A woman’s scream interrupts him.
It’s coming from outside.
CHAPTER 8
Cross
ALEX AND BREE PULL into the parking lot of the campus public safety building at the end of a row of blue-and-white cruisers, all marked with the Chapel Hill campus police security logo.
As he shuts off the car, Alex hears a commotion nearby.
“What’s happening?” asks Bree, looking around for the source of the noise.
From the driver’s-side window, Alex sees that a fight has broken out among a bunch of students, maybe a dozen of them, in front of a wooden kiosk across the street. From what he can tell, it looks like one group is trying to prevent the other group from tearing down some kind of poster. It’s getting ugly; lots of grabbing and shoving, even a few punches. Two campus police officers are running toward the fracas.
On any other day, Alex would have hustled over to see what theproblem was and try to help calm things down. But this is not any other day. He grabs Bree by the arm as they head for the security building. “Ignore it,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Inside, Bree flashes her old DC Metro Police chief of detectives badge. Alex shows his FBI consultant credentials. A minute later, they’re sitting in the office of Chief Rupert Amberson, a handsome man in a tailored gray suit. His office walls are lined with crowded bookshelves and framed photos.
Amberson offers a cordial greeting. “Dr. Cross, Chief Stone, welcome to the University of North Carolina. What can I do for you?”
Bree leans across his desk. “You can help us find our son.”
“Find him?” Amberson picks up a pen and pulls over a legal pad. “Sorry, I don’t understand. Tell me what’s going on.”
“My son’s name is Damon Cross,” says Alex. “He’s here doing graduate work in psychology. We’ve been informed that he’s been missing for three days. He’s not answering emails or texts, and calls to his cell phone go straight to voicemail. We got a call this morning from one of his professors, and she told us that no one is answering the door at his apartment, and the place looks dark.”
Bree adds, “This isn’t like Damon at all.”
Amberson looks up from his pad. “Grad-student housing is in the Baity Hill apartments. I assume that’s where he’s living?”
“No,” says Alex. “He’s renting an apartment on Maxwell Road with his girlfriend. Her name is Melissa Lange. She’s a grad student here too.”
The chief puts down his pen. “Well, that changes things.”
“How so?” asks Bree.
Amberson lifts his shoulders. “Maxwell Road is off campus. Students who live off campus are not under our jurisdiction. Our hands are tied.”
Bree shakes her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Alex raises his voice. “Then you need to untie your damn hands!”
“Hold on a sec,” says Amberson. He rifles through the contents of an in-basket, pulls out a sheet of paper, and hands it over. “See for yourself.”
Alex and Bree lean forward. The paper has a light blue Carolina Housing logo over a black heading:MISSING PERSON PROTOCOL.The rules are underneath.
In accordance with federal, state, and local law, the following protocol has been established to outline the university response procedures in the event university officials receive a report that a person residing in on-campus housing is missing.
Alex barely makes it through the opening paragraph before crumpling the paper in disgust.
“Protocol?” says Bree, her tone icy. “Damon is a student here, isn’t he? He’s in the PhD program, pays his student fees. And you’re telling us you can’t do anything?”
The chief’s concerned look now seems pasted on. “I’d like to help, but legally, I can’t—unless you know that something happened to him while he was on campus.”
“We don’t,” says Bree. “Right now, we don’t know anything.”
Amberson stands up. Clearly, the meeting is over. “Folks, you need to contact the Chapel Hill Police Department. Talk to Detective Hugh Malone over there. I’ll make sure we keep an active interface with him.”
