Friday, December 169:25 p.m. Chapter One My wife, Sara, and I are hosting a faculty party at our home when the Clark Falls Police Department arrives to take me into custody. It's the last day of the fall semester. On campus, offices are darkened, final exams completed, lecture halls standing empty until the new year. Most of our colleagues, a few graduate students, and assorted companions have retreated here, at our invitation, to shake off the cold and brace for the holidays. The house smells like mulled cider and catered food. Hickory logs crackle in the fireplace while conversation bubbles and alcohol flows.
I'm at the foot of the staircase with Warren Giler, the chancellor's husband, where we've found common ground on Islay scotch, the '04 Red Sox, and a mutual ambivalence regarding faculty parties. Winter air threads its way into the festivities. "I'm sorry?" I hear my wife say. She's standing at the front door in her dress and heels, talking to a man in an overcoat. I see two uniformed officers behind him, breathing clouds on our stoop. "Can you tell me what this is about?" "Uh-oh," Giler says to me. "Those men look stern." He's right.
They do. "I'd better go help," I tell him. "You're not wanted, are you?" "Not to my knowledge. Possibly the music is too loud?" I chuckle and excuse myself. Sara gives me a worried look as I join her at the door. She looks terrific with her hair up. "Evening, guys." I smile.
"Cold tonight." "Paul Callaway?" "That's right." There are two squad cars parked in front of our house, plus an unmarked sedan in our driveway, behind the catering van. "Is something wrong?" The man in the overcoat reproduces the badge he's just shown Sara, a gold shield seated in a black leather wallet. He stands medium height, trim and efficient-looking, gray hair neatly combed. Detective Bell, according to the ID card. "Mr. Callaway, we're here to place you under arrest.
" "Excuse me?" Bell hands me a folded document. "I'll give you a minute to find a coat." Sara takes the papers out of my hand. "Let me see that." "Guys," I say. "Obviously there's a mistake." "I'll give you a minute," Bell repeats, "to find a coat." Our guests are starting to pay closer attention.
The simmering stew of conversation thins near the door. Sara, leafing through what appears to be a court-issued arrest warrant, takes a short breath and whispers, "Paul ." "I'm telling you, I don't even have any parking tickets. Arrest me for what?" "Suspicion of the sexual exploitation of a minor," Bell informs me, this time louder than strictly necessary. He produces a second document. "This entitles us to search the premises, as well as your office on campus." "My office on campus?" I don't even have an office on campus. I have a mailbox and a table I like in the faculty lounge.
In the pin-drop background, all conversation has ceased. I hear the silence rippling through the house, but I've had three rounds of scotch with Warren Giler and now I've lost my temper. "Let me see that badge again." "I can instruct the officers to handcuff and Mirandize you right here on the steps if that's the way you'd prefer to accomplish this." Bell looks me in the eyes. "But I can see that you're having a party." "Some detective." Sara says, "Paul .
" In spite of the shock I know exactly who's behind this little production. But it still doesn't make any sense. Sexual what? I picture all of this from the point of view of one of our guestssay for instance.