Phi Beta Murder (14 page)

“The dean asked me to tone it down, but these things take on a life of their own.”

“It must give you an immense sense of power to control something that has so much influence on people’s lives. Why didn’t you delete the ditty about your friend?”

“That would be censorship. I do moderate the forums to some extent, but it’s a full-time job to read every post and ban people and monitor all that crap.”

“That would make your site less popular too, wouldn’t it? People crave conflict and confrontation, and your advertisers reward you for the number of hits to your site. Entrepreneurs like you don’t give a hoot about the Bill of Rights; you just try to exploit them for all they’re worth.” Rex found himself becoming as riled as he ever allowed himself to get.

Klepto grabbed the jug and spilt some tea on the table while pouring a glass.

“You’re clearly an intelligent young man,” Rex said, relenting. “Why not put your talents to better use? Honest work allows you to sleep better at night.” Rex hoped he wasn’t coming across as too sanctimonious, but he really wanted to get through to the boy. He genuinely deplored seeing a good brain go to waste.

“I sleep fine at night. So, why are you so concerned about my welfare?”

“Because, even though you’re not directly responsible for your friend’s death, I can’t help thinking you’re in it for something. I know it was you on the video, not R.J.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

“You’re the right height for one thing, and when I saw you at the memorial service with your hands in the pockets of that leather jacket, I had a flashback to the video, which I’d just viewed. It was in the body language.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What’s done is done. We can’t put back the clock and spare R.J. all the aggravation he went through on your account, but you can help make things right.”

“How?”

“You can tell me who posted that poem about Dixon and his stash.”

“It’s not that easy to track.”

“You can do better than that. I could take that button to the police, tell them you were withholding evidence in a homicide, reveal it was you on video selling coke, even get enough students to file a complaint about how you stole stuff from them. Then I could go to the papers with the story. Local TV vans and reporters would camp in Luella’s front yard. How long do you think it would be until she kicked you out? You have it pretty good here. Free use of the BMW, the pool—”

“Okay, look, I think I know who wrote the poem,” Klepto cut in. “I listed a chemistry textbook on eBay, but then I noticed that drafts of a poem had been scribbled all over it.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t sell it in that state for a decent price. I’ll get it for you.”

Klepto returned a few minutes later with a hardcover textbook. On the fly leaf was scrawled the name of one Andy Palmer. Inside, written in tiny script in the margin were versions of the Nantucket ditty. Rex imagined him composing it while sitting bored at some lecture.

“Why did Dixon set R.J. up?” he asked.

“I persuaded him that it was R.J. in the video. He genuinely thought it was until it came out in court about the dealer being under six foot. R.J. is a lot taller. Dix figured out it was me, but by then it was too late. R.J. was acquitted anyway, so we thought that would be the end of it.”

“Someone wouldn’t let it go. They were out for blood.” Rex got up, clutching the textbook under his arm. “Thanks for your cooperation. And, Ty? Watch out for those psychopathic tendencies. I hope you learn how to analyze yourself out of them.” He paused as he reached the sliding glass doors to the house. “You were bright enough to figure out that Dixon didn’t kill himself. Nobody else did.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Resolutely, Rex saw himself out.

When Rex arrived back
at the motel, he checked the room phone to see if Helen had called, and was disappointed to see that she had not. He then went for a swim. Performing his fifty laps gave him a chance to review where he was with the case and to rid himself of some of his agitation over the injustice of it all. Klepto and Bethany Johnson were going about their lives as usual, while R.J. was involved in risky construction work with little prospect of ever going back to college. Dixon’s murderer had also gone scot-free. Rex was determined to rectify this one perversion of justice.

First he needed to check all the facts so that he would be in a strong position to elicit a confession. This had to be achieved with all speed and efficiency, since tomorrow was his last day to wrap everything up.

Toward 4:00 he headed back to the university and swung by the office of Student Affairs to get the address he needed. As he was leaving, he met Campbell returning from the marine science lab, a plastic bag in his hand.

“This is for you,” he told his dad. “Compliments of Ms. Johnson. It’s R.J.’s hoodie.”

“You peeked?”

“His initials are scrawled on the label. What was she doing with it?”

Ignoring the question, Rex compared the button Klepto had given him to the gray material, just to be sure. It was not a match.

“Want to grab a coffee?” Campbell asked.

“Why not.”

“Strange that R.J. is still hanging around Jax,” his son remarked. “He could’ve gone to another college.”

