Murder at New College
“So Montoya, if you’re a lapsed Catholic, why do you wear a
gold cross?”
“Same reason you wear a silver St. Christopher’s medal,
Brautigan—culture.”
“Culture, hell, I wear it because my mother gave it to me.”
“Me, too.”
“So, if we got married at Mission Dolores, would you wear a
white gown and tiara?”
“If we got married at Mission Dolores, it wouldn’t be to
each other.”
Phil Brautigan,
the homicide detective assigned to investigate the murder of New College
president Thomas Jefferson, grew up down the street from the school on Valencia
in San Francisco’s Mission district, raised by his Irish immigrant mother in a
faded apartment above the bookstores and coffee shops where many of the
school’s students now resided. Since making detective ten years ago, Brautigan
had moved to North Beach. His partner, Luisa Montoya, still lived in the
Mission.
New College, a
hotbed of queers, New-Agers, and armchair Marxists, had managed to survive the
Republican defunding of higher education by underpaying its faculty and
overcharging its students. It had been known to cancel classes without notice,
fire whole departments, and regularly bounce checks to everyone. Cronyism, like
everywhere, was rampant. Still without any leads on who might have poisoned
President Jefferson’s water cooler, Detective Brautigan figured he had it
narrowed down to about a thousand disgruntled former students, faculty, and
staff.
“Nice building. I’ve walked by it a million times, but never
went inside,” said Montoya.
“When I was a kid, it was a funeral home. The hippies made
it into a college,” said Brautigan.
“Well, I guess that’s full circle, huh?”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s a stiff waiting upstairs.”
“You’re a sick person, Montoya. Glad we called off the
wedding.”
“Who says it was ever on?”
On the other
hand, he speculated, it could easily have been some parent or religious fanatic
disgusted by the school’s openly supportive programs for gays and lesbians and
other points along the sexual preference spectrum, so flamboyantly displayed in
the city’s annual Gay Pride Parade. Lieutenant Montoya, at present, opted for
the right-wing, pro-Zionist, anti-Communist angle. The New College Board of
Trustees were clueless.
When Brautigan
and Montoya examined the body of President Jefferson Friday afternoon, his face
was still ruddy from the potassium cyanide he’d ingested that morning. His
secretary, who had Fridays off, was in the Financial Aid office trembling. The
librarian, whose office was on the other side of the restrooms from the
president’s suite, was attempting to help her relax.
“Here, Ronda, take this Valium, it’ll calm you down.”
“Where’d you get the water, Lorena? I’m not drinking from
the water coolers.”
“It’s from the tap in the restroom. It’s OK.”
The absence of
any security system on the wide-open Valencia Street campus made entry to the
premises a piece of cake. In fact, the Mission police station was regularly
called to eject disruptive homeless people and drug addicts that often wandered
into the school café or restrooms looking for handouts or a place to shoot up.
While there was no reason to suspect vagrants in such a crime, Brautigan and
Montoya were, nevertheless, aware of the futility of asking if anyone had seen
someone suspicious that day. Hell, that was the norm.
Potassium cyanide
wasn’t exactly something folks carried around with them, but neither was it a
rare substance. Jewelers used it to buff gold. You could order it online.
New College had a
Science Institute on its Fell Street campus next to its law school, but the
likelihood of the murderer being someone studying to be a nurse or scientist
seemed like a long shot to Brautigan. Still, just to cover all angles, he sent
Montoya over to talk with the lab professor before classes started on Saturday
morning. Meanwhile, he continued interviewing administrative personnel that
often worked Saturdays in lieu of Friday in order to be available to students
who attended weekend programs.
By Sunday, all
Brautigan and Montoya knew that they hadn’t on Friday was that President
Jefferson had croaked almost instantly from cardiac arrest, which explained why
he was found sitting on his visitors sofa, and thus no reports of hearing him
fall or scream from the other offices on the second floor of the building. In
fact, had it not been for an appointment with one of the trustees involved in
brokering the skyline development rights of the law school on the San Francisco
real estate market, the body could easily not have been found until Monday
morning, when President Jefferson’s secretary was scheduled to return.
Brautigan wondered if this knowledge was something the murderer was aware of,
or if it was just a lucky coincidence. At this point, neither he nor Montoya
could say for sure that the killer was targeting the school president.
