The Twisted Thread

by Charlotte Bacon

  The light was growing paler. They had an enormously long day ahead of them. Matt should do nothing other than say, “Get lost, Vernon,” and start segmenting the tasks they had into manageable pieces. But he didn’t. He stopped and looked at Vernon with his red skin and beaky nose, a person who would never fit here, a person he trusted every working day, and said, “There’s something I should tell you.” They were walking toward Porter McLellan’s office; he was first on the list, followed by the girls who had looked after Claire—if they could get access to them—and the teachers in Portland.

  Vernon was adjusting the strap of his computer bag. He took all his notes on a laptop and considered Matt’s pencil and pad affectations. A patch of sweat showed on his shirt. Heat shimmers were already rising from the freshly cut lawn. “You mean about the shit that went down about you cheating?”

  A blend of violation, embarrassment, and admiration mingled in Matt. “You are one tenacious bastard,” he said.

  “The old biologist told me yesterday, or at least a version.” Vernon hoisted his bag up higher on his shoulder, obviously harder than he’d intended, and Matt saw that his partner’s primary reaction was hurt. He wanted to have been trusted enough to be told. He would have in his place.

  Fuller, of course. And Matt understood Vernon’s response. It was what you did with partners. You told. They knew what you ate, how you smelled, when you showered. It was marriage without a bed and bills in a lot of ways, at least the closest he had come to marriage.

  Matt looked at Vernon and said, “How long have you known? It wasn’t Fuller.”

  Vernon rubbed the back of his neck and held the door to Nicholson open for Matt. “Okay, but he also cornered me. He and that uptight Latin teacher both saw fit to inform me you had . . . what did she call it? ‘A blot on your copybook.’ ” Vernon sighed. “But you’re right. I did my own research on you when Angell said he was going to put us together. The last bozo I got hooked up to had this Internet porn problem. I just wanted to know who I was dealing with. And so, yes, I did a check. Do one on me. You’ll feel better. I’m a lot grubbier.”

  Matt supposed it was fair, and it was certainly Vernon’s nature. He even discovered he wasn’t particularly surprised. “By the way,” Vernon continued, “your credit’s better than mine. Anyhow, it came up from a classmate. I talked to a kid you knew. Andrew Morgan.”

  Andrew Morgan had been in Matt’s math class, year after year, and had always been a gossip. “How’d you get him to talk?” They walked up a set of marble stairs with dips worn in their centers from 130 years of feet walking up them on their way to see the head. “On second thought,” Matt added, “I don’t want to know.”

  “Pretended I was from the alumni office, trying to get a reunion together. Did he know what had happened to you since high school,” Vernon admitted glumly. “I know. It’s not legal.” He scratched his chin. “Does Angell know?”

  “Probably. I tried to tell him when I first got hired. Seemed only fair. But he wasn’t interested. Didn’t want to hear or, more likely, already had.”

  They were outside Porter McLellan’s office and could see the assistant tapping with sharp-nailed efficiency at her keyboard. It was just seven, but she looked as if she’d been hard at work for hours already.

  Vernon thought for a moment, then said, “Less said now the better. It might actually work in our favor. They’ll think less of you and let something slip.” Matt felt a surge of appreciation for Vernon and his practical ways. “Time for the Grand Poohbah?” he said and tilted his head toward Porter’s office. Matt was going to handle Porter and try to see the girls who claimed to have helped Claire. Vernon was off to talk to the security people again and get an update on the search for the baby. Later that morning, they would share the faculty. So far, they’d barely mentioned the child; it seemed clear another body would soon be found, and there were parts of their job that were too dispiriting to dwell on.

