Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  Reinhart was as tall and gawky as Harold Beezel Frasier was short and stout. Beezel had a round face, dark eyes, and a bowl haircut with bangs that hid a bumpy forehead of acne. Mikey Martinetto was about five ten with broad shoulders. He had blond kinky hair and light brown eyes, and he still wore braces. These were kids who would be thankful when they grew into adults.

  Oliver came into the room and Marge made the introductions. He handed each of the boys a bottle of water. “Sometimes the tap gets a little nasty after all this rainfall.”

  The boys nodded and cracked open the H2O.

  “Is it raining now?” Scott asked.

  Beezel said, “Drizzling.”

  Joey said, “Supposed to kick up tomorrow. I hate driving in the rain.”

  “Not to mention how funky the school smells,” Mikey said.

  “B and W leaks?” Marge said.

  “Yeah, B and W’s got some real roof issues,” Mikey answered. “Mr. Hinton’s classroom really stinks.”

  “Moldy,” Beezel said. “My allergies are going nuts.”

  “Fisher auditorium is like a sieve,” Joey said. “You’d think with all the tuition our parents fork over, the school would take better care of the facilities.”

  Marge said, “I’m really surprised. I always thought that B and W was . . . kind of a country club in the form of a prep school.”

  The boys smiled without joy. Beezel said, “Not any country club I’d ever belong to. I keep telling my parents they’re getting ripped off.”

  Oliver said, “It’s got a great reputation . . . B and W.”

  Joey said, “A mile wide and an inch deep.”

  Beezel said, “It accepts smart kids, so it does well as far as placing them in universities. But smart kids would do well anywhere.”

  “So why are you there?” Marge asked.

  Mikey said, “Public schools in my district are a joke. Besides, the counselors at B and W have the connections to the top-tiered colleges. That’s where they have their rep. Getting their students into the elite universities.”

  “Yeah, that part is pretty good,” Joey said. “The counselors know how to pad the application to make us all look good. It’s really stupid, though. ’Cause all the private school applications are padded in practically identical ways.”

  Marge said, “So what do you do to stand out?”

  “It’s hard,” Beezel said. “Even the standardized test scores don’t mean much.”

  Mikey said. “Either you’re the president of everything or you’ve got a particular skill that no one else has—like you’ve owned your own artisan cheese factory since you were nine.”

  “Or you’ve done cancer research,” Joey said.

  “And you’ve published a paper on it,” Mikey said.

  Marge said, “So how does a guy like Dylan Lashay get into Yale?” Three sets of eyes took in her face. The boys suddenly went mute. The seconds ticked on in silence. She said, “What just happened?”

  The boys eyed one another. Joey said, “What does Dylan have to do with Greg?”

  “We’re not assuming he has anything to do with Greg,” Oliver said.

  Beezel said, “So why bring him up?”

  “We were talking about kids getting into good schools,” Marge said. “We happen to know that Dylan Lashay got into Yale. I was just wondering if he was an artisan cheese maker or the president of everything.”

  Mikey smiled. “The president of everything.”

  “He’s also a legacy,” Beezel said. “His stepdad is.”

  Mikey said, “He also happens to be a smart guy.”

  Marge said, “Not that smart if he needed Greg to edit his papers.” Joey’s eyes widened. She said, “Isn’t that what you told Lieutenant Decker?”

  “Not exactly,” Joey stammered out.

  Beezel came to his rescue. “Greg was an exceptional writer. He edited lots of papers for a lot of people.”

  “That he did,” Mikey said. “It bought him a lot of . . . goodwill.”

  “Dylan and company left him alone,” Oliver said.

  Mikey shrugged.

  Marge said, “Does he bother you?”

  Beezel said, “We’ve all become pretty adept at staying out of his way.”

  Mikey said, “Excuse me, but what does this have to do with Greg’s suicide?”

  “You know what I’m going to do?” Oliver said. “I’m going to tell you exactly why we’ve asked you here and take all the guesswork out of the equation. We’d like to close out Gregory Hesse’s file.”

