Tall Man Down - 15. Chapter 15

Greg Stratton’s assistant, Donna Pindar, greeted us as though our coming into her office was one of the nicest things that could happen. She offered us coffee, maybe three kinds of tea, and assorted sodas. After settling us in a pair of chrome-and-leather director’s chairs, she went to tell Greg we’d arrived.

“He’ll just be a minute,” she said shortly. “Sorry you have to wait.”

Now Greg was never on time, though he rarely delayed anyone more than a few minutes. His staff got used to that and seemed fairly happy, maybe because Greg also never pressured them. Where Catlin and Rebecca seemed to expect loyalty, Greg usually earned it. True, his office sometimes resembled an ongoing party, but people there always did their jobs well.

He had the best-looking assistants, too, the problem being there had been so many. “Guys keep marrying them,” he jokingly complained. “Why don’t I have that kind of luck?” Nearly forty, Greg had never married but always seemed to be involved with someone, often one of his assistants.

His immediate area – and much of the Business Office – was littered with computer printouts covering every kind of statistic Greg could run on the college. He not only had this information but could quickly find any part of it. Explaining to me once why I couldn’t have an extra thousand dollars for some lighting equipment, he strolled to a pile of printouts and produced a breakdown of my expenses during the three-and-a-half years I’d then been at Waldron.

“Now they’ve been going up eight percent annually,” he’d said, “and that’s fine, considering your being here has also increased your area’s enrollment. But if I give you money now, you’ll think I always will, and your department’s still too small for that. You know I’d gladly wipe it out and turn your little church into a weight room and make the dance studio into handball courts.

He’d said this smiling, but I believed it.

Greg hadn’t been to a play since I’d come to Waldron. He didn’t even see the dance concerts, though a number of former dance majors had worked in his office. Because the designer before me had once overloaded a semi-legal flash pot, slightly singeing a student’s hand, Greg was also positive that I was just waiting my chance to raise Waldron’s insurance premiums. Plus, because he never came near the theater, he didn’t know I’d taken a place that was borderline hazardous and made it as safe as it ever could be.

Still, he never missed a home game or meet. Football, basketball, baseball, soccer, lacrosse, tennis, track. The sport didn’t matter. He was there, cheering, though our teams rarely won. The Phys. Ed. department always had the latest equipment, too, without asking. Greg’s biggest defeat was not getting Waldron’s small, aging swimming pool replaced with one of Olympic size.

The pool under the old gym was supposed to have been larger, but a mass of not-cheaply-moved granite had intervened. Because of the small pool, the college had no swim team, and swimming had been Greg’s college sport.

He never exaggerated his swimming skill or bragged about it, but one wall of his office was covered with pictures of a younger, thinner Greg, wet and grinning as he was honored for winning various events. The trophies, medallions, and plaques overflowed shelves on an adjoining wall.

“It is something of a shrine,” he’d admitted, “and someday I’ll know to be embarrassed. Meanwhile, it keeps the women interested.”

“They probably want to see how much has fallen,” I’d once suggested, and he’d simply flashed his belly.

Not much, really, besides his slightly lowered waist. He still seemed to swim daily – I’d often see him leaving the pool, late evenings, as I locked up the theater after rehearsals. There was no way you’d think him younger than his age, though the added weight, a mustache, and shaggy hair made him better looking than the taut kid in his office pictures. That might have been what Pete found attractive, but for me, his even goofing chauvinism, his focus on money and sports, and his general incaution about manners sometimes made him tough to be around.

It didn’t take more than the promised few minutes for him to be ready. Waiting, we’d heard music playing softly through his open office door, but it was only as we followed Greg to his desk that I remembered the music didn’t come from a radio tuned to the college rock station. Instead, a small TV, tucked on a shelf and hooked into an expensive sound system, streamed music videos, and walking into his office, I must have glanced towards the set.

“You should’ve seen what was on ten minutes ago,” he told me. “Now anytime you want to teach computer graphics, I’ll happily buy the equipment.”

