbridge, probably had another life before you became a college teacher.” He paused. She looked down then she looked at Hal for support.
“Professor Sturbridge was a society lady. Debutant, heiress, played the ponies. Before long, she saw the light through Virginia Woolf’s glasses and entered the airy fairy realms of literature. And that, paraphrasing Robert Frost, has made the difference. Let’s finish up now. It’s time for us to go to the play. Just leave everything where it lies. I’ll tidy up later. Work is good for my soul. It’s been a tremendous meal, and the company’s been simply grand.”
Fulghum saw the genteel host transforming back into the jester. He expected Clancy might become the mime again at any minute. Shaking Clancy’s hand at the door, he felt with a surprise the Masonic handshake. Shortly afterward, he and Silvia were in his powder blue Saab and Sister Barbara was in her Edsel. They drove to the college parking lot and walked three abreast to the theater where they sat in the front row to experience The Seagull.
Fulghum was impressed with the high quality of the college production. The star of the show was New York stage material, he thought. Then he remembered she was typecast by Clancy in her role. She had been through the same tragedy as the heroine, and it showed in her empathic portrayal.
As they rose for the standing ovation at the play’s end, a student pushed his way across the front row and pressed a thumb drive into Fulghum’s hand as he passed. He was gone before anyone could think it remarkable. Fulghum had practiced brush passes. He knew how hard it was to make the flawless pass without fumbling. He wondered for a moment who had taught the young man his finesse and concluded Max Lebetter had done the job.
It was later that evening when Sister Barbara, Silvia, and Fulghum met at the detective’s office for a Marlboro and JD.
“It’s been an instructive day and evening. Where should we begin?”
Silvia went first. “I had the chance to look through all the copies of the spiked articles. I’ll have to dig deeper, but a few details popped out at me. Max Lebetter was definitely studying to take his PI exam. The class was a double dip because it helped him prepare while he taught. He was an understudy with some local detective whose name I haven’t got yet. He trained his students as if they were his disciples. They performed all sorts of surveillance for him.”
“That accords with what I found out independently. Do you have anything on his wife?”
“Amanda Lebetter was formerly employed by a government agency. Which agency she worked for is not specified, but she wrote strong letters of recommendation for at least two students to the NSA.”
“Sister Barbara, how do those facts align with what you know?”
“Max was on a quest. He and his wife worked as a team.”
“Were those fairly well-known facts within the college administrators?” Silvia asked.
“I think so. Father Malloy mentioned on a number of occasions that he wished he could harness a majority of the Lebetters’ energy for the work of the college. He thought the college was getting only a small fraction of their capabilities. I don’t think he was aware of the network of students the two had established. The Lebetters had little time to schmooze with administration and faculty. They poured all their time and energy into their students.”
“I should think that they would’ve been considered perfect teachers.”
“Max, more than Amanda, I think. He had a way with both male and female students. She, on the other hand, was devoted to her female students mainly.”
“Sister Barbara, Clancy stepped right in to protect Sturbridge during our dinner. Why was he so defensive?”
“Hal is extremely protective of the people he thinks he owns. He’s a manic possessive. Once he has gathered a person into his retinue, he presumes to control them. She was at first reluctant, but he won her over. You asked why. That’s part of it, but she has a shadowy past. She was out-placed to us by a clandestine agency after she was blown during an assignment overseas. I don’t know the specifics. I do know that her current identity is a fiction. Everything Clancy said about her is part of the legend they created to protect her. Even so, in her current identity, she has initiated no fewer than eight lawsuits against the college.”
“How many of the faculty are in the same situation as Professor Sturbridge with regard to their being outplacements from government work?”
“It’s hard to tell for sure, but I believe one-fourth of the faculty is in that category. It makes for odd relationships between the students and the staff.”
“Can you be specific, Sister?”
“Last year, a former CIA man and one of his male students established a business together off campus. The student dropped out of school, and the former agent resigned. The last we heard, the student popped up in Afghanistan. We could never trace the former faculty member.”
“I’m not surprised that sheep dipping is going on.”
“You’ve used that term twice in my hearing. What precisely is sheep dipping, Mr. Fulghum?” Sister Barbara asked.
“When an agent needs to be reprocessed, he or she is posted to a neutral site, like a college or prep school for a while. A new identity is created there, and the agent is reposted back to the field with the new identity.”
“I see. Can you tell me what kinds of things you’ve discovered about the Lebetters’ networks of students?”
