On Patrol

A NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN WITH SAFETY & SECURITY.

It's 6:30 ON a Friday night in January, already pitch dark, well below freezing and growing colder by the hour as Safety & Security (S & S) officer Valerie Maxwell sets out on her 10-hour shift, settling in behind the wheel of one of the departments four new Ford Escapes parked in the lot behind Dicks House. I'm in the back seat, along for the ride with photographer John Sherman.

"These are pretty nice, aren't they?" the 33-year-old mother of three says into the rearview mirror as she pulls out onto Maynard Street to begin a slow circuit around campus. "We lease them from Enterprise."

Our first swing is through Dewey Lot below the Medical School, where a dozen or so people stand under a light, stamping their feet while they wait for the shuttle to Leede Arena and Thompson Rink. Men's hockey and basketball both have home games tonight, the first big weekend after winter break. As we drive by a couple of the shuttle-riders wave. Most of them ignore us.

Occom Pond and the Outing Club house are both dark and empty, as are the pottery studio and unmarked warehouse just across the river in Norwich. "If it's College property we check it all, mostly drive-by. The guards—they're separate, not officers—go inside the buildings, like night watchmen. They're on foot. That's how I started. Twenty miles a night. I lost weight." She laughs. On the back of the warehouse a piece of faded urban graffiti shows as the headlights sweep over it. That's been there a while," says Maxwell. "We staked it out for a while, but no one came back."

Many of S & S's 34 unarmed employees are ex-cops. Maxwell is an ex-Marine. "Well, not 'ex,' " she laughs. "Once a Marine, always a Marine, right?" I mention that President Jim Wright is a Marine. "Really?" she says into the rearview. "I didn't know that. Something we have in common."

Back across the Ledyard Bridge there's a bit more activity. On the radio a scratchy voice: a car on fire at the Irving. Maxwell listens carefully as she cruises slowly past the Inn and the Hop. "Had to think there for a minute. That's the old Foodstop, now Irving. That was Sgt. Wayne Agan and officer Ken Holbrook, a couple of our guys, calling it in. Hanover will handle it."

At the gym a couple of Hanover fire engines come racing by, heading the other way. Maxwell drives down East Wheelock to dimly lit A Lot. The Big Green Bus is there. So is a rack of bicycles. Both are snowed in, looking like they haven't moved since fall term. A couple who had just parked a car walk toward campus. "Pretty quiet," I observe.

"You should see it between sessions," says Maxwell. "You can't believe how dead it is. Like driving around in a zombie movie." She laughs. "Want to go do some security checks?"

As an aid to the oversight function of the College's office of residential life, S&S performs routine safety checks on Dartmouth's seven sororities, 13 fraternities and three coed Greek houses. On Maxwell's schedule for tonight are Sigma Phi Epsilon, Bones Gate and Kappa Kappa Gamma. We start with Sig Ep, where Maxwell raps on the front door with her telescoping baton, then opens it with one of the keys on her ring. There are a lot of keys on her ring.

"Safety & Security!" she calls out. No one answers and in she goes, followed by Sherman and me.

"Fire doors and safety lights, that's primarily what we check," Maxwell explains as she proceeds quickly though the house, starting in the basement and working her way upstairs. Maxwell checks the basement egress: It opens okay. At each safety light she reaches up with her baton to press the test button. On the second floor we're met by a sleepy looking brother coming barefoot out of his room.

"Hey," he says when he sees who it is. "How's it goin'?" He goes back into his room. On the shelf above the communal sink in the hallway are toothbrushes, shaving cream, a chisel. The usual. It's a fraternity house.

Bones Gate is even emptier. As Maxwell and the two of us come inside we're met by a large black dog coming down the main stairs, cocking its head tentatively at the three intruders. It looks like a Rottweiler mix but it's friendly and joins our tour, wagging its tail and leading the way. Fresh 1,000-drinking-cup cartons are stacked outside the television room; on the large screen a video game is on pause, the three rows of hard-used stadium seats empty.

In the basement the floors are freshly scrubbed, the pong tables dry, the stale beer smell not much more than an old memory. "First weekend back," nods Maxwell. "Somebody cleaned up. They're not usually like this." The emergency lights all work, the safety door is fine, fire extinguishers are where they should be. Behind the bar there's an open door, behind it a darkened room.

"That's usually closed. We're not supposed to go into closed rooms that don't have safety considerations, but if it's open we can. If they had illegal kegs that's where they'd be. But then the door would be closed, wouldn't it?" She heads back upstairs.

