wastebasket. It's great
for getting DNA. All that juicy saliva will tell us exactly who's been
messing around in here."
Mike turned back to face the others. "Ever hear Ms. Dakota talk
about a 'deadhouse'?"
Foote glanced at Recantati before both of them looked at us blankly.
"Sounds more like your line of work than ours."
As Mike walked from behind the desk, he stared at a small corkboard
affixed to the wall by the window. "You know who any of these people
are?" he asked.
Foote moved in next to him, and Recantati looked over his shoulder.
"That's a photograph of Franklin Roosevelt, of course, and this one's
Mae West. I believe that woman in the corner, in period dress, is
Nellie Bly. I can't place the other man."
"Charles Dickens, I think." My undergraduate major in English
literature kicked in.
Foote stepped back and turned away, but continued speaking. "I'm not
sure who the people are in the photos with Lola herself, but I assume
they're friends and relatives. That other snapshot is one of the young
women Lola taught last semester, in the spring."
Mike must have thought, as I did, that it was unusual for one
student's picture to be singled out to be on the board. He asked the
obvious question. "Know her name?"
Foote hesitated before she spoke. "Charlotte Voight."
"Any idea why Lola would have her picture up here?"
Dead silence.
"Can we talk to her?"
"Detective Chapman," Foote answered, sinking onto the cushion of the
sofa against the far wall, "Charlotte disappeared from the school—from
New York—altogether. We have no idea where she is."
Mike's anger was palpable. "When did this happen?"
"She went missing last spring. April tenth. Left her room early one
evening, in the midst of a bout of depression. No one here has seen her
since."
6
Chapman wanted to preserve the integrity of Dakota's office for the
Crime Scene team to photograph and fingerprint, so he led the unhappy
pair of administrators back down to Foote's quarters to finish the
conversation.
"And now we're gonna play 'I've Got a Secret' and hope the dumb cop
doesn't figure out what kind of problems we got here at school, right?
Who was this Voight kid and what do you think really happened to her?"
Foote picked up the story. "Mr. Recantati wasn't appointed until
this fall semester, so he's not to blame for not remembering to bring
up Charlotte's disappearance." The osteoporosis that had stooped
Foote's shoulders seemed even more pronounced as she sat hunched in her
chair, calling up facts about the missing girl.
"Charlotte was a junior—twenty years old. Came to us with a very
troubled background. She was raised in Peru, actually. Her father's
American, working down there for a large corporation. Her mother was
Peruvian. Died while Charlotte was finishing high school. The girl was
extremely bright, but had had a long battle with depression and eating
disorders."
Mike was taking notes as Sylvia Foote talked.
"We didn't know until she got here, of course, that she had a
history of substance abuse as well. I doubt that she would have been
better adjusted at any other college in the States. There were no
relatives anywhere in this country, and when one of those black moods
overtook Charlotte, she'd just disappear for days at a time."
"Surely someone found out where she'd been, once she returned?" I
asked.
"She was never very open or direct about it. Freshman year she dated
a Columbia student who lived in an apartment off campus, and she'd
spend time with him. Then she got involved with some Latinos from the
neighborhood, the source of her drug supply, we believe."
"What did her roommates think?"
"She didn't have any. Charlotte requested a single when she applied
to King's, and she lived a pretty solitary existence. She didn't number
many of the girls among her friends. D'you know the kind? She preferred
the company of men. Not boys, and generally not other students. She was
restless and isolated from most of the school social life.
for getting DNA. All that juicy saliva will tell us exactly who's been
messing around in here."
Mike turned back to face the others. "Ever hear Ms. Dakota talk
about a 'deadhouse'?"
Foote glanced at Recantati before both of them looked at us blankly.
"Sounds more like your line of work than ours."
As Mike walked from behind the desk, he stared at a small corkboard
affixed to the wall by the window. "You know who any of these people
are?" he asked.
Foote moved in next to him, and Recantati looked over his shoulder.
"That's a photograph of Franklin Roosevelt, of course, and this one's
Mae West. I believe that woman in the corner, in period dress, is
Nellie Bly. I can't place the other man."
"Charles Dickens, I think." My undergraduate major in English
literature kicked in.
Foote stepped back and turned away, but continued speaking. "I'm not
sure who the people are in the photos with Lola herself, but I assume
they're friends and relatives. That other snapshot is one of the young
women Lola taught last semester, in the spring."
Mike must have thought, as I did, that it was unusual for one
student's picture to be singled out to be on the board. He asked the
obvious question. "Know her name?"
Foote hesitated before she spoke. "Charlotte Voight."
"Any idea why Lola would have her picture up here?"
Dead silence.
"Can we talk to her?"
"Detective Chapman," Foote answered, sinking onto the cushion of the
sofa against the far wall, "Charlotte disappeared from the school—from
New York—altogether. We have no idea where she is."
Mike's anger was palpable. "When did this happen?"
"She went missing last spring. April tenth. Left her room early one
evening, in the midst of a bout of depression. No one here has seen her
since."
6
Chapman wanted to preserve the integrity of Dakota's office for the
Crime Scene team to photograph and fingerprint, so he led the unhappy
pair of administrators back down to Foote's quarters to finish the
conversation.
"And now we're gonna play 'I've Got a Secret' and hope the dumb cop
doesn't figure out what kind of problems we got here at school, right?
Who was this Voight kid and what do you think really happened to her?"
Foote picked up the story. "Mr. Recantati wasn't appointed until
this fall semester, so he's not to blame for not remembering to bring
up Charlotte's disappearance." The osteoporosis that had stooped
Foote's shoulders seemed even more pronounced as she sat hunched in her
chair, calling up facts about the missing girl.
"Charlotte was a junior—twenty years old. Came to us with a very
troubled background. She was raised in Peru, actually. Her father's
American, working down there for a large corporation. Her mother was
Peruvian. Died while Charlotte was finishing high school. The girl was
extremely bright, but had had a long battle with depression and eating
disorders."
Mike was taking notes as Sylvia Foote talked.
"We didn't know until she got here, of course, that she had a
history of substance abuse as well. I doubt that she would have been
better adjusted at any other college in the States. There were no
relatives anywhere in this country, and when one of those black moods
overtook Charlotte, she'd just disappear for days at a time."
"Surely someone found out where she'd been, once she returned?" I
asked.
"She was never very open or direct about it. Freshman year she dated
a Columbia student who lived in an apartment off campus, and she'd
spend time with him. Then she got involved with some Latinos from the
neighborhood, the source of her drug supply, we believe."
"What did her roommates think?"
"She didn't have any. Charlotte requested a single when she applied
to King's, and she lived a pretty solitary existence. She didn't number
many of the girls among her friends. D'you know the kind? She preferred
the company of men. Not boys, and generally not other students. She was
restless and isolated from most of the school social life.
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