“Sister, one of the drawbacks to our being undercover operators at the college is that we develop conflicts of interest. A COI exists when a person tries to serve two masters when doing something for one violates an agreement with the other. I now know things about the students that I can’t tell you. For the same reason, I know things about the administration that I can’t tell the students. Earlier today I had to explain this in cryptic terms to a student. He understood what I meant. I think he understood it because he’d heard it before—from Max Lebetter.”
“Are you suggesting, John, that Max Lebetter had created something like an agency within the college?” Silvia asked in astonishment.
“That’s precisely what I’m saying. It’s a natural outgrowth of the cult of secrecy. Sister, I’m sure the religious administration and faculty keep secrets from the laity. Tell me if they don’t.”
“You know they do.”
“I thought so. The Catholic environment is the best analogy to agency secrecy I know. Before we break for the night, I’d like to know whether Sister Barbara can tell me any more about the missing vice president. Twice you’ve deferred telling me. I’m afraid that what you know is shrouded in some code of secrecy that I can’t penetrate. If that’s so, just tell me.”
“Mr. Fulghum, what I’m about to tell you must be kept between the three of us. I can’t overemphasize the danger if the word gets out.”
“Sister, I am bound by our client relationship. Silvia is bound by her code of journalistic ethics. Isn’t that right, Silvia?”
Silvia looked down at her hands before she looked at Sister Barbara. “I must protect my sources, even if it means going to jail as a consequence of remaining silent. Anything you say to me, however, may be used as background. That is, I may pursue leads based on what you say. I also may be influenced by the facts I look for or the way I look at those facts. Then too, I may turn up information independently that mirrors the facts you divulge. If that happens, not you but the facts will drive the story. If you can live with that, tell what you know. If you can’t, don’t.”
Sister Barbara breathed deeply and asked Fulghum, “May I have a little more Jack Daniels and another cigarette?”
Fulghum provided these things. She took a drink of JD and lit up the Marlboro before she began.
“I’ll try to make a long story short. Father Sulpido Rivera, the former Vice President for Academic Affairs, was an Argentinean. His family wasn’t originally from Argentina but from Germany at the end of the war.”
“Was he descended from the Nazis who managed to escape the Nuremberg Trials?”
“Yes. He told me about his background about two weeks before he disappeared. He said he wanted me to know the truth because he didn’t think he’d live much longer.” She paused and crossed herself. Then she looked Fulghum in the eyes.
“I don’t know how much he told me was true and how much of it was his invention. In any case, I have to live with myself knowing what I know.”
She took another drink of JD and a long draft on her cigarette.
“I asked Father Rivera to give me details of his background. He told me he’d been sent by Argentinean intelligence to the college to help with negotiations for the return of artworks stolen by the Nazis to their rightful owners. He did this with the acquiescence of the Vatican. When he came to Paturnus, he had a list of artifacts. His first act when he arrived was to do an inventory to be sure that all the paintings and prints were actually at the college. That inventory, according to him, was the missing ingredient in the negotiations. Once the inventory was done, he said, his role had ended. Negotiations could now proceed without his further assistance.”
“Yet he knew about the works of art. He knew the list. He’d verified each artwork. He was evidently trusted enough that his word about the artifacts was accepted at the level of the Papal Curia if not by His Holiness the Pope. Surely, he would have been commended, not eliminated.”
“Mr. Fulghum, you’re not considering the political sensitivity of the knowledge he had. Even today, the facts about how art was sent out of Nazi Europe to America are closely guarded secrets. What if I told you I could confirm that Adolf Hitler and Evan Braun were not immolated in the bunker but were spirited out of Europe on a submarine and harbored in Argentina until they died in the foothills of the Andes Mountains?”
“Did Father Rivera tell you these things?”
“Yes. And I believed him. He introduced me to a woman in New Hampshire who had been raised as the female model of Nazi youth. She also told the same story.”
“This story, if properly documented, would shake the world,” Silvia said. “It would cast a pall over the activities of the OSS at the end of the war. It would also prove Soviet complicity in a massive cover-up on four continents.”
“Yes, Silvia; it would also mean your third Pulitzer Prize.” Sister Barbara gave a rueful smile as she exhaled her cigarette smoke. “If only you can assemble facts from other reliable sources to write the story.”
Fulghum understood the enormity of the confession that Sister Barbara had laid on them at his desk. “Sister, before we’re overwhelmed by historical revelations, I’d like to step back a moment and examine two very limited aspects of our case.”
She nodded.
“First, Father Rivera disappeared. You didn’t say he died, but he was fearful that someone would kill him. Second, the Lebetters were slain. I’m beginning to see how that might have happened, but I can’t yet understand the motive.”
