Thanksgiving 2001
Pinehurst, New Hampshire
John Phillips died peacefully in his sleep sometime during the early morning hours of Thanksgiving Day 2001, at his beloved country estate, three miles outside the sleepy central New Hampshire town of Pinehurst. His unremarkable passing was in sharp contrast to his life. A physical giant of a man, in 1958 he had assumed control of his father’s, and before that, his grandfather’s New England woolen mill, Phillips Textiles. A fixture in the New England woolen mill industry, family owned and operated for the entire 110 years of its existence, Phillips Textiles was an economic force in the region. John Phillips ruled with an iron hand. Cold, ruthless, yet fair, and possessing a fine business acumen he successfully guided the business through almost 30 years of unparalleled growth. Upon his death that Thanksgiving morning, Phillips Textiles’ assets were a reported $400 million. John Phillips himself would leave behind a personal fortune of $75 million. Upon his death John Phillips left behind a family that loved him, friends who admired him, some enemies and a substantial amount of money.
Behind the 100-year-old stone wall surrounding the family estate, in the large upstairs master bedroom overlooking the fading colors of the late autumn countryside, sometime in the cold gray early morning, John Phillips breathed his final breath. Martha Phillips, his wife of 48 years, discovered his still form, cold to the touch at 7:00 a.m. as she came in to wake him for breakfast, a routine she had done every morning for the entire 48 years of their marriage. Pale and shaking, she picked up the phone and called her granddaughter, Sarah Phillips, who in turn called Dr. Morris Glenn, the Phillips long-time family physician. Dr. Glenn quickly called for an ambulance and then telephoned Thomas Lawton, the family attorney. Within the space of 10 minutes, all three had arrived at the Phillips home. The ambulance was already parked at the front door. In the upstairs bedroom Morris Glenn gently lifted his old friend’s wrist and felt for a pulse while at the same time placing a stethoscope on his chest. After several moments he looked up at Martha and sadly shook his head.
“I’m so sorry, Martha.”
Sarah held her grandmother, both women crying softly. Glancing at Thomas Lawton, Dr. Glenn instructed the ambulance attendants to give the family a few private moments before removing the body. Outside the bedroom in the upstairs hallway, Dr. Glenn and Thomas Lawton quietly conferred for a few moments before Lawton left for his law office in Pinehurst. Little did the residents of this sleepy New England town realize that within twelve months, Ted Koppel of ABC News would be in their town broadcasting to the country an incredible story of human intrigue and tragedy.
Leslie Patton
Leslie Patton, dressed in dark clothing and a blue hat, carefully parked her old Willys jeep in the darkened and empty parking lot of Taylor Hall, on the Kingston College campus. Getting out, she cautiously looked around before walking briskly to the building’s main front door. She had every right to be there and in fact often worked at night. As the Assistant Director of Development for Kingston College she frequently made calls at night from her office. Nighttime was when people were usually home. Her job at the college required her to help manage the planned giving program and to assist in the raising of money for the college’s annual fund. She reported directly to Susan Anthony, the Director of Development, who in turn reported to Walton Trent, Vice President for Development. Trent and Dr. James Cannon, Kingston College President, would meet with the heavy hitters as she liked to call them: the people with money. Real money! Cannon and Trent would cultivate these people with the hope that eventually they would write Kingston College into their wills. The college would get them to establish a bequest such that upon death their estate or at least a portion of it would automatically revert to the college. Sometimes it would take years to cultivate people. Leslie’s job was to manage the complex details of the planned giving program. At any given time the college had upwards of 30 bequests in process. The taxation and legal documentation process kept her very busy.
Tonight, however, Leslie Patton wasn’t anxious for anyone to know she was in the building. She wanted to look at some files that were not in her office. She unlocked the heavy front doors with her key card and after glancing around at the quiet campus and seeing no one she hurriedly closed the massive front doors behind her. She knew campus security might come by especially after seeing the light on in the building. This didn’t worry her. She could easily bluff security if they found her in a nearby office. They would check her ID card and be satisfied. She would simply explain she needed the files. They didn’t know who worked where. These people weren’t the FBI.