“It’s no more than I need to upgrade our dimmer system,” I said.

“There’s no way you could do lighting like that.”

“No way I’d need to, really. But you’re right – I don’t have the equipment.”

“You could do that though? Otherwise?”

It was as close as we’d ever come to discussing Art.

“It’s pretty simple, to be honest. Mainly bright light, deeply colored, constantly changing and moving.”

“Why don’t you freelance then? Make a name for yourself. And some money.”

I smiled. “I’m not really interested.”

He looked at me, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand. You’d think making money was somehow immoral.”

I only smiled again, and even Greg recognized a point he shouldn’t push. Instead, he sat at his cluttered desk. Don was looking at the pictures on the wall. He hadn’t introduced himself, as he and Greg knew each other. Don had gone to UMass but followed Waldron’s teams with something’s of Greg’s devotion.

“I’ve heard about these pictures,” he said. “But I’ve never seen them. You really were something.”

Greg shrugged away the compliment. “I was a kid. You won’t catch me working that hard again.”

Don laughed and then sat beside me on a leather couch. There was another pair of director’s chairs facing Greg’s desk, but I guess Don wanted something more comfortable. I’d been trying for unobtrusive.

Seeing us, Greg moved from his desk, turned one of the director’s chairs toward us, and sat, almost immediately popping his feet on the crowded coffee table.

“What about this e-mail?” Don began.

Greg waved that away. “More important things first.”

Don waited. “Like?”

“What have you found out about Steve Catlin?”

I was surprised at how direct he was and wondered if Don, in turn, would simply show him the autopsy report. When he didn’t, I guessed it was too private. Though he did follow Greg’s direction – especially after Greg stretched to push his door shut with his foot.

“We’ve just started to investigate,” Don admitted.

Greg laughed, properly interpreting that. “I didn’t think you’d tell me anything.”

Don shrugged. “I will when we can.”

Greg accepted that and then seemed to think. “I’d like to say I’m glad he’s dead,” he went on, smiling slightly as if to undercut his rudeness. “But believing we only have one life, I really couldn’t say that about anyone.”

“You didn’t get along?” Don poked.

Greg laughed. “He was probably trying to get rid of me since we met.”

Don followed this up. “What stopped him?”

Greg answered easily. “The Board – they wouldn’t hear of it. A lot of them are my friends. Also, once Steve gave me access to corporate money, I got in there faster than he could. And for years now, I’ve matched what he’s pulled from those accounts. And he still couldn’t touch me with the alumni.”

“Why didn’t you get along then?”

Greg smiled again.

“He was always positive I’d moon some CEO. Or take one to bed, if she were interested. He constantly pushed manners at me, I think because he was afraid to relax – or didn’t enjoy it. Or he was afraid someone would blame him for not being the perfect example.”

“There was no way he could’ve convinced the Board?”

“I don’t know – he was keeping a file on me. Maybe – after he gradually warmed up people on the Board – he’d have a chance. But like I said., as fast as he brought possible supporters around, I’d pull money from them. And, along the way, I turned them into friends.”

He paused.

“The sad thing is that Steve knew a whole lot of people he probably thought liked him more than they actually did. But they couldn’t wait to get out of his office and come down here to relax.”

“There any chance the Board would get rid of him?”

“Nah, he was too important to them – and too much of a trophy. And he was amazingly good at what he did. But the Board learned a little... and the next president won’t simply be his clone.”

He suddenly turned to me.

“And you shouldn’t be hearing this. I only pick up these things while drinking with my betters. And I don’t want them passed on.”

“They won’t be,” I promised. Though I knew I’d tell some of it Pete.

“How long will it take to replace Dr. Catlin?” Don asked.

“At least a year – there’s no way any decent administrator would leave a job before then. We could possibly pull someone from business sooner. But I doubt that’s what the Board wants. They’re happy Catlin spread our name, happy with the corporate money, but they don’t want to be solely a business or tech school. They may work for corporations and hope their kids do the same. But they still think college is for Liberal Arts.”