Outside, the dimly lit walkway is icy and slick. At the side door a truck from Ramunto's is delivering party packs of pizzas, subs, water. It's 8 o'clock and the houses of fraternity row are silent and empty, the length of Webster Avenue dead and cold as an abandoned mill town. The parties won't get rolling for another three hours. "Where is everybody?" I ask.

"Lets go see," says Maxwell, smiling.

two college bands are in full, deafening duel. The Golden Knights seem 80 percent percussion, the Big Green 90 percent attitude, marching around the mezzanine and drawing school-age kids like a band of green-and-white-striped pipers. It's warm, well-lit and extremely loud; everything that the ghostly Webster Avenue hadn't been. On duty near the concession stands are Sgt. Mark Lancaster and officers Tonya Carpenter and Shane Harlow. It's been an easy night so far, they tell me, just one incident, a 10-year-old struck by a puck. "But he's okay now," shouts Carpenter, her voiced raised over the din. A cheer goes up as the teams come back on the ice.

Outside it's quiet again. As we reach Maxwell's vehicle I ask her what all the equipment in the back is. "Defibrillator, hazmat kit, fire extinguisher and a bat net," she answers. "They're all there because they're all needed on campus. The first three are fine with me. I'll even put on the hazmat gear. But I don't want to get a call for the bat net. That's creepy."

"There really are calls for the bat net?" asks Sherman as we get back in the Escape.

"Oh, yeah."

At Leede it's Dartmouth 61, Harvard 52 with 3:32 left in the game. Another loud, happy crowd. As we walk in at the top of the stands, a big cheer: Dartmouth 63, Harvard 52. Down at court level Sgt. Rich Gavell is enjoying the 'game with Hanover police officer Jeff Ballard. 'Anything happening?" I ask.

"Good game," smiles Gavell.

"Good crowd," agrees Ballard. He's smiling, too.

Collis Center is next on the circuit. The whole campus, it seems, has gone to the two sporting events: The building is quiet and practically deserted. In the television lounge a half-dozen students are silently watching Barack Obama answer a question on that nights CNN presidential primary debate. Two others are on duty behind the information desk. Maxwell picks up the lost-and- found items they've collected—a pullover fleece and a few smaller items. Collis Cafe is deserted and Commonground is cavernous and empty, save for a pair of students peering intently at the screen of a laptop computer on the far side, heads close together and talking quietly.

Before she makes her next campus circuit, part of the hundred or so miles she'll drive that night, Maxwell drops Sherman and me at the S&S offices.

TWO HOURS LATER SGT. ANDY SUMNER AND OFFICER Bill Bean are getting ready for their tandem tour doing required safety checks on the four open social events registered for that night. Sumner, a jovial and relaxed 50-year-old with a British accent, is the patrol supervisor for his 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. shift. He's standing behind the television monitors and radios of the dispatch center on Rope Ferry Road, chatting with Wayne Agan, a former New Hampshire state trooper and his counterpart for the 4 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift. The shifts are designed to overlap during the peak activity hours of 10 to 2.

Dartmouth social organizations that sponsor an event at which alcohol is present must adhere to the Colleges social event monitoring procedures, a nine-page document that spells out the required training and procedures for each of four kinds of events: members only, closed, open and 'tails. An open event is one with more than 80 participants; it must be registered in advance with Student Affairs and is subject to on-site monitoring by S&S. To- night there are four registered as such: Alpha Delta is expecting 350, Tri-Kap 400, Sig Ep 350 and Alpha Theta is having open 'tails for 130. Alpha Theta will start at 10, the three keg parties at 11. Not counting the unregistered, closed parties at other houses, Sumner and Bean will spend part of their upcoming shift in fraternity basements with 1,200 hard-partying students. So, it appears, will Sherman and I.

"They don't want us there," says Sumner. "I don't blame them. I wouldn't want me in there, either. We try to get in and out as fast as we can do the work. Maybe 10 minutes if everything's right. It usually is on the first check. They know the rules."

The rules are simple enough to follow. Or just complex enough to get broken, as Sumner and Bean know. Tonight won't be their first time at a frat party. "It's on the second check, around 2 or 3 in the morning," says Sumner, "that some of them get it wrong. Shall we go?"

As Sherman and I settle into the back seat I ask Sumner how this stacks up as a typical party night. "Not bad," he says. "It's not one of the big three, like Winter Carnival, but it should be rockin'. Friday is always the big night."

"Not sure," he answers. "Six or seven years ago?"

