Painted Ladies

13

I went over to the campus police station and sat with the chief, a tall, pleasant-looking guy with short sandy hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His name was Crosby.

“Frank Belson said I should talk to you,” he said. “I started out in a cruiser with Frank back in the days when we were two to a car, working out of the old station house in Brighton.”

“Right across from Saint Elizabeth’s.”

“You got it,” Crosby said. “Met a lotta nurses from Saint Elizabeth’s in those days. Me and Frank both. We had some pretty wild times off-duty, and a few when we were on.”

“What do you know about Ashton Prince?” I said.

Crosby’s face got quiet, and he sucked on his cheeks for a moment.

“Belson tells me your word is good,” he said.

“It is,” I said.

“Belson and I grew up together in the cop business, until I took retirement after twenty, and came to work here.”

“Belson’s a lifer,” I said.

“For sure,” Crosby said. “Frank’s approval carries a lot of weight with me. And we got a guy murdered here, one of ours, even though he was pretty much of a jerkoff.”

“Lot of that going around in academe,” I said.

“Sweet Jesus,” Crosby said.

I waited. He sucked his cheeks for another moment.

“Okay,” Crosby said. “What I say in this room stays in this room.”

I nodded.

“Your word?”

“I’ll use the information, but I won’t say where I got it without your permission.”

“Okay,” Crosby said.

He sat back a little in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He was wearing cordovan shoes with a high shine.

“This is an easy job,” Crosby said. “Most of the time I don’t even carry a piece. We make sure that everyone parks in the right place. We keep the kids from setting fire to the place while drunk. We do routine patrol.”

“Keep the marauders at bay,” I said.

“Something like that,” Crosby said. “Now and then a rape. Now and then a robbery. But mostly it’s sort of housekeeping, you know, and, ah, covering up.”

“ ‘Covering up’?”

“University dislikes scandal,” Crosby said. “Made that clear when they hired me. Part of my job description is keeping a lid on anything that might harm enrollments, recruiting, or, God forbid, fund-raising and alumni support.”

“How you feel about that?” I said.

Crosby smiled.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “But in a way it’s kind of motivational. We work extra hard to prevent a crime from happening so we don’t have to cover it up.”

“Then along came Prince?” I said.

Crosby nodded.

“He can’t stay away from the female students. You know, famous professor, handsome, good dresser in a fluty kind of way. Got that fake English accent that they used to teach movie stars in the thirties and forties. Lot of girls are happy to hook up with him. He’s scored a bunch of them. But he wants to score all of them. We have complaints of sexual harassment, sexual innuendo, inappropriate touching, stalking, offering to swap grades for sex.”

“And how does the university feel about that?”

“They don’t like it. But he’s a tenured professor and a well-known international expert on some kind of art.”

“Probably low-country realism,” I said.

“Sure,” Crosby said. “It’s how I got to know him. I was bringing him in and talking to him so often we got to know each other pretty well.”

“How did he behave when you spoke of his behavior?” I said.

“He was shocked — shocked, I tell you.”

“Denied it?”

“Denied it absolutely,” Crosby said. “Said the girls must be either vindictive that he spurned them — his words — or they were fantasizing and allowed the fantasy to overcome them.”

“All of them?”

“All,” Crosby said. “He absolutely rejected every complaint. Said he had an attorney, and if we brought charges he would sue the girls, sue the university, probably sue me, for all I know.”

“Do you know the name of the lawyer?”

“No, but the university counsel does.”

He swung his chair sideways and picked up a phone and punched in a number.

“George,” he said to the phone. “Mike Crosby. Who’s the lawyer that Ashton Prince used to threaten us with?”

He waited, then nodded and wrote down a name on the pad of yellow lined paper on his desk.

“Thanks, George,” he said. “No, nothing. Just sorting the case out for myself. Sure, George. Mum’s the word. Thanks.”

He looked at me.

“That’s the motto of our department. Lot of departments have like ‘to protect and serve’? We have ‘Mum’s the word.’ ”

He ripped the sheet of paper off the pad and handed it to me.

“Morton Lloyd,” he said. “In Boston.”

I folded it and put it in my pocket.

“So the university decided to do nothing about Prince,” I said.

“No, they decided to keep it quiet,” Crosby said. “That’s doing something.”

“In loco parentis,” I said.

Crosby nodded.

“Ain’t it something,” he said.

“Can you do me a favor?” I said.

“Long as mum’s the word,” Crosby said.

I smiled.

“Prince was teaching a seminar called ‘Low-Country Realists’ when he was killed,” I said. “A teaching assistant is finishing it up. Class meets from two to five on Tuesdays.”

“You want to sign up for it?” Crosby said.

“I want a list of the students,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “You got a fax?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m a high-tech sleuth.”

I gave him my card.

“I’ll fax it to you this afternoon,” Crosby said. “Why do you want it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just blundering around in the brush here, see what I kick up.”

Crosby grinned.

“That’s called police work,” he said.