SUNDAY 12:35PM
Darla sat on a bench in the shade of a sugar maple and checked her phone. She wore lavender overalls over a purple turtleneck with matching New Balance sneakers. Her hair was up, secured by a purple-and-white polka dot scarf. Her eyes hidden behind orange-rimmed Dior shades. She snapped three selfies, slipped the glasses to the top of her head, squinted at the images, selected the cutest (her pout was unarguably adorable), and uploaded to Instagram. The likes and comments poured in as Jerry pulled up in his ex-police car and honked.
Darla approached the passenger door, favoring her left foot. The swelling in her ankle decreased overnight, but still hurt to put weight on it. Forget heels anytime soon. She slipped into the seat. Jerry wore a red-and-gray striped rugby shirt and khakis. Darla fastened her seat belt, leaned over, and kissed her boy.
Jerry returned the kiss enthusiastically. He licked his lips. “Frosted Flakes?”
“Close, Frosted Cheerios.”
Jerry maneuvered the car onto the road and headed toward the northeast campus exit.
Darla pointed at the windshield. In front of her, a crack ran half the length of the glass. “Was that here before?”
Jerry nodded. “I have to get it fixed.”
“Safelite repair, Safelite replace,” Darla sang the jingle.
“Or we could take your car.”
“Who told you that I—Oh the twins. But you asked me to come, so it’s your responsibility to drive.”
“I could drive your car.” Jerry grinned.
“Nope. It’s not just you, Jerry. I don’t let any boys drive it.”
Any boys? A twinge of jealousy struck Jerry. “No problem. How was your morning?”
“Productive. Lots of studying. I couldn’t work out because of my ankle. Not hopeful about cheer practice tomorrow night. And I went to church.”
“Church, huh?”
“Yep, Missouri Synod Lutheran. Old school. And you?”
“And me, what?”
Darla narrowed her eyes. “Did you go to church this morning?”
The ends of Jerry’s mouth pulled down into a slight frown.
“Jerry.” She poked him in the ribs, causing him to smile. “I’m not judging. It’s not like we’re getting married. But I want to know more about you.”
“Uh, I’m a Quaker.”
“Like the oatmeal?”
“Yes, Darla. I come from a long line of grain worshippers. My parents had a mixed marriage. My mom’s family were barley cultists.”
“Funny, Jerry. Seriously, tell me. I don’t know anything about Quakers.”
“Well, there aren’t any Meeting Houses in Stuyvesant County. I find a quiet place on campus and sit for thirty minutes to an hour and do some deep thinking and contemplation.”
“You mean like the library?”
They exited the campus, and Jerry turned left on the state highway. “Sometimes. Or it could be on the quad or under a tree. Not much noise or people on a Sunday morning. If it rains, I stay in my room.”
“And you sit in silence?” Darla searched for Quakers on her phone.
“That’s pretty much what we do. But not this morning. I was working on an article about the light tower collapse.” Jerry paused. “I think you’re right about that jinx. Muller, the guy who scored that last touchdown for Fillmore and danced that jig, was killed by the falling tower. And three students hurt in the stampede were still in the hospital as of this morning.”
Darla bookmarked the Wikipedia article on Quakers and put her hand on Jerry’s forearm. “It’s crazy what’s happening. We have to stay safe, whatever it takes.” She pulled her rabbit’s foot from her purse. “Still got yours?”
“Yeah.” Jerry pointed to the steering wheel. His rabbit’s foot dangled from the key chain.
“Good boy. Now, how about a smile? I don’t enjoy seeing you down.”
“Okay.” Jerry grinned and looked her over. “I like your outfit. It’s cute. Rosie the Riveter?”
“You mean I look like a strong, patriotic woman who did her part to help the Allies defeat Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan?” Darla rolled up a sleeve and flexed her bicep.
Jerry chuckled. “That’s exactly what I meant: Strong, patriotic, and...cute.”
“I’ll accept that. Where are we headed?”
“Saratoga. There’s a retired reporter I want to interview.”
