LITMIR.BIZ

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said.

      “I should get dental records of the two boys just to make certain it’s not one of them.” Decker shook his head. “I hate that. It panics the family and then if it’s not him, they crash. I’ll put something over the wire, also. This isn’t going to be a quick resolve. You’re back in school soon. You don’t have to concern yourself with this.”

      McAdams thought a moment. “You know—with the long, long hair and the nail polish—I can call up the LGBT Center in the colleges. I’m not saying our John Doe is gay, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”

      “He doesn’t fit the description of any of our missing boys.” Decker stood up. “What the hey. It’s a ten-minute walk to the colleges. The weather is beautiful. Your idea is worth a shot.”

      After Labor Day, Greenbury started gearing up for the cold weather. No more picnics, parades, or lazy days listening to impromptu acts playing in the park’s bandstand. Instead of swimsuits and shorts, the boutiques’ window displays featured the latest styles in sweaters, parkas, and ski-wear. Although autumn was still weeks away, all the local coffee shops and supermarkets featured anything with pumpkin.

      Walking the grounds of the Five Colleges of Upstate, it seemed to Decker that more students were sprawled out on the lawns than learning in the classrooms. The consortium sat on a sizable swath of acreage featuring manicured lawns and wooded land, all of it walking distance from the town of Greenbury. Each institution had its own dean, its own professors, its own campus and dorms, and its own identity. Duxbury was the oldest, a top-tier liberal arts college akin to Amherst or Williams with architecture that would blend into any Ivy League university. Clarion Women’s College was built in the 1920s with scaled-down brick federalist buildings adorned with hints of art deco. Morse McKinley was the government/economics college built after World War II. Students were taught in functional classrooms that sat in functional structures. The residence halls looked more like dingbat apartment buildings than college dorms. Kneed Loft was the smallest and most bunker-like of the five colleges. It specialized in math and sciences and engineering. Littleton, built in the ’60s, was the art and theater college. In its hallowed halls and environs, students grew their own kale, squeezed their own apple cider from the college orchard, and raised sheep for wool.

      The clubs, associations, and student centers were more storefronts than actual buildings, and all of them were located within a mile from one another. Most of them were considered Five C organizations, which meant that anyone from any of the colleges could join. There were dozens of places to find affiliation and camaraderie, and the LGBT Center was just one among many. The sign had been up for ages and someone had added a Q in bold, black marker after the T.

      As they walked into the room, a tiny bell rang. It was stuffy inside because it was still warm outside, and the place didn’t have air-conditioning. Several fans in the corner were blowing tepid air. The space held a large dining room table topped with dozens upon dozens of pamphlets dealing with everything from sexual identity—Was it even necessary to have one?—to safe sex that will rock your world. A moment later, a petite girl wearing shorts and a T-shirt strolled into the area from a back room. She had blue eyes and a pixie haircut. She stuck out a manicured hand, nails coated with pink polish.

      “Arianna Root.” She shook McAdams’s hand first and then Decker’s. “How nice of you to bring your son into the center. It shows a real willingness to be accepting. And I want you both to know that the Five Colleges are among the most liberal and tolerant colleges in the states. You won’t have any problems here, I assure you. How can I help you specifically?”

      Decker looked at McAdams, who said, “He’s not my father, and I’m not gay. But don’t be embarrassed. It isn’t the first time that someone has made either of those mistakes.” He pulled out his identification.

      Arianna’s expression went from cheerful to suspicious in a nanosecond. “You’re the police?”

      “I am,” McAdams answered. “We both are. I’m Detective McAdams. This is Detective Decker—”

      “Wait here a second.” Arianna disappeared and came out with reinforcements. His name was Quentin Lewis. He looked to be around twenty with short hair, brown eyes, and dozens of pieces of ear jewelry—rings, studs, and cuffs. He was slight of build and also wore pink nail polish.

      After introductions were made again, Decker got down to business. “Do either of you know what’s happening up on Bogat Trail?”

      “I’m not even aware of a Bogat Trail,” Quentin said. “I’m not much of a hiker.”

      McAdams explained the situation. “We have no idea if the guy was gay or not but because he had very long hair and an earring and nail polish, we thought we’d talk to someone at the center first. We’re not biased. We don’t need to be woke. But we have to start somewhere.”

      “What was the color of the polish again?” Arianna asked.

      “The nails had a purplish hue that has probably worn off over time.”

      “So it was dark when it was first applied?”

      “Probably.”

      “Our signature color is bubblegum pink so if he wanted to be identified with the center, his nails wouldn’t have been dark. Deep purple nail polish was all the rage about five years ago. It sounds like Vex or Vampire. How old is the body?”

      “To be determined,” McAdams said. “But it could be five years old.”

      “Obviously, I wasn’t here five years ago.”

      Decker said, “Is there anyone who was here five years ago?”

      “No, this is a student-run center,” Lewis said.

      “What about faculty members?”

      “The center is for the students,” Arianna said. “We do have LGBT faculty who are supportive and come to our events as a show of solidarity. But we run the show.”

      “But you might have faculty involved with the center for a long time?”

      Quentin nodded. “Sure.”

      Decker said, “Could you supply us with some names?”

      “I don’t know … privacy and all that.” Quentin turned to Arianna. “What do you think?”

      “I think we should contact the professors and ask if they want to help. This is not our decision to make. Sorry.”

      At that moment, a fortyish man in with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the center. He looked at Decker and McAdams and then at Quentin and Arianna. “Is everything okay?”

      “We’re from Greenbury Police Department.” Decker showed the man his badge. “And you are?”

      “Jason Kramer. I’m a professor of psychology at Duxbury. Why are you here?”

      “We found the bony remains of a young man yesterday afternoon near Bogat Trail. We’re trying to identify him. His physical description doesn’t jibe with any of the young men who disappeared from the colleges in the last fifteen years, but he could have been a former college student. We’re at the very early stages of our identification. We’re asking for help.”

      “Is there something that makes you think the man was gay?”

      “Long hair, earrings, nail polish. It’s just one avenue we’re exploring.”

      “If he wasn’t a student at the colleges, why would he be associated with the center?”

      “Students come and go. They transfer to other colleges, some transfer to here. And they graduate and revisit their old haunts.” McAdams smiled. “Like Detective Decker said, we’re at the very early stages and we’re trying to work with whatever information that we have available.”

      Kramer pursed his lips. “Describe him to me again?”

      Decker said, “Long, thick brown hair, one silver earring. He

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