|June on Whately road dee|
I read that the advice to “Follow the Money” is one of the most reliable predictors of success in solving crimes. Crimes were committed here. The police have not taken the situation seriously. While they want to retain a good relationship with the school, they do not seem to be investigating the recent spate of events with any vigor or real concern. I have come to the realization that to understand why the graveyard was violated, the swan was killed and butchered, and why I was threatened had to all revolve around money. The question that remains is, “What money?”
I am running down to the River this evening. I am not going to stay caged in my office or my house, waiting for the next shoe to drop. I am not going to buy into this threat.
I saw a brief glimpse of Kelly this morning as I walked to my office. I saw her figure but she did not linger. I missed the reassuring comfort of having her seated in my office while I worked. Now, I do not expect to see her. I feel just slightly deranged, off-balanced. I have not slept well for nights. It shows in my face, I noticed the circles under my eyes in the hall mirror as I headed out the door to put sneakers on for my run.
This run will let me blow off steam and recalibrate myself. I need the breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Now I feel the rhythm of my legs as each foot strikes the ground and my arm churn the air. Forward. Faster. I push myself until I feel the pulse throb in my temple, then hold that speed. All thoughts are forced out of mind by this concerted effort to drive forward using my own power.
A small grey square of metal begins to come into view through the cover of verdant trees and overgrowth. Each step forward, it grows larger. I see the hood of a car emerge, parked in a fire lane that runs beside the cemetery. That makes no sense to me. I check for the cameras up in the trees that have been trained on the graveyard to watch for suspicious behavior. They are in place. I wave at them, look at my watch, then hold up six fingers, point to my watch. A kind of time stamp, of sorts. Cautiously, I walk over to the grey Toyota Avalon. The license plate has been unscrewed from the back; there is none on the front. I vaguely recall seeing the car before. There is a Whately Prep parking sticker on the passenger side back door. It belongs to the community somehow. And the owner? That worries me. I weigh my options. It seems overly dramatic to call for help at this point -- though in my lifetime, I have never seen anything but a service vehicle down here. I hesitate to try the handles in case they need prints. I decide to finish my run to the river, if the car is still here when I return, I will report it when I get back to campus.
It is impossible to get back into the groove. I try. I am skittish. Can’t identify any real threats, but I am feeling very vulnerable, alone, out here in the woods. Then I am angry that someone has robbed me of the peace that my River runs usually restore to me.
Disgusted, I turn and march all the way back to Whately Prep. Someone is going to have to account for this situation.