“A reporter interviewing a reporter? Sounds pretty meta. Are you sure the universe won’t collapse in on itself or something?”
“I certainly hope not. I hate it when that happens.” Jerry chuckled. “Paul Wysocki, that’s the reporter, wrote articles for the local paper on the VB students and staff who died back in 1984.”
“They died on Friday the 13th. Remember I pointed that out?”
“I’m not likely to forget since you bring it up at every opportunity.”
Darla shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
“And your help has been invaluable.”
“So why don’t you call him? Not that I mind. It’s a beautiful day for a drive.” Darla glanced out the window at the changing leaves and the blue sky interrupted by puffy white clouds.
“His old editor told me Mr. Wysocki doesn’t hear too well. Phoning wasn’t an option. And the bonus is: you get a behind the scenes look at the life of an unheralded newspaper reporter.”
“When I was in ninth grade, I saw Unheralded Newspaper Reporters open for NSYNC at the Saginaw Civic Center.” Darla pulled a hairbrush from her purse. Holding it like a microphone, she belted out “This I Promise You.”
“Number one rule for riding in my car: No boy bands.” Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Jerry grabbed the brush from Darla and tossed it in the backseat.
“Fine.” She turned to watch the passing scenery. Outside, pastures full of cows whizzed by. Darla rolled down the window. “Moo!”
“I see you’ve got a case of bovilexia.”
“What’s that?”
“The uncontrollable urge to say Moo when you see a cow.”
Darla narrowed her eyes at Jerry. “Is that an actual word?”
“Still want to compare SATs?” He laughed. “Of course it’s real. Being a reporter means developing a wide vocabulary.”
“Ok, Mr. Unheralded Reporter with a Wide Vocabulary, what’s the status of the story you’re doing on me for The Chronicle? Did you talk to Vanessa?”
Jerry gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white.
“What’s wrong? Did she say you can’t write the story?”
Jerry stayed silent, eyes on the road.
“Jerry, tell me.”
“I’m not working for the paper anymore.”
“You’re not? Then why were you writing that article this morning? And why are we going to Saratoga?”
Jerry blew out his breath. “Okay, but you have to promise to keep it a secret.”
“Oui.” Darla crossed her heart.
He recounted his confrontation over the bad luck story with Vanessa, his meetings with Sam, posting the story to The Underground, and being called into the chancellor’s office.
Darla’s eyes grew wide. “I’m dating a rogue journalist, under fire from the college administration, who won’t back down in his quest for the truth. How exciting!” She tapped her phone. “I’m texting my mom. I wonder if she’ll approve.”
“We’re dating?”
“You don’t want to?”
“We’ve only known each other a couple of days. And last night was amazing for sure. But—”
“Boys!” Darla poked him in the ribs. “Are we going out or not?”
“Stop that. I’m ticklish.”
She poked him again. “Answer the question.”
“Yes, okay. We’re officially dating.”
“Outstanding!” Darla kissed him on the cheek. “Now, did you talk to this Sam about doing a story on me for The Underground?”
* * *
Dr. Janelle Thornton-Gaston, EdD entered the conference room late, her standard power move. Around the elongated oak table sat the athletic director, the university’s legal counsel, the head of media relations, and the campus police chief.
“Where’s Case?” Thornton-Gaston looked around the room. Rodney Case was Van Buren’s chief information officer.
“Fishing in Vermont.” Characopus pantomimed casting a reel. “According to his wife, there’s no cell service at the cabin. He should be back tomorrow.”
Thornton-Gaston sighed. The situation required all hands on deck. She was in the last round of interviews for the president’s job at South Georgia Coastal College. If she landed the position, she’d be back to living near her family in the land of real grits and peach cobbler. No more blizzards and ice-cold winters. But the campus chaos of the last three days threatened to derail her triumphant return home.
“I guess we’ll get started.” Thornton-Gaston took her seat at the head of the table. “Thanks to everyone for coming in on a Sunday. I called this meeting to develop options for dealing with the articles in The Underground, but first I’d like an update on the stadium and the light tower.”
