Page 26 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 22

Dartmouth College

O n the border of the green, I’m sitting against one of the big oak trees soaking up some especially bright winter sun while finishing a takeout burger from Murphy’s, one of my favorite campus hangouts.

One of Garrett’s too.

In fact, it’s where we went on our second date.

Before ending up back in my bed in Richardson Hall.

This morning, I kissed Garrett goodbye in the rental-car parking lot and headed over to the office of the underground student newspaper.

The visit was a dead end—until a staffer told me that the back issues were in a collection at the Rauner Library.

I flashed my alumni ID card, and the student behind the desk pointed me toward the student newspaper archive.

Some intrepid librarian had amassed printed copies of every back issue.

While the reporters for the official campus newspaper, the Dartmouth, were governed by the same libel laws that professional journalists had to adhere to, the underground paper pushed the envelope, even investigating stories about campus crimes that otherwise went unreported.

I scanned the bylines of stories about blizzards and protests and new buildings and sports—and campus dramas.

Maddy Parson’s and Cole Wright’s names came up frequently.

So did Burton Pearce’s.

I lingered over a photo of Cole from the homecoming game, his teammates clustered around him.

From what Judd Peyton told us, the rape would have happened that night.

But the story never ran.

Which reporter was threatened?

And what did he or she know?

When I was done, I had twenty-nine student reporters to follow up on.

Names that are now on a list on my laptop along with notes for my call script.

After lunch, I return to the library and set up my computer in a carrel where I can make calls.

I start working my way through Google, Facebook, LinkedIn—my first-resort sites for tracking strangers down.

Before long, I’ve got contact info for nearly all the names on my list.

My phone buzzes with a text from Garrett: Will be in Beantown by 1.

Followed by four heart emojis.

I emoji him back and add, Be careful!

His reply: You worry too much.

He’s right. I do. Especially about him.

Back to my list. First up, Colin Abrams, currently a producer for an Omaha television station.

I call the number for him listed on the website and get lucky.

“This is Colin Abrams.”

I launch into my spiel.

“Hi, Mr. Abrams, my name is Brea Cooke. I’m a Dartmouth alum working on a book about incidents that happened on campus about twenty years ago.”

Nothing from the other end.

Then: “And why did you call me?”

“You were a student reporter at that time, right?”

“Sure, me and about two hundred other people.”

“Well, I’m looking for information on a story about a Dartmouth football player who was accused of sexual assault. I have a source who says the reporter who was working on the story got threatened and the story got spiked. Was that reporter you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you remember the incident?”

“No, I don’t,” says Abrams.

“Is there anybody you know who might be able to help me?”

“Sorry,” he says.

“I was on the paper for only two months when I realized print was dead. Wish I could help you, but I’ve got a show to prep.” He hangs up.

I’m oh for one.

And so it goes.

I call a reporter at the New York Times, a spokesman for the Red Cross, a writer for CNN—none of them remembers the story or the threat.

My next try is Ellen Layton, editor, owner, and publisher of the North Empire News, a small-town newspaper in upstate New York.

I run through my standard intro and hold my breath.

“Let me think,” says Ellen.

And then: “Yes. Sure. I remember it.”

My heart starts thumping hard.

I sit up straight.

“It was Floyd Whelan who got threatened,” says Ellen.

I tap the name into my notes.

“He was this really nerdy, gawky kid,” says Ellen.

“His desk was next to mine. He was hoping that a police report would come out, but it never did. And after the threats, I remember him saying he was planning to bulk up, take some martial arts classes.”

“Any idea where Whelan works now?” I ask.

I’m practically bouncing.

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Ellen? You still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Floyd joined the military but didn’t survive Afghanistan. KIA.”

A shudder runs through me.

But I have to focus.

I’ve got two more questions to ask.

“Ellen, did Whelan ever tell you the name of the student who was assaulted?”

“No,” says Ellen.

“He never did. Just that she was a freshman.”

“Did he ever tell you who assaulted her?”

“Shit, yes,” says Ellen firmly.

“It was Cole Wright. You know, the First Gentleman.”