Aside from the
usual articles about reproductive rights movie night, queer performance, and
study tours to Iran, the New College website revealed little in terms of solid
leads, other than one story run a while back about President Jefferson’s trip
to Guatemala to meet with former guerilla leaders and priests involved in
fighting that country’s military dictatorship in the 1980s and 1990s. Harmless
on the surface, figured Brautigan, but as Montoya argued, there were lasting
hostilities among both the aristocrats,
evangelicals, and peasant Mayans—many of whom lived in the Mission
district—from the decades of atrocities, and the public display of support for
the indigenous side by New College was bound to offend someone.
“Hey, Montoya, you ever notice any class conflict between
right-wing and left-wing Mayans here?”
“There aren’t any right-wing Mayans, Brautigan. The
right-wing in Guatemala is Spanish.”
“So how do they get along here?”
“Most immigrants are poor. The handful of aristocrats here
don’t mix with the peasants. They keep their contempt to themselves. My family
is from Puebla, north of Mexico City, but we aren’t culturally Indians, even
though we have some Mixtec blood.”
***
Miguel Martinez,
head of operations at New College, had opened up early on the Friday Jefferson
was killed, and remembered seeing the president arrive around nine while he was
talking to the café supervisor across the street about upgrading the wiring for
her espresso cart. The only people in the building before President Jefferson
arrived were the librarian, Lorena Phillips, and the tech support assistant,
Ronaldo Guzman. Neither of them had seen anyone else.
The water
bottling and delivery company, likewise, provided no leads. Same with President
Jefferson’s two teenage sons up in Petaluma. All they said was that he’d been a
lot happier lately now that he had a girlfriend. Evidently his divorce a year
ago had been tough on all three of them. His ex-wife was living in Santa Cruz,
and had a rock solid alibi from her professor and cohort in the UC grad school
History of Consciousness program all day Friday. Juanita Jefferson had spent
Thursday down in Monterey doing research at the international relations
language school, and stayed the night with friends there.
Louella
Bernstein, who ran the coffee cart and snack bar at the school, said President
Jefferson usually came over for a morning coffee break around ten thirty, but
hadn’t come over on Friday. Of course, he was beyond the need for caffeine by
then.
Louella was also
in charge of ordering the bottled water jugs for the two buildings, but that
fact didn’t seem to lead anywhere. The jugs were sealed until maintenance
personnel trucked them around and hefted them onto the cooler stands. After
that, you’d have a tough time putting anything in it without making a
noticeable mess.
As it turned out,
the trace of potassium cyanide in the disposable water cooler cup found next to
the body was a false lead. The water in the cooler was clean. Which raised the
possibility of suicide, but nothing else pointed in that direction. Jefferson’s
notes, computer, and files had nothing unusual in them. There was no bottle in
the room, no container of any sort.
***
The casement
window in the reference room around the corner and up a flight from the
Librarian’s office was open when Lieutenant Montoya looked over the premises on
Friday, and appeared not to have been closed over the weekend when she returned
Monday to speak with the work/study students who helped out in the library and
often locked up in the evening, long after the librarian had gone home for the
day. The students admitted that sometimes they forgot to close it before
leaving, but that the only way onto the roof from the alley would be with a
ladder or by hopping from an adjacent roof onto the school’s. None of which, of
course, was a major obstacle, and for what it was worth, a possibility that
someone had come in on Thursday between ten p.m. and eight a.m. and put poison
into a Dixie cup that was later topped off with water and consumed by President
Jefferson. Not a likely scenario, to say the least.
What it did point
out, though, was that security was pretty lax, which was confirmed by the
students who remarked about the computers in the lab next door being stolen in
broad daylight by someone who simply walked out the back door with them into
the alley one day. Looking for security clues seemed a waste of time.
As first
generation San Francisco Irish, Detective Brautigan was already aware of the
school’s Irish Studies program, and the Irish Language Immersion Weekend at the
United Irish Cultural Center on 45th at Sloat. He even attended a
couple of the poetry readings at the Civic Center public library during the
Crossroads Festival. Brautigan really enjoyed the Celtic Appalachian
Celebration, and once he saw Van Morrison.
Looking at the online news and events for the previous
month, he noticed New College, and President Jefferson personally, were listed
as sponsors of a talk at the Irish Cultural Center by two members of Sinn Fein,
one of whom had hidden out in the city as a fugitive for the past ten years.
