Sydney’s ears buzzed and her heart fluttered. The names had tripped off the former teacher’s tongue. One of them sounded as if he’d be hard to get at, one difficult to handle, while the first posed obvious problems. She had an idea who Dylan Cole’s father was, and that caused her a moment of consternation.
‘Mr Baxter,’ Sydney said cautiously. ‘You didn’t seem to have a hard job picking those particular students out. May I ask why that is?’
‘You come to know the people you teach, Ms Merlot. If you’re doing it right, that is. I believe I did my job well. I had my likes, I had my dislikes. There were those who got under my skin but whom I treated like a rash to be overcome, those who I knew had prison time in their futures, those who sickened me on a daily basis. But only those three boys scared me. There was nothing going on behind their eyes, Ms Merlot. No understanding. No conscience. No compassion. No empathy. Nothing at all.’
‘Were they friends with one another, do you know?’
‘You’d think so. Easy to imagine them seeking out their own kind. But the opposite is often true, Ms Merlot. That kind of kid is either a complete loner, or they prey on the meek and mild and turn them into followers. Copping is your archetypal loner, living a hard life in farm and woodland. I have no idea what his family get up to, but no good springs to mind. Cole and DeVeer are… you know what I mean when I say Svengali types?’
‘I do, sir. The type who dominate and manipulate for their own wicked ends. Run across one or two in my time.’
‘Well, then you understand what kind of job you have on your hands going after any one of them.’
Sydney was beginning to. She asked Baxter to clarify his statement about the boys, confirming that he did not see the trio as friends. The man refused to, observing that he had not suggested they couldn’t be, only that they wouldn’t necessarily be drawn to one another. He went on to tell her that he had seen them talking from time to time, so it was possible that they were closer than he was aware.
‘And how about Kevin Muller, sir? Did you ever work with him?’
‘Occasionally, yes.’ Baxter’s voice was thoughtful and distant. ‘Kevin had special educational needs, and often received specialised teaching. But the school is inclusive, so he also attended regular classes from time to time.’
‘And what did you make of him?’
‘It was in his nature to be even-tempered and attentive. Could he be provoked? Yes, like any other teenager. What’s more, he was vulnerable to being easily led.’
‘So, it surprised you when you learned that Kevin was the gunman that day?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Sydney was taken aback.
‘No. I was neither surprised nor unsurprised. I refused to believe it, that’s all. At the time, and ever since.’
‘And did you ever wonder what actually did happen that morning, sir?’
‘I have no truck with idle speculation, Ms Merlot. I’m as confident as I can be that Kevin Muller did not shoot dead his fellow students. As to who did, and how they managed to turn things around so as to place Kevin in the position where he ended up getting blamed and killed for it, I have no idea who or why. If you put a gun to my head, then I would say either Cole or DeVeer has it in them. I’ve said my piece about Kevin before, shortly after the shooting. Nobody wanted to listen to the other side of how the official story was told. So tell me, now that you know about these boys, what do you intend to do about them?’
‘I intend on getting some answers. I intend on finding out who murdered those children.’
After a brief moment, Baxter said, ‘In that case, you find yourself in need of a sounding board for your ideas, Ms Merlot, I’m your man.’
‘Thank you for the offer,’ Sydney said, taken aback by his change in attitude. ‘I’m surprised you want to be involved, Mr Baxter.’
‘Oh, I think wanting to be involved is stretching things a little. But the way I see it, you may need a bit of help along the way. You decide to point anyone in my direction for confirmation of anything I’ve told you, then you go right on ahead. You think you’d care to chew it over some more, you call again. You’re doing the decent thing, Ms Merlot.’
‘Then the least you can do is call me Sydney in future.’
‘I will do. If we speak again, that is. But a word to the wise, Sydney. You’re clearly clued up, so you already figured out that you will need to tread carefully around these three boys for three very different reasons. None of them are going to take kindly to what you’re about to do. Nor will the people of Moon Falls thank you for it. And as for the local PD and sheriff’s department, well I can only imagine their outrage – manufactured or otherwise. Watch your back, is all I’m saying. Or at the very least have someone watch it for you.’
Twelve
Darkness fell quickly after sunset, and in the mountains the night was impenetrably black. Up ahead, the odd light glimmered through trees running along the banks of both sides of the road, and it was impossible to tell if the twinkling came from stars or porch lights. Sydney’s concentration wavered as she squinted through the twin cones spearing out of the truck’s headlights. After speaking with Duncan Baxter she had put some time in at the office, and as she drove home her thoughts drifted frequently, flitting between Dexter Muller’s theory about what he believed had taken place that terrible day at the high school, and the diametrically opposed viewpoints of every law-enforcement officer in attendance.
Could they have all been fooled?
Sydney thought it was, at the very least, possible, both at the time it had occurred and when analysing the evidence during subsequent reviews. She put herself in their position – the sheriff’s in particular – and ran through the events in sequence. Every time she did so, Sydney ended up right back at the very same place.
