The entire Thackeray College security team was crowded into Duncomb’s office, including Joyce Pilgrim, the lone female member. Thirty-two, five-five, one hundred and thirty-nine pounds, short brown hair. At Duncomb’s request, she had not shown up tonight in anything resembling a security uniform. She was in jeans, a pullover sweater, and a light jacket.
Duncomb wasn’t happy, but didn’t say anything. When he had first suggested to Joyce that she act as a decoy, in a bid to draw out the man who’d been attacking young women on campus, he’d wanted her to wear high heels, fishnets, and a skintight top. Joyce had pointed out that this sicko was attacking students, not hookers, and if she was going to be wandering the campus as bait, she wasn’t going to be spending her time fending off requests for blow jobs. She suspected Duncomb just wanted to see how she’d look in an outfit like that, the pig.
Maybe he was the predator, she thought.
Okay, she knew that wasn’t true. The description provided by the three women who’d been attacked so far didn’t match Duncomb. Not as tall as the security chief. Slighter of build. They knew they were looking for a young man, although they didn’t have much of a description. In each attack, he’d been wearing a numbered sports sweater with a hood.
When she took a job at the college as a security guard, she couldn’t have anticipated that she’d be doing something like this. What Duncomb expected of her sounded more like police work. Which was exciting and distressing at the same time. She liked doing something more important, more challenging than wandering around making sure lecture room doors were locked.
But still, she knew she wasn’t adequately trained for this. She had raised the point, and not for the first time, at the beginning of this meeting.
“God, you sound like that hick Promise Falls cop,” Duncomb said.
“What cop?” Joyce asked.
“He was here this morning, throwing his weight around, suggesting we didn’t know how to look after our own affairs. I spent eighteen years with the Boston PD. I think I know a thing or two more than some local hot shot who spends most of his time investigating the murders of forest creatures.”
“Huh?” Joyce said.
“Never mind. We’ve got this. And besides, you’ve got more backup than anyone could ever hope for. You got me, the boys here”—and he pointed to the three other men in the room, not one of them over the age of twenty-five, and all grinning like village idiots—“and most important, you’ve got protection in your purse, and I’m not talking condoms.”
The other three laughed.
Duncomb was speaking, of course, of the handgun he had provided Joyce. Not only had he given her a weapon, but instruction in its use. Almost three minutes’ worth.
“And we’ll be in constant communication,” Duncomb reminded her.
Joyce’s cell phone would be on the whole time, and tucked into her jacket. She had a Bluetooth earpiece that was hidden by her hair, not that anyone was likely to notice it late at night anyway. She could talk to Duncomb anytime she wanted.
“Okay,” she said hesitantly. She hadn’t even told her husband, Malcolm, what her security duties had entailed of late. He would have freaked out. But he was between jobs, and they needed her income. So she’d kept him in the dark.
Joyce hoped Duncomb’s instinct was on the money. That they’d get this guy tonight and she could return to checking locked doors and sending drunk kids back to their dorms.
“Now,” Duncomb said, “Michael, Allan, and Phil here, and me, are all going to be walking the grounds, no more than a minute away. Anything fishy happens, you just say the word and we come running. Okay?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Let’s roll,” the security chief said, Joyce thinking, The guy believes he’s in a TV show or something.
Just because it was dark didn’t mean the campus had gone to sleep. Far from it. Students were heading to and from evening lectures. Music spilled out of the residences. Two young men were playing Frisbee in the dark.
Very few women were walking alone. Thackeray’s president had put out a carefully worded advisory that it made sense for female students to walk in groups after dark. In pairs, at least. In an earlier statement he’d suggested women find male students they trusted to escort them from one part of the school to another, but that triggered a social media shitstorm within the college. Many young women were outraged at being told to find a man to protect them. Twitter hashtags like #needaman and #walkmehomeprez and #dontneedadick began to spread. Joyce thought, political correctness aside, it made a hell of a lot of sense, but she figured students were always just waiting for something to get angry about, and the president had played right into their hands.