"About that," nods Bean. "Been this way for a while anyway."

The first visit is to Alpha Theta, since its party started an hour before the others. "They know we're here," says Bean as the S & S vehicle pulls into the icy driveway beside the house. "We won't find anything. They're good kids here."'

with the social chairman, pointing out that some of the drinkers aren't wearing the red wristbands the monitors were required to give out after checking IDs at the door.

"Not a problem," says Sumner as we all get back in the Escape. "They'll have it corrected by the time we come back later. Are you ready for AD?"

"Is anyone ever ready for AD?" I say. Bean and Sumner both laugh. "Haven't met one yet," says Sumner.

As Sumner drives down North Main Street two Hanover police cruisers have a small car pulled over in front of Collis, their blue lights flashing. Bean watches from the passenger side. "We have a good working relationship," he comments. "They own the town streets, we own the Colleges. If I had seen they had a problem there I'd have jumped out to help. I've done that."

At quarter to 12 we pull into the narrow, dark driveway between AD and Heorot, where two women are in an intense conversation. They barely move out of the way, don't even glance at the S&S vehicle as it inches past them. On the front lawn a husky-mix lies in a dingy snow bank, eating something. Picking their way across the snow-covered lawn toward the house, a small group of party-goers approaches, half-lit silhouettes under a streetlight with the darkened mass of Sphinx behind them.

Sumner and Bean are met on the porch by a brother: "May I go get the social chair, sir?" The social chairman arrives in T-shirt and jeans, a blast of heat coming out of the door behind him, is introduced to Sherman and me and escorts all four of us through the high-ceilinged, sparsely furnished living room. It seems unchanged since the spring Sunday in 1967 when I stood in the same room listening to the brass-in- strument matinee of Baby Huey and Baby Sitters, my fellow invited Theta Delt brothers and me tossing empty Ripple bottles at the tuba player in appreciation whenever the Chicago-based band hit an off-key crescendo and tried to blow out the windows.

On the tight, winding stairwell to the basement people are moving in both directions; it's impossible to pass withoutcontact. Downstairs it's crowded and dark, smelling of spilled beer in the middle and stale urine in the gutter around the cement walls. Using his flashlight behind the bar Sumner checks the numbers on the keg tags against those on his clipboard. The numbers are good, but there are cans of beer being consumed, too. Not good. The basement safety egress is blocked as well. Over the party din and thumping music Bean and Sumner explain the problems to the social chairman. Same story: Get them fixed before we come back and there will be no repercussions. While they talk a partier urinates against the wall. No one seems to care.

Back up the winding stairs and outside. The dog is still chewing, people are still streaming in across the lawn in the dark. Back in the Escape Bean rubs his hands with Purell hand sanitizer, offers some to Sumner, then passes the small bottle to us in the back seat. "Use it," he says. "Trust me.

At Tri Kap the scene is better: The social chair at the door is smiling, the living room dark and throbbing with music and pairedoff dancers, the basement a frenetic mix of chattering people, beer pong and better human odors. Much better human odors. While Bean and Sumner check the keg tags, the junior social chairman approaches me, asks me why I'm there. At my answer the student nods. "How's this compare to what you had?" he asks.

I look around. "It's not that different," I say. "In fact, it's pretty much the same."

"That's cool," the student nods again, then drifts away, beer in hand.

I drift away, too, back up the stairs and out onto Webster Avenue, stepping around the line of bundled-up students waiting to go inside. It's cold and it's late. The parties are just getting rolling. Sumner and Bean appear shortly thereafter, asking Sherman and me if we want to keep going with them on their rounds. Sherman looks at me and shakes his head. I turn back to Sumner and Bean.

"Nope," I say. "Thanks. I've seen it."

Into the NightSgt. Andy Sumner,with officer Bill Beanbehind the wheel,cruises out tocheck on registeredcampus parties onJanuary 11, a busyFriday nightin Hanover.

Late Shift On the same Fridayevening officer TonyaCarpenter monitors abank of video screens atthe dispatch center (left)that is fed by 18 camerasacross campus, whileofficer Valerie Maxwellconducts a safety checkat Sigma Phi Epsilon(right) prior to a party."This is as clean as itgets," she says. OfficerShane Harlow(far right) patrols themen's hockey gameat Thompson Arena.

A Good Night's Work The shift continueswith stops at variousfraternity parties(left and above) whileSgt. Rich Gavell stands watch at Leede Arena (right) during the basketballgame againstHarvard.