Characopus read from his tablet. “One dead, a player for Fillmore, crushed by the tower. Twelve injured, ten VBU students and two staff. All from the stampede. We were lucky the tower didn’t fall on anyone else. Three still in the hospital as of an hour ago. All broken bones and expected to make a full recovery. The Physical Plant is inspecting the stadium and will begin removing the downed tower later this afternoon. Don?” Characopus nodded toward Don Gehring, the athletic director.
Muscles bulged beneath Gehring’s green VBU sweater vest. Despite being fifty-two, the AD maintained the physique he had from his college wrestling days. He cleared his throat. “The game with Fillmore has been declared a no-contest. With no common open weekends for the rest of the season, the game won’t be rescheduled. Kind of fortunate since we were well on our way to getting thumped.” The AD half-smiled. “We’re scheduled to play Calvin Coolidge for homecoming on Saturday. I’ve talked to my counterpart at CC, and we can shift the game to their campus if our field isn’t useable. But unless the Physical Plant comes up with some surprises, I expect the stadium and the team to be ready. Maureen?” He glanced in the direction of the university’s legal counsel.
Maureen Stepanian swept back a lock of her jet-black hair and consulted her notes. “I’ve been in touch with our insurance carriers. They hope to settle all claims quietly and quickly. But with everything that’s happened in the last week, expect to see a significant increase in our premiums when we renew.”
Thornton-Gaston nodded. If things worked out, skyrocketing insurance rates would be a problem for the next chancellor.
“Julie?”
At twenty-five, Julie Fredericton, head of media relations, was the youngest member of the committee. The blonde wore a black blazer over an off-white blouse and drummed her long, red fingernails on the table. “I’ve sent releases to TV, radio, print emphasizing Van Buren’s dedication to the safety and health of our students and our commitment to transparency. Parents and alumni got a similar email blast. I scheduled a memorial service for the students who died this week. It’s at six tonight on the Quad. I hope you can all attend.” She glared at Gehring. “And I would suggest for the time being that the Athletic Department ceases sending out fundraising appeals describing the current stadium as crumbling infrastructure.”
“Yes, that’s not making my job any easier either,” the counsel added.
Gehring jabbed his pen at Julie. “We’re under a tight schedule. We need the donors to respond to the urgency of the request if we want the new stadium ready for next season.”
Thornton-Gaston raised a hand. “Mike, I’m sure you can raise your money in a way that won’t make the school a target for plaintiff’s attorneys. Ask Julie if you want help.”
The AD grunted. He wasn’t about to take advice from some kid with a public relations degree who should be making espressos.
“Anything else on the stadium or what happened yesterday?” Thornton-Gaston inquired.
The group shook their heads.
“Good. Let’s get to the original reason I called this meeting. George?”
The chief dimmed the overhead lights. A giant video monitor on the far wall lit up and displayed the homepage of The Underground. The top headline read: “Stadium Light Tower Collapse Results in Fourth Death Tied to Bad Luck.”
“They don’t take the weekend off,” the chancellor grumbled. “We don’t know who’s behind this scandal sheet, but we have a good idea of the identity of one of the reporters. What we need are ideas on how to counteract or suppress the fear and disinformation being spread.”
“Is this really such a big deal?” The AD pointed at the screen. “Why worry about the nonsense that some website is peddling?”
Thornton-Gaston couldn’t reveal her true concerns: that any additional negative news about Van Buren would affect her chances of landing the Georgia Coastal job. “Mike, with the way the silliest story can go viral these days, it’s imperative we shut down any gossip or rumors that could adversely affect Van Buren. Kids are flighty. Who knows what could cause them to go to another college? And athletes can be pretty superstitious. You wouldn’t want to lose a top recruit over something as ridiculous as a fear of bad luck, would you?”
The AD shook his head. “I suppose not.”
The chief scrolled down to reveal more articles: the fast-running parking meters, a list of which local bars didn’t card, and a review of Transformers vs. Predators 2.
