Waverly Deaths Go Unsolved
It’s been a full three months since the last Waverly death, but as the spring semester comes to a close, an air of mourning once again looms over campus. Earlier this week, we reported that yet another freshman student, Anna Abernathy, was discovered unresponsive in her dorm room and was pronounced dead on the scene. Like the other victims, contusions on Abernathy’s body seemed to mark her death as a consequence of hazing. However, the police have yet to identify those responsible for these catastrophic grievances. Waverly University has a strict no-tolerance policy regarding hazing, and the board of governors has declared a suspension on all Greek life until they see fit.
Abernathy’s death marks the seventh and hopefully the final tragedy to befall our university this year. The Student Government Association will hold a tribute to the seven victims of the spring semester this Friday at 7 p.m. in the quad. Should you have any questions, please contact Poppy St. Claire or Stephen Wickes of the SGA.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the two points of contact for the SGA in 1985 were both members of BRS, right?” I asked Lauren, staring at the article.
“Probably not.”
“Coincidence?”
“Probably not.”
I sighed, leaned back in the armchair, and rubbed my heavy eyelids with the palms of my hands. “You said you decoded more than one file. What else did you find?”
“More of the same,” said Lauren, opening O’Connor’s other documents. “All Waverly Daily articles from 1985 reporting the freshman deaths.”
“O’Connor wouldn’t have honed in on that year if he didn’t think those students’ deaths had something to do with BRS,” I said. “If the Raptors were responsible, that would explain why shutting down Greek life didn’t stop the problem. The Raptors aren’t Greek, and they would’ve continued doing whatever they wanted. Did BRS haze you when you were a freshman?”
Lauren shook her head. “They wouldn’t dare. The extent of the freshman hazing experience depends on how deeply your family is rooted in the society. The Lockwoods founded BRS. If my father found out that any of the older Raptors had hazed me, he would’ve committed murder a lot sooner than this semester.”
“How comforting. But BRS does have a history of hazing?”
“It’s discouraged,” explained Lauren, crossing one leg over the other. “Hazing is distasteful, and I know my father won’t stand for it. The only problem? There have always been other members of the society that disagree with my father’s stance. They think freshmen should have to earn their place among us, especially those who don’t have family ties as historical as my own.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Donovan loves to haze the freshmen.”
“Nailed it. I caught him in the clubhouse last year doing some truly horrific things to our acolytes—that’s what we call the pledges—and I reported it my father. Donovan was reprimanded, but nothing really came of it. He still does it. He just takes it off campus.”
“Off campus?” I repeated, perking up. “Where?”
“No idea. I heard Donovan and Wickes talking about it once. Why?”
“Because I’d bet anything that they’re keeping Wes in the same place.”
15
At the warehouse, Wes wrestled with the duct tape around his wrists. Donovan had left him alone and been gone for well over an hour. In theory, that was plenty of time for a trained police officer to execute an escape attempt from a hostage situation, but the ibuprofen had only done so much, and the dull ache that persistently throbbed at the base of Wes’s neck was one hell of a distraction. Every tug at the duct tape was accompanied by a new stab of pain, and though he’d managed to loosen his bindings, it wasn’t enough to free his hands. Wes slumped in the chair, exhausted and cold, and wondered if Nicole was faring any better than he.
The door to the warehouse slid open again, and a gust of glacial wind rustled Wes’s hair. Donovan entered, this time leading a woman along behind him. She was tall, thin, and sylphlike, made entirely of graceful angles. She floated rather than walked toward Wes, and her dark eyes narrowed, honing in on Wes like a hawk singling out its prey.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McAllen,” she crooned, stopping short of Wes’s chair. She plucked her gloves from perfectly manicured fingers then shook a few snowflakes from her long, black hair.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My, my,” said the woman with a calculated smile. “I was under the impression that police officers were taught to treat their citizens with respect.”
“Not when those citizens are criminals,” growled Wes through clenched teeth.
“I disdain the word criminal,” replied the woman. “I quite prefer maverick or pioneer. You know, something with a little bit more pizazz. Donovan, fetch me a chair, would you? I’ve been on my feet all day.”
Donovan walked off, his footsteps echoing through the warehouse. The woman simply observed Wes, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Weston,” she said. “My name is Catherine Flynn.”
“Ah, I should’ve guessed.”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“Nicole’s mentioned you.”
Flynn arched an eyebrow. “Has she now?”
“I wouldn’t get so excited,” said Wes, fidgeting in the chair. “She didn’t have many positive things to report.”
“Yes, I’m afraid Miss Costello and I disagreed on several things including the topic of her thesis paper,” reported Flynn with an air of indifference.
“What else did you disagree on?” asked Wes in an even voice. “The level of psychosis required to murder a colleague?”
Flynn smirked, her silky black eyes reflecting the light from the fluorescents above. “I can see why Nicole adores you,” she said. “Handsome, intelligent, levelheaded even under stress. Any young woman would be lucky to have you. It’s a shame, really.”
“What is?”
“My dear, I don’t expect either one of you to survive the next day or so.”
Wes’s stomach lurched, but before Flynn could elaborate, Donovan reappeared with two additional folding chairs beneath his arm. He plunked them down in front of