He grinned at me.

“For all the crap I give you, Andrus, the Board really likes what goes on in your little church. They like their kids knowing what theater and dance are, even if it personally bores them.”

“Did Dr. Catlin know what the Board thought?” Don asked.

“About him? Probably – he wasn’t stupid. And I think he planned to skip out of here before the Board was ready. Maybe a couple of years, maybe longer. Obviously, half the faculty hoped sooner, but a lot of them only think in the present. And one or two people on our board – who sit for several different organizations – even put out word that Catlin was available.”

“Did he hope to move up?”

“Could be... though he certainly didn’t need the money. So he could do what he pleased.”

Don considered that.

“Did anyone on the Board really dislike him? Or on the faculty?”

“You mean enough to kill him?”

Don said nothing.

“Oh, come on,” Greg said. “You’re not talking to me ‘cause Steve slipped in the tub. Just as I’m not talking to you because of any stupid e-mail. And I don’t know what you’ve got going... but word’s starting around that something’s up. That’s why I used this excuse to call you.”

“Excuse?”

“Hell, yeah – Heather Ackerman isn’t a student – I found that out in seconds. And if someone was bright enough to use her now-deleted account, well... let ‘em play.”

“We really have nothing going,” Don told him honestly.

“What about Elise Pelletiers? How many people know about her? Or how late she was with Steve on Monday night?”

Don seemed amused. “How many do know?”

“About as many who knew about his drinking and getting high.” Greg laughed, seeming to enjoy this. “Which is to say those who knew him well. But these are things they liked about him – when his vaunted discipline finally broke down. They also liked his books – a lot. Figuring anyone who could mix sex and history and not screw up both couldn’t be all bad.”

I had to laugh, but Don simply asked, “Do you like his books?”

“Enough,” Greg admitted. “I know they’re not literature, but either’s the Bible.”

I was surprised Greg read enough to make that comparison.

“Still, how many people really do know about Elise Pelletiers?” Don continued. He added “Pelletiers” just a moment late, and Greg caught this, but let it go.

“It only took the couple who saw her leave the cafeteria with Steve,” Greg reported. “Then that gets around – at least, for people who’re interested. And, yeah, they could just’ve been going back to his office, to discuss the curriculum. But at that hour?”

“People saw them leave from the cafeteria?”

“From what I’ve been told.”

“Anyone know when she went back to her car?”

Greg seemed to think about that.

“Not that I know of. But I don’t ask these sorts of things – really. I listen. And I could ask.”

He smiled.

“And I don’t mean to sound sexist about this.” He dipped his head toward me. “But most of the people surrounding me are women. And you’d be surprised what I hear – by just making myself invisible.”

For a moment, he seemed to think.

“I doubt anyone really knows what happened after Steve took Elise Pelletiers to the President’s House – though I’ve heard several theories. Still, I’m sure she didn’t kill him – not purposely.”

He paused again.

“Want to know what I think?”

He turned to me.

“And this is something else that goes nowhere. Your partner, okay, if you really want – it’s a cute story to tell on me. But no further.”

I nodded, and Don had his pad out by then and was taking notes. I’m sure Greg saw that, but he didn’t object.

“Now you’ve got to remember that I live a dozen miles from here – out on a farm, down unlit country roads, with trees and quick bends and deer. And I sometimes stay late for games and other stuff. And sometimes... well, I have a few drinks, or more than a couple. And gettting home without a ticket – or even alive – might be a trick. So I’ve slept here sometimes. I keep that couch for just that reason.”

He indicated the sofa we were on.

“But most times – at least when our presidents only used their supposed residence for entertaining... Many times, when I needed a place to sleep, I’d go to the President’s House. And usually I wasn’t exactly alone... and didn’t exactly want to sleep or want a girl waking up beside me the next day. So using the house was a good excuse to get out before morning. And I’m not exactly the most conservative person when it comes to having sex... so I’ve explored the house for its possibilities. And let me tell you, those bathtubs are slick. And slippery – I’ve banged my head a couple times and pulled muscles grabbing for something to break my fall. Do I need to say anything more?”