The counsel squinted at the screen. “Parking meters?”
The chief nodded. “It went up yesterday about an hour after we met with Williams.”
“That settles it.” The chancellor slammed the table. “He’s definitely working for them. Any suggestions about what we can do?”
“See if Case can have IT block The Underground from the campus network?” Fredericton suggested.
The AD leaned forward. “Will that work?”
“I’m no tech expert, but I don’t see why they couldn’t.” Fredericton shrugged. “Students might get around it by using the data on their phones, but it’s something.”
“I want to remind everybody that as a state-supported institution, Van Buren is bound by the First Amendment.” The counsel tapped the table with the eraser end of her pencil. “We can’t selectively block websites because we don’t like what they’re saying. An action like the one proposed would place the university at risk for a lawsuit.”
“I don’t want to hear what I can’t do,” the chancellor growled. “Tell me what I can do.”
The lawyer rubbed her chin. “I suppose a public safety emergency, narrowly tailored for a limited duration, might work. If it ever gets litigated, we’ll probably lose, but most likely we’ll be told not to do it again. The PR hit might be worse than any actual damages.”
“I’ll take that risk. This is a short-term solution while we get things under control. I doubt a bunch of students will sue us because they can’t read a website for a week.”
The AD added, “If they can block the site, maybe Case can also tell who is uploading files to The Underground. And we can identify their reporters that way.”
The counsel nodded. “I see no problem with that. The IT department has the right and responsibility to monitor network traffic for performance and security issues.”
Thornton-Gaston smiled. “Good. Maureen, you tell Case what we want. Do it in person. No emails. And make sure he doesn’t leave a paper trail with his staff.”
Maureen nodded and scribbled herself a note.
“Maureen! No paper trail!” Thornton-Gaston scolded.
The counsel looked sheepish and tore up the paper.
Thornton-Gaston continued, “With The Underground blocked, we’ll build our own narratives. I’ll chat with the editor of The Chronicle. Get her to publish a story explaining a few parking meters had glitches, a manufacturing defect or software bug. And it’s being taken care of. We can even report that a few students received refunds.”
“I’ve been thinking about how to undermine the ‘bad luck’ stories.” Fredericton tapped her phone. “What if I talked to some STEM professors, and we did a VBU version of Mythbusters?”
“Excellent idea,” Thornton-Gaston agreed. “Get a few communication majors to film it and upload to YouTube.”
“Tik-Tok would be even better.” Fredericton held up her phone open to the app.
“I can’t keep track of all these new websites. Do what you think is best. And how do we handle Williams, or any other reporters that Case might give us? George and I tried scaring him yesterday, but it obviously didn’t work.”
“What if a couple of football players were to express their displeasure with this Williams kid?” A menacing grin spread across the AD’s face.
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” The counsel shook her head.
“Relax. Kids get into fights all the time.” The AD pounded a fist into his open hand.
“Yeah, in grade school. What you’re suggesting is a felony. I want to be clear I can no longer ethically be a part of this discussion. I’ll pass along the instructions to Case, but I’m out of here.” The counsel stood and left.
After the door closed, the chancellor pointed to the AD. “We’ll keep your idea in reserve, Mike. I’m thinking we convene an investigatory committee empowered to determine all the facts related to these deaths. And if Mr. Williams, or anyone else, refuses to cooperate and share what they know, we’ll threaten to suspend or expel them.”
Characopus shifted in his seat. “Can we do that?”
“With Maureen gone, I’m not sure. But I think if we really pressure these kids, maybe even get their parents involved, they’ll stop spreading this nonsense. And it won’t come down to taking any formal action on our part. Any objections?”
The four remained silent.
“Anything else?” Thornton-Gaston looked around the table.
The AD sighed. “There’s the matter of Rick Tilden. He’s the student who was driving the truck that Vince Murphy was killed in.”