  “Why does Greg have a police file?” Joey asked.

  “Every unnatural death has a police file,” Marge said. “Greg’s file would have been closed a long time ago, but we’ve hit a few snags. First thing is the stolen gun that Greg used in his suicide. He didn’t seem like the type to break into houses and loot firearms, so where did he get the gun?”

  “Is there a side of Greg that we’re missing?” Oliver said. “Is he a closet klepto?”

  Mikey said, “I can’t see that.”

  “So it would surprise you if he stole the gun.”

  “Yeah, it would shock me. But so did his suicide. So I guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

  “Amen to that,” Joey said.

  Oliver said, “Greg had to get the gun from somewhere.”

  Marge said, “That’s why we brought up Dylan Lashay. Kevin Stanger mentioned that Dylan or one of his buddies had once pulled a gun on him. So if Stanger is telling the truth, we know that his gang has had access to weapons in the past.”

  Oliver said, “We were wondering if Kevin Stanger’s case was a onetime deal or if Mr. Yalie has a predilection for firearms.”

  Joey said, “I already told the lieutenant, I have no idea where Greg got the gun.”

  “I don’t know where Greg got the gun, either,” Beezel said.

  The conversation died for a moment.

  Mikey shook his head. “C’mon, guys, what’s the hang-up? Everyone in the entire school knows that Dylan likes guns.” When Beezel and Joey glared at him, he said, “Like it’s a secret? He did his senior thesis on the history of firearms.”

  Oliver said, “Does he deal in firearms?”

  He just shrugged. “Can’t say yes, but there are rumors.”

  “Unsubstantiated at this time,” Beezel said.

  “Except by Kevin Stanger,” Marge said.

  “Who could be exaggerating,” Beezel said.

  “What kind of rumors?” Marge asked Mikey.

  The teen said, “This is theoretical and definitely not firsthand . . . but . . . if I wanted to get hold of a gun, there are a few people in the school I might seek out. Because these same people have a reputation of selling a lot of things.”

  Marge said, “And those people would be . . .”

  Mikey said, “I’m not naming names because, like I said, I don’t know firsthand.”

  “Might one of those people be Dylan Lashay?” Oliver asked.

  “I’ve said what I’ve had to say.” Mikey smiled. “Anything else would be mere speculating on my speculations.”

  “What about his buddies?” Oliver took out a list. “Jarrod Lovelace, Stance O’Brien, Nate Asaroff, or JJ Little? Do they sell things?”

  Three noncommittal shrugs.

  “Okay,” Marge said. “We’ll address the topic of guns later. Let’s get back to Gregory Hesse’s suicide. None of you saw any signs that this was a possibility?”

  “Nothing,” Mikey said. “But Joey knew him better than anyone.”

  Joey said, “I already told the lieutenant that his death came out of the blue.”

  “You also told the lieutenant that you thought there might have been a girl involved in his life before he died,” Marge said.

  “I said maybe,” Joey said.

  Mikey held up a finger. “You know, I never thought of that, but it kinda makes sense.”

  “Why?” Oliver asked.

  “He started taking better ca
re of himself.”

  Joey said, “That’s exactly what I told the lieutenant. That he started showering.”

  “But you have no idea who the girl was,” Oliver said.

  “I don’t even know if there was a girl,” Joey said. “I certainly don’t know a name.”

  Marge said, “What about Myra Gelb?” When three sets of eyes stared at her, she went on, “They knew each other. They called each other frequently.” A lie at the moment but when the phone records came in, maybe it would be the truth. She waited for one of them to speak.

  “News to me,” Beezel said.

  Joey said, “Greg never said anything about knowing Myra. Why? Do you think the two suicides are related?”

  “You’re telling me you never thought about it?” Oliver said.

  “No, not at all,” Joey answered. “I mean, why would I? They didn’t hang out with each other or anything.”

