Phi Beta Murder (3 page)

“My boyfriend,” the girl wailed, freckles standing out from her pale skin amid a cloud of auburn hair. Cell phone in hand, she frantically pointed to the crack by the door.

Rex bent down and put an eye to it. Without a moment to lose, he grabbed the knob and, positioning all his weight, rammed his shoulder into the door. It gave way, revealing the interior scene. A boy dressed in jeans dangled from a noose attached to a central ceiling fan, his bulging eyes staring into space.

Gasps of dismay erupted behind Rex. A chair lay on its side a short distance from the boy’s limp feet. Praying it was not too late, Rex rushed over and raised trembling arms to release him.

Rex called for someone
to cut the boy down from the ceiling fan, while he supported the body. A student righted the chair, jumped up on it, and untied the knot, slipping the nylon rope over the boy’s purplish face.

“Is he dead?” the student asked squeamishly.

Judging by the skin color and the protruding tongue, Rex feared the worst. “The medics will be here shortly. You did just fine, lad. Help me carry him to the bed.”

The body, still warm, weighed no more than one hundred and fifty pounds, in Rex’s estimation. He thought he detected a weak pulse by the
V
ligature mark on his neck, but it was hard to tell with the music rapping from a boom box by the door and vibrating through the walls. As he was about to yell for someone to turn it off, he heard the words, “I’m pre-med,” and made way for a young man who proceeded to massage the victim’s heart and attempt to breathe air into his lungs.

Someone, mercifully, switched off the CD, and Rex could hear himself think again. For the first time since entering the dorm room, he began to take in the details. A knitted Easter bunny with “We love you, Dix” embroidered on a blue tank top sat by the bedside. Photos lined the wall, including a group of boys beneath a Phi Beta Kappa fraternity banner. He recognized the boy on the bed and another face he had seen.

The rest of the room comprised a locked single-hung window, a futon in burgundy denim, shower stall, older model computer on a desk similar to Campbell’s, but arranged in a more orderly fashion, room key … As Rex was taking a mental inventory, voices suddenly rang out in the corridor, steps pounding the linoleum floor. The crowd by the door parted as a pair of paramedics rushed to the bed. Rex retreated from the room.

“Dad?” Campbell’s voice roused him from his reflections. “I heard all the din beneath my room. Is he going to be all right?” He looked fearfully toward the door as the stretcher emerged.

A squawk of police radios interrupted Rex’s reply. Bodies flattened against the walls to let the stretcher pass by, while a medic held breathing apparatus to the victim’s face.

“Who found him?” a green-uniformed cop asked the knot of students.

“I was the first to reach him,” Rex replied. “This young lady saw him through the door.”

The officer questioned the girlfriend, Kris Florek, who asked if she could follow the ambulance to the hospital. A dark-haired boy with clean-cut looks came forward to explain that he had knocked on Dixon Clark’s door an hour and a half earlier to round him up for soccer practice. Dixon had answered the door and seemed “spaced out.” He had declined to play, claiming he didn’t feel well and was going to bed.

“Was he alone in his room?” the cop asked the student, who had given his name as Justin Paul.

“Yes, sir. I stood just inside the door and there was nobody else with him.”

“Where do his parents live?”

“Nantucket. He was up there for Spring Break.”

At that moment, a tall man in his late fifties, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, marched up to the door. The corridor fell silent.

“The dean of students,” Campbell informed Rex under his breath.

“Thank you for responding so fast,” the man told the officer in charge. “You got here before campus security.”

“We were in the neighborhood.”

“Who’s the student?”

“Dixon Clark. His girlfriend looked in and saw him hanging from the ceiling fan.”

“I’d like to go to the hospital, unless you need me for anything?”

“Go ahead, Dr. Binkley. We got it covered here.”

A second cop closed the dorm room door and posted himself in front of it. Rex signaled to Campbell. It seemed ghoulish to stand around when there was nothing further they could do. They made their way down the corridor past mute faces and weeping girls seeking comfort in each other’s arms.

A boy waylaid Campbell on the stairs. “Did you see anything, bro?”

Campbell shook his head and followed his dad up the steps and into his room.

“Do you know the boy who tried to hang himself?” Rex asked.

“I played soccer with him. That’s about it. He’s an RA.”

“What’s that?”

“A resident assistant. They enforce the rules and give guidance to freshmen, that sort of thing. They get to room for free.”

“How old is he?”

“Don’t know exactly. He’s a sophomore like me. Is he going to be okay?”

“If he survives, he may have brain damage. It just depends how long his brain was deprived of oxygen.”

“Jesus.”

Rex sank onto the narrow bed, thinking about the article on suicide he had read at the motel before dinner.

“Do you want a dram of whisky, Dad? You look like you could use one.”

“You have whisky here?”

“Glenfiddich.”

“In that case, I wouldna say no.” He decided to postpone inquiring how Campbell had procured whisky. Then he dimly remembered the fake identity card.

His son served the single malt to him in the shot glass embossed with a thistle.

“Thanks, lad.” Rex knocked it back in one draught. The two of them sat in silence for a while. “What did that boy mean about Dixon Clark looking ‘spaced out’? Is he on drugs?”

Campbell shrugged. “I don’t know why Justin went and said that.”

“Presumably because that’s the impression he got when he saw Dixon.”

“Yeah, but volunteering information …”

“He was being cooperative. What’s wrong with that?”

“The cops here aren’t like back home, Dad.”

A knock sounded at the door. Campbell went to answer it.