“His dad depleted his savings on hiring a lawyer. There’s nothing left. He had to take out a second mortgage on his house.”

“The college should have paid for R.J. to finish his studies after what they put him through.”

“I suppose there was enough proof that he was involved in drugs. And I don’t think the dean of students appreciated the wee prank he played on him.”

“Sucks for R.J.”

A few minutes later, coffee in hand, they gravitated toward the fountain at the center of campus and perched on the stone ledge. The sun filtered through the oak trees, dappling the cropped grass with light. A soft breeze wafted across the open space. Students in T-shirts and tank tops milled about, in no apparent hurry to be indoors on such a mellow afternoon.

“So what’s new?” Campbell asked. “Are you going to solve the case by the time we leave Saturday?”

“With any luck, but I’d prefer not to tell you about it just yet. You might inadvertently give something away, and I don’t want the culprit catching on.”

“It’s not someone I know, is it?”

“It’s someone conspicuous by their absence at the memorial service. And that’s all I’m telling you.”

Campbell sighed, knowing better than to persist in his questions.

“I can tell you that Klepto is the mastermind behind StudentSpace.com,” Rex told him.

“I know. It’s gone viral. He posted a blog saying he was being suspended as of today until he shut it down. He’s asking students to vote for or against the college’s decision. There’s talk of a riot. The consensus is that Hilliard is in violation of the First Amendment by forcing him to abort it.”

“Free speech among students is typically protected in this country, except where it disrupts educational activities or invades the rights of others.”

“Someone leaked that the Clarks were going to sue the school,” Campbell said around a mouthful of bagel. “They’re claiming the libel on SS.com pushed Dix over the edge and Hilliard did nothing to prevent it. I suppose the Clarks would have to go after the school since Klepto hasn’t got any money.”

“I don’t know if the Clarks are aware yet of who runs StudentSpace.com. And, anyway, I don’t think it’s the money they’re after; it’s the principle. They feel the university should protect the welfare of its students first and foremost. I found out from Student Affairs that Klepto was the webmaster for the school’s official site in his first year. I went to see him at his home. That’s where he runs his operation.”

“Did you see his fancy lady?”

“Luella Shaw.”

“She’s the one the website is registered to! What’s she like?”

“A wee bit trashy, to be honest. I suppose she must have done quite well out of her divorce settlement. Four-bedroom house, double garage, pool.”

At that moment, Campbell’s gaze drifted to a couple walking hand in hand on the far side of campus. “Isn’t that Mike and Kris? I wonder how long they’ve been dating.”

“They were sitting together at the memorial service.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Well, you only had eyes for Melodie.” He turned toward Campbell, determined to broach an important matter. Something had been bothering Rex since he had seen Mike at the Student Health Center. He decided to try the direct approach. “Son, I wanted to talk to you about STDs.”

Campbell stared at him in abject horror.

“I picked up a leaflet at the Health Center on campus,” Rex explained.

“What were you doing there?”

“I went to see the medical professional who prescribed Xanax to Dixon.”

“Dad, I don’t have any STDs. I don’t have indiscriminate sex and I don’t do drugs, for your information. I know you’ve been dying to ask me.”

“None at all?”

“Occasionally I hit the bong, that’s all. I get a natural high from surfing and playing guitar.”

Rex slumped with relief on the fountain ledge. “Thank you for putting my mind at ease.”

“You smoke a pipe. I never even touch cigarettes.”

“Point taken.” Campbell was very good on the offensive, which was, come to think of it, his position in soccer.

“You didn’t really think I was on drugs, did you?”

“Truth to tell, I didn’t know what to think. I was that worried.”

“Was it Grandma who put the idea in your head? She worries about everything.”

“Don’t I know it? No, I didn’t tell her about our phone conversation. She thinks I came out here on a whim.”

“I was feeling stressed. It’s been strained around here since R.J. was arrested.” Campbell regarded him with curiosity. “Didn’t you ever experiment with drugs?”

“Pot is five times stronger now than it was in my day.”

“Where did you read that?”

“At the university library.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time there.”

“Aye. Funny how I never saw you there once.” Punching his son jovially on the shoulder, Rex got up off the fountain ledge. “See you later. I need to go find someone.”

He calculated that by 5:00 most classes would be out and Andy Palmer would be back in his dorm, but after knocking fruitlessly at the door for fifteen minutes, he gave up and went to try Campus Security. After much persuasion, the guard looked up Palmer’s parking permit registration and told Rex which lot he had been assigned and what vehicle he drove.