  In the waiting area, Tamsin told Matt to have a seat and that Mr. McLellan would be with him shortly. He was grateful for the pause. It was unsettling to be back in this room in such different circumstances. The rugs had been changed, the furniture, too, but the overall similarity was notable, and it brought with it an ugly stew of memories. Charlie’s histrionics, his own stalking back to the dorm to throw his belongings in a few bags, the teachers who would not meet his eyes when he passed them on the Quad. He breathed deeply and leaned forward to page through a brochure for Armitage. Printed on the heaviest stock, with a glossy blue cover embossed with the school shield, the pamphlet gave off an impression of polished gravity. Inside, he read that classes contained no more than twelve students at a time and were often smaller, especially for mathematics and languages. Paul Revere, Greenville’s high school, housed fifteen hundred students and offered instruction in seventeen different languages. But that number was linked not to a desire to “create global citizens,” as Armitage claimed in its mission statement, but to the fact that the school had so many kids in need of ESL. Only twenty-four hours had passed since Claire Harkness had died. Small class sizes hadn’t kept that from happening, a thought Matt did not quite forgive himself for having.

  Porter opened the door then and ushered him into a Persian-carpeted room flush with light and winking brass. The desk at which he seated himself was massive, but such was his own size and seriousness, it took a moment to register the sweeping lines of the piece of furniture. Gordon Farnsworth had been swallowed by its grandeur. Yet something seemed unsettled, in the room or the man or both, Matt couldn’t quite tell. He didn’t think it was yet another seizure of his own memory; something was emanating from Porter that he didn’t precisely grasp. Bookshelves lined one side of the office and bow windows two others. The last held portraits of former heads of the board of trustees, men who seemed indistinguishable from one another, their stately self-regard utterly fungible.

  It was the bareness of the desk. Every other surface—the mantel, certain of the shelves, the walls—held the sorts of decorations one would expect in a head’s office. Discreet bronzes. Silver cups commemorating some achievement or other. Metal and wood and gleaming glass, polished and subdued. But the desk held nothing. Not a pad, a computer, an orchid, nothing. Yet it had, and recently. Matt could still see the dried smear of droplets that indicated a recent cleaning, which had been thorough but not meticulous. A corner of wood still held a low, barely perceptible fuzz of dust. What had Porter McLellan removed or had removed from that long length of carved oak?

  As he settled himself in his chair, Matt ran through what he needed to discuss with Porter. Any dark history around Claire, the faculty in her dorm, the teachers who had had her this year.

  “I understand you interviewed Scott Johnston yesterday,” Porter began. “But that he’s been released pending further investigation, as his parents said.” His tone implied he knew what Matt might be dealing with when it came to handling the Johnstons; he even managed to imply that he, too, had been on the receiving end of their formidable capacity for outrage.

  What alarmed Matt as he adjusted himself in the overly comfortable seat was how readily he wanted to take Porter’s offer of commiseration. It would have been so easy to raise eyebrows over the barbed, hysterical wall of protection the Johnstons were trying to erect around their son. It was clear that this kind of drama was part of what they considered appropriate parenting, and it was equally clear that Scotty’s arrogance had given them many opportunities to hone their approach. “It’s true Scott’s no longer being questioned,” Matt forced himself to say with some terseness. “But I actually need to discuss other issues with you, Mr. McLellan.”

  “Of course,” Porter said. Quickly abandoning his attempt at camaraderie, he leaned forward in apparent eagerness to be of any help he could, in striking contrast to Grace Peters and Harvey Fuller. Brief interviews had proved two things to be true: they had no intention of admitting any wrongdoing—Grace had gone so far as to blame extra loads of committee wor
k for her slightly less prominent presence in the dorm. And they were going to make a special effort to remember absolutely nothing useful about Claire or the last few weeks she spent in their care.

  Matt stood then and chose another chair, far less padded, to sit in. He was going to try something now. It was daring, perhaps stupid, but it might yield the most interesting results. “You’re probably aware of the difficulty I’m finding myself in here. I’m an alumnus, but not one with a perfect record.”

  “Class of ’ninety-four, Penn ’ninety-eight,” Porter said thoughtfully. “And probably one of our few graduates in law enforcement.” He almost managed to make it sound as if Matt had made a respectable choice, at least in his eyes. And he added that he had heard from several faculty about what he called Matt’s “experience” but didn’t see why an event that had never been conclusively resolved should prevent him from dealing effectively with what the school was now facing. They were entirely different situations. “I’m assuming, Detective, if you felt yourself unable to handle the investigation with some degree of objectivity, that you wouldn’t be here and that Captain Angell wouldn’t have assigned you. And I’m assuming that your familiarity with Armitage will be useful to you.”

