Come to Dust Read online

  Chapter 9

  Counseling is Available

  Things never seem so bad as just before they are about to get a good deal worse.

  With a whisper here and a confidential mutter there, those to whom Dartmouth was dear had braced themselves for the revelation of Patterson as the monster he was. Sooner or later the press would fall on the situation. Then the balloon would go up with a vengeance.

  There was no widespread relief when the result of the Target audit percolated down to its own level.

  “If only Elliot were a thief,” groaned Dunlop. “That at least would be normal.”

  His wife reminded him of Dr. Kinsey’s findings.

  As for the missing $50,000 bond, Kitchener alone could delude himself that it was of paramount importance.

  “It’s irrelevant,” Marsden snapped. “He happened to have it with him and now it’s coming in handy.”

  Ralph thought that was a heck of a way to describe $50,000.

  “You know what they’re saying,” Gabe breathed cautiously.

  Marian had lost her friendly detachment. “I know. Teenage boys,” she lashed back. “And I don’t believe it for a second.”

  Everybody had his or her own explanations. It might be an unpalatable explanation, but soon even that dubious comfort was stripped away. They were about to move into the realm of the unexplainable. The first sign of the deluge came on Monday.

  Patterson was exonerated for the massacre in Putnam County.

  At lunchtime on the day of his disappearance, he had sold his car, obtaining the $2,700 purchase price in cash in accordance with a previous understanding. That evening the car had been left in a shop by its new owner to have seat covers installed. The delay in title transfer had sent the police haring after the wrong car.

  Further information emerged. The alert purchaser reported that Elliot had been carrying an overnight case at their noontime meeting. Investigation revealed that pajamas, underwear, and toilet articles were missing from his house in Rye. It was clear Patterson had intended to go somewhere and wherever that was he wanted several thousand dollars with him.

  Thatcher absorbed these details as they came to light, listened politely to endless speculation, and finally asked a question. “You said his bank account was normal, but what about his other property?”

  “He didn’t sell anything else,” George replied immediately. “One of the first people Gabe checked with was Patterson’s broker.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Listen, George …”

  And so by Tuesday an additional fact came to light. Over the last year Patterson had had title on everything he owned transferred to his wife’s name.

  It would be small solace to her. Sally was accustomed to financial security. Now she would have to come to grips with the realization her husband had been planning to leave for at least a year.

  “In its own way this makes things simpler,” Thatcher pointed out. “We can ignore accidents and concentrate on essentials.”

  “Yes,” said a new Lancer. He was eager to trade in a queen-size fairy tale for a red blooded wife deserter any time. “All this nonsense about his interest in boys is just that, nonsense. We have nothing to worry about except that bearer bond. Unfortunate, but there it is. What do you say, John?”

  Thatcher was not making the same lightning ascent from the ocean depths to clear sunshine. First, because he never had been in the depths. He had sensibly decided that if, over the course of life he had learned to take in stride psychoanalysis, the Depression, modern woman, the affluent society, then ne was not going to boggle at a little sexual perversion. Second, because he was by nature suspicions of suddenly clearing skies.

  He looked deeply into his brandy snifter, reviewing events, and then said, “I say wait, wait for the other shoe to fall, George.”

  It fell the next morning with the news that Patterson had not after all confined his light fingers to a mere $50,000. He had also taken from the Club files the SAT results for every single Dartmouth applicant.

  The uproar was immediate.

  It was also surprising. There was after all a grab bag of possibilities. The conventional could mourn the loss of a father and husband; the legal precisionist could seize on a $50,000 theft; the speculative could ponder Patterson’s strange frugality in larceny; the prurient could see him carousing with golden nymphs.

  But if the papers, magazines, TV stations, and radio networks were any guide, the American public was neither conventional, precisionist, speculative, nor even, incredibly as it might appear, prurient. Given an even chance, the great American public viewed the world scene in its guise of Parent.