  Mikey said, “Both of them worked on the paper.” Oliver and Marge turned to him and waited for the boy to elaborate. “I mean, I’m on the paper, too. So are about a hundred other kids. It’s one of those silver stars that you put on your college application.”

  “Kevin Stanger told us that Greg was working on something big before he died,” Marge said.

  “News to me,” Joey said.

  Marge turned to Mikey, who seemed to be the most cooperative of the boys. “Do you think it might have had something to do with the paper? Did Greg ever tell you he was working on something top secret?”

  Mikey appeared to give the question some deep thought. “No. I would remember Greg saying something like that.”

  Beezel said, “He never said anything to me about a top-secret project. But I will say this. Greg loved his camcorder and seemed to record anything in his path. Maybe he accidentally hit upon something that he felt was newsworthy.”

  “Just what I told the lieutenant,” Joey said.

  Beezel said, “He got kind of obnoxious with it . . . it made any real conversation hard ’cause he was always recording it for posterity or something.”

  “It was real obnoxious,” Mikey said. “I used to tell him I was going to smash it over his head if he didn’t get out of my face.” He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes watering. “I didn’t know . . .”

  The room fell silent.

  “Mikey, did you ever see Myra and Greg working together?” Oliver said.

  The boy slumped in his chair. “Myra didn’t write for the Tattler. She did some cartooning. Greg wrote some articles—at least one was published.” He threw his hands in the air. “I never noticed them together, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Oliver said, “I told you we had a few snags to clear up before we can clear the file. The first issue was the stolen gun, but we’re concerned about a few other things: Greg’s camcorder is missing.”

  Joey was taken aback. “Stolen?”

  “It appears that way,” Marge said.

  “Who’d want Greg’s camcorder?”

  “Maybe it was like Beezel said,” Marge suggested. “Maybe he accidentally filmed something scandalous.”

  “If he did, he never showed it to me,” Joey said. “All we ever saw were clips of us nerds farting around. Nothing even remotely scandalous.”

  “Mrs. Hesse found things on Greg’s computer,” Oliver said.

  “Porno?” Mikey asked. The boys looked at each other and smiled. “And that’s weird because . . .”

  Oliver said, “It’s not weird at all if they were standard skin flicks. But she found amateur porno on Greg’s laptop: a girl giving oral sex.”

  “Oral sex to Greg?” Beezel was incredulous.

  “We’re not sure,” Oliver said. “No faces to match the genitals.”

  Joey said, “If it was Greg, he never said anything about scoring.”

  “Would he have said something about scoring?” Oliver asked.

  “Yeah.” Joey let go with a single laugh. “I mean, who wouldn’t?”

  “Maybe he cared about the girl and didn’t want to embarrass her,” Marge suggested.

  “If he cared about the girl, why would he film it?” Mikey asked.

  “Maybe the images were for his eyes only,” Oliver said.

  “That’s what guys always tell girls. And then they wind up showing it all around,” Joey said. “It’s bragging rights.”

  “But he didn’t show you anything, did he?” Oliver said.

  Silence. Then Beezel said, “Uh . . . I’m not saying this to be weird or anything, but if you showed us the images, we could maybe identify somebody.”

  “Like I said, there were no faces, so what would be the point.” Oliver looked up from his pad. “Not only is the camcorder missing, his computer was also stolen.”

  Three surprised faces. Mikey said, “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Marge said. “About three weeks ago, Mrs. Hesse left his computer on the dining room table before she went to bed and it wasn’t there in the morning.”

  Oliver said, “She was going to bring it into the police station not because of the oral sex, but because it showed Greg playing with a gun. She wanted us to see if it was the same gun he used to kill himself.”

  “Shit!” Joey said. “That’s really weird.”

  “It’s really creepy!” Mikey said.

  “What do you mean by playing with a gun?” Beezel asked.

  “She told us he was twirling it, pointing it at the camera,” Marge said. “She also told us that Greg’s eyelids were droopy—like he was drugged or drunk.”