While Greg was grinning, Don continued to write. “So you think Elise Pelletiers might be stretching the truth?” he soon asked.

Greg shrugged.

“I don’t know... I’ve only heard what she’s said. And who knows if that’s true? But I do know that if I accidently killed the president of my college on my first day of work that I wouldn’t go advertising that. And I’d lie any damn way I needed, to keep myself clear.”

“How do you know Dr. Catlin banged his head?” Don asked, and I realized it wasn’t common knowledge. Greg was silent for a moment.

“I didn’t, really,” he admitted. “I was guessing.” He hesitated, then asked. “Did he?”

Don seemed to consider, then nodded.

“It figures.” Then Greg smiled. “And this’ll sound perverse... OK, more perverse – but it’s not bragging. It’s just that... well, for a while there, I was seeing a woman who was a funeral director – so I picked up a few things. And when I saw Steve, I realized something was being covered with make-up.”

“His coffin was closed both times I saw it,” I told Greg.

“You’re not the damned vice-president. There are all kinds of things I have to do – that I hope you never know about.”

“You identified the body?” Don asked.

“No... Abby Rodelle did that – and I thought you were there. But I saw Steve a couple of times after that– to make everything was being done right – after all, the college paid for his funeral. No matter how personal the situation, he died on school grounds, and we were in some way responsible.”

“That doesn’t mean Elise Pelletiers somehow killed him.”

“Of course, not – I’m not saying anyone’s to blame. Just that she might have been there when it happened.”

He looked at Don.

“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? And charges can be brought for her leaving?”

Don was silent. And after maybe ten seconds, Greg backed down.

“Okay, maybe I’m wrong – that’s happened plenty before. Still, if you know for sure that it was an accident, why are you asking questions?”

“I don’t know anything for sure,” Don slowly admitted. “Except that Dr. Catlin’s dead, and we’d like to be sure what happened.”

“Please call him ‘Steve’... or ‘Catlin’... or anything but ‘doctor or president.’ Those titles are only for people who didn’t know him.”

“I didn’t know him.”

Greg allowed that, smiling again. “But we did.” He indicated me and himself. “And you’ve got at least my permission.”

Greg looked at me, and I nodded at Don. For some moments afterward, Don checked his notes. I wasn’t sure why. Then he looked back at Greg.

“How well do you know Dean Varner?” he asked. “It’s been mentioned that some people don’t think much of her.”

Greg studied me, as though I’d been the only person “mentioning.”

“I don’t always agree with Rebecca,” Greg allowed.

“Could you be more specific?”

“She’s sometimes a bit... imprecise.”

Don waited, but finally had to follow up. “And that’s it?”

Greg nodded. “That’s a lot, considering what kind of job she has.”

“Did Catlin feel the same way?”

Don seemed intent on pinning Greg, who for some reason was suddenly being guarded. After maybe thinking, he began an answer, again cautiously, then stopped and laughed. “Oh, hell... what’s the use? Rebecca was on her way out – even Steve told me that. Like me, she’s been dispensable since he got hired.”

He laughed again.

“Or else... who knows? Maybe she’ll outlast us all. She’s managed before.”

“Could you explain that?”

“Haven’t I said enough? You’ve got to realize how touchy the whole situation is. Steve can’t hurt me now – and maybe he never could. But Rebecca can still be a pain in the ass.”

“And Larry Marsden?”

“Larry’s a puppet,” Greg instantly dismissed. “He’s being used by outside organizers who don’t think educated people can think for themselves. That’s the one thing I absolutely agreed with Steve about – and with the Board. I don’t know what’s in it for Larry – he mainly seems like a nice guy. But if you think he has anything to do with Steve’s death, that would crack me up.”

“I’m mainly looking for background,” Don admitted. “I’ve met the man. But I really know nothing outside what Gil’s said.”

