Chapter 7

This wasn't Stella Bonacera's first trip to the campus of Chelsea University. Between special lectures, various criminal cases, continuing education or accreditation courses, and two semesters of evening classes, she'd driven to the campus a hundred times. The College of Fine Arts was located in the George A. Kelpling Building, two blocks south of Lincoln Blvd.

Considering the late hour, she called ahead to make certain the Dean of the college would still be in his office.

Parking anywhere on campus was at a crapshoot at best but was especially bad around Kepling. She'd leave her vehicle as close as she could get it to the building, parking space or no parking space. A wise move as it turned out, considering that spring-term finals were two weeks away and Kepling Building shared parking with the university library.

Stella also called ahead to campus security and warned them off. Three friends' lives at stake--she had neither the time nor the inclination to play power games with Parking Services.

While she had her phone out, it was tempting to call Mac, get an update on the situation. She resisted the urge--if Mac had news, he'd call. Still, the waiting was hard.

The detective, her vehicle's police lights still pulsing, stopped against the curb closest to the Fine Arts building. The George A. Kepling Building was a sandstone structure surrounded by 100-year-old oak trees, rolling lawns bisected by numerous, winding sidewalks and dotted with meticulously tended flower beds.

Late afternoon light from a far westering sun cast extended shadows across the area, slowly driving people indoors. Sunset was less than an hour away.

Dozens of people stood, sat, or lay on the lawns and seating areas, stubbornly ignoring the creeping afternoon shadows. Some held open books or laptops, others talked with friends or chatted on cell phones. A few curious eyes, attracted by the strobing police lights, turned Stella's way. Cop training noted basic details of height, weight, age, and activity, all the information going toward a general threat assessment. Seeing nothing suspicious, Detective Bonacera killed the engine, pocketed her keys, and stepped out.

Leaving the red and blue lights blinking through her windshield, Stella hurried inside. She saw only five people between the outside door and the third floor, and all five of them were on their way out with briefcases, bags, or purses. Most of them smiled at her and nodded. One big woman with short, silvering hair and a hunter green coat murmured a tired "'night" as they passed in the elevator doorway. Stella nodded back but said nothing in return.

The door to the Dean's offices was a mahogany frame around a frosted white glass, the College of Fine Arts' logo etched into its surface. Stella opened the door and stepped into the outer receptionist's area, currently empty. A bell chimed over her head.

At the sound, an older man stepped out of the innermost sanctum. He was an older gentleman with no hair, a thin line of beard running along his jaw line, and a friendly, open expression on his creased face. He wore a gray suit jacket and pants, white shirt, but no tie.

"You must be Detective Bonacera?" The man stepped forward and presented his hand. "I'm Wayne Delacort, Dean of the College of Fine Arts."

"I appreciate you staying to speak with me, sir." Stella accepted the handshake. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"I'm more than happy to help. You did say the matter was urgent and concerned Nathan Collier, but nothing much more than that. Please, step into my office. We can talk more comfortably there."

Stella followed the Dean through the inner doors.

The large chamber was separated into two basic areas. To the left, beyond a tall archway, was the true office area with desk, bookshelves, credenza, two visitor chairs, and drawer cabinet. Forward and right of the door was the visiting or lounge area, with plush leather loveseat, two matching chairs, two side tables, and a coffee table. A small oval conference table with three chairs occupied space between the giant window and the loveseat. The two areas shared a floor of polished hardwood with occasional rugs or runners.

The centerpiece of the office area was an oversized executive desk carved from brightly polished mahogany, its side panels engraved with the Chelsea University seal. Its front face held shelves containing small statues, vases, candles, figurines, framed paintings and photographs. Among them, Stella spotted a photo of Wayne Delacort and five older men, Nathan Collier among them.

The Dean led Stella to the visiting area and waved her to the nearest chocolate brown leather chair.

"Have a seat, Detective." He gestured toward a small kitchenette discreetly hidden behind a paper-and-wood Shoji screen made to resemble brown, gray, copper, and silver stained glass. "Can I get you anything? Water, soda?"

"No thank you, sir."

As Delacort pulled a bottle of water from a small refrigerator and reappeared from around the screen, he spotted Stella's eyes on a large art piece mounted on the room's longest interior wall.

"That was a gift from one of my graduate students. Two years ago. A most gifted young man, a positive talent for turning simple metals into magnificent art pieces. You like it?"

