Back to my list. First up, Colin Abrams, currently a producer for an Omaha television station. I call the number for him listed on the website and get lucky.

“This is Colin Abrams.”

I launch into my spiel. “Hi, Mr. Abrams, my name is Brea Cooke. I’m a Dartmouth alum working on a book about incidents that happened on campus about twenty years ago.”

Nothing from the other end. Then: “And why did you call me?”

“You were a student reporter at that time, right?”

“Sure, me and about two hundred other people.”

“Well, I’m looking for information on a story about a Dartmouth football player who was accused of sexual assault. I have a source who says the reporter who was working on the story got threatened and the story got spiked. Was that reporter you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you remember the incident?”

“No, I don’t,” says Abrams.

“Is there anybody you know who might be able to help me?”

“Sorry,” he says. “I was on the paper for only two months when I realized print was dead. Wish I could help you, but I’ve got a show to prep.” He hangs up.

I’m oh for one.

And so it goes. I call a reporter at the New York Times, a spokesman for the Red Cross, a writer for CNN—none of them remembers the story or the threat.

My next try is Ellen Layton, editor, owner, and publisher of the North Empire News, a small-town newspaper in upstate New York. I run through my standard intro and hold my breath.

“Let me think,” says Ellen. And then: “Yes. Sure. I remember it.”

My heart starts thumping hard. I sit up straight.

“It was Floyd Whelan who got threatened,” says Ellen.

I tap the name into my notes.

“He was this really nerdy, gawky kid,” says Ellen. “His desk was next to mine. He was hoping that a police report would come out, but it never did. And after the threats, I remember him saying he was planning to bulk up, take some martial arts classes.”

“Any idea where Whelan works now?” I ask. I’m practically bouncing.

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Ellen? You still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Floyd joined the military but didn’t survive Afghanistan. KIA.”

A shudder runs through me. But I have to focus. I’ve got two more questions to ask. “Ellen, did Whelan ever tell you the name of the student who was assaulted?”

“No,” says Ellen. “He never did. Just that she was a freshman.”

“Did he ever tell you who assaulted her?”

“Shit, yes,” says Ellen firmly. “It was Cole Wright. You know, the First Gentleman.”

CHAPTER
23

Boston, Massachusetts

Garrett Wilson walks to a Dunkin’ on Parker Street about three blocks from the Boston police headquarters on Schroeder Plaza.

On my way to meet O’Halloran, he texts Brea. Wish me luck.

She texts back: LUCK. We need it.