  Patterson’s latest theft forced Dartmouth to send out a letter asking 320 high school students in the New York area to resubmit their application data. This unleashed a storm of adverse publicity which could scarcely have been equaled by the discovery that the entire faculty consisted of debauchees insatiably corrupting the young, pausing only to recharge their unnatural energies with hallucinogens.

  Worse was to come. All SAT tests were coded to preserve anonymity. It was possible to go from number to name but not vice versa. No useful purpose would be served, Dartmouth learned, by submission of a list of names and a request for scores. Grimly the college sent a further communication to the select 320. They had better unfurl their mechanical pencils and prepare for another round of multiple choice questions.

  By the time the third letter went out, announcing that Dartmouth would not be able to mail admissions results until two weeks after its Ivy League rivals, the entire East Coast was up in arms.

  Embattled mothers paraded with placards: Why must our children pay for the crimes of Elliot Patterson? Irate fathers could not believe Dartmouth expected their sons to turn down perfectly good colleges in favor of problematic acceptance by Dartmouth. Particularly, they said hoarsely, when the alternative to college admission was the draft. A psychologist with a daily news column spoke tellingly of the trauma caused by the effort to get into college in the first place. A sociologist in a Sunday’s newspaper supplement said all this would merely confirm youth’s lack of faith in the older generation. Preserving that faith was a parent’s sacred duty. To that end the parent must be unfailingly reasonable, totally unbiased, open to cultural innovation, an undismayed by personal hostility. The sociologist did not explain how this was supposed to prepare the young for a world that could be relied upon to display none of these virtues.

  Outside the boundaries of the printed word, and the laws of libel, opinions were aired with even greater freedom. In the office of the Dean of Admissions of Cremona College there was, sad to say, nothing but satisfaction. “I have always maintained,” Dean Flayer told his crony from the Endowment Office, “I have always maintained that there was more to these committees than meets the eye. I deplore the way these so called prestige colleges …”

  The crony, who knew that Flayer would gladly give his eye teeth to be removed from the backwater of Cremona and be hired by Dartmouth, interrupted to ask what he thought lay behind Patterson’s disappearance. Flayer told him. It was an explanation being echoed in many admission offices and many prep school faculty lounges.

  Had one of the doting parents heard it, their blood would have run cold.

  A variant reading was being aired in the offices of a testing service. An IBM was whirring gently in the background; two statisticians in the foreground were whirring less gently.

  “You can see where this nonsense about all round boys and interviews leads,” said one irately. “If a kid has brains, it shows up in his test scores, and that’s that. To heck with these letters of recommendation and school transcripts. Give them the test, then let them in or not.” His two month son showed him unmistakable signs of genius.

  His companion’s 17 year old son has found it necessary to complete his high school education at a military academy. “Well, having brains isn’t everything,” he said.

  He was interrupted by the other, “Oh, come
on. Look at this creep who’s run off. Probably somebody paid him plenty to get some dumb book into college to keep the draft off his neck. One thing for Susie here,” and he looked affectionately at the giant IBM computer, nobody can buy her off.”

  In nonspecialist circles, the particular supplanted the general. The conversation taking place in a graceful colonial home in Mineola was typical. “I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Hughes. “Why have they let this man run off with your records?”

  Her son, John, like his father, had perfected a technique of colloquy with his mother in which the outward form was maintained without inner substance. “Listen Mom. I’m taking Lila to dinner tonight. We might take in a movie afterwards.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t date on a school night,” his mother commented unheatedly. “You know you have to bring up your grades this semester if you want to get into Dartmouth. Although I don’t know that I really like the idea. After all, something funny must be going on there. Your father said so this morning at breakfast.”

  John was carefully knotting his tie while his mother dithered on. He completed the operation to his satisfaction and straightened up.

  “Mom, will you tell Dad to watch how he pulls into the garage tonight? I had to leave my car outside last night. I had just washed it and it looks as if we might get rain,” he remarked convivially.

