“Apparently,” Colin said, “they’re not so sure.”
*
“What do you mean?” Sarah whispered to Colin as they walked toward the dorm.
“There was no syringe,” he whispered back. “So if it really was an overdose, then either he shot himself up and magically got rid of the needle, or . . .”
“Somebody did it for him. But it still could have been an accident.” Or Graham, she thought. I was wrong. I was so wrong. Throwing around assurances so I could go home and write. And now this boy is dead.
Outside the dining hall, a woman in a navy shirtdress stood reading the bulletin board, notebook in hand. A headband made a valiant attempt to restrain her curly hair, black threaded with wiry grey. Smart and frumpy − St. Louis Public Radio, Sarah guessed.
“You must be Lieutenant Morganstern,” Colin said, and she nodded.
Sarah felt a pang of guilt. How had he known? And shame on her for picking the powerful-looking white guy.
“Did Philip Grant use drugs?” Morganstern was asking.
“I wasn’t aware of it; but, yes, apparently so,” Colin said. “I just asked some of the boys, and they said he’d used a little bit of everything. Heroin, lately.” His voice tightened. “If we’d known, maybe we could have prevented this.”
“Don’t take too much on yourself, Father,” Morganstern said. “Heroin’s a beast. It grabs kids and doesn’t let go.” She peered down the hallway. “Is there someplace we could talk to your students and faculty one at a time?”
“My secretary’s contacting them now.”
Morganstern’s eyes narrowed. She wouldn’t want anybody lawyered up, Sarah knew. Not even a teenager.
“We’ll send them to you as we get each parent’s authorisation,” Colin continued. “You can use my office. Our faculty members are eager to cooperate, if you want to start with them. Do you . . . need any background on the school?”
“You mean because it’s a Roman Catholic prep school and I’m Jewish? I’m a homicide detective, Father. I’m used to not fitting in.”
He flushed. “Right. Well, let me show you to my office.”
“Just one thing,” Morganstern said. “I’m told your friend is a reporter. Not one word from any officer, including me, is on the record yet.” Her eyes burned into Sarah’s. “I realise that violates the usual order of things, Ms. Markham, but so does your presence at this scene.”
Sarah was already nodding. “I realise that, Lieutenant. I’m here as a friend. I won’t be covering the story.”
“Good. Then perhaps you can help Father McAvoy keep your colleagues at bay?” Morganstern nodded toward the window. The TV vans had made it up the hill, and camera crews were running cords to the mics they’d set up on the lawn. Over by the circle drive. “Excuse me,” Sarah blurted, and hurried outside.
Kat saw her and waved, then hoisted her heavy camera bag and walked toward her.
“How’d you hear?” Sarah called, picking her way around patches of black ice.
“KWMU had it. I was driving Alex to Queeny Park to go cross-country skiing − his new obsession − and I recognised the school’s name. I called Casper and said I’d find out what was going on.”
Sarah hugged her and held on an extra few seconds. “God, it’s good to see you.”
“I was worried about you. What happened?”
“They think maybe he overdosed. Or somebody shot him up.”
“Theomu. To kaimeno.”
“Speak English, will you?”
“‘Oh my sweet God, that poor child.’ It’s too many words in English. I really was worried, you know.” When Kat loved you, she scolded you. “Nobody seemed too clear what had happened up here.”
“You could’ve just called, honey. There’s an ice storm.”
Kat shrugged. “I’ve got four-wheel drive, and Casper’ll need photos anyway, once he figures it out.”
Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the display. “Right on schedule.” She made a face at Sarah and raised the phone. “Hey, John. I’m out here with Sarah. TV’s everywhere. No sign of the Post yet. Are we going to cover this?”
She held the phone away from her ear so Sarah could hear the booming “Damn straight, we’re gonna cover it. Let me talk to Markham.” Kat handed the phone over.
“Pull out all the stops,” he told Sarah. “Young boys, shaken by tragedy. You’re great at tragedy.”
“Yeah, that’s why you hired me. Listen, John, I can’t write this story. I’m too close. Put Rob on it. I’ll feed him whatever information I can.” She muted the phone and murmured to Kat, “Don’t we always?” When she clicked back, Casper was firing instructions at her. “Sorry,” she said. “The reception’s really bad out here. Could you say that first part again, please?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Kat grabbed the phone from Sarah and clicked off. “Reception’s lousy, you said so yourself.”
“So I did. Listen, shoot what you can outside. They’ve already removed the body, so I don’t think there’ll be any video for you.” She felt herself slipping into jaded-reporter mode. The distance was a relief, and she couldn’t work without it. But this time it felt cold − a secret shame, like hating kittens. What kind of person was she, if she could detach herself from something as horrible as a teenage boy’s death?
Kat had no such compunctions; she was already taking light readings. “Bring your priest friend out as soon as you can, okay? I’m going to need his blessing to get access. Otherwise all we’ve got are brick buildings and middle-aged cops.”
*
Morganstern braked with her feet, trying to stop Connie’s chair from spinning every time she gestured. “I don’t care if you don’t normally plough the hill,” she shouted into the phone. “We’ve got a situation here.” What followed was obviously a litany of excuses, and she used her index finger to unspool an imaginary reel. “Just get the road cleared,” she said, snapping her flip-phone shut.
