Ashton uneasy

As Gurney was pulling in to the parking lot of the county building that housed the office of the district attorney, his phone rang. He was surprised to hear the voice of Scott Ashton, and more surprised at its new insecurity and informality.

“David, after your call last evening … your comments about people who couldn’t be found … I know what I said about the privacy issue, but … I thought perhaps I could make a few discreet phone calls myself. That way there wouldn’t be any question of my having given out names or phone numbers to a third party.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I made some calls, and … the fact is … I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but … it’s possible that something strange is going on.”

Gurney pulled in to the first parking space he could find. “Strange in what way?”

“I made a total of fourteen phone calls. I had the number for the former student herself in four cases, in the other ten the number of a parent or a guardian. One of the students I was able to reach and speak to. For one other I was able to leave a voice-mail message. Phone service to the other two had been discontinued. Of the ten calls I made to the families, I got through to two and left messages for the other eight, two of whom called me back. So I ended up having four conversations with family members.”

Gurney wondered where all this arithmetic was going.

“In one case there was no problem. However, in the other three—”

“Sorry to cut you off, but what do you mean by ‘no problem’?”

“I mean they were aware of their daughter’s location, said she was away at college, said they had spoken to her that very day. The problem is with the other three. The parents have no idea where they are—which in itself has no great significance. In fact, I strongly recommend to some of our graduates that they separate themselves from their parents when those relationships have a toxic history. Reintegration with one’s family of origin is sometimes not advisable. I’m sure you can understand why.”

Gurney almost slipped and said that Savannah had told him as much, but he caught himself. Ashton went on. “The problem is what the parents told me had happened, how the girls actually left home.”

“How?”

“The first parent I spoke to said her daughter was unusually calm, had behaved well for about four weeks after coming home from Mapleshade. Then, one evening at the dinner table, she demanded money to buy a new car, specifically a twenty-seven-thousand-dollar Miata convertible. The parents of course refused. She then accused them of not caring about her, aggressively resurrected all the traumas of her early childhood, and gave them the absurd ultimatum that they must give her the money for the car or she would never speak to them again. When they refused, she literally packed her bags, called a car service, and left. After that, she called once to say that she was sharing an apartment with a friend, that she needed time to sort out her ‘issues,’ and that any effort they made to find her or communicate with her would be an intolerable assault on her privacy. And that was the last word they ever heard from her.”

“You obviously know more about your ex-students than I do, but on the surface of it that story doesn’t sound that incredible to me. It sounds like something an emotionally unstable spoiled brat might do.” When the words were out, Gurney wondered if Ashton might object to that characterization of Mapleshade’s alumnae.

“It sounds exactly that way,” he replied instead. “A ‘spoiled brat’ stamping her feet, storming out, punishing her parents by rejecting them. Not particularly shocking, not even unusual.”

“Then I don’t get the point of the story. Why are you disturbed by it?”

“Because it’s the same story told by all three families.”

“The same?”

“The same story, except for the brand and price of the car. Instead of a twenty-seven-thousand-dollar Miata, the second girl demanded a thirty-nine-thousand-dollar BMW, and the third wanted a seventy-thousand-dollar Corvette.”

“Jesus.”

“So you see why I’m concerned?”

“What I see is a mystery about the nature of the connection. Did your conversations with the parents give you any ideas about that?”

“Well, it can’t be a coincidence. Which makes it a conspiracy of some kind.”

Gurney could see two broad possibilities. “Either the girls devised this among themselves as a way of leaving home—although why they would need to do it that way is unclear—or each of them was following the directions of an outside party without necessarily being aware that other girls were following the same directions. But, again, why is the real question.”

“You don’t think it was just a crazy scheme to see if they could force their parents to buy them their dream cars?”

“I doubt it.”

“If it was a story they devised among themselves, or under the direction of some mysterious third party—for reasons yet unknown—why would each girl come up with a different brand of car?”

A possible answer occurred to Gurney, but he wanted more time to think about it. “How did you pick the names of the girls you tried to reach?”

“Nothing systematic. They were just girls from Jillian’s graduating class.”

“So they were all approximately the same age? All around nineteen or twenty?”

“I believe so.”

“You do realize now that you’ll have to turn over Mapleshade’s enrollment records to the police?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite see it that way—at least not yet. All I know at the moment is that three girls, legally adults, left their homes after having similar arguments with their parents. I’ll grant you there’s something about it that seems peculiar—which is why I’m telling you about it—but so far there’s no evidence of criminality, no evidence of any wrongdoing at all.”

“There are more than three.”

“How do you know that?”

“As I explained before, I was told—”

Ashton cut in. “Yes, yes, I know, some unnamed person told you that they couldn’t reach some of our former students, also unnamed. That in itself means nothing. Let’s not mix apples and oranges, leap to some awful conclusion, and use it as a pretext for destroying the school’s guarantees of privacy.”

“Doctor, you just called me. You sounded concerned. Now you’re telling me there’s nothing to be concerned about. You’re not making a lot of sense.”

He could hear Ashton breathing a bit shakily. After a long five seconds, the man spoke in a more subdued voice.

“I just don’t want to pull the whole structure of the school down on our heads. Look, here’s what I propose: I’ll continue making calls. I’ll try to call every contact number I have for recent graduates. That way we can find out if there’s a serious pattern here before we cause irreversible damage to Mapleshade. Believe me, I’m not trying to be pointlessly obstructive. If we discover any additional examples …”

“All right, Doctor, make the calls. But be aware that I intend to pass along what I already know to BCI.”

“Do what you have to do. But please remember how little you actually know. Don’t destroy a legacy of trust on the basis of a guess.”

“I get your point. Eloquently expressed.” Ashton’s easy eloquence was, in fact, starting to get on Gurney’s nerves. “But speaking of the institution’s legacy, or mission, or reputation, or whatever you want to call it, I understand you made some dramatic changes in that area yourself a few years ago—some might say risky changes.”

Ashton answered simply, “Yes, I did. Tell me how the changes were described to you, and I’ll tell you the reason for them.”

“I’ll paraphrase: ‘Scott Ashton upended the institution’s mission, turned it from a facility that treated the treatable into a holding pen for incurable monsters.’ I think that captures the gist of it.”

Ashton uttered a small sigh. “I suppose that’s the way someone might see it, especially if his career didn’t benefit from the change.”

Gurney ignored the apparent swipe at Simon Kale. “How do you see it?”

“This country has an overabundance of therapeutic boarding schools for neurotics. What it lacks are residential environments where the problems of sexual abuse and destructive sexual obsessions can be addressed creatively and effectively. I’m trying to correct that imbalance.”

“And you’re happy with the way it’s working?”

There was the sound of a longer sigh. “The treatment of certain mental disorders is medieval. With the bar set so low, making improvements is not as difficult as you might think. When you have a free hour or two, we can go into it in more detail. Right now I’d rather proceed with those phone calls.”

Gurney checked the time on his car dashboard. “And I have a meeting I’m already five minutes late for. Please let me know what you can, as soon as you can. Oh—one last thing, Doctor. I assume you have phone numbers and addresses for Alessandro and for Karnala Fashion?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gurney said nothing.

“You’re talking about the ad? Why would I have their numbers?”

“I assumed you’d gotten that photo on your wall from either the photographer or the company that commissioned it.”

“No. As a matter of fact, Jillian was the one who got it. She gave it to me as a wedding present. She gave it to me that morning. The morning of the wedding.”