******
She was a stunningly gorgeous brunette. She had her portrait done during her freshman year and despite the modest white blouse and sweater, there was no doubt, she was a beautiful woman. If she had any makeup on, I couldn't tell, and that made her beauty all the more powerful. Her eyes were deep brown, and her hair was a full-bodied halo of dark tresses to her shoulders.
Included in the package from her family was her dorm address at Cecil Smith and letters she had written to her family while there. In the letters were a few names of friends she had met while living in the dorm. It was enough to get started on.
I had my partner, Ernie Twillfigger, start the paper trail search for Myra Kincaid. The next Monday morning, I threw in the front seat a Bible I had stolen from some Vegas hotel stay and got in my car for the two-hour drive to Cecil Smith College, Greenville, S.C.
When I arrived, I locked my .38 in the trunk, grabbed my-never-been-opened Bible and took a stroll on campus. As I walked around in the cool crisp air, I took note of the young students walking around campus. I had to admit, especially after gaudy excesses of the Seventies, it was like going back in time to the fifties. All the boys had short, neat hair, wore coats, ties and slacks. All girls were wearing knee-length dresses and not one sign of any cleavage was visible anywhere. I sort of fitted in. I was wearing my standard dark suit, white shirt and thin tie. My hair was close cropped, blond and slowly receding.
My hair and my clothes were about all I had in common with these geeks. Cecil Smith College was renowned in this part of the U.S. as the epicenter of higher education for “Bible Thumpers.” As I walked around the small campus, I remember thinking about what drove a normal, healthy male to attend a school that frowns on fornication, beer and whores.
I made my way to the main administration building and found my way into the student services office. I went in, signed my name on the waiting list and set down to wait for my turn. Bored, I opened the Bible I was carrying and was pleasantly surprised to find out that it had pictures. There was one of Jesus, then one of a Viking-type dude praying at a tree with his sword and a box, then pictures of Jesus with a bunch of—Aztec Indians?
I was about to figure out what the hell that picture was about when my name was called by an administrative assistant. Slamming my now-newly-opened Bible shut, I got up and made my way to lady and asked her if we could sit and talk. She smiled and told me to follow her to her desk. I did and was soon in her a chair looking at her as she took her chair. The name plate on the desk said, “Marsha Clinton.”
“What can I do for you Mr.—Dafoe? Correct?”
“Yes ma’am, just like the writer. I’ll try not to waste your time. I’m a Private Investigator whose practice is geared towards people of the true Christian faith. I know it sounds odd, but as you well know just because you know Jesus doesn’t mean life is perfect. All part of the struggle of life the good Lord sees fit to let us live so that we might know his way and to make us better souls for that day of reckoning. I’m here to help them over some of—let’s just say—the rougher spots that life throws their way.”
I smiled and let her see me tuck my Bible under my arm, then showed her my P.I. identification.
She took my ID, examined it for a moment then sharply looked at me.
“Did you bring a firearm on campus?”
“Don’t believe in them, ma’am. I place my faith and trust in the Lord.”
“Amen to that Mr. Dafoe, so what can I do for you?”
“My clients are Malcolm and Sandra Kincaid of Shelby, North Carolina, whose daughter, Myra, spent a year at this fine school three years ago before, inexplicably, leaving it and writing her parents that she was cutting off all contact with the school, and more importantly, her parents.”
She frowned at me for a moment and then got a notepad out. “The name was Myra Kincaid, correct? And her parents name again?”
“Malcolm and Sandra, hometown Shelby.”
She scribbled the information down then got up.
“Give me a few minutes,” and she walked out of her small office.
About five minutes passed and then she returned with a folder. She sat at her desk and opened it. She read it for a few minutes and then looked at me.
“Yes, your facts check out. I just had to make sure. She was planning on a music major and by all accounts played the piano beautifully. Concert quality, in fact. Her professors noted that she was a rare find. And, as you state, she did her full freshman year and then never came back. I understand her parent’s pain, but how can we help?”
“During her freshman year, she did write regularly to her parents, and she mentioned in her letters several names of her closest friends.”
I reached inside my coat and pulled out my small notepad. I flipped it open and read off a few names.
“She mentioned a Teresa Ruckel, an Elizabeth Parks and made mention that her best friend was a fellow music major, Cassandra Hyde. By my reckoning, this should be their final semester here. If I could talk to them, especially Miss Hyde, I might be able to glean some information or facts that might help bring peace to this broken, but God-fearing family. Of course, I don’t want to barge in without you and the administration knowing I’m here. That would be disrespectful and not the way I do business. So I came here and am asking you and your college to be my partner in helping this family possibly save their daughter. I’d only need a few minutes of the girls’ time, and we can do it in a public space of your choosing.”
I put my notepad away, touched the Bible under my arm and then looked at her expectantly.
She frowned for a moment then said, “I’ll need to talk to the Dean. Can you wait here for a few more minutes?”
“Of course, take your time. I want to do this the right way. That’s why good Christian people come to me for help. They can count on my honesty and my faith in the Lord.”
I waited in that office for about thirty minutes. Then the Clinton woman walked back in and sat in front of me.
“I talked with Ronald McAlister, the Assistant Dean. Dean Chesterfield is on medical leave for while he recoups from some major surgery, so Ron is in charge. He was here when Miss Kincaid quit and actually remembers talking to her parents when they were first trying to figure out what went wrong. He thought the matter was settled when he never heard from the parents again. Since she is twenty-two, he has no objection with you talking with Cassandra Hyde, in fact he couldn’t really stop you if he wanted to. All you would have to do is wait until she is off campus. He does hope you can get enough information from her so you don’t have to bother any other students. We took the liberty and called her dorm to talk to her. She has no objection to an interview, is free for the rest of the day and said she is waiting for us at the Commons room in her dorm, Winterworth Hall. I’ll take you there and will discretely sit off to the side while you talk with Cassandra. I hope you are satisfied with this arrangement. It's the best and most we can do—I hope you understand.”
“Ma’am, I couldn’t ask for more. I thank you, and I am sure I can say on behalf of the Kincaid family, thank you. Err—God bless.”
I got up and follow her outside and walked to the dormitory.