Murder at the B-School Read online

  Squash, Vermeer thought, nodding in a way that he hoped looked sympathetic. Who would be so bold as to tackle this guy on a squash court?

  The dean paused and then continued. “I haven’t seen much of you this year.”

  “No. But then, you keep us very busy.”

  Bishop smiled: a neutral smile. “Well, very good. And that’s all the more reason why I really appreciate your coming over on such short notice.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “There’s been an accident. You’ve probably heard.”

  “Actually, no,” Vermeer said. “I’ve been pretty much out of the loop today. I’m trying to finish an article.” This was literally true—it would be good to finish that article—but it was not accurate. His class had not met this morning, and he had used the occasion to go downtown and stoke his modest network with some friends in Boston’s small financial district. The visit had extended through a discouraging lunch. And his temp, filling in for the secretary who had left several weeks back for maternity leave, was a nocturnal guitar player who dozed by day. No one went to Sam the temp for breaking news.

  “Well, brace yourself, because it’s unpleasant. You remember Eric MacInnes, who was in one of your first-year Finance sections last year? He drowned in the whirlpool in Shad sometime late last night or early this morning. The time of death is approximate.”

  Vermeer took in this bizarre news. In fact, he remembered Eric MacInnes quite well. The HBS classroom was a surprisingly intimate setting, despite the ninety-student sections that most classes were taught in, and MacInnes had been a standout in that setting. Not because he had performed at a particularly high academic level. In fact, as Vermeer vaguely recalled, Eric MacInnes was always cutting intellectual corners, always putting himself at risk of being sent up in front of the future-chilling Academic Performance Committee, always skating up to the edge of academic probation and then skating away again.

  How? As far as Vermeer could see, MacInnes got through life by charm and seduction. God presumably had shortchanged the hundred souls ahead of and behind Eric in line, just to give extra looks, wit, and spirit to the sparkling-eyed, blond-headed kid up there at the front—just to let him strike those particularly graceful and self-confident poses.

  Of course, the fact that MacInnes came from a family that was rumored to be fantastically wealthy only heightened people’s interest in Eric, fueled speculation about what made him tick, and cut him some more unearned slack. His classic good looks, overpowered (but dinged and dusty) sports car, and quick wit drew the attention of most of the women in his section—and, Vermeer had noticed more than once, a second look from several male students.

  And the kid was a natural-born performer. Vermeer remembered one class in which MacInnes had simply taken over the second half of an eighty-minute class, playing “case method teacher” better than Vermeer himself had ever played the role. It was mainly doublespeak and verbal pyrotechnics—no content, no particular direction—but it was all hysterically funny. One student, Vermeer recalled, breached classroom etiquette by leaving the room suddenly and without explanation. She later apologized to Vermeer, blushing and explaining that she had been on the verge of “sphincter distress.”

  “Yes,” Vermeer said to Bishop finally, “I knew Eric pretty well.” He knew that his response should be more compelling, or nuanced, or counterintuitive. This circumstance had the smell of institutional crisis to it, and for some reason he was being invited in. But this only heightened his sense that he was walking on extremely thin ice. What was he doing here in this well-appointed office with the Fitz Hugh Lane oil painting on the wall, and the oversize ficus trees with their relentlessly shiny leaves, and his suddenly accessible dean?

  How did Bishop know that Eric MacInnes had been in his Finance class last year? There had been nearly a dozen other such sections running at the same time. And why did Bishop seem to care?

  Again Bishop smiled. “Yes. Very good. I thought you did. And the younger brother, too?”

  “Yes. I have James this year.” James MacInnes was at least two years younger than Eric, but—due either to Eric’s forced withdrawal from college for a period of time or (as another rumor had it) a period of over-the-top debauchery in Berlin—James had nearly caught up with Eric in terms of schooling. That was as far as the catching-up was likely to go, however. As a rule, Eric dazzled; James plodded. Eric wriggled through tight crevices solely on nerve and chutzpah; James picked up blunt instruments and chipped tediously through whatever mountain blocked the road ahead. As far as Vermeer had been able to tell, James didn’t lack for smarts. But he lacked and even seemed to disapprove of his brother’s glibness. Unlike Eric, he seemed determined to earn his way in life.