“There’s a candlelight vigil for Dix,” a young male voice said. “On the grounds outside his room. You coming?”

“He didn’t make it,” another voice added. “Kris called Justin from the hospital. DOA.”

Rex let his brow fall into the palm of his hand. Poor sod, he thought. What a waste of a young life. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes before glancing up at Campbell. “Go on. I’ll stay here.”

When the door closed, leaving him alone in the room, he stretched out on the quilt and stared up at the ceiling fan. He imagined Dixon’s parents receiving the call in Nantucket. No doubt the onerous task of notifying parents fell to the university president or the dean of students. It was bad enough losing a son in a climbing or motorcycle accident, Rex reflected, but having him take his own life … The twirling fan grew hypnotic.
Mrs. Clark, I regret to inform you that Dixon was found hanging in his dorm room.
He was rushed to ER but was pronounced dead on arrival. His girlfriend was by his side. My deepest sympathy for your loss
…

The room suddenly depressed him. He should take Campbell back to the Siesta tonight, he decided, looking at his watch. It was almost ten.

Half an hour later, Campbell returned from the vigil with Justin. Rex proposed that Campbell pack what he needed and go with him to Jacksonville Beach.

“I want to stay, Dad.”

“Why?”

“As a show of solidarity.”

“Then I’ll stay. As a show of solidarity to you.”

“But there’s nowhere for you to sleep.”

“I have a rollaway you can borrow,” Justin offered.

He returned with a fold-up bed on wheels, which reminded Rex uncomfortably of the gurney that had whisked Dixon away from his dorm room.

“You take the bed,” Campbell told his father. “This will be way too short for you.”

The bed, once unfolded, left little moveable space in the ten-by-twelve-foot room. Campbell fetched a sheet from the closet and grabbed one of the pillows from his bed, while Justin watched from the door.

“Not exactly the Ritz Carlton,” he said.

“I’ve slept in worse places,” Rex replied. “Do you have your own room or do you share?”

A quick glance passed between the boys.

“I share,” Justin said. “Well, I did before my roommate dropped out.”

“Why did he do that?” Rex asked, sensing there was more to this story.

“Actually, he was expelled.”

“Sounds like a lot goes on in this hall. Are expulsions common?”

“Not really. He got into some trouble. He was cleared, but the faculty made his suspension permanent anyway.”

Campbell in the meantime had grabbed his guitar from its stand and sat on his desk chair tuning the strings.

“Seems a bit harsh,” Rex remarked. “What was he suspended for?”

“Dealing blow.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cocaine, Dad,” Campbell interjected, staring at Justin as though he wanted him to shut up.

“Well, I’ll say goodnight, then.” Justin apparently got the hint.

“Nice lad,” Rex said when he had left.

“Yeah.”

“What’s he studying?”

“Business.”

“What does his dad do?”

“He’s a stockbroker.”

“What about Dixon Clark’s parents?”

“I think his mother’s a teacher. Not sure about his dad. I know they have a large sail boat. Dix mentioned it a few times. I don’t think they’re hurting for money.”

“I saw a photo of a boat on his wall. Lovely lines.”

“Dad,” his son said regarding him with skepticism. “You know sod all about boats.”

“True, but I can appreciate a beautiful shape.” Constructed of polished wood, it bore the name
Providence
. God, what a horrible irony, Rex thought.

“I have a spare toothbrush,” Campbell told him. “I better warn you—the bathrooms are rank.”

Rex accepted the new toothbrush but didn’t move from the bed. He wanted to ask Campbell if he had tried coke. The fear that he might be on drugs had been his primary motivation for getting on a plane and coming to see him. However, he decided it was a question that would have to be asked obliquely and when the moment was right. He had detected a clamming up in Campbell, and there had been enough drama tonight. “Just tell me one thing,” he asked his son.

Campbell waited—warily, Rex thought.

“Do you think Dixon’s death was a suicide?”

“I guess. What else could it have been?”

“I didn’t see a suicide note, unless it was among the papers on his desk.”

“Maybe he wrote one on his computer.”

“That would seem a bit impersonal, don’t you think? Anyway, his monitor was switched off. And his girlfriend looked stunned, as though his death was totally unexpected.”

“So?”

“People who contemplate suicide often talk it over with those closest to them, assuming they have people who are close to them.” This much he had read in the newspaper article. People who followed through on their suicidal thoughts often felt isolated and misunderstood.

“That’s true,” Campbell agreed, resting his chin on his guitar. “I pretty much tell Consuela everything, except the fact that I lust after my marine science teacher.”

“Really? Is she that hot?”

“Her picture’s on a website called StudentSpace.com. Someone blogged she worked as a porn star while she was getting her masters.”

Only in America, Rex thought wryly.

“I doubt it’s true, though,” Campbell added.

“Then it’s libel.”

“Oh, you can write whatever you like. The First Amendment and freedom of speech, and all that.”

“She could sue for defamation of character.”

“Sue who?”

“Sue
whom
,” Rex corrected.

“It’s anonymous.”

“Sue the website—for disseminating libelous information. That’s what I abhor most about the Internet,” Rex bemoaned. “There’s bugger-all control over content.”

“Yeah, it’s way out of control.”

“Did Dixon’s life seem out of control?” Rex asked.

“Not really. He had to have been making decent grades and have a clean record to be selected for the RA program.”

“Was he popular?”

Campbell pulled a face. “Somewhat—I guess. Not as popular as Justin, or some of the other jocks. He played soccer, but he was no star. In fact, he was a bit of a pussy.”