  Mrs. Hughes agreed to bring the matter to his father’s attention. “You met this man didn’t you?” she continued as she knew direct questions sometimes flushed out answers from her son.

  “Patterson? He’s on the Committee. He wasn’t outstanding,” as he gave his hair a final caress.

  This flat judgment did not surprise his mother since she knew little in his world was outstanding. She reverted to an earlier theme. “I still don’t know why you still want to go to Dartmouth. Your father was happy at Fordham. Your cousin Frank likes Columbia.”

  John dropped a kiss on his mother’s cheek and departed. He did not particularly burn to go to Dartmouth, but with quiet determination, he insisted on putting a couple of hundred miles between himself and home.

  Home offered him endless care, respect, and indulgence, an array of durable goods from Mustang to electric guitar. He enjoyed unlimited access to ready cash and a congenial circle of friends. Home also contained a mother, father, and three siblings. With a fervor that would have surprised all who knew him, he yearned to escape from all this freedom and luxury.

  Unaware of his angst, his mother promised his sister to shorten a dress, make arrangements to take his brothers from dentist to riding academy, with her thoughts still circling monotonously around John. Finally her need to talk sent her to the phone.

  The result was that at 5:07, a commuting hour when listening housewives were joined by car borne husbands, Radio Station WPDQ, “We cover Manhattan, Connecticut, and New Jersey like a blanket” in the person of Paul Handratty, a radio host, transmitted a dialogue as follows:

  Caller: Well, Paul, I don’t know just how to say this; it is complicated. Paul did you read the article about the man who disappeared with the SAT scores for Dartmouth?”

  For three minutes Mrs. Hughes made lavish use of illustration and reference to “my son.” Radio host Handratty, vulnerable to gentility, asked kind questions. The son who emerged bore little resemblance to John.

  Handratty: That is terrible. No wonder you are worried. Let’s see if other listeners have any information to add.

  Mrs. Hughes: You have made me feel better already.

  Handratty: That’s what we are here for. Now that you have broken the ice, call again.

  There followed in rapid succession calls from a Dartmouth lawyer in a small practice; a lady from Astoria with inside proof about Communist conspiracies taking over campuses; a mother whose son’s acne got worse with the third letter received about taking his SATs again; a drunk tirade that should not have aired; two women who saw anti-Semitic forces at play; a precocious teenager who pointed out flaws made in the statements of his predecessors. It was all in a day’s radio show, Handratty knew.

  He signed off at 6 PM and was off to other problems the next day, namely the new leash law in Mamaroneck.

  But by then the damage had been done. Over 1,857,987 people had heard this discussion. Lancer, chauffer driven, had not. Miss Corsa, subway commuter had not. Thatcher, who disliked prattling, had not.

  It seemed almost everyone else had.

  Chapter 10

  The Department Must Approve

  Beset on all sides by the radio listening public, warned of a forthcoming TV documentary on college admissions which might feature one of the 320, receiving withdrawals of applications in every mail delivery, Dartmouth had no reserves to meet a commando raid.

  Mrs. Curtis, 89, had unequivocally thrown in her lot with the older generation. In her opinion youth could take care of itself. She worried about her $50,000.

  It’s not the money,” she said baring litigious teeth. “It’s the principle. This was to be in memory of my husband.” In Thatcher’s experience he had learned that when anyone used that approach it was always about the money not the principle; but he wasn’t present to help the Alumni Association at the moment.

  Representatives from the Alumni Association upon hearing this call to arms assured her that in the eyes of Dartmouth the gift had been made and the memory of Mr. Curtis would remain forever green.

  His representative responded with her ultimatum. Either Dartmouth stops pussy footing around and put some muscle behind the police investigation or she would sue. No one acquainted with her Courtroom history could doubt her sincerity.