When questioned, though, neither of them acknowledged any personal relationship
with the president. They figured he was just one of the millions of
Irish-Americans that feel an affinity for the liberation struggle in the north
of Ireland, and occasionally donate funds at events where they speak.
***
As part of the
divorce settlement, Jefferson’s ex-wife was still receiving a monthly support
payment from his salary, which logically speaking seemed to rule her out as a
suspect. His girlfriend, who ran the theater recently acquired by the college
on 16th, had no idea who could possibly have wanted to kill him.
Having recently finished graduate school back east, though, Elaine Richardson
admittedly knew little about Jefferson’s past acquaintances or activities.
Brautigan couldn’t help wondering how some of the older ultra-feminist
professors at the school felt about the president dating someone half his age,
but it was Montoya who brought it up.
“I wonder if she
and Jefferson became an item before or after the divorce?”
“Regardless of
when they met,” Brautigan remarked, “who might not have been too happy about
it? Might have been downright hostile over it.”
Lieutenant
Montoya met the two Jefferson boys at Petaluma High School during their lunch
break Monday afternoon. They said as far as they knew, Elaine had not met their
father until just recently. She only came to the house once, when she and their
dad were on their way to a retreat in Mendocino for a weekend last month. They
thought she was OK, kind of like a big sister in a way.
The Dean of
Students at Radcliffe, where Elaine had studied until just before Christmas,
said that she knew zip about Ms. Richardson’s personal life, and that she last
resided at a boarding house near the campus that had a regular turnover of
students. She gave Montoya the address and phone number, but was otherwise no
help. When Montoya phoned the boarding house, she got a recorded message.
Meanwhile,
Brautigan drove down to Santa Cruz where he met Juanita Jefferson in the campus
coffee shop across from the library. She was already most of the way through a
double latte when he approached and said, “You’re Juanita, I recognize you from
the photo your son has.”
“Yes, sorry I
didn’t wait, but I’ve been up worrying about the boys all night. I suppose
their grandmother is taking good care of them, but I’d like to be with them.
She and I don’t get along, though, and it seemed best to let them come see me
when they have a chance to drive down here on their own.”
“I can imagine
how tense things are with the in-laws, what with a divorce and murder,
teenagers and a new girl friend to deal with. Have you met Miss Richardson?”
“You don’t waste
any time, do you detective? I heard about his sweet young thing from the boys,
but we’ve never met. I don’t expect that to change. I wasn’t planning on going
to the funeral.”
“I see,” said
Brautigan, “no false remorse, no regrets?”
“Let’s just say
my regrets are mine. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yeah, I see from
the settlement that your ex-husband got the house and you get a monthly stipend
for ten years. That seem fair to you?”
“Fair enough, I
mean I don’t think I could have done better with the boys nearly grown and the
house a wreck. A thousand a month keeps me off the street while I complete my
advanced degree. After that, we’ll see what happens.”
“What happens now
that there’s no stipend, seeing how there’s no salary to pay it from? How will
you manage?”
“I have a little
saved up, and I’ll have to talk with my attorney to figure out the rest. I guess
my former in-laws will probably sell the house and move the boys in with them
while they finish high school. Maybe that’ll give me enough to land on my feet.
Who knows.”
“You’ll let me
know of any developments, then?”
“Sure, detective,
we’ll be regular pen pals.”
***
When Montoya’s
phone rang, she spilled her coffee reaching for it, and said, “Shit!” as she
lifted the receiver.
“Lieutenant
Montoya?”
“Yeah, sorry, I
spilled my coffee as you were calling. Who’s this?”
“This is Roberta
LaFarge, the manager of the Tory Terrace apartments where Elaine Richardson
used to live. I got your message when I returned from shopping just now. Has
something happened to Elaine?”
“No, but her boy
friend in San Francisco was apparently murdered, and we’re checking out
everyone close to him for leads. Do you know if Miss Richardson had a boy
friend while she lived in your building?”
“I wouldn’t know,
but maybe one of the other girls would. I could ask around if you’d like.”
“That’d be great
Miss LaFarge. You can call me collect.”
