Six Years by Harlan Coben Page B

believed that he deserved some sort of disciplinary action. We took a vote to have Trainor removed as chairman of the English department. I argued in favor of the punishment. There were simply too many incidents of this kind of behavior in his past. Interestingly enough, my beloved mentor, Malcolm Hume, did not agree.
    “Are you really going to blame Eban for students drinking too much?” he had asked me.
    “There are reasons why we have rules about fraternizing with students when alcohol is served.”
    “The extenuating circumstances don’t mean anything to you?”
    They might have, I guessed, if I hadn’t already seen Eban’s pattern of obvious bad behavior and poor choices. This wasn’t a court of law or a question of rights; this was a great job and a privilege. In my view, his actions warranted termination—we expel students for far less and with far less evidence—but at the very least, he deserved a demotion. Despite my mentor’s urging, I voted in favor of taking away his chairmanship, but I was outvoted by a wide margin.
    Those hearings might be long over, but the resentment lasts. I had used those exact terms—“broken rules,” “crossed boundaries”—during the supposedly closed debates. Nice to have my own words thrown back at my face, but maybe that was fair.
    “This particular student,” I said, “is dead.”
    “So his confidential file is now fair game?”
    “I’m not here to argue legal minutiae with you.”
    “No, no, Jacob, you’re a big-picture guy, aren’t you?”
    This was a waste of time. “I don’t really understand your reticence.”
    “That surprises me, Jacob. You’re usually such a rules follower. The information you’re asking for is confidential. I’m protecting Mr. Sanderson’s privacy.”
    “But again,” I said, “he’s dead.”
    I did not want to sit here, on this lemonade porch where my beloved mentor spent so many wonderful hours, another moment. I rose and reached for my laptop. He did not hand it back to me. He started doing the chin rub again.
    “Sit,” he said.
    I did.
    “Would you tell me why a case this old would have relevance to you now?”
    “It would be very hard to explain,” I said.
    “But it is clearly very important to you.”
    “Yes.”
    “How did Todd Sanderson die?”
    “He was murdered.”
    Eban closed his eyes as though that revelation made it all so much worse. “By whom?”
    “The police don’t know yet.”
    “Ironic,” he said.
    “How so?”
    “That he would die by violence. I remember the case. Todd Sanderson injured a fellow student in a violent altercation. Well, that’s not really an adequate way of stating it. In truth, Todd Sanderson nearly killed a fellow student.”
    Eban Trainor looked off again and took a gulp of wine. I waited for him to say more. It took some time, but eventually he continued. “It happened at a Thursday night kegger at Chi Psi.”
    Chi Psi sponsored a kegger every Thursday night for as long as anyone could remember. The powers that be tried to stop it twelve years ago, but a wealthy alum simply bought a house off campus specifically for their use. He could have donated the money to a worthy cause. Instead he bought a party house for his younger frat brothers to imbibe in. Go figure.
    “Naturally both participants were drunk,” Eban said. “Words were exchanged, but there was little doubt that Todd Sanderson turned this verbal altercation into something horribly physical. When all is said, the other student—I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name, it may have been McCarthy or McCaffrey, something like that—had to be hospitalized. He had a broken nose and a crushed cheekbone. But that wasn’t the worst part.”
    He stopped again. I picked up the hint.
    “What was the worst part?” I asked.
    “Todd Sanderson nearly choked the other student to death. It took five people to pull him off. The other student was unconscious. He had to be resuscitated.”
    “Wow,” I said.
    Eban