If somebody tells you a masked gunman carrying a blue holdall full of weapons is walking around a school and shooting people at random, it is human nature to assume that the masked man carrying a blue holdall and walking towards you from the direction of the school building is that very same gunman. And if that masked man then reaches into the holdall without halting his advance as ordered, it is also perfectly reasonable to believe he is reaching for a fresh and fully loaded weapon.
Afterwards, when you watch footage of the gunman leaving and later returning to the room used to gain access to the school building, and everything about him matches both the masked man you see wandering the halls with deadly intent, and the young man you shot dead in fear for your own life and the lives of others, this can only serve to endorse your absolute conviction that you got the right man.
That was where Sheriff Benton Lowe stood. Along with every other law-enforcement officer who fired their service weapon that day. Sydney not only understood why, she firmly believed she would be taking the exact same stance had she been one of them.
On the other hand, if you were looking to argue against this unchallenged version of events, then it becomes blindingly obvious to everybody involved that the critical moments had to have taken place within that art supply room whose window had been left unlocked and whose exterior was not exposed to surveillance.
Sydney understood it was all pure conjecture. But it was possible for Kevin Muller to have entered the room together with an unknown subject. It was equally possible that he had waited inside the room as instructed while the unsub carried out his shooting spree. And given Kevin’s mental age and known affability and malleable nature, it was also conceivable that he had then, on the pretext of playing a game or a joke on those massed outside, swapped clothes with the unsub and left the same way as he had entered, before moving out into the main school grounds and reaching into the holdall in order to hand over the card he knew was lying inside.
This had not been a casual and unplanned swapping of clothing, so the only way it fit was if the actual shooter had worn some form of protective attire between their own skin and hair and the clothes later stripped off and handed to Kevin Muller.
A lot of thought had gone into setting the boy up, and nobody appeared to have made errors along the way. If any of it had happened at all.
The more Sydney considered the alternative theory the more she saw how it was possible for it all to have unfolded that way, no matter how unlikely or contrived. All it needed was a barrier of some kind, a membrane sandwiched between the real killer’s body and the clothing he intended to exchange afterwards. And if she could imagine it, then why not the local PD, assigned FBI agents, and the sheriff’s department? For not one of them to give it any serious consideration, no credence whatsoever, bothered Sydney more than she cared to admit. For it was suggestive of something she did not want to believe: a cover-up, born of a fear that they had perhaps got things so terribly wrong on the day.
At which point she ran headlong into the brick wall of Benton Lowe’s alleged witness. Their existence was the one remaining chink in her argument, but it was a significant one. Eventually, she was going to have to talk with him again about that.
As she urged the truck up the steep incline towards home, Sydney became aware of a vehicle hanging right on her tail. It was running on full-beam headlights and it swooped up on her fast. Momentarily blinded, Sydney teased the footbrake, but the dazzling white glare continued to fill her mirrors, causing her to blink its halo effects away. For a second or two, brilliant starbursts filled her vision. Then she heard the deep growl of the vehicle’s engine behind her, as it rocked back and forth on intermittent bursts of acceleration, pushing it ever closer to the rear of her father’s truck.
A trickle of fear scurried between her shoulder blades. These narrow and twisty roads were perilous enough at the best of times, but this was a foolish display of driving in pitch darkness. A drunk was her first guess, but then the name of Gerry Kasper popped up inside her mind. Could the man have already caught wind of her involvement with his wife? Was he about to do what he had previously done to her father’s SUV.
Fear left a dry coating on her tongue as Sydney decided to put a bit of distance between them before pulling off the road to allow the other vehicle to race on by. She prodded the gas pedal at the very moment the headlights behind dimmed and flashing blues and reds lit up the rear-view mirror.
Sydney checked her speed.
Damn!
Had she nudged the truck higher than the posted 35mph limit? She didn’t think so, but with her attention straying, she couldn’t definitely rule it out. Anyhow, it was the cop’s crazy driving behind her that had caused her to accelerate in the first place, so in her opinion there was mitigation. Despite this, Sydney had been stopped before and had also been on the other side on several occasions while serving with the Modesto PD, so she was familiar with how this worked.
Waiting for a space on the dirt verge of the road where they would not impede any other traffic struggling up the twists and turns of the hillside, Sydney eventually pulled over. She stopped the truck and switched off the engine. The big cruiser drew up behind her and rolled to a halt a few yards away. The cop would run her plate and obtain relevant details from the vehicular database. Sydney was impatient to get going again, but she told herself to remain calm.
A couple of minutes passed by before the officer slid out of the cruiser and strode towards her. Sydney waited for him to tap on the glass of her side window before lowering it. Experience told her cops became antsy about an open window waiting for their approach.
‘Evening, ma’am,’ he said. He shone the beam of his flashlight through the open window, careful to raise it high enough so that the glare did not blind her. If only he had been as considerate when driving, Sydney thought but did not say. She was unable to make out his face, but she got the impression of an averagely built figure. ‘Licence and registration please.’
‘I can provide you with my licence officer. I can also provide you with an insurance note to tell you I am insured to drive this vehicle. As for the registration, I don’t have that with me.’