Brautigan wasn’t
particularly enamored with the lovely ex-Mrs. Jefferson, but he didn’t think
she was the type to commit murder in order to collect early on her divorce
settlement. Still, the drive down the coast was a chance for him to unwind and
sort out some of the oddities of this case. The victim had no apparent enemies,
a beautiful young girl friend, a low pressure job with a big salary, and two
great kids. It didn’t make sense.
Ronda McClure,
President Jefferson’s executive secretary, was doing a lot better with the
Valium and three days rest. When Brautigan found her at her apartment on
Russian Hill, she looked like she’d been enjoying herself. At age sixty, that
might not mean much. Maybe she’d just polished off a glass of sherry.
“You’re looking
better than you were Friday. Manage to get some rest Ms. McClure?”
“Yes, detective,
these Valium pills Lorena gave me helped a lot. Have you found out anything?”
“Nope, that’s why
I’m here,” replied Brautigan, “to see if you might have thought of something.
Anything, anything unusual.”
“Well, it’s funny
you should mention it, but when I came down after your call on Friday, I
thought it was strange that the office was so dark. President Jefferson always
opened the blinds first thing, so he could look out at the students walking
back and forth from the café to the main building. Sort of like he was a
captain of a ship on the bridge, and the crew was below on deck. He always felt
like a father to them, the young people attending New College. They were going
to change the world like he and his friends had done in the sixties.”
“I take it you
weren’t one of them yourself? I mean, not an activist?”
“No, I was
opposed to the war and all, but I wasn’t a hippie or revolutionary like Angela
Davis. You know she taught at our school once for a short while?”
“No, I hadn’t
heard that. Was that while you were there?”
“No, I’ve only
been at New College for three years. Ms. Davis was there back in the seventies,
after she got acquitted for providing guns to some of the Black Panthers doing
time at San Quentin that were later involved in a shootout with the Marin
County Sheriff’s Department over in San Rafael. Pretty weird, huh?”
“Yeah, I vaguely
remember that. It was before I was a cop. Anything else besides the blinds that
seemed out of place to you?”
“No, that was
all. I didn’t think of it until just now when you asked.”
“Well, if you
think of anything else, give me a call. By the way, you and Jefferson get along
OK? I gotta ask, you know.”
“Sure, I
understand detective. We didn’t have any problems between us. I mostly kept
track of his appointments and typed his letters. He never hassled me.”
***
Lorena Phillips,
the main campus librarian, made no bones about her displeasure with President
Jefferson. When Lieutenant Montoya questioned her about him, she called him
arrogant, said he was a little too full of himself, used to, “parade around the
hallways like our delusional national president.”
“You didn’t care
for him, I take it,” said Montoya.
“Oh, he had his
good qualities, too, but I think he was losing his grip on reality. Like he was
some big shot university president, instead of a dinky little college running
on empty. He had a big ego.”
“He ever do
anything unfair toward you?”
“Nothing to speak
of. Just his attitude, but I can live with that. There are a lot of big egos
around here. Probably like there are on a lot of campuses.”
“What do you
think of his girl friend, Ms. Richardson?”
“I don’t give her
a lot of thought. She’s young, inexperienced, but polite enough. I rarely
encounter her; the theater maintains its own archives separately from the
library. She only stopped by to go to lunch now and then.”
***
Elaine
Richardson’s former roommate from Radcliffe, Joni DellaRosa said that Elaine’s
boyfriend there, John Monroe, had been upset when she took the job in San
Francisco. He even flew out there once last year to attempt to persuade her to
return to the east coast where he was employed as an IT specialist at Harvard.
Ms. DellaRosa hadn’t seen him since then. She only spoke with Elaine once by
phone after he’d returned unsuccessful. Elaine seemed happy about the change.
When Montoya
inquired about Mr. Monroe’s whereabouts on Friday, Harvard personnel said he
was at work all week.
Brautigan and
Montoya decided to pay a visit to the twenty or so jewelers in the Mission
District to see if any of them polished their own jewelry, if they used
potassium cyanide, and if they recognized a photo of President Jefferson. As it
turned out, only half of them buffed their own merchandise, and only three used
potassium cyanide. None of them recognized the photo.
Ms. Richardson
wore a gold necklace, but she’d had it since childhood. President Jefferson had
no jewelry on at all. His ex-wife said he only wore a wedding ring, and had no
metallurgical hobbies. His son’s and mother confirmed this.
