Page 12

12

Colleen Doherty arrived at the Beckford College guard booth at eight forty-five and followed the guard’s directions to the administration building. She parked and went inside and down a set of stairs.

The campus security office was just to the right of the lower-level door she pulled open, and inside of it the bright fluorescent light gleamed off a high metal-and-glass check-in desk and the white subway tiled walls. A half dozen flat screens hung from the dropped ceiling showing security camera feeds.

Very high-tech, Colleen noted. It was some setup for such a small school, she thought. She’d seen police precincts that were less elaborate.

Behind the Star Trek console of a desk was an alert-looking young Hispanic woman in khakis and a red campus safety polo shirt. She smiled as she clicked the pen in her hand.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Good morning,” Colleen said, finally smiling back as she took her notebook from her bag. “I’m here to see Campus Security Director Roy Travers. Is he here?”

The young woman paused, blinked as if wondering if she should admit it.

“One moment please,” the guard said, lifting a phone. “Your name?”

“Colleen Doherty from Alston Brantwood,” Colleen said, placing her law firm’s card on the desktop.

“Do you have an appointment?” the guard said, glancing at it.

“I don’t,” Colleen said as the guard turned and mumbled into the phone.

“If you will have a seat,” the guard said as she hung up the phone, “Director Travers will see you in a moment.”

Sitting in the hard plastic chair opposite the console, Colleen felt a little like a bad schoolgirl sent to the principal’s bench. Especially after several minutes had gone past and no sign of the director.

But she had to expect some pushback, she knew. This had to be a real puzzler for them, thinking that the incident had been put to bed. Which was the point of driving all the way up here. To use the element of surprise and confront them without warning. Get them back on their heels. See how they reacted. See how much they would scramble.

Director Travers arrived at the other side of the console desk a long five minutes later. He was short and wiry with a clean-shaven, tight muscular face. It looked like his cheeks were doing a push-up as he smiled.

“Hi. Colleen, is it? I’m Roy,” he said as they shook. “Please come back into my office.”

Through the heavy door he closed behind her, his inner office was dimmer than the precinct desk area. The sole light besides the little lamp on Travers’s desk came from an eyebrow window along the top of the painted cinderblock wall.

“So, you’re all the way up from Alston Brantwood in New York City?” Travers said as he slowly sat down behind his desk. “Did you drive up this morning? Must have left early.”

“Crack of dawn,” Colleen said, taking out her notebook. “I’m here concerning the death of Olivia Ramos. I saw from my records you live in the next town over, Director Travers. What time did they call you in that night? Or were you already here?”

The door suddenly opened then and a tall, thin middle-aged woman entered the room. Her wire-rimmed glasses and dry auburn hair screamed cat lady to Colleen, yet she was smartly dressed in an elegant, expensive-looking navy pinstriped jacket.

“This is Dean of Students Elizabeth Darwell,” Travers said as the woman shut the door and pulled over a chair to sit beside Colleen.

“I thought I’d sit in on the meeting,” Dean Darwell said, smiling as she offered a gaunt hand. “If you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” Colleen said, smiling weakly back as she shook.

“So, this is about poor Olivia,” Dean Darwell said, squinting sympathetically.

“Yes,” Colleen said. “I’m here on behalf of Olivia’s father, Emilio Ramos, who as you can imagine is interested in finding out the details of his daughter’s death.”