The chief leaned back in his chair, visibly relaxing. “I think we’re going to be okay there. I talked to the sheriff this morning. As far as he’s concerned, the driver of the tractor trailer that struck the pickup is at fault. The student is in the clear.”
“Great.” Fredericton tapped her phone. “We’ll play that up in The Chronicle. The tragic death was the responsibility of an outsider. The idea that one of our students was drunk and at fault will dry up.”
Thornton-Gaston scribbled herself a note. “I think we’re done here. We’ll meet again tomorrow at nine. Someone be sure to tell Maureen and Case. Plan on meeting every morning until the crisis is over.”
The chancellor rose and left the room, followed by Fredericton.
The chief stopped the athletic director on his way out the door. “Mike, we need to think about what happens if this thing explodes in our faces.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if all these grand plans don’t work, someone has to take the blame. It’s not going to be me. I’m making sure of that. You should be ready to duck and point at someone else.”
“Someone like who?”
“Dr. Janelle Thornton-Gaston, EdD.”
* * *
Jerry pulled into the visitor’s lot of the Shady Pines Retirement Village and killed the engine. “Not sure how long this will take, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Darla furrowed her brow. “What do you mean? I’m coming with you.”
“You’ll be bored.”
“What was all that about a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the exciting life of a newspaper reporter? A rogue newspaper reporter?”
“I said unheralded, not exciting.”
“Jerry, I didn’t come all the way to Saratoga to count cows on the side of the road. You saw me cheer. I want to see you do reporter stuff.” She crossed her arms and pouted.
“Darla, please.”
She pushed out her lower lip and made the saddest eyes possible.
“Darla, I’m telling—Okay, fine. You can come along.”
“Yay!”
“But you have to let me do all the talking.”
“You’re the reporter. What am I going to say, anyway?” She flipped down the passenger visor, checked her make-up in the mirror, and touched up her lipstick.
They stepped out of the car.
Darla inhaled deeply. “Love that pine fresh air.”
“Thought you weren’t big on the outdoors?”
“Relationships are about compromise. You’re letting me come along on the interview. Maybe we could do something outdoorsy together.”
“Camping?” Jerry again flashed on the image of snuggling up to Darla, in her hiking shorts, around a fire.
“Maybe not camping.” Darla widened her eyes. “But what about glamping?”
“That seems fair.” He wrapped his arm around Darla’s waist and they headed toward the main building.
Inside the entrance, they approached a harried fifty-something woman behind the reception desk.
Jerry cleared his throat. “I’m here to see Mr. Paul Wysocki. Can you direct me to his room?”
“Are you family?”
“No.”
The woman shook her head. “Then I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to see him. Sundays are for family visits only.”
Jerry paused for a moment, attempting to construct a reply.
“He’s not family, yet.” Darla entwined her fingers with Jerry’s. “We just got engaged and we’re here to tell my grandpa the big news.”
“That’s wonderful.” The woman smiled, displaying coffee-stained teeth. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks, I’m thinking Paris or Rome for the honeymoon. But Jerry has his heart set on Niagara Falls.” Darla poked him in the ribs.”
The woman frowned at Jerry. “You only get one honeymoon, young man, and it should be memorable. Listen to your fiancée. Europe can be so romantic.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jerry glared at Darla, who returned a “who me?” smile.
The woman looked at Darla. “What was the name of your grandfather again?” Panic flashed in Darla’s eyes. “Uh, Grandpa? His name is...Paul...Wysocki.” She glanced at Jerry, who barely nodded. “Right. Paul Wysocki.”
The woman tapped on her keyboard. “Your grandfather is in 179 west. It’s down that far hallway.” She pointed across the room. “Follow the signs and you’ll find it.”
“Thanks again.” Darla led Jerry across the lobby and down the hall. “Did you still want me to stay in the car?”
“I appreciate the save.” He kissed her on the forehead.
They continued down the hallway, following the signs. They turned right once, left twice, passing two residents and a member of the staff before arriving at a door marked 179-W.
“Remember, let me do the talking.” Jerry knocked on the door.