***
Louise Bollinger,
the librarian’s new assistant, was an octogenarian former history professor
who’d been involuntarily retired but out of mercy retained as half-time
administrative assistant to Lorena Phillips. When Lorena asked her if she’d
heard about Jefferson’s death when she arrived for work on Tuesday, she said
she saw it on TV, and figured it must have something to do with the law school
students who were on strike against the 30% tuition hike imposed over the
holidays. Lorena, who always took Louise’s theories with a grain of salt,
nevertheless asked why someone would murder over a tuition rate increase.
“Because they’ve
staked their future on passing the bar, and if they can’t finish law school,
they might blame the president,” replied Ms. Bollinger.
“But it still
seems a little far-fetched to commit murder,” argued Ms. Phillips.
“People have
killed for less,” insisted Louise.
“I think you’ve
been reading too much Miss Marple since you retired,” said Lorena.
“I mean, since
starting work here in the library,” she corrected herself, remembering how
sensitive Professor Bollinger was to the prospect of being put out to pasture
as it were.
“What do you
think about the poison. Isn’t that what they use in all those English murder
mysteries you read?”
“Sometimes, but
it’s more famous as the death of choice by spies and dictators at the end of
the line. Several Nazis used it when the Allies were at the gates of Berlin.
It’s not hard to make; I could whip it up in no time in the lab. We used to
make all kinds of poisons in grad school.”
Lorena recalled
that Louise had a master’s degree in chemistry, and used to conduct undergrad
remedial science for adults completing their BAs who lacked sufficient science
credits.
When Lieutenant
Montoya walked in, they were still discussing Himmler and Hitler and other
scoundrels who’d taken the quick way out rather than face trial.
“So that’s what
librarians talk about when they’re not shushing students, huh?”
“We were just
talking about some of the historical uses of potassium cyanide by notorious
monsters. Louise was telling me about students making poisons in science class
back in the old days.”
“I see. A popular
past time in academia is it?”
“Only for young
women with wild imaginations,” answered Ms. Bollinger with a chuckle.
“When I checked
with the science institute director, he said those chemicals are in every
science lab in the country, but that they don’t intentionally combine such
substances except in highly-controlled studies, and that he had not allowed his
students to do so.”
“Thank God for
that,” Ms. Phillips remarked.
“What can we do
for you today, Lieutenant?”
“Some of your
students mentioned they forget to close the back window, and I wondered if you
noticed if it was open Friday morning when you opened up?”
“I can’t remember
if it was or not. Did you find something?”
“No, just
checking loose ends is all.”
***
When Lorena
Phillips ascended the escalator at the 16th & Mission BART
station Tuesday morning, she thought she recognized Sabrina, one of her former
work/study students from four years ago, across the street headed toward
Valencia. She called out, ”Sabrina, is that you?”
The young lady
turned and smiled as she recognized Lorena, and came jogging across to see her.
“When did you get
back from Australia. What have you been doing?”
“Well, we toured
with the circus for six months after I left New College when they cancelled our
fall semester, and then I went to Florida for awhile, and I got back here a
couple months ago, but haven’t found work. I injured my shoulder, so trapeze
work is out. I’m hoping to pick up those four credits I need to graduate, and
then maybe I can do some dance instruction or something. I’m checking with City
College about it tomorrow.”
“It’s so great to
see you. We had such a good time while you were working in the library.”
“Yeah, I might
have gone to grad school there if they hadn’t pulled the rug out from under us
just before we could graduate. I’m still kinda pissed about that.”
“It was a rotten
deal, all right. But now you’re back. Was Australia fun?”
“It was OK. Kinda
hot. Real dusty. I’ll stop by and talk sometime. Right now I gotta meet
somebody.”
Lorena continued
on up the street toward the school, and remembered she had forgotten to tell
Sabrina she had a photo of the library staff with her in it that she might want
a copy of. “Oh well,” she thought, “I’ll tell her when she stops by.”
When she passed
Mariachi’s Mexican restaurant, Lorena saw Rita Hallsworth inside having lunch,
and went in to say hello. Rita had also been one of her work/study students a
few years back, and was in the photo she promised herself to find for Sabrina.
Rita was presently working as a K-12 counselor in Oakland, but also worked at
the New College family counseling clinic from time to time.
“Hi Rita,” Lorena
said, “Guess who I just saw on 16th? Sabrina. What a surprise, huh?”