“I believe, though I cannot prove it, that Father Rivera was murdered to assure his silence. I also believe he foresaw the danger and told me what he knew for a reason. The idea of habeas corpus still is viable in the American legal system. I’m not sure how we’ll be able to do it, but we have to find Father Rivera’s corpse.
“As for the motive for the Lebetters’ deaths, let’s defer our judgment until we understand the mechanics of those deaths. We must pursue the idea presented by Hal Clancy tonight that the Rhode Island Mob was the executive agent for the killings. I have no idea how we’re going to prove that, but that’s what we’ve got to do.”
Fulghum took a long draft on his cigarette. “I think it’s late. Let’s break for now and regroup tomorrow night. Sister, do you want a ride back to campus, or will you manage on your own?”
“I’ll be fine, Mr. Fulghum. Once again, thank you for agreeing to help solve our mysteries. I don’t know where all these threads are going to come together, but I’m sure they must converge somewhere. We must be sure our logic is clear and cogent as we sift and winnow the evidence. Silvia, good night. God willing, you’ll get that third Pulitzer after all.”
When Sister Barbara had gone down the steps, and her car had driven away, Fulghum asked Silvia, “Are you feeling up for a nocturnal tryst? Or are you too exhausted?”
“What do you have in mind, John? I’m exhausted, but I’m willing to surge for the right reason.”
“I was given a thumb drive at the theater tonight. Deniably, of course. Why don’t I plug it into my laptop computer? We’ll spend a few minutes deciding whether the files on it have any value.”
Silvia lit a cigarette while Fulghum opened his laptop and inserted the thumb drive.
“What are you supposed to have on that thumb?” she asked as he fiddled with his keyboard.
“It should contain hard evidence of what happened to Father Rivera, for one.”
She sat upright in her chair while he pulled the other chair up to the edge of his desk so they could review the files together.
Fulghum had highlighted files with date stamps on them. “All these files are reports to Max Lebetter about the imagery gained from campus security cameras.”
A second batch of files labeled “VP Parking Space” were opened. “We’re going to review this second set of files, which document what was happening second-by-second at the VP’s reserved parking slot.”
Fulghum worked through this second set of files with fast-forwarding. He and Silvia saw activity around and in the VP’s reserved parking space. They saw when Father Rivera arrived and departed from the college parking lot. They also saw male and female students talking with Rivera next to his car. On a couple of occasions, they saw Rivera giving a lift to people who looked like other administrators or faculty members. Sometimes the imagery was at night when presumably the VP had been working late. As the imagery files approached the day when Father Rivera disappeared, the man’s comings and goings were more erratic than they had been previously.
Finally, Fulghum saw what he needed. He slowed the pace of review during the day before the man’s disappearance. It was night. Another car drove up behind Father Rivera’s car and blocked it. Two burly men got out of the car and loitered, waiting for something or someone. Father Rivera came on the scene and had words with the two men about moving their car so he could back his vehicle out. One of the men hit Father Rivera on the head with a sap and grabbed him under his arms as he fell. The other man searched him and found his car keys. The two men lifted Father Rivera into their car. While one man drove that car away, the other climbed into Father Rivera’s car and followed. Fulghum stopped the stream of imagery.
“Holy cow!” Silvia exclaimed, her cigarette hanging from her lip.
“Hold on a minute,” Fulghum said. He ran the stream back to the point where the car driven by the two goons entered. He slowed the action and adjusted the focus so that he could see each pixel. He expanded the image when the angle looked just right. He expanded it further until he got what he wanted.
“John, that license plate is as clear as day.”
“Rhode Island plate. We have the number. Now we’ll have to engineer the system so the authorities can see what we saw legally.”
Fulghum drove his lady back to her apartment. He kissed her goodnight at her door then he drove home to his apartment, thinking about their discovery. Of course, the plates might have been stolen. Likewise, the car the goons were driving might have been stolen. The men’s faces and physiques might have been disguised as well. Police forensics will have to work on those things. At a minimum, the evidence shows assault and battery, kidnapping and grand theft auto.
Fulghum’s new working assumption was the kidnapping was the prelude to murder one. He knew just the man to call in the middle of the night to announce the fact. He speed-dialed the number of Nigel Pounce of Boston Police Homicide.
“Christ, John, it’s well after midnight.”
“Sorry, Nigel. It can’t be helped. I’ve got some imagery to send you via email, and I think your forensics people will need to get right on it.”
“Crap. Give me the skinny. What’s the imagery supposed to show?”