  “Which means, Mr. McLellan, that you and I both understand that what Armitage pretends to represent doesn’t always mesh with what happens here.”

  The man was uncannily good. Matt felt a curious current run through his body, a feeling he hadn’t had on a case in a long time. It was uncomfortably exhilarating to be dealing with a potential suspect this sophisticated. Certainly what he’d gone through at Armitage had made a difference in the career he’d chosen; being a police officer had been a repudiation of the cozy world to which Charlie so effortlessly belonged, to the ease with which his classmates expected to move into handsome homes and well-feathered professions. But what had been grueling about his work was how petty most of the crimes were, even those that resulted in murder. This was going to be more complicated than he’d thought this morning, the resolutions more knotty than he’d feared. Porter might well be involved, and he was already delicately, insistently on the offensive, prepared to protect his school, his place.

  “By that,” Porter answered, “I assume you mean that not only students had issues or concerns to hide. But to discuss Claire first, there was no hint of trouble in her past.” Porter leaned back in his chair. “She was a very good student, a respected athlete, and she came from a family with a long history at Armitage.” He paused, and his fingers fluttered slightly. Matt realized he was looking for a pen to tap, a restless movement. He was used to finding one on his desk, but that had suddenly been cleared.

  “Most of the faculty in Portland and Claire’s teachers this year have stellar reputations. Many of them have spent the entirety of their careers here. Even those with less experience have received excellent evaluations.” He produced a file and pushed it toward Matt, no doubt expertly organized by Tamsin, that he said included the most recent reports on each of the adults who’d had dealings with Claire. “You can see for yourself that, while they and we all might have been guilty of a lack of observation, there is no reason to suspect any one of them of harboring some motive to harm her or her child.” And here, Porter’s face darkened and his voice grew softer. “I am sorry to have to caution you about this, but there’s nothing for it.” He leaned forward a bit more assertively and said, “Last year, a student complained that Harvey Fuller had made her very uncomfortable in class. According to the student, he had stared at her. It sounds mild enough and impossible to turn into an actual allegation of harassment, but she was insistent that he had made her very uneasy. What gave her claim more weight was that another student complained of the same problem first semester.”

  “But neither of these was Claire,” Matt asked.

  “No,” Porter answered. “Though both were tall and blond and on the lacrosse team with her. She would have been almost sure to know. Students aren’t always as discreet as they might be.” He looked at one of the portraits hanging in the gloom at the back of his office. “It’s one of the most difficult aspects of life at a boarding school. As you know, we live in such close proximity to one another. It’s often a case of one person’s word against another’s. Looks and appearances can be misjudged. I am confident in Harvey’s case that nothing untoward happened, but he has been cautioned—not with a letter in his file, merely verbally—to be careful in his dealings with female students.”

  “Be careful? And with what kind of supervision to ensure that, Mr. McLellan? Who was paying attention to him? It might be wise to be a little more straightforward.” Matt was abruptly irritated with Porter’s detachment. “We could both probably name three teachers in the last twenty years who’d had relationships with students and were allowed to stay on the job.”

  Porter grew very still. He might, Matt thought, be remembering not only what had been allowed to happen at Armitage but scandals that had leaked out at other schools. Teachers videotaping boys in locker rooms. Others caught soliciting teens on the Internet. It was galling no matter where it happened, but all the more so at institutions that prided themselves on their impeccability. An actual death, an actual baby eclipsed everything. “I’ll be very grateful if that’s not the case here, but you should be prepared to find out otherwise.”

  Porter said nothing for a moment. “What you just mentioned, Mr. Corelli, improprieties between students and teachers, are situations we can’t tolerate now. Too much is at stake, for the school, for the students. Even the mildest hints or allegations are thoroughly investigated. That’s precisely why I alerted you to my concerns about Harvey.” He was impressively calm, even when confronted directly. He was no doubt masterful at board meetings. Matt made a note to get Vernon to check into Fuller’s background, an assignment he knew his partner would relish.