"I'll be honest, Dean Delacort. I'm not much into art. To me, it looks like it's either Xena's chakram weapon(1) or the cogs of a very big wheel." She shrugged. "It certainly catches the eye."

"As it is meant to. One of the things I've striven for in this department is a nurturing of ideas, no matter how far outside of the traditional box it might lead."

"That's all good." Stella fought very hard to keep any hint of impatience or censure out of her voice. She did not quite succeed. "I would love to come back and discuss it with you some other time. Right now, I have a hostage situation that involves three friends of mine, and I'm hoping you can give me some information that will help me save their lives."

"When you called ahead, you mentioned needing information on Nathan." As he talked, Delacort went to his desk, picked up a file, and returned to the visiting area. He sat on the end of the loveseat closest to Stella. "I requested his personnel file. Fortunately, I was able to catch the supervisor before she left for the night. May I ask ... is Nathan in some kind of trouble?"

"I really can't say," Stella replied. "What can you tell me about him? I understand that he holds Emeritus status?"

"Yes, Professor Emeritus of Literature. He's received numerous national and international awards, almost every major honor in our field of study. Nathan was--still is, actually--the most prolific author we have. Last I heard he had over 400 articles, 22 textbooks, and 51 anthology collections to his name. I particularly enjoyed his comparison of the Egyptian story of Rhodopis to its much later successor, the more commonly recognized Cinderella story. He is particularly good at finding parallels between similar tales in different cultures." He laughed. "Not to mention a head for remembering quotes to fit every occasion imaginable."

"How well do you know Professor Collier?"

"I would say quite well, at least within the confines of our work here at Chelsea. I joined the faculty some thirty years ago. He was already tenured by that time, an Associate Professor, as I recall. He was an invaluable help to me, especially in those early days."

"I understand he retired five years ago. You recommended him for Emeritus status?"

Delacort nodded and said, "Yes, that is correct." His expression was heavily curious with a noticeable hint of concern. "I was Dean of Fine Arts for his last four years as full-time faculty. It was the least I could do, though it took no real effort on my part. He earned the rank, and no one on the faculty senate contested his right to the designation."

"Was he particularly close to anyone that you knew of? Other faculty, staff members, students?"

Delacort thought about it for several seconds before he sighed and shook his head. "No one comes to mind. There was Professor Montgomery, but he died last year, as did Nathan's long-time secretary, Agnes Taylor. His wife and daughter passed away some years ago. And the less said about that scapegrace grandson of his, the better."

"Anyone else? Think, it could be very important."

The Dean probed his memory again with equally negative results. "I'm sorry. Everyone with whom he was particularly close is either dead or suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia or some other debilitating condition."

"What about you? You've known him for 30 years. Knew him well enough to nominate him for a very prestigious title. Would he listen to you?"

For the first time in the conversation, Wayne Delacort looked uncomfortable. He killed time by organizing the paper in the personnel file, set it down, and took a long pull from his water bottle.

Stella repeated her question, stressing each word. "Will he listen to you?"

"Before I answer that, I ... I must know. What has happened? Nathan is in trouble, isn't he? He has done something. Something violent. Something that is putting the lives of your friends in danger."

"What makes you say that?"

The Dean leaned back onto the couch, the water bottle still in his hands. The leather popped and squeaked for several seconds then fell silent.

"You know about his cancer?" When the detective nodded, he sighed once more and leaned forward long enough to set the bottle on the coffee table. "From the questions you're asking, I have to reason that you're looking for someone with the ability to influence or impact Nathan's actions, someone who might can help you talk to him. That person is not me."

Stella opened her mouth to argue but the Dean waved her silent.

"I don't know if the tumor caused the change in his personality, or what triggered it," he said. "Ten months ago, the current and emeritus faculty, including Nathan, met to discuss the best way to distribute alumni donations. The funds, close to three million dollars, were to be presented to needy students as scholarships or grants. We do this every year. There's never been a problem."

"Until this meeting," Stella guessed.

Delacort nodded. "Until this meeting. No one expected this to happen. Certainly not me."

Stella took a pen and a flip notebook from her pocket and went to the first blank page. "What happened, exactly?"

Delacort's eyes fell on the chakram-like artwork but his memories were well in the past.