“It shows assault and battery on and kidnapping of one Father Sulpido Rivera in the parking lot of St. Paturnus College by two goons in a car with Rhode Island plates. The number on the plate is clearly visible in the imagery. The subject is a missing person, and, get this, he disappeared the same night that the Lebetter couple was killed.”
“Good shit! Where did you get this imagery?”
“I can’t tell you that. I can, however, tell you that the same imagery is in the current files of the Paturnus College security and surveillance system. I recommend using the imagery I just sent you as an email attachment to verify what I said. Then request or subpoena the electronic records from the college to have your validated evidence. I advise you to move fast because the archived files could be erased in a microsecond. I can’t tell you why now, but this is the tip of a very big iceberg. At least two other homicides are in the mix. Anyway, I hope after you get your people moving, you’ll have time to get a couple hours of sleep tonight. Tell Molly I like teaching again.”
“What?” Pounce asked, but by then Fulghum had terminated the call.
Fulghum thought for a moment about calling Sister Barbara with the news. He decided against doing that for three reasons. First, her phone might be monitored as she had feared. Depending on who was doing the monitoring, the archives might be erased immediately as a precaution. Second, Fulghum didn’t trust any nun who was inured to following Catholic discipline to refrain from telling her college president about the matter. Third, he’d promised Benny not to divulge that he was his source. He saw no reason to break his promise under any circumstances.
Fulghum arrived at his apartment and was about to crash in his bed when he received a call from Silvia.
“I’m really sorry, John.”
“What do you mean, Silvia? You’ve nothing to be sorry about.”
“I saw that lonesome ginseng plant floating in all that blood, and I thought of you.”
“That’s an image to sleep upon.”
“I wish we were together to contemplate that thought. After all, we took these jobs, in part, to have some special time together. For now, I just want to say goodnight. I love you. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Goodnight, Silvia. Oh, wait! Tomorrow could you show me those spiked articles about the Lebetters? You know the ones.”
She laughed. “Yes, you hopeless gumshoe, I know the ones. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Goodnight.”
He would have responded, but she terminated the call. He texted her a smiley face. He wasn’t a devotee of emojis, but he figured, what the hell!
Soon after he thought he might not even be on campus tomorrow. He was inclined instead to drive down to Rhode Island for a chat with a man who might give him answers if he didn’t kill him instead. The man in question was the head of the Rhode Island Mob. One thing continued to nag at him. Fulghum set his mind free to contemplate the situation.
Both Hal Clancy and Father Ignatius told me that the Mob was active on campus and at the root of the recent troubles. How could they have known this? Father Ignatius said he’d received the information under the seal of confession when he was ministering to his prison flock. It’s unlikely that he’ll ever tell me which of those hardened criminals confessed to him or what he actually said. Hal Clancy is a different kind of source. If the man is still Agency-connected, and this seems likely, would he divulge the sources and methods used to unearth the intelligence about the Mob’s involvement? If he did, he would violate a basic tenet of the Agency—never divulge sources and methods. He owes me more than one favor, but even the Agency is compartmentalized. Mander may not be briefed into the caveat that minds the store of Nazi criminals who are still alive and kicking. Still, it’s worth the time to check. This case has offshore elements that stretch to Argentina, Germany, and Rome. Yet neither of the Lebetters had a known CIA background, and Father Rivera was connected to a foreign intelligence agency, possibly Vatican intelligence, but not the Agency. Would the tired, old story of Hitler hiding out in Argentina be of interest to the CIA? Possibly. After all, the OSS’s fingerprints are all over that chestnut. At least Mander would probably tell me if the Agency has an interest in St. Paturnus College. He might also clarify the relationship of Hal Clancy to the Agency. Would there be unintended consequences of shaking that particular tree?
With these thoughts, Fulghum pulled up in front of his apartment complex. He sat brooding in his vehicle for almost half an hour while chain smoking Marlboros. He decided he needed a few hours sleep before he planned his activities of the new day. He climbed out of his car, shut the door and locked it. He walked up to his apartment, took out his key and froze.
What tipped him off that something was dreadfully wrong may have been a subliminal scent. He shook his head and tried to concentrate. He looked down at the ground and activated his cell phone torch. Nothing on the ground or around the door frame looked suspicious. The detective sniffed the air. He could not smell anything he recognized as an improvised explosive device. Yet his time in the war zones taught him not to ignore his instincts. He crouched and shone his cell phone light under the door. At the base of the right door jamb, just behind the door hung a very fine wire. It was almost imperceptible even with the strong light shining right on it. It might have been a spider’s web, but Fulghum knew it wasn’t.