‘I see. Is this your vehicle, ma’am?’
‘In effect. It belonged to my father. I guess it now belongs to me. He passed away a couple of weeks back.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have your late father’s permission to drive the vehicle, ma’am?’
‘My father left the truck to me in his Will. The permission to drive it is pretty much implied.’
‘There’s no need for the tone, ma’am. I’m asking questions here. I don’t know you, and therefore I am unaware of your personal circumstances.’ The cop’s voice had dropped an octave.
Sydney clamped her lips tight together. She had plenty to say by way of a response to this officious asshole, but nothing that would end well for her. The cop asked for the driver’s licence and the insurance note she had mentioned, telling her he would deal with the registration issue after he’d seen those documents. Remaining silent but inwardly fuming, Sydney dug around inside her wallet for both items. She handed them over without a word.
‘Your manner is not improving, I see,’ the officer said as he studied her licence card. He clucked his tongue as if disappointed in her behaviour.
‘My what?’ she said this time.
‘Your manner. You shifted from initial belligerence to mute in an instant. I have to say, this is not a pleasant stop for me, given your inconsistent approach.’
‘This is unpleasant for you? Well, excuse me, but how do you think I feel? And what exactly did you stop me for, anyway?’ Sydney demanded, her voice becoming harsh and shrill.
Wordlessly handing back her documents, he stared at her for a full ten seconds before shaking his head and sneering. ‘A rolling stop at the last junction.’
Sydney wagged a finger at him. ‘No way. There are three stop signs up this hill. I’ve passed two of them so far, and on both occasions I came to a complete halt before moving on.’
‘That’s not what I observed, ma’am.’
‘I can assure you I did. But to be perfectly honest with you, officer, if I had done as you say it would hardly be a surprise, given how much you frightened me by the aggressive way you were driving. What on earth were you doing riding right up my ass with your headlights blazing?’
‘I was doing no such thing, ma’am, and I don’t care for your use of bad language. I didn’t like how you took the curves, and then you carried out a rolling stop.’
‘I disagree.’
‘Then you can argue against the ticket in court.’
By this point, Sydney had lost all pretence of patience. She informed him that she had also once been a cop, had then become a detective, and that she currently worked as an agent for the FBI. Having pointed out that she was familiar with roadside stops, she went on to add that his attitude towards her left her feeling bemused.
‘And why is that, ma’am?’ His voice was strained, determined not to sound impressed with her background.
‘Because it’s almost as if you were looking to pull me over for no other reason than to screw with me.’
To her astonishment, the cop withdrew a pace and put a hand on his sidearm. He did not unclip, but he was showing intent. ‘Step out of the vehicle,’ he demanded urgently. ‘But keep both hands where I can see them.’
The sudden escalation caught Sydney off guard, but even so the best course of action was to comply with the cop’s instructions. The stop had gone sideways, and there was only one loser from this point on. Despite realising this, and understanding the possible consequences, Sydney chose to poke the bear.
‘That order you gave me is a physical impossibility, officer. I have to unclip my seatbelt and then disengage the lock on the door. I can do neither of those things if I keep both my hands in full view at the same time.’
Sydney smiled at him as she spoke, injecting levity into her voice, hoping the cop would come to his senses and realise how ridiculous he was being. Having walked through a similar experience during a training session in Modesto, the lines she fed him were embedded in her memory. Clarity was important when you were de
aling with members of the public, and it was essential for an officer to provide clear, concise, and accurate instructions.
Her plan failed miserably.
In a blur of motion, he unsnapped and withdrew his weapon. The firearm extended in the cop’s hands, angled slightly downward as per regulations. ‘Ma’am, please step out of the vehicle and do so slowly and carefully.’
With an exasperated sigh, Sydney obeyed the instruction, this time without complaint.
‘Thank you, ma’am. Please turn around and place both hands on the roof of your vehicle.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘No, ma’am. I can assure you I do not joke while on duty.’ He maintained eye contact, the gun fixed between them.
Once again, Sydney complied.
She remained silent as the cop pulled her hands behind her back and cuffed them at the wrists. He then reholstered his firearm and began to pat her down, feeling for weapons. He began at her waist, where his hands lingered too long at her midriff. Then as they swept upwards, they both arched to cup the curve of her breasts, his thumbs gliding across her nipples.
‘What the… what did you do to me?’ Sydney snapped, starting to turn towards him.
‘Ma’am, please face your vehicle until I say otherwise.’
He kicked her legs further apart while Sydney fumed. This time there was a lingering pressure applied to her upper thighs, and as the hands finally withdrew, Sydney bit down on her revulsion. The cop had all the power in this situation, irrespective of her federal employee status. It reminded her of a scene from the movie Crash, in which a cop character played by Matt Dillon molests a passenger during a traffic stop. Rage burned in Sydney’s cheeks as the real life police officer spun her around to face him.
His light brown hair was thick and wavy, and his brush moustache was the same colour. The average build she had sensed earlier was even less impressive when fully revealed. Their eyes met.
Fifteen Coffins Page 8