“I bet there isn’t much more. He’s an inoffensive family man. A suburban dad.”

“So Catlin wouldn’t bother getting rid of him?”

“I doubt it. He’s always been a team player – and useful that way.”

“Then why would Catlin get rid of Dean Varner?”

“Well, maybe you’ve need to understand how Rebecca became dean – and this happened years before Steve, and it was a very quick decision. The last dean quit without giving notice – and this was when the school was a financial mess – with everyone ignoring anything I advised. The dean quit partly because of the chaos, and that set off a lot of fighting and cross-accusations. And Rebecca was someone everyone could agree on – or at least not dislike enough to reject.”

“And that’s changed?”

“Well, the Board would like someone more assertive. Or inventive... incisive – you name it. They wouldn’t mind if she simply returned to teaching – they admit she’s very good at that. But as for kicking her out... well, that’s why there’s tenure. And that’s again why no decent college needs a faculty union. Still, I doubt Rebecca wants to go back to full-time teaching. I think she feels she’s above that now.”

By this time, Greg seemed more aware of himself – either as an adult or a representative of the school – than he had been when we came in.

“What I can say,” he went on, “is that Steve was keeping a file on Rebecca the same as he was keeping one on me – and Gil, and his partner, and probably anyone else who ever signed a contract on campus. And he could quietly use that information when he needed to – and I’d seen him do that a couple of times. But other than that...”

“Could Dean Varner fight back?”

Greg shrugged.

“As I said – she has before. But she can’t pull favors from the Board, the way I can. Though a lot of the faculty seem to feel she’s a permanent part of the college – like a building or something. And her life’s certainly been a lot cleaner than mine... But you know she’d never be able to outthink Steve.”

“That’s not the worst thing to say about Catlin,” I told Greg.

“Yeah, well, I can’t be perfect,” he said, grinning

Don also smiled, then said., “I think that’s about it.” And he stood, putting away his pad, and once more moved to Greg’s wall of pictures.

“I still can’t believe that’s you.”

Greg laughed again. “Scary, no?”

He also stood, and he seemed to focus on one picture especially, maybe one he particularly liked.

“Still, I think the real reason I keep them up here isn’t to remind myself of what I was. So much of what I could’ve been.”

He shrugged.

“Not an Olympian or anything like that. You don’t make a career of swimming and don’t become famous for more than a few minutes. You don’t make a lot of money, either. But – somewhere in there – I might’ve been a better man.”

He hesitated.

“I wanted to show these damned things to my kids someday. I thought it might make them more competitive, if only with me. My dad was a football player – college. High school, too, but that mattered less. And I know that competing with him made me better.” He suddenly laughed. “And I know this is all crap, and I may never have kids – at least, I know that most of the time... But every so often...”

For another moment, he stared at that one picture. He looked especially innocent in it, enough to make you cry. Then he grinned again.

“Now get out of here,” he jokingly ordered. “Donna’ll think we’re doing drugs or something, and she’ll be jealous.”

He turned to Don.

“Call me if you need anything. Anything I can give – that I’m able to – is yours. The rest, I can probably beg permission for.”

Don thanked him, grinning, and we left Greg’s office. Donna told us to come back, any time, and we headed out her door.

“You got more from him than I thought,” I said quietly.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Though his mentioning Elise Pelletiers threw me.”

“Why?”

“I wonder how many other people think that.”

I couldn’t guess. So I simply asked, “Do you believe it?”

We were out of Waldron Hall.

“It’s possible.” He suddenly got very earnest. “But I don’t think she’s lying.”

“Not ‘cause she’s trying to hurt someone. But Greg has a point. She could be scared.”

He said nothing, and after we walked a bit further, I needed to remind him of something.

“I still think it’s what I’ve said all along. An accident. No matter who’s involved. And it’s also what I told Pete – that these things get messy. And they and go places you don’t want them to.”

By that point, we’d reached the street and were just across from Don’s car. And he still said nothing.