Fulghum had lived through his days in uniform because he followed up on his hunches. He had a hunch now. If he ignored it, he knew the consequences would be catastrophic. He rose carefully and backed away from the door. He went to the apartment manager’s door and knocked softly. The man came in his pajamas and a robe. He had a three-day growth of beard, and his hair was flying in all directions. He could hardly keep his eyes open.
“Oh, hello Fulghum. Do you know what time it is?”
Fulghum looked at the time shown on his cell phone.
“It’s two seventeen a.m.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Did anyone stop by to visit my apartment earlier today? Perhaps a repairman or electrician?”
“If he did, I didn’t see him. Of course, I was out most of the day chasing down solutions for our renters. Why do you ask?”
“I think someone planted a bomb in my apartment. If I open my door, the bomb will go off. It may go off anyway by remote detonation. If that happens, this whole unit is likely to be severely damaged. People will die.”
The manager yawned. “Why don’t you dial 911?”
“I have a feeling that may trigger the explosion.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“I suggest that before I dial 911, you evacuate all three floors, quietly so the residents can exit the building calmly without causing a disturbance that will set off the bomb. Once everyone, including you, is out of the building, then I’ll call 911.”
“Hell.” He drew a long breath. “Will it help to stuff a towel against the bottom of your door in case a breeze will set off the bomb?”
“Give me a towel. You begin waking people up and getting them clear of the building. Do it now.”
The manager did as Fulghum said. He remembered how Fulghum had been targeted by a hit team that did a lot of damage to his apartment. He did not want lightning to strike twice.
The other residents came out grumbling and assembled across the street from the apartment complex. Fulghum had placed the manager’s towel across the airway under his front door. When the manager told him that everyone had been evacuated, Fulghum called 911. He explained the situation clearly and asked for a bomb squad as well as emergency, fire and medical response teams. The call desk person in charge was a little confused, but Fulghum gave his PI license number and told them the next person he was going to call was the Chief of Police. That seemed to do the trick.
Ten minutes later sirens and lights made the area a circus. The vehicles screeched to a halt on all accesses to the building. Fulghum thought of a poem he had memorized as a child that began, “Announced by all the trumpets of the sky.” The deafening sound of multiple explosions threw him to the ground. His apartment complex flew apart, and a fireball engulfed what used to be his home. People were stunned to witness the damage. The apartment manager walked up as Fulghum got to his feet.
“Mr. Fulghum, I apologize for all the hateful things I thought about you while I was evacuating the people. I take back the curses and evil wishes. Thank you for having the presence of mind to give me good advice.”
“Which one of you is John Fulghum, PI?” the on-scene commander asked in a booming voice.
Fulghum held his identification badge high so the official could see it. “I’m John Fulghum.”
“I’d like to get a statement from you.”
“Sure, officer. Let me suggest that I record the statement on your cell phone right now. I can stop by the station tomorrow and sign it. You can take pictures of me and my badge. Will that do?”
“That should work. By the way, we owe you a debt of gratitude. A lot of people might have died tonight.”
“Please give me your cell phone. I’ll dictate my statement.”
While Fulghum dictated, the apartment complex burned to the ground. The flames were contained by the thorough work of fire department personnel. No one was hurt in the blast or the fire. It was five o’clock in the morning before Fulghum drove away. He drove straight to Silvia’s apartment and knocked on her door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me–John. May I come in?”
She slipped the latch and opened the door. “You look like hell.”
“I’d like to come in and sleep for a couple of hours. I’m about to pass out.”
“Come right back to bed. Strip off your clothes. They smell as if they’ve been smoked by a fire.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
He stumbled back to her bedroom and stripped as fast as he could.
“Would you like to take a quick shower?” Silvia asked.
He didn’t answer. He dropped on the bed and fell fast asleep. She covered him with a blanket and climbed in beside him. She knew he’d survived something momentous, but he had come straight to her bed. She checked her alarm, which showed an eight o’clock wake up. She saw that the current time was five fifteen as she listened to him breathing steadily. Soothed by his presence yet curious about what had happened, she went back to sleep until the alarm woke them both up.
After they had showered and he had shaved, she fixed him breakfast. Only when he had eaten did she ask what had happened the night before. He asked her to turn on the news. The lead story was the explosion and fire in Bedford. John Fulghum was touted as the hero who had saved fifty people by evacuating his building during a bomb threat. Silvia smoked a Marlboro as she digested the enormity of what had just happened. She did not want a gloss. She needed no further details. She went to John, kissed him and held him tight.
“Oh, John. I’m so glad you’re you.”
“Me too,” he replied. “When that fireball rose in the sky, all I could think of was you.”