“Oh, cool. I wish
I’d seen her. She was a nice person. What’s she doing now?”
“Looking for
work, like a lot of former students are these days. Said she had a good time in
Australia, though.”
“What’s up with
you Lorena?”
“Well, not much
except the murder investigation.”
“Murder? Who got
murdered?”
“Thomas
Jefferson. He was found poisoned in his office Friday morning.”
“Oh my God,
Lorena. Who would do something like that?”
“I don’t know.
The police don’t seem to have any leads, either. Louise Bollinger says it
reminds her of Miss Marple mysteries. It sounds like a revenge killing to me.”
***
When Rita went
into the clinic reception area, Ronda McClure was sitting by the window, and
turned around to greet her.
“Hi Rita, I was
wondering if I could talk with you for a minute before you open? I’ve been so
upset over Thomas’ death I haven’t been able to sleep without taking pills. I
thought maybe you could recommend something.”
“Sure, Ronda,
come on in. I don’t have any clients until two-thirty.”
“Thanks. I only
knew Thomas for a year, but we were close work companions. He was a real
gentleman. I couldn’t believe it when Lorena called me on my cell phone that
morning. I had to take Valium to keep from having a nervous breakdown.”
“That’s not
unusual with unexpected trauma like that. Are you still taking them?”
“A couple times a
day, and then sleeping pills before bedtime. Is that dangerous?”
“Not as long as
you don’t combine it with alcohol. But talk with your physician. I can’t
prescribe meds or advise you professionally other than to suggest you discuss
how you feel with a friend or counselor.”
“Well, it’s like
I don’t know how to feel, which is kind of strange. I cried uncontrollably at
first, but since Friday, I’ve been sort of stunned, like in a trance.”
“It’s a big
shock. It’ll take a while to come to terms with it. Is the school planning any
staff support group activity?”
“Not that I know
of. But maybe they’re waiting to see what the police turn up.”
“Well, I’ll speak with the Dean and some
others to see what we might do. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks Rita. I
feel better talking with you.”
When Ronda left
the clinic, she saw Elaine Richardson passing the Luna Café down the street,
and turned to walk the other direction, even though she was going to the bus
stop where Elaine was now waiting for the light. She just couldn’t bring
herself to talk about the murder anymore that afternoon. And she didn’t
particularly like Elaine, even though she was nice enough to her. Maybe it was
the age difference that made it difficult to hold a conversation together. She
turned down 18th without looking back.
***
At the funeral on
Wednesday, Elaine sat with President Jefferson’s parents, while Juanita Jefferson
sat across the aisle with her two sons. Ronda, Lorena, and Louise—along with
friends, staff and faculty, filled the pews behind. Brautigan and Montoya
watched from the back.
Nothing unusual
happened, no feud or nervous breakdown, no recriminations as is wont to happen
in divorced families sometimes. Ronda was a little tipsy, but well-behaved
under the circumstances. Outside, after the ceremony, Detective Brautigan
approached Ms. McClure to ask how she was holding up, and if she had thought of
anything since their talk on Monday.
“Much better,
thank you detective, but I still don’t understand how anybody could have wanted
Thomas dead. He was always helping people.”
“Maybe it wasn’t
somebody in their right mind,” he answered. “It’s a pretty crazy world, you
know.”
Lieutenant
Montoya, meanwhile, was busy extending her condolences to the family and girl
friend. When they started to get in their cars, she called Elaine Richardson
aside to ask her a couple questions.
“When was it you
last saw Thomas alive?”
“Thursday night,
after work we went to The Phoenix for a beer. We had a couple sandwiches and
left about eight. I had a report to work on, so I went back to the office when
he went home.”
“Did you talk on
the phone between then and Friday morning?”
“No. That was the
last time we spoke.The next thing I knew was when Ronda phoned to tell me he
was dead.”
“Ronda phoned
you? Not Lorena?”
“Yeah, Ronda. She
was pretty worked up, almost hysterical. She said Lorena had just phoned her to
come down to the school, where you and Detective Brautigan were busy examining
the body and asking what anyone might have seen. She must have been on her way
already, because she was on her cell phone, and it wasn’t coming in real clear.”
