Right in the heart of Manhattan, the campus stood serene—a stark contrast to the reason for their visit. The bundled-up students passing by—all intellectually curious and driven, yet awkward and innocent—were a world apart from the girls she had come here to vindicate. Life was ridiculously unfair, and more often than not, what determined a prosperous future was where you were born or who you were born to.
“Here’s where we part ways.”
“How long will you be?”
“Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”
“Okay, that’ll give me time to audit a class. Just text me when you’re done.”
“I will.” She embraced her daughter, a silent promise of protection and love. “Have fun.”
“Oh yeah, Mom. A lecture on bilateral relations with China in an age of neo-isolationism—should be a blast.”
“Don’t get cheeky, miss.”
“Yes, Mom . . . hey, speaking of fun, why don’t we go skating later?”
“Skating . . . where?”
“Central Park.”
“Like the old days when I used to take you to the rink?”
“Exactly.”
“And hot chocolate too?”
“Of course.” She did her best to hide it, but she felt a lump in her throat. Some of her most precious memories were of Ada taking skating lessons as a tot. She had spent seven years taking her to the rink every day, watching her turn from a little duckling on ice to a graceful swan. Then one day, her daughter decided to throw in the towel—even though she was competing at a national level. They fought for nearly two years after that, and it was only through her husband’s intervention that she came to realize that her daughter’s love mattered more than gold medals. All that acrimony was now water under the bridge. Thank you, Jesus.
She turned, picking up the pace in the frigid temperatures, and headed to University Hall. She flashed her badge to the lingering TA, who was waiting outside a lecture hall. The doors swung open, allowing students to pour out. Once the crowd thinned to a trickle, she entered. At the bottom of the stairs, behind a podium, a man in his mid-fifties stood, shoving papers into his briefcase. He wore a tweed jacket, and everything about him—down to his brown oxfords—said, I’ve forgotten more than most people would care to learn. She coughed, and the tweed-clad man looked up.
“Detective Churchill, if you’ve come all this way to ask more questions, you’ll be severely disappointed. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“No, no more questions. I just wanted to see the place with my own eyes.” She scanned the auditorium. “So, this is the same lecture hall you two attended in your freshman year?”
“Indeed. Except for the LEDs, it hasn’t changed in the slightest. I quite like it that way; change and upgrades are far overrated. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another class to prepare for.” Grabbing his briefcase, the tweed-clad man trotted out the door, practically running. Not that it mattered. Prying a statement out of an uncooperative witness was a waste of time and energy; however, thanks to a subpoena, the reading room was an open book. The university dean and the provost weren’t thrilled about it, but a homicide link trumped the need for anonymity.
***
Universities are private entities that have historically been considered the marketplace of ideas and, as such, aren’t subject to the same disclosure rules as government institutions. However, in recent years, due to scandals, laws have been passed to open their books to public scrutiny. Thus, spaces were created where one could sit and sift through mountains of pre-digital archives for nuggets of truth—in the process, one was buried alive.
“Baby, you go on skating without me. I’m going to be here for a while.”
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“Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, just a pile of reading material to go through.”
“Aww, Mom, I was so looking forward to this. When’s the next time we’re going to get a chance to go skating together in New York City?”
“So was I, sweetie, believe me, but work is work. It’s how I pay the bills, including your education.” She regretted that little barb the second it blurted out.
“Can I help?”
“You could, but I can tell you right now, it’s not going to be fun.”
“Helping my mom in a murder case—how can it not be?”
She laughed. “Okay, sweetie, then I’m appointing you to Sista Sherlock . . . but I’ll shield you from the grit. Stick to cross-referencing dates.”
“Awesome. Then I’ll see you in a few, with a couple of hot chocolates.”
“Make that a couple of caramel macchiatos, venti size.”
“Will do. Where are you?”
“In the Butler Library, in one of the reading rooms. Just text me when you’re near, and I’ll meet you in the lobby. I could use a break.”
“Copy that, Mom.”