Her footsteps echoed loudly in the spacious empty foyer as she made for the stairs to the second floor where she took them two at time. She was in good shape. At the top she turned left and hurried to the development suite. Unlocking the main door she quickly went into her office. She turned her light on and switched on her computer, calling up the planned giving file. She rapidly scrolled down the page to Elisabeth Ann Williams. There it was just as she remembered. Mrs. Williams had died at her summer home on Lake Winnipesaukee, leaving the college $2.8 million. Leslie went out to the outer office and looked in the official department files at the actual document file on Elisabeth Williams. The paperwork was in order. The college’s attorney and Mrs. Williams’s attorneys had all signed off. The document was notarized. All of the appropriate college signatures were there. It just didn’t make sense, she thought. She stood for a long time looking at the file before making up her mind. Her heart was beating faster now. She made up her mind. Earlier in the day she had secretly taken the master key to all of the development offices. She ran down the carpeted hallway to Walton Trent’s office at the end of the development suite and opened his door. His office was immaculate. The imposing cherry desk faced visitors. Two small but expensive wingback chairs were in front. To the left on his desk sat a sixteen-inch computer screen with a starry night screensaver glowing in the dark. Looking back and listening for any unfamiliar sounds, she went over and quickly typed in Walton Trent’s password. He would kill her if he knew she had stolen it. In a moment the screen showed the planned giving file program similar to hers. The main difference was his file was the official one and the one he used to develop the official donation documents. She scrolled down to Elisabeth Ann Williams’s name and moved the cursor over to the amount line. She was stunned. Her legs felt weak. Leslie blinked to make certain she was seeing the correct figure. She was. Her pulse raced. She closed the file and looked carefully around to make sure everything was as she found it.
She backed out of Trent’s office and closed the door. A moment later she was safely in her office sitting at her desk pondering what she had just seen. After 10 minutes of sitting she turned to her computer and after a few minutes of rapid typing stood up and turned off her office lights and left the development suite. She walked slowly down the flight of stairs and out the front door of Taylor Hall. The cold fall air helped clear her senses. She climbed into her jeep and headed out Old Vermont Road. The darkness seemed to intensify as she drove along. She felt the car begin to lose speed abruptly. She pumped the accelerator hard but to no avail. A mile out of town the jeep slowed to a dead stop. She looked at an empty gas gauge. Gosh, she must be losing her mind. She was sure she had recently filled it up at the Texaco in Pinehurst. She got out of the jeep and looked up and down at the dark empty road. She felt cold. Suddenly the yellow lights of an oncoming car coming from the direction of Pinehurst bounced off the dark trees. She breathed a sigh of relief. Soon the car’s lights illuminated her old jeep and began to slow down. She waved her hands and with an unsuspecting smile stepped into the path of the lights. The approaching car slowed, then inexplicably lunged ahead with unbelievable speed and smashed into Leslie with full force. It all happened in an instant. She had no time to get out of the way. The front bumper hit her legs first, shattering them both before thrusting her upward into the unforgiving windshield where her pelvis, chest and face suffered mortal fractures no surgeon could ever fix. She literally flew up and over the speeding car and hit the cold pavement behind with a horrible thud. The car slowed to a stop fifty yards ahead and paused as if to survey the damage, its engine idling quietly in the darkness. Suddenly, as if satisfied, it quickly sped off. Leslie lay there, in the middle of the country road, a lonely, bleeding and broken mass. Death would only be a few minutes away. Leslie Patton was discovered 30 minutes later by a deputy sheriff who was driving west from Pinehurst. The 29- year-old police officer came upon Leslie and at first thought she was an animal lying in the road. He stepped out of his cruiser and walking closer shone his heavy-duty flashlight on the scene. To his horror he saw it was a human being. His face white from shock, he quickly knelt over by the side of the road and vomited his dinner. The graphic image of a young woman’s horribly twisted body with broken bones protruding through the skin and permanently fixed mouth wide open in bewilderment, lying in a widening pool of blood, would stay with him the rest of his life. He had seen accidents but this was the worst. Wiping his face he went back to his car and radioed for assistance from both the police at Pinehurst and the sheriff’s dispatch in Concord. After placing the calls he went to his trunk and pulled out three road flares and lit them. Soon their fiery red glow illuminated the country night. Leslie Patton’s body grew increasingly cold, as she lay there surrounded by the warmth of the flares. Deputy Sheriff Walter Thompson, a young father of three girls, just stood there in the red glow of the emergency flares guarding the lifeless body of Leslie Patton, contemplating the fragility of life. Soon the wail of approaching sirens made him feel less alone.
[end of excerpt]
Dirk Barram was born and raised in New England. For several years he lived in New Hampshire, no doubt the source of some of the inspiration for his novel. He has an undergraduate degree (BA) in history from Gordon College, a small liberal arts college in Massachusetts. He earned his Master’s Degree from Kent State University and PhD from Michigan State University. He has over 30 years of experience working in two different colleges. He also worked for several years at Hewlett – Packard in the Bay Area of Northern California.
Dirk is married to an elementary school teacher. They have a son who started his own marketing consulting company and a daughter who is a senior in college. He lives in the small community of Sherwood, Oregon, a rapidly growing town twenty five miles outside Portland, Oregon.
Dirk teaches business at George Fox University. He is the undergraduate department chair and teaches business to mainly upper division business majors. He also teaches in the university’s MBA program. For over twenty years he was a college administrator. This experience provided him with a rich background to write this his first novel. He says he has now found his niche in teaching.
Dirk loved writing The College so much that he is currently working on a second novel.