No answer.
“Maybe louder.” Darla made a fist. “He doesn’t hear too well, right?”
Jerry banged on the door. “Mister Wysocki?”
Still no answer.
“What should we do?” Jerry frowned. “What if he’s in there, but can’t hear the knocking?”
“We? You’re the unheralded newspaper reporter.”
“Can I help you?” An old man in a flannel robe and using a walker, stood in the open doorway across the hall.
“We’re looking for Mr. Wysocki. I’m not sure if he’s in his room.” Jerry wrapped his arm around Darla. “This is his granddaughter, Darla. We’re here to tell him the good news that we’re getting married.”
The old man scowled. “I don’t remember Paul saying anything about having children, let alone grandchildren.”
Jerry blinked rapidly. “W—well it’s like this—”
“Grandpa and Mom have been estranged forever.” Darla frowned. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure they remember what started it. We’re hoping that the wedding will spur them to reconcile.”
The old man’s scowl became a smile. “That’s nice to hear. Families should stick together. Congratulations.”
“Thanks! I’m thinking of doing something different. Like a wedding on a farm. Maybe in one of those big barns we saw while driving here. But Jerry just wants to go to Justice of the Peace and have a sit-down dinner with our families.”
The old man pointed a bony finger at Jerry. “Listen to the young lady. Your wedding should be a memorable and special day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know if Mr. Wys—I mean, if my grandpa is in his room?”
The old man shook his head. “He’s out on the terrace. Go back down the hall and take the first left all the way to the end.”
“Thanks.” Darla waved goodbye.
They backtracked halfway down the hallway, then Jerry stopped. “You sure are thinking a lot about weddings.”
“Should I still let you do all the talking?”
“If you gave me a moment, I would have come up with something.”
“Maybe.” Darla smirked. “But I would think an unheralded newspaper reporter could think faster on his feet.”
“Being a reporter isn’t about making up lies on the spot. It’s about digging for the truth and asking the right questions.”
“Whatever.” Darla held up two fingers. “Anyway, that’s twice you owe me.”
“Do you recall me saving your life about this time yesterday?”
“Yes, I do. You’re a brave boy.” Darla looped her arms around Jerry’s neck, pulled herself close, and kissed him. “How about we call it even?”
“Deal. Now let’s find Mr. Wysocki.”
They exited the building and stepped onto an elevated terrace that ran the length of the building. The terrace overlooked a freshly mowed lawn gently sloping to a creek. A dozen or so white metal tables shaded by umbrellas were scattered across the terrace. A staff member stood at the railing, staring at his phone. Four women shared a table, playing cards. Two men sat by themselves. One was nearby reading a book, the other at the end of the terrace.
Darla’s eyes flicked between the two men. “Which one?”
“Don’t you know what your own grandfather looks like?”
Darla stuck her tongue out at Jerry.
“C’mon. Fifty-fifty chance.” Jerry walked up to the closest man and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Wysocki?”
The man put down his book, a large print edition of the latest Lee Child. “No, I’m Barry Chasteen. That’s Paul down there.” He pointed at the other man.
Darla apologized, “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
Jerry and Darla maneuvered through the tables to the far end of the terrace. The man sat in a wheelchair, oxygen tank at his side, looking out at the creek, not appearing to be doing anything else. He wore a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. Full head of snow-white hair. Age spots dotted his face.
Jerry stood at the man’s side. “Excuse me, Mr. Wysocki?”
The man didn’t respond.
“Not so quietly,” Darla whispered in Jerry’s ear.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wysocki?” Jerry raised his voice.
The man turned slowly. “Yes?”
“My name is Jerry Williams.” Jerry kept his volume high. “And I write for The Chr—I mean, I’m a journalism student at Van Buren University.” Jerry watched Wysocki’s gaze flick from him and linger on Darla. “And this is Darla Jaggard, my, uh, associate.”
“Girlfriend,” Darla announced with pride.
Wysocki smiled. “I like her.”