  Their lifestyles, too, underscored their differences. (This had been the subject of gossip in the faculty dining room one day, Vermeer recalled.) Eric lived in high style in Soldiers Field Park, adjacent to the Business School and the most expensive of all the Harvard-owned apartment complexes. James lived in an apartment in a somewhat dicey Cambridge neighborhood just across the river from the school. (Off the record, Business School students were advised not to use the footbridge over the Charles that connected that part of Cambridge with the Boston campus after dark.) And whereas Eric was conspicuously single, James had been married for several years already.

  It was remarkable, Vermeer now realized, that he knew as much about the MacInnes boys as he did. They were, in their own way, campus celebrities. Students and faculty alike lived vicariously through them. And now Eric, implausibly vital even in the high-voltage HBS environment, was, implausibly, dead.

  “Let me cut to the chase, Wim,” the dean continued. “The school is in a very unusual relationship with the MacInnes family. It would be a shame if this accident damaged our relationship.”

  Again Vermeer felt his brain working a little too slowly and coming up with uninteresting goods. After what felt like too long a pause, he responded, “I can’t imagine how it would not damage the relationship, Dean Bishop.”

  “Point taken.” The dean pushed himself up out of his chair. The cushion he had been sitting on gulped audibly for air. He turned three-quarters away from Vermeer and leaned toward the windows, as if to survey the tennis courts just outside the office. In fair weather he would have been rewarded with the sight of graceful young bodies at play. Now the scene was bleak, windswept, monochromatic. A few mock-Victorian streetlights cast light into the gloom. Bishop folded his arms behind his back, cleared his throat, and then continued.

  “I’m sure you know, Wim, that we have never been a favorite refuge for old money. I doubt that you have had large numbers of Rothschilds or Rockefellers in your classes. I know I never did, back when I was teaching.

  “The truth is,” he continued, “that we run a pretty pure meritocracy here. We recruit, we admit, and we train the ambitious and talented. If they come from humble origins, with lots of incoming debt, we loan them most of the money they need to get through the place. We put them under great pressure with the help of bright young people like you. In many cases, we even tear down and rebuild their personalities. This is good for them, and good for us. They learn how they work and how the world works at the same time. And they are grateful to us, eventually, for helping to sculpt and mold them.”

  He paused, then spoke again in his quiet voice: “But the MacInneses, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, are a very different kettle of fish. They came here mainly because the father, William MacInnes, became convinced that we could help him prevent the emergence of a generation of dividend-dependent coupon clippers within the family. He believes that a dose of reality here can prepare his heirs to reinvigorate the family businesses. And we believe he’s correct in thinking that way.”

  With long and graceful fingers, he tidied one of the already tidy piles of paper on the table. “So William MacInnes was taking active steps to toss his sons out into the rough-and-tumble of life,” Bishop went on, “where few members
of the family other than himself have been seen for several decades. He was willing to trade off some of the family’s hard-won privacy and insulation in return for a little vigor, vitality, and nerve. In that spirit, he entrusted both of his sons to us. And now one of them is dead on our watch.”

  Vermeer, although aware of Bishop’s reputation for figuring out what made people tick, was nonetheless impressed by the dean’s crisp recital. He wondered, irrelevantly, how Harvard’s president could have failed to see what he was getting into, ten years back.

  “I don’t know much about these circles, Wim,” the dean continued. “This is not my tax bracket. I do know that these kinds of people—very big money, very old money—talk a great deal among themselves. It’s possible they have no one else to talk to, or that they can’t even understand other kinds of people. The MacInneses took a very visible gamble, and now they have lost in a big way. The next time these kinds of people convene on one of their private islands somewhere, our reputation is likely to suffer some serious damage. Serious and, in my opinion, undeserved damage.”