"Nathan has always the most gentle and tolerant of men. Even in the early days of his association with Chelsea, when racism was not only accepted but applauded, Nathan spoke out against it. That makes what happened that day so surreal. In the middle of the meeting, when we're discussing certain students whom members felt deserved the assistance, Nathan stood up and broke out into the most vile, disgusting diatribe of bigotry that I have ever heard in my entire life. We were all so stunned. No one could move to silence him, we just couldn't believe what he was saying."

Stella hurried to capture the story on her notepad. "He'd never exhibited this kind of behavior before? These opinions of prejudice?"

Delacort shook his head. "Never. By the time someone moved to redirect the discussion, Nathan had built up a fiery head of steam. There was no stopping him. The bile kept pouring forth. I urged him to sit down and think about what he was saying but he ... he actually tried to hit me. Next thing any of us knew, he was swiping items off the desk, throwing pencils, cups, pads, folders, anything he could lay his hands on. Shattered one of the windows with a two-inch binder. We called security but ... by the time they got there, it was like a switch had been thrown. The violence and bitter language stopped. Nathan apologized for his actions and went quietly when the guards escorted him off campus. I haven't spoken with him but maybe two or three times since that day."

"You say this meeting was ten months ago?"

"Yes, shortly before Fall semester started."

"And when was he diagnosed with the brain tumor?"

"Shortly after that. I believe the incident was the proverbial 'last straw.' It forced him to seek medical help. The doctors found the tumor within a few weeks." Delacort studied Stella's face and asked again, "What is he doing that involves the police? Earlier you mentioned a hostage situation."

Instead of answering, Stella pointed to the personnel file with its giant red "CONFIDENTIAL" stenciled diagonally across its front. The folder was a solid three inches thick.

"May I see that?"

"Under normal circumstances, university regulations would require that I say no. I might even be tempted to hold it as ransom for an answer to my question."

"Please don't."

"I won't, Detective. There's obviously something serious. And since lives are at stake, I feel that an exception from the rules must be granted."

Delacort handed the file to Stella. She hurriedly flipped through the documents. Finding his collegiate resume, she looked through it and blinked in surprise.

"His Curriculum Vitae is 39 pages long!" she said. "Single spaced!"

"As I said," Delacort smiled, "he is an international expert, well respected, highly regarded, and extensively published. He has done much in his life."

Stella could not hold down the bitter thought, Yeah, he's done a lot in his life. Including take hostages and shoot Lindsay. No amount of good work can outweigh that evil.

She next checked personal data--next of kin, emergency contacts, or life insurance beneficiaries. All were blank.

She also found a large black binder clip filled with letters of support or recommendation for Professor Collier. A few were from fellow faculty or from university staff, but the vast majority was from students. She recorded the names and return addresses of the dozen most recent letters in the file.

She also found letters from physicians, authorizing medical leaves due to illnesses throughout his time on the faculty. Stella jotted the names down and made a mental note to get them to Sid. Maybe the ME could use them to more quickly track down Collier's medical records.

Stella examined the entire file then handed it back to the Dean.

He accepted the folder and said, "I hope that I, and this file, were of some help."

"I do, too," Stella accepted a closing handshake. "Thank you again. If we think of anything more, we'll contact you."

Dean Delacort handed over his business card. "Here are my numbers. I've put my home address, home phone, and personal mobile phone number on the back. Please call me if I can help in any way."

Stella slipped the card under a paper clip attached to her note pad and put it into her pocket.

"I will."

Stella hurried back to her car. Juggling keys and cell phone, she slid behind the wheel only to stop, frozen, key in the ignition but engine still dead. A horrible thought came to mind.

The cancer caused Collier to act on his feelings of violence and rage toward minorities. It could happen again, and if it was violent ten months ago, how much worse might it be now, when the tumor's had more time to spread? She shuddered. A chill of dread shot through her heart. That could mean ... oh God. Sheldon.

A/N: And you thought it couldn't get much more complicated. Hee! Oh but wait, there's more yet to come!

(1) For those who never saw "Xena: Warrior Princess," Wikipedia describes the chakram as a "throwing weapon that was used by the ancient Indians [peoples of India. It is a flat metal disc with a sharp outer edge from 5 to 12 inches (13−30 cm) in diameter. ... It was used by Indian armies, mostly by Sikhs."