Jerry took out his notepad. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about some stories you wrote for The Whig.”
Wysocki nodded and chuckled, but the chuckle devolved into a coughing fit. Jerry and Darla watched awkwardly as Wysocki struggled for a full minute to get his cough under control. He grabbed his glass of water with a shaky hand and took a sip.
“Sure, it would be nice to talk to someone. Have a seat. I warn you that my memory’s not all that great anymore, but I’ll do my best.”
Darla and Jerry pulled up chairs.
Jerry flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Do you remember a man named Wayne Copeland? He worked for Van Buren and was killed when a trench collapsed on him. You wrote the story about him that appeared in The Whig.”
Wysocki looked away from the two, once again staring in the direction of the creek.
“Mr. Wysocki?”
“I’m sorry? What were we talking about?”
“Wayne Copeland. He worked at Van Buren and was killed in an accident in 1984.”
“Nineteen Eighty-Four.” Wysocki shook his head wistfully. “Geraldine Ferraro. They never gave her a chance.”
“Wayne Copeland, sir? Do you remember anything?”
Wysocki shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gary. I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay. How about a student named Franklin Hearst? He was struck by a bus. Also in 1984.”
Wysocki shifted his gaze from the creek to Darla. “You are an exquisitely beautiful young lady.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, all dimples.
“Mr. Wysocki? About Franklin Hearst?”
“That name means nothing to me. Sorry you came all the way out to talk to a forgetful old man.”
“No problem, sir. Just one more name. Peggy Johnson? She drowned in the pool in the college gymnasium on July 13th, 1984.”
Wysocki looked back to the creek. “Geraldine Ferraro.”
“No, sir. Peggy Johnson. She was a student. In the story you wrote, there was mention of a broken mirror in the girls’ locker room.”
Wysocki closed his eyes. “A broken mirror,” he mouthed silently.
“Mr. Wysocki?”
“Peggy Johnson. I almost forgot. I wish I had. And now it’s coming back. Peggy. Hearst. Copeland. The football players...” His hands trembled.
“Football players?”
Wysocki grabbed his glass with shaky hands and drank the rest of the water, spilling some on his shirt. “Three nasty and vicious brutes. The school covered it up as best they could. Nothing on their record. Got off scot-free.”
Jerry jotted in his notebook. “Do you remember the players’ names? What did they do?”
“Poor Peggy. She didn’t ask for what happened to her.”
“What happened? The coroner ruled she drowned accidentally.”
“We didn’t have a choice. Such a sweet girl.” His gaze returned to Darla.
“Mr. Wysocki, can we talk about Peggy? Are you saying her death wasn’t an accident?”
Wysocki shook his head. “Peggy was smart too. And quite an athlete. Professor Harding suspected.”
Jerry scribbled furiously. “Professor Harding?”
“Ellen. If it weren’t for her, we could have never stopped it.”
“Stopped what?” Darla leaned forward. “Was it bad luck?”
Jerry glared at her, and she shrugged back at him.
“All of us swore never to tell. I wrote the story, but it was a coverup. Just as bad as the college. Lied to the public, to her parents, to her brother Mark.” Wysocki launched into another coughing fit. “Maybe it’s time everyone knows the truth.”
“Yes, sir. I’d love to help you get the truth out. But your story’s a bit jumbled. Let’s start with Peggy. What really happened to her?”
Wysocki coughed again and his face turned bright red. His arms flailed, knocking his glass off the table. The glass shattered on the concrete floor.
“It’s okay, Mr. Wysocki.” Jerry reached for the largest shards and scanned for a trash can.
A staffer appeared from nowhere. “Come on, Mr. Wysocki, let’s go back to your room.”
Wysocki, still coughing, nodded his head.
Darla and Jerry exchanged looks of puzzlement and concern.
Another staffer approached the table. She pointed at Jerry and Darla. “Mr. Wysocki is returning to his room to rest. You must leave now.”
Jerry started to object, but Wysocki was already whisked off the terrace and inside the building.