  The dean turned toward Vermeer. “Wim, I’m asking you to look after the school’s interests in this situation. I want you to serve as our liaison. The rest of the family seems to know something about you, I assume based on what the kids have told them. I need you to help keep the people on this end, starting with Harvard, out of their hair as much as possible, although God knows that’s not going to be easy. I will do my best to encourage the good authorities of Boston to get this wrapped up quickly. You might be able to help with that, as well.

  “Talk to External Relations and find out whatever they’ve got on the family. And get hold of Marc Pirle. He’s wangled his way onto a couple of their boards. He’s offered to get you up to speed. Thanks. Keep me posted.”

  On that note, as the dean indicated by initiating a handshake, the interview was over. Getting to his feet, Vermeer felt the beginnings of a generalized intestinal dread. Babysitting for the MacInnes family was not how he had planned to spend his time in the next days or weeks. He needed a job.

  On the other hand, based on today’s lunch, the job hunt wasn’t giving him much comfort, either.

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great. Start tomorrow—no, start tonight. We’ll make sure your teaching group gets your classes covered.

  “And, Wim, we’re in uncharted territory here. Let’s be conservative. If you feel like you’re going to surprise me, tell me ahead of time.”

  3

  IF SHE COULD AFFORD TO LIVE AT THIS “SOLDIERS FIELD PARK,” Brouillard observed silently and a little bit sourly, she wouldn’t.

  The complex’s handsome brick exterior promised more than it delivered. The buildings weren’t cinder block and wallboard, but they weren’t much more than cinder block and wallboard, either. Sharp noises caromed down the hallways and back again. Somewhere in the building, someone was overdoing it with curry powder, no doubt annoying the neighbors.

  If you forced me to go to Harvard, she thought, I’d hold out for one of those Gold Coast apartment buildings over on Mount Auburn Street—high ceilings, walnut trim, the occasional working fireplace.

  Eric MacInnes’s apartment was much more than large enough for one spoiled rich kid. In fact, it was just about as big as the apartment in the Somerville two-family where she and her two brothers had grown up. Except that instead of sharing his two-bedroom suite with a noisy bunch of Irish-French-Canadian family members, Eric had lived with a treadmill, a Nautilus machine, a StairMaster, and other shiny fitness equipment in his spare bedroom.

  Brouillard took a notepad out of her pocket. “Nice work if you can get it,” she scribbled. It was understood around the department that nobody else looked at her notepads, ever.

  The same police photographer who had shot the Jacuzzi was now looking for something to photograph here. There wasn’t much. The dusting team looked busy, but they were only going through the motions. Whatever had happened hadn’t happened here.

  More notes: “Fastidious kid. A priss. Creature comforts. Silk sheets.” On to the closet, where several collections carried the silk motif forward. A remarkable collection of ties, she thought, diamond-racked on an expensive-looking tie holder. “Top drawer, bureau,” she wrote, “neatly folded silk handkerchiefs many matching ties in closet.”

  “Health nut,” after surveying Eric’s private gym. As she prowled in and out of additional corners of the apartment, this became a column heading with a growing list of entries: “treadmill. natural toothpaste. vitamins. magnifying mirror: pore check!” Based on a quick scan of the refrigerator and pantry, she added: “careful eater. no booze.” “Fruit bowl, full, on table,” she noted during one pass through the living room.

  “Hey, Captain,” called out one of the uniformed policemen, out of sight in the bedroom. “Here’s something you’ll want to look at.”

  Patrolman Offner sat cross-legged on the floor next to Eric’s computer station. The computer was on, displaying a spinning HBS shield screen saver. Onto what might have been a clean sheet from Eric’s closet, he had dumped the contents of a stylish white trash can. There were two small piles of trash: one getting smaller, the other getting bigger. With one rubber-gloved hand, he was holding the smallest possible corner of a slightly wrinkled piece of paper. “This was near the top. So far, nothing much else.”

  Brouillard gestured with her fingertips for him to spread the note out on the desktop. There was a tight band of type across the top fifth of the page, looking as if it had fallen into some standard default margins: an inch at the top, left, and right. Nice black type, she thought in passing. Nice to have a high-speed HP laser printer around, just in case you need it for your scribbles.