Montoya managed
to catch Lorena before she hopped a bus, and asked her if she remembered
calling Elaine on Friday when Detective Brautigan asked her to phone the
administrative staff not present to let them know. Lorena said, “Yeah, I talked
with her, but she said Ronda had just let her know before I called.”
“Was Ronda on a
cell phone when you reached her?”
“Well yeah,
that’s the number I have for her and Elaine and most of the staff I deal with.
I don’t talk with them in the evenings, so I don’t keep their home phone
numbers in my rolodex. Is something wrong?”
“No, just double
checking all the details. Sometimes we find a lead that way. Not this time, I
guess. Thanks for your help.”
When Brautigan
found Montoya on the sidewalk, he suggested they compare notes over coffee at
Kelly’s down the block. He needed some fresh air after the stuffy funeral
parlor, and Kelly’s had outside tables where they could talk without being
overheard.
***
Thursday evening,
at the New College emergency meeting of the board of trustees, it was decided
to offer a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of
President Jefferson’s murderer. The $10,000 reward was announced on the KPFA
program Flashpoints, broadcast live from the New College performing arts center
Friday evening. By the time Detective Brautigan and Lieutenant Montoya learned
of it on Saturday afternoon, the school switchboard had received thirty
messages of dubious repute. One even suggested it was an act of God for
supporting the homosexual lifestyle.
“The New College of
California Board of Trustees are offering a ten thousand dollar reward for
information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person who murdered New
College president Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson was a visionary; he and Pedro
Gabriel headed the Council of Elders--the true fiduciaries of the College’s
soul in its mission for a just, sacred and sustainable world. His quest to
create a meaningful cultural reality as the centerpiece of the movement, that
depends on a radical transformation of social relationships to enable people to
confirm one another, to recognize one another in a new way, to see one another
in a new way that implies attentiveness to the—for lack of a better
word--spiritual environment, inspired all of us to commit to this reality so
that people can feel the capacity to act from the heart, rather than just out
of a battle for power or an attempt to redistribute material resources or
expand legal rights. Thomas Jefferson was instrumental in creating experiences
of being together, that feel better, more empowering, and more real than the
alienated communities on which people are currently dependent for their social
identities. It is not an exaggeration to say that he was a pioneer in the
politics of meaning.”
Worse than the
off-the-wall phone calls, were the marginally sane people popping in off the
street into the school lobby with fanciful stories to offer in exchange for
claiming the prize. By Monday it had become such a problem that the college
found it necessary to rent a security guard to post at the entrance to keep
these treasure-seekers from bothering the administrative staff.
Meanwhile,
Brautigan and Montoya now had to comb through the messages in addition to working
on their theory that the murder might have been an inside job.
***
Monday afternoon,
when Lieutenant Montoya picked up the cell phone records for New College staff
for the week of the murder, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was looking for.
After an hour and a half, it looked like another dead end, until she recalled
the remark Elaine Richardson made about Ronda McClure’s fuzzy phone call the
morning of the murder.
The phone records
listed the numbers and persons phoned, duration and location of calls by city,
but to get the precise location of cell phones while a call was connected,
Montoya had to get the phone companies’ internal tech support specialists to
track back through archived GPS positioning data—information that might and might
not be retained in the cell phones themselves—in order to find out where Ronda
was when she received Lorena Phillips’ call, and where she was when she phoned
Elaine Richardson with the news of President Jefferson’s death.
Tuesday morning,
Lieutenant Montoya and Detective Brautigan arrived at Ronda McClure’s apartment
on Russian Hill just as she was getting out of the shower. They had a warrant.
When Montoya
informed Ms. McClure that they already knew she was on the premises of New
College when she received the call from the librarian Lorena Phillips, Ronda
broke down and spilled her guts, literally and figuratively. She claimed she
had gone to confront Thomas over his affair with “that child” Elaine
Richardson, and threaten to kill herself with the potassium cyanide she’d
stolen from the science lab, but after pouring it into a cup of water when she
saw him arrive in the parking lot, She’d gone quickly into the restroom next
door to throw up, and when she came back out, President Jefferson was downing a
couple aspirins with the cup she’d set down on his desk.
When Thomas
collapsed onto the sofa, Ronda had run down the back stairs and hidden in the
old elevator shaft that now served as a janitorial supply closet. Less than an
hour later, her cell phone rang.
***
posted by Jay Taber at 10:26 AM
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