Guns on Campus The arming of safety and security departments in the eight Ivies varies considerably from campus to campus. All of Dartmouth's 34 security employees are unarmed and unsworn, meaning they are not police officers sworn to uphold the laws of the state. At Cornell it's just the opposite: Every one of the Big Red's 54 officers are armed and sworn, with full powers of arrest. All of the 116 sworn officers at Penn's urban Philadelphia campus are armed, but interestingly enough, Columbia's 110 in even more urban Manhattan aren't, Brown splits the difference: 35 of its 56 officers are sworn and armed. "It's a question of mission and purpose," says Harry Kinne, College proctor and director of S&S at Dartmouth. "Here at Dartmouth we enjoy a relatively safe and secure environment. We're more serviceoriented than protection-oriented, but of course at the top of our mission is the safety and protection of people and property. When we need them we've got the Hanover police right here. We work very closely with them whenever it's appropriate." The gun question, as it does everywhere in America, produces anomalies. Though Dartmouth's officers are unarmed, the department does provide secure storage for student firearms. With proper training, a student can keep a rifle or shotgun in a locked gun room that's under 24-hour guard at S&S. The department even offers a hunter safety course. When I asked Maureen Rush, vice president for public safety at Penn, if her department offered hunter education, she wasn't sure what I was asking about. When I asked her if Penn offered storage for student-owned firearms, she replied with a vehement, "No!" Depends on where you live, apparently.

The Clerv Act Thanks to the 1998 Clery Act, all post-secondary institutions, public and private, receiving any kind of federal financial assistance are required to disclose campus crimes in three forms: an annual statistical report, a daily campus crime log, and timely reports of any crime that presents an ongoing threat to the campus community. The detailed annual statisti- cal reports, including those for Dartmouth, can be found online at ope.ed.gov/security. Officially titled the Jeanne Clery Disclosure of Campus Security Policy and Campus Crime Statistics Act, the law is named after the 19-year-old daughter of Constance and Howard Clery Jr. '53, Tu'54. Jeanne Clery was raped and murdered in her Lehigh University residence hall in 1986 by a serial perpetrator known to be in the area by the local authorities but not by potential victims such as Jeanne Clery. Determined to prevent future tragedies, the Clerys devoted themselves to the passage of the law that now memorializes their daughter. Howard, a member of SAE, Green Key and Casque & Gauntlet, served as both vice president and president of his class while an undergraduate. He died of a heart attack in January.

Dealing with Alcohol: The Legal Lowdown If the gun question has eight different answers among the Ivies, the alcohol safety question has one: It's the drunken elephant in the room. Everything else is minor. What differs considerably is how the eight schools approach the problem. According to Clery Act filings, the annual reports of crime on or near campus required of every college and university that participates in federal financial aid programs, Dartmouth leads the Ivies in on-campus liquor law violation arrests—and by a wide margin. In 2006, the most recent available filing, there were 84 liquor arrests at Dartmouth, 41 of them in "on-campus residence halls." By comparison, at Brown, Harvard, Penn and Princeton there were none. At Yale there were three, none of them in residence halls. Besides Dartmouth only Cornell had numbers above single digits: 14 total arrests, with II in residence halls. "Dartmouth's problem in this area is state law, not some internal policy," says Proctor Harry Kinne. That state law is New Hampshire's "internal possession" statute, which makes it a crime for anyone under the age of 21 to possess alcohol by having it in their bodies, whether it's their stomach or already in their bloodstream. "When we get a call that someone is in trouble, we take that very seriously," says Kinne. "We respond. If that person seems dangerously drunk we call an ambulance, and that 911 call triggers a police response. If the dangerously inebriated person is underage it can lead to an arrest. But that's not our decision, that's a law enforcement decision. All we're concerned about is the student's safety." For those not in danger but apparently drunk and underage, S&S has several options besides calling the Hanover Police. The College's Good Samaritan Policy encourages students to call for help when a student is intoxicated and impaired. Both the caller and the impaired student are then eligible for a "Good Sam," which keeps them out of further judicial action if they adhere to follow-up counseling and education. For more serious violations or for repeat offenders there are College-level judicial processes that fall short of calling in the authorities. The fact remains that New Hampshire local and state police can and do arrest drunken underage students whenever they encounter them. As they'll be the first to explain: It's the law and they're sworn to uphold it. It's a law that doesn't apply at the other Ivies.

ED GRAY, a frequent contributor to DAM, is co-author of In Nixon's Web. He lives in Lyme, New Hampshire.