  Matt took the file the headmaster offered and stood. It was almost 7:30, and he wanted to get to Harvey Fuller even before he talked to the girls. He had had him as a teacher and had never liked the man, too dried up by far, though a commanding presence in the classroom. It would be interesting to see what he would say when asked about an entirely different aspect of biology.

  At that moment, a tall, extremely good-looking woman entered the room, and it was clear she was itchily displeased to find Matt closeted with Porter. “Police,” she said with undisguised contempt, as if what had just happened at Armitage didn’t warrant such scrutiny. “They’re everywhere.” She was broad-shouldered, fit, with a strong nose and long, dark blond hair.

  Porter rose and made a fluent introduction. This was his wife, Lucinda, but she barely acknowledged Matt. Her fingers in his were ringed but rough. She worked outside, he guessed. She was tanned, and fans of wrinkles spread from her eyes. Her hands had spent time with earth, tools, a garden. He watched her as she spoke impatiently to her husband. “The boys,” she said. “Porter, the boys need to talk to you. They’re not being allowed on campus.” She cast another scathing look in Matt’s direction.

  “I’ll handle it,” said Porter. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’ll happily speak with you later.”

  Matt tucked the file in the crook of his elbow and made his way out of the office. The assistant again avoided his glance. His phone chirped with a text from Vernon. “Zilch on phones. Zilch on baby. Teacher in dorm named Madeline wants to talk to you ASAP.”

  Matt walked down the steps and headed toward Portland to deal with Harvey Fuller and now Madeline, the young teacher with the messy hair, whom he had just remembered. He assumed that Porter had given him information on her as well, and he was curious to see what had been said about her. As he strode toward the dorm, he realized what was lacking in Porter’s office. He and his wife made a strikingly attractive pair. They had two, three children, and Lucinda had been distraught about at least two of them not being able to return to the school. Heads came as packages. The full complement of wife or husband, family, dog, all of whose personalities really oug
ht to blend with and mirror what the school said about itself. In the case of Armitage, they had to be as confident and accomplished as they expected their faculty and graduates to be. It seemed ridiculous to reduce the issue to one inadequate word, but their image mattered.

  No photos. Porter’s desk and office ought to have been littered with photos. Lucinda’s face was abruptly familiar to Matt. He’d seen her often enough presiding over parties in the alumni magazine. But in her husband’s office, where she would naturally have assumed pride of place, there was no sign of her or of their children.

  CHAPTER 8

  It had been a long time since Fred had broken in anywhere. Prying open his father’s liquor cabinet all those weekends when he was a teenager should have counted for something, but he’d forgotten how fear accompanied the transgression. And he had to admit that rooting around in Armitage’s archives carried heavier consequences than filching booze, even forty-year-old Scotch.

  It was early Tuesday morning, and he was in the tunnels below Nicholson House with a set of keys he’d persuaded one of the dimmer B and G workers to loan him on the pretext of needing to get into the gym. He didn’t feel right about taking advantage of the slight edge of power that faculty had over staff. Nor could he persuade himself that the ends justified the means. Still, it was what he had done and what had led directly to groping in the dark at such an hour. He was also ashamed to admit that he was using the distracting furor of Claire’s death and her baby’s disappearance. No one was remotely interested in what the art teacher was up to at the moment.

  The fistful of keys must have weighed close to two pounds, a circular mass of spiked, dull bronze. Quite effective as a weapon if you slipped the individual bits of metal between your fingers and made a fist. One of them had to be a skeleton. Fred held a penlight between his teeth and swore softly as he slipped one after the other into the lock. Finally, a key clicked to the right and he heard the tumblers slide into place. The door opened and released the pleasant staleness of old paper, the unmistakable funk of libraries, into the corridor. Fred slipped inside and pulled the door to as gently as possible. Why were archives always underground? What was it about history that required it to be buried? Institutions loved preserving what had happened to them, especially when it was flattering, but even so these rooms were always stuck somewhere damp and inconvenient.