An excerpt from The Pell Heist, my book in progress.

Memories of the Channing heist had faded. There were few clues. No trace of the paintings. No insurance and no contact from the thieves.

Three weeks after the robbery, the Rhode Island police found the body of a thirty-something man in a Providence dumpster. Badly beaten. Broken neck. He was a known car thief, probably the getaway driver. His fingerprints matched several found at Channing House. Two women identified him from a photo, and the discovery looked like a huge break at first.

Then nothing. The case went stone cold dead.

When carpenters repaired the banister in Channing House, they installed a simple knob that matched the balusters. The faculty believed a reproduction monkey, with a funny fez and cheeky grin, just wouldn’t be the same. And Pell’s grief counselors warned against it.

Staff members retired. Students graduated and moved away. All that remained from the robbery were a plaque in the library honoring the security guard, six empty spaces in the John H. Channing Room, and a web page sugarcoating the details of the heist and posting a $5 million reward.

The school refused to move the other paintings donated by Abigail. They were afraid of violating the terms of her bequest. And the gallery, once a vibrant campus jewel, now made old timers ache.

Pell moved on.

In recruiting material. In its lineup of guest speakers, which included the Dalai Lama and two US presidents. In presentations by deans to the student body. The college extolled alumnae contributions to society, ignoring Abigail’s gift and the horrific events of October 1986.

Deans promised undergraduates their futures were bright. They trumpeted the importance of Pell’s mission: “We empower women to make a difference.” The school website used expressions like “near idyllic” and “world class” to describe undergraduate life on the seaside campus in Newport, Rhode Island.

Roaming the paths, students could not help but feel they had joined a tradition far more important than any one person. That soon, they too would contribute to the legacy of Pell women.

In part, the Gothic-revival architecture inspired this mindset. Most of the red-brick buildings soared three, four, or five stories high, their windows framed by white stonework with ornate floral carvings. Peaked roofs, narrow dormers, and pointed-horseshoe arches created an aura of intellectual heft. Heavy wooden doors, with peekaboo glass portals up top, invited women to explore the wonders waiting inside.

The ocean, however, convinced students they could do anything. That their opportunities were unlimited. Pell overlooked Easton Bay to the west and the sandy beaches of Sachuest Bay to the east. The brisk Atlantic breeze invigorated mind, body, and soul.

Not surprisingly, marine biology was the number one major twelve years running, the Surf Society the number one club. Rain or shine, athletic young women slogged across the lawns, surfboards in tow. They wore 6/5/4 wetsuits rated for forty degree water, their shiny faces poking through black, neoprene hoods.

By all accounts, Pell had taken its game up many notches since October 1986. Its alumnae included a Supreme Court justice, currently sitting on the bench, as well as several US senators and members of congress. Every day, its graduates were pushing through glass ceilings on Wall Street, in Silicon Valley, anywhere the old boy’s club had once reigned supreme.

The college was thriving. And the old stigma, courtesy of Ivy League boys from a bygone era, was almost gone. Pell was no longer a safety for rich girls who had been rejected by more prestigious institutions. Its undergraduates were no longer the “Club Pelvis” beach bunnies, who trolled for husbands at nearby Harvard, Yale, or Brown. Pell was hot, a modern campus that college-review blogs occasionally featured as one of “the new Ivies.”

By the time Fylicia took over the presidency from Mrs. Gloria Saltonstall, the Iron Lady 2.0, Pell’s endowment had surpassed $1 billion—enough money to attract and retain top talent from around the world.