  “Man oh man,” Mikey said. “This is getting more bizarre by the moment.”

  “This is definitely not the Gregory Hesse that we all knew,” Joey said.

  Beezel said, “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but . . . is it possible that Mrs. Hesse changed her mind about the computer and just told you it was stolen to prevent further . . . I don’t know . . . embarrassment about her son.”

  Marge said, “Mrs. Hesse had stopped returning our phone calls. When Greg’s computer was stolen, it freaked her out that someone broke into her house and took the computer. That’s why she called us. So yes, I do believe that the computer was stolen.”

  “Maybe the anonymous sex girl stole the computer,” Joey suggested. “Maybe she didn’t want her identity revealed to the police.”

  Oliver said, “How would the girl or anyone know that Mrs. Hesse was getting ready to show it to the police?”

  Marge asked, “And how would the girl know that Mrs. Hesse had discovered the porno images on her son’s computer?”

  Beezel said, “Maybe the sex girl had a remote access to his computer.”

  “Remote access?” Oliver asked.

  “Good thinking,” Joey said. “It means that maybe she could control his computer from an off-site location.”

  “It’s not weird,” Mikey said. “You buy a program that allows select people to access your computer by a remote.”

  “Why in the world would you do that?” Marge said.

  Joey said, “Because if your computer breaks, your tech support guy can access your computer by remote, meaning he can diagnose the problem and clean it up without you having to physically drop it off. It, like, saves a bunch of time.”

  “It’s done all the time,” Mikey said. “The thing is, in order for the tech to gain access to the computer, the user has to sign the tech guy on with a password. But c’mon, if you know your way around a hard drive, you probably can bypass the user’s permission and access the computer whenever you want.”

  “That would be illegal, of course,” Oliver said.

  “Of course,” Mikey said. “But c’mon. If you’ve got motivation to do something, you’re gonna do it—legal or not.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sitting in his office with Marge and Oliver, Decker raked his hair and sipped cold coffee. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. In a couple of hours, Cindy, Koby, and his twin grandsons would be at the house for Sabbath dinner. He c
ould feel his mind slipping into off-duty mode. To prevent him from zoning out altogether, he flipped through his notes. “So what’s with this remote control computer access? What does it have to do with Greg’s stolen computer?”

  Marge was picking the pilling off her sweater. “Maybe someone realized that Greg’s computer was in use and his personal things were being watched. Someone got scared that things would come out.”

  Oliver said, “Specifically, the girl who was giving Greg a blow job. It could be she wasn’t ready for X-rated distribution.”

  Decker was skeptical. “You actually think that a girl broke into Hesse’s house and took the computer before Wendy could give it to the police?”

  Marge said, “Or perhaps it was taken by a certain future Yalie and his posse nicknamed the B and W Mafia. Maybe one of the guys realized that there were images on the computer of Greg playing with a stolen gun.”

  Oliver said, “The same stolen gun sold to Greg by Yalie who was now worried about being implicated in something more serious than stolen weapons. Something like negligent homicide, which doesn’t look good on any transcript except maybe Corcoran or Pelican Bay.”

  “The problem is,” Marge said, “that until someone names names, we’ve got nothing.”

  Decker wasn’t quite ready to give up. “What about Saul Hinton? Could you lean on him a little?”

  “That was our next step.” Oliver smoothed his silver tie. “We called him this morning, asking him to meet with us next week, but he hasn’t called us back.”

  Decker said, “Call him again. Tell him you want to talk about Myra Gelb. If he forgot to follow up on what Heddy told him about Myra’s depression, that’ll get his heart racing. Maybe he’ll spill something on Dylan.”

  Oliver checked his watch. “You know, school’s letting out right around this time.” He turned to his partner. “How about we use the old ‘we were on our way home anyway’ thing.”

  “No guarantee he’ll talk to us, but . . .” Marge slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I’m supposed to meet up with Willy at eight in Ventura. I got time.”