***
They worked all night. It was the first time they had ever tackled something so time-consuming and laborious together. She had never felt so proud of her daughter as she watched her carefully sift through stacks of subpoena-approved incident logs, line by line, hunting for clues.
Whenever she spotted something that matched the specified criteria, she would hand over the logbook for her to review.
There was always a logic and a pattern to events that led a detective to the truth, but intuition played an equally important role. One’s feelings got the ball rolling, especially when it came to incident logs. Incident logs, with little narrative content, provided only enough facts to gather stats from. With the person of interest’s rap sheet in mind—cross-checked via warrant, however—even the most perfunctory of reports set off alarms.
After reviewing two years of incident logs, a handful stood out as her top picks, and from there, they worked to fill in the blanks. Searching through the corresponding records for each incident report, they collected more facts until one began to stand out: May 6, 1984. Campus police were called to 628 West 114th Street, River Hall, to unit 6-2, where a female student was forcibly confined and raped. The incident occurred only three days before the owner of the Red Diablo left—or perhaps fled—school.
“Mom, I think I got it.”
She yawned. “Got what, sweetie?” It was 2 a.m.
“It’s a witness statement.” She handed her the file. She scanned it. Her daughter was right. The names were redacted, but the address, date, and time matched. “Not sure how helpful it’s going to be with all the names blacked out.”
“No biggie, baby. That’s what a court order is for. You did good.”
***
Two days later, Ada was back on the sunny West Coast, while she stood on a recently salted porch in snowy Jersey, waiting for Thomas Wallis to answer his door. When he finally arrived, allowing her into the warmth, the elderly African American gentleman led her to a cozy nook in the house. Seated, they discussed the incident he had witnessed.
“So to be clear, in 1984, you were working as a custodian for Columbia?”
“That’s right. Twenty-five years later, I retired as operations manager. That was my first year on the job—but seeing her face in those old department photos you sent jogged it all back.”
“I know it’s been a while, but can you tell me what happened, as much as you can recall?”
“I remember that poor girl. Pretty thing, big eyes, foreign student. Indian, from India. She wasn’t like the other students who partied more than studied; she was serious. Such a damn awful thing that happened to her.”
“According to your statement, you heard a sound coming from her residence?”
“That’s right, kind of a whimpering sound. I thought it was a dog at first, which was a big no-no. Until I heard crying.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I knocked on her door, asked her if she was all right.”
“And did she reply?”
“No, she just kept making these whimpering sounds and crying. Like she’d just broken up with her boyfriend. You know how girls get at that age, so I just walked away and got on with my business. Luckily for her, I smoked in those days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because I’d take that break out on the fire escape, and just as I lit up, I saw below me a young man, in a big hurry, heading down the fire escape to the street below. Immediately I sensed something was wrong, so I went right back to that girl’s dorm, and this time I didn’t bother to knock or ask questions. I just used the master key to get in . . . and inside, there she was, tied to her bed. The evil in this world, Detective Churchill. I’ll never forget the look in that girl’s eyes when I found her.”
“And that’s when you untied her and called the campus police.”
“That’s right. They arrived shortly after that. I gave my statement, and that was that. End of story. The funny thing is, I thought for sure there’d be some follow-up, that I’d be talking to a detective like I’m talking to you now, but I never heard from the authorities or anyone for that matter. I figured eventually I’d hear about the rape in the news or read it in the papers, but I never did. It was like the incident never happened. A few months later, I was crossing campus heading home after a shift, and I spotted the girl. She saw me and smiled; she seemed all right. And that’s probably the last time I gave the whole thing a serious thought, until you called.”
“I know you couldn’t identify the young man you saw, but if you had to, could you make a guess?”
“No, it was dark. The angle I saw him from? Impossible. He wasn’t wearing a mask, I can tell you that. If anyone can identify the rapist, it would be the victim. You might want to ask her.” She nodded, her recorder capturing every word.
Content Warnings Recap:
- Sexual assault/rape (historical, via witness testimony)
- Trauma and victim impact
- Institutional cover-up vibes
- Homicide-related investigation
What was your favorite moment in this chapter?