Rex looked around Parking C for a yellow Hyundai Elantra. No car fit that description. There was nothing to do but bide his time until Palmer returned. Rex desperately hoped the author of the Nantucket poem had not taken off for an early weekend. In the meantime, there was one other thing he could do.

He had found out from Campus Security the number of the detective at the Jacksonville Police Department who had arrested R.J. Wylie. Rex formed an instant dislike upon first phone contact. Beecham didn’t want to be reminded of his error, but as soon as Rex mentioned he might have a homicide case all wrapped up and ready for the detective to close, he became more attentive. Not only a homicide, Rex told him; he would provide the real culprit in the drug bust, and Beecham could explain away the confusion between two similarly dressed boys of the same age. Rex felt he was bargaining with the devil, yet he needed proof of Klepto’s involvement to completely exonerate R.J.

“Talk to my informant,” the detective grunted into the phone. “Guy by the name of Wayne Price. You’ll find him at The Shamrock this evening.”

At the appointed time, Rex found himself in a murky sports bar with big screen TVs at each corner and a green patterned carpet reeking of beer. Most of the customers were loners. He had taken the precaution of tucking a slim voice recorder in his breast pocket.

Before he was halfway to the bar, he recognized the police informant from the video. At first glance, Wayne Price could pass for thirty, but as Rex approached he saw he was closer to forty. A wariness in the eyes and a hard set about the shoulders hinted at time served in prison. As a prosecutor, Rex could tell a seasoned felon a mile off. He slid onto the stool beside Price and ordered a beer, attempting to look casual and not as though he had wandered onto a bad American cop show.

“You the guy wanted to see me ’bout the student bust?” Price asked, swinging around and surveying the room. “Make it snappy. If I pull out my cell phone, it means you gotta leave.”

The detective had told him Price was working on a bust that night. He’d make sure Price was cooperative but warned Rex not to blow his cover.

“I saw Clark’s video. It’s on the Internet,” Rex said, wasting no time. He set the photo of the Phi Beta Kappa fraternity, procured online, on the bar top under a newspaper, which he used to nudge the photo in Price’s direction. “Who was really selling to you?”

The informant picked up his drink. “Top far right,” he muttered, glancing first at the picture and then away again. “The one in the green polo shirt.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’d recognize that cocky asshole anywhere.”

“So why did you testify it was R.J. Wylie?”

“Beecham told me that’s who I bought from. I’m on a suspended sentence courtesy of the JPD. My privileges can be revoked anytime they don’t like what I say. Beecham said to make it stick.”

“Did Wylie ever confess?”

“No, but he never did produce his hoodie neither. The police wanted to test it for coke residue to get a match with the blow I bought off him. The hoodie mysteriously vanished. The cops thought that made him guilty as hell.”

“His girlfriend had it. He was protecting her.”

“Looks like he got shafted both ways, don’t it?”

“Why would there be residue on the jacket?”

“The bag I got was split. The dealer had it in his pocket.”

“It doesn’t bother you that the wrong lad got busted?”

“This cokehead or that one … What difference does it make?”

“One life. Almost two. Wylie didn’t sell.”

“So he’s up for sainthood?”

Rex thought he should leave before he threw the informant across the bar and made him wish he’d gone back to prison. “Thanks for identifying the dealer,” he said tonelessly, preparing to depart.

“It’s the one I pointed out in the photo. For real. Wylie, the student I fingered for the police, was taller, a nice, easy-going kid. He never let the cops push him into a confession. I think that got up Beecham’s nose.”

“Why do you think the police set so much store by what Dixon Clark said?”

“White middle-class boy, doin’ his job monitoring illegal drug activity in the dorms. Beecham wanted a collar.” Price glanced around before murmuring into his glass. “Heard something from my cop pals about the Clark suicide. It’ll cost you a twenty.”

“Is it worth twenty?”

“Pay up and see.”

Rex surreptitiously pushed a bill under the newspaper.

“The Clark kid was loaded with Xanax. The overdose details weren’t released to the press. The school didn’t want reporters shining a spotlight on prescription drug abuse among its students.” Price pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his cheap denim shirt. “Sure been nice talking to you,” he told Rex.

Taking his cue, Rex got up from his stool, retrieved the photograph from off the bar, and walked toward the pub entrance, eager to see if the Elantra was in the campus parking lot. He could not wait to put a lid on this case so he could discharge his promise to the Clarks and take off for the Keys without a care in the world—other than whether Helen would talk to him ever again.