  Reaction was mixed. The Dartmouth authorities were all for placating substantial donors at any costs otherwise they knew other donations would taper off. The Committee in New York was fearful of the New York police continued interrogation of the four boys interviewed. Active applications were also at an all-time low just to make matters worse.

  It was George’s unenviable lot to act as mediator. He reported to John that up at Dartmouth they seemed to feel that in a pinch they could run the college without students but without money, never.

  “It might be an improvement,” John said unsympathetically. “Someone should tell those California Regents about it. Firing presidents is no solution. But eliminating the student body could end the rioting and effect real cost reductions at the same time.”

  Lancer dismissed California with an impatient grunt. “Anyway, I’ve insisted that Lyman Todd be present at the interrogation. It’s the least he can do. And he has to come down anyway to talk to Mrs. Curtis.”

  “Todd? Oh, your new president.”

  “It’s to reassure the parents,” George explained. “Furthermore, I’ve promised them that we’ll have a lawyer there to look out for the boys’ interests.” He frowned suddenly. “Carruthers was needlessly obstructionist a first; but he’s come around.”

  John was amused. “I’m sure it will be an experience for him,” he said politely.

  Stanton Carruthers was a leading Wall Street trust and estate lawyer. Few were equal to the task of dealing with the IRS. As a result, he knew no more about criminal law than most laymen, which is to say he was rapidly qualifying as an expert on the subject of involuntary confessions.

  But Police Headquarters is not composed of imbeciles. Already Patterson’s disappearance had been labeled as a tiresome case, requiring great efforts, littered with false scents, and fraught with tender toes. Carruthers’s voice on the phone was enough to alert Center Street to the status of the four boys. They had money and power behind them. The officer in charge of the case became markedly cooperative.

  Certainly the interview could be held at the Ivy League Club. Certainly Mr. Todd and Mr. Carruthers could be present throughout. Perhaps it would be best if the Department sent an officer who specialized in youth problems?

  Carruthers, reflecting that those were not the problems involved, austerely said it would not be necessary.

  Accordingly
, at the appointed hour, the Club was the scene of yet another meeting, Lyman Todd, still an athletic man in his mid-30s, contrived to look worldly and avuncular. The police captain spoke in slow, soothing tones. Carruthers was silent and watchful.

  The boys showed less concern than their elders. Since each had applied to four different colleges, each was resigned to unending interviews, smokers, tests, guidance people talks, and informal get togethers. They had arrived early and split into two pairs, flanking Carruthers, as they waited for the other participants.

  On one side John Hughes described customizing his Mustang while Carter Sprague interjected comments about the Grand Prix. On the other side two pleasant faced nondescript boys discussed football versus rugby.

  The entrance of Lyman Todd and Captain Litton brought everyone to their feet. Todd headed straight for one of the nondescript boys.

  “Well I am glad to see you again Pete. I hope your father isn’t too disturbed about all this.”

  Pete looked amused. “Mother hasn’t told him about it yet.”

  “Splendid, splendid. There’s really no need to worry him. I know he has a full schedule already. He was telling me about his recording sessions when we met at the Dartmouth benefit night. You’ll be sure to give him my regards, won’t you?”

  Todd’s eagerness made it plain that this last was no mere civility. Not until the introductions did Carruthers absorb the fact that Pete was Pier Luigi Fursano, son of the great Arturo Fursano, maestro for the ages.

  Pete’s companion was Douglas Younger, and there were no cordial inquiries about his parents. Captain Litton had no difficulty in ranking the boys by importance.

  “Now boys,” he said, “this shouldn’t take long. But first I want to get the geography straight.”

  With practiced speed the Captain established the few relevant facts. The elevator on the second floor of the Club opened directly on a corridor. The corridor contained two doors, one on the right leading to an ample conference room, and one on the left leading to a small waiting room. Beyond the waiting room was the office with its file cabinets and clerical personnel. The office had no independent access to the corridor. The Admissions Committee on that memorable afternoon had started with a meeting in the conference room, making periodic forays through the waiting room into the office.