  This is now that was then, the scrap of writing began as if in midthought. I live in this winter that you have conjured up and coldly it infuraites me. What scent eminates from love that can’t be satisfied? Your scent. Our scent. Whatever we build together falls down collapsed flat. We are those inflatable structures, a tennis bubble, crushed under the snow. I wish we were there. I wish you were dead and sometimes I think you are.

  Captain Brouillard read the note quite a few times. Quickly, then slowly, then quickly again. “You’re right, Patrolman Offner,” she finally said. “That is an interesting piece of work. Please get a couple of copies for me after the dusters look it over. And tell the medical examiner that we’re very interested in the autopsy results.”

  4

  THROUGH INTERMEDIARIES, WILLIAM AND ELIZABETH MACINNES turned down Dean Bishop’s invitation to stay at the dean’s house while they were in Boston claiming the body of their son. Instead, they let it be known, they would stay at the Four Seasons, downtown.

  This was a bad sign. Most visiting dignitaries felt honored to be put up at the dean’s house, which one of Bishop’s predecessors had transformed from a down-at-the-heels brick pile (where deans no longer chose to live anyway) into the equivalent of a four-star inn.

  “Perhaps you should pay them a call at the Four Seasons,” Bishop had instructed Wim Vermeer by voice mail, filling him in on these developments. “You could again express our condolences, offer to cut red tape, escort them while they’re in town. Whatever they need. Meanwhile, my office will also be reaching out to them.” He left directions for getting in touch with the MacInneses.

  Vermeer dialed the number and explained his mission to a Mr. Ralph, who identified himself as a senior member of the MacInnes staff. After a moment’s consultation with someone else, Mr. Ralph returned to the phone and suggested a ten a.m. meeting. He would meet Vermeer in the hotel lobby, he said, and escort him upstairs.

  Now, fifteen minutes early, seated on a sofa among oversize floral displays in the main lobby of the Four Seasons, Vermeer felt more than a little out of place. His reasons for being here—with the cloying smells of cut flowers putting him in mind of long-ago ordeals at funeral parlors, marking the deaths of various aunts, uncles, and grandparents—
were murky at best. He was tempted to leave an excuse with the desk and bolt from the hushed and overheated lobby. He didn’t.

  The sepulchral quiet was broken when a trio of huge, muscular men in their late twenties swept in through the front door. All had on sunglasses, although the day was overcast. They scanned the lobby as they moved, heads swinging left and right, communicating in terse mutters.

  Sandwiched in their midst, swept along with them like a cork on a wave, was a second-tier martial arts movie star, whom Vermeer recognized from an action film he had seen on an ill-fated date a few weeks back. The actor was as handsome in person as he was on-screen. But he was surprisingly delicate—especially in contrast to his bodyguards, all of whom were half again as big as he was. He was younger than Vermeer would have guessed.

  As the security wedge snowplowed its way toward the elevators, a tightly packed bunch of about a dozen teenage girls burst into the lobby in pursuit. Giggling and laughing, some even squealing, mostly out of breath, they waved pens and autograph books.

  When the celebrity’s entourage reached the elevators, the trio of bodyguards shoved their valuable cargo toward the middle door, pushed the Up button, and spun 180 degrees on their heels with almost military precision. They flexed at the knees and leaned forward slightly as the noisy tide of girls crashed up against them. Giving ground by inches, they gradually pinned their employer against the still-closed door of the middle elevator.

  Vermeer stared at the actor. As it happened, the young celebrity was staring back at him, mainly because he was crushed against the highly polished brass elevator door and had no place else to look. When their eyes locked briefly, the star shrugged and produced a wan smile. Around the security wedge, the teenagers grabbed at his head and shoulders.

  An adjacent elevator arrived with a muted bong. Out of it strode a thirtyish brown-haired woman in a trench coat and baggy pants, coat collar turned up against the weather. Looking annoyed at having to make her way through this confusion, she navigated skillfully, fixing a neutral glance on Vermeer as she passed. Behind her came a tall, nondescript man in a funereal black suit, who slid in and took advantage of her wake, a rangy sea bird riding the wind currents behind his vessel.