Colin nodded to Connie, who stepped forward and handed her lists of contact information for faculty and students. Morganstern’s face relaxed. “Thank you.”
“Anything else?” Connie wrote.
“Not right now.” She took the lists into Colin’s office and closed the door. Connie raked her fingers through her red curls, scrubbing at her scalp like she was shampooing. Then she grabbed a pen, touched Colin’s sleeve and wrote, ‘Shd I go back to Steven?? He seems almost catatonic.’
“Has somebody contacted his parents?”
She nodded fast. ‘Dad is on business trip,’ she wrote. ‘Mother will be here in a few hours. They’re divorced, remember?’
“Go sit with him for a while,” Colin said. “I’ll come get you if we need anything.” He, meanwhile, had to find Graham.
Sarah came in breathless. “My friend Kat is outside,” she said. “She’s Gateway’s staff photographer. Do you think she . . .”
“No photos.”
“Colin, are you kidding me? TV cameras have been all over. Controlled photography by somebody sensitive to the context will serve you a whole lot better.”
“I don’t want any more publicity than absolutely necessary.”
“You can’t keep your little private world all locked up, Colin. Not now. It’ll seem suspicious, and it’ll inflame curiosity.”
He paced. “Okay. Okay. I’ll take your advice on the media crap. Just for God’s sake be careful with it.” Chaos was engulfing Matteo like high tide washing over a sandcastle. All the peace and order he’d laboured to create . . .
“Rob’s doing the story,” Sarah said, and hesitated. “My editor wants me to feed him information.”
“That might not be a bad idea. At least you can make sure he gets the story straight.” Colin rubbed his temples − his head felt like a blacksmith’s anvil. “How much do I tell the other outlets?”
“As little as possible, unless it’s somebody solid like McGuire at the Post. And keep your kid
s away from the TV crews. They’ll ask anything to get a 10-second scoop.”
He nodded.
Behind the door, Morganstern was making one phone call after another, her voice an indistinct murmur. As Colin and Sarah fell silent, her volume rose. “I need more uniforms out here. Now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
That pale, delicate skin should have torn like tissue paper. But Philip’s body was tougher than it looked, and it refused to give way. The needle dented deep, making a crater of his skin before it finally punched through.
At least the veins were right there, big blue tunnels. Steady pressure on the plunger and one long, continuous motion, gliding in as smooth as a golf tee staking soft sod.
His eyelids flickered and, for one awful moment, opened to a narrow slit. Did he realise what was happening? A second later the lids dropped and his muscles went limp, peaceful.
No. Not peaceful. Just . . . slack. He hadn’t struggled once. He knew it had to happen. He’d brought it on himself.
Most violence was selfish. People forgot it could be necessary − a necessary evil.
Besides, it was only a bit more of what he’d already used. There was no way to predict what would happen, no way to guarantee the sweet relief of it.
Waking up the next morning had been hard, but after those first sick minutes, habit took over. Favourite shirt, comfortable shoes. Toast still toast, warm crumbs mixed into the butter. Even the eggs slid right down, fluffy and warm. Then, the chaos − the whole place was in a frenzy, everybody upset and helpless, nobody sure how to act. The right facial expressions had come easily, a furrow of concern staying on the brow, a look of shock widening the eyes. Thank all those years of practice, being who and what the world wanted.
Philip couldn’t have pulled that off. He only cared about himself. All that talk about battling hypocrisy − what did he know about hypocrisy?
He hadn’t needed it yet.
*
Colin stood at the dining hall entrance, scanning the room. Jimmy saw him and came over. “They’re really thrown,” he said. “They don’t know what to make of this. I’m just taking it easy, talking to the kids who want to talk and letting the others settle into it. I thought we could have a prayer service tonight?”
“Absolutely. I should’ve thought of that.”
“You’ve got a bit more on your mind right now.”
Colin nodded, his eyes still searching the room. There, in the back corner. Sitting on the floor, long legs straight out in front of him, reading. Probably Ayn Rand. Colin crossed the room.
“How are you, Graham?”
“Better than most.” He waited just long enough to let the insolence sink in before adding, with a shrug, “I didn’t know him as well as they did.”
“Right. It’s still a shock, though.” Wondering why he was bothering to be polite, Colin let his tone harden. “Your room is right across from Steven’s. Were you there when he found Philip?”
“In other words, where was I when Philip overdosed?”
“That’s not what I said.” And this was not a conversation he wanted to have within the other boys’ earshot. “Come with me,” he ordered, and walked out of the dining hall without looking back. In the hall he counted. Two more minutes and he’d go back in, haul the kid out.
At one minute thirty, Graham emerged.
Colin hid his relief with a terse nod. “Let’s go up to my off . . .” Damn. Morganstern was using his office. He hated the idea of bringing Graham up to his study. The boy’s sarcastic voice breaking the peace, his body’s heat soaking into the chair cushion, his designer aftershave staining the air.
But at least it would guarantee privacy.
Graham climbed the four flights ahead of Colin, pausing at each landing to make a point of waiting for the older man. As they entered the study, Colin propped the door open, then went behind his desk and nodded to the straight-backed guest chair. Graham spun it around and sat astride, arms folded on top of the chair back.
“Okay,” Colin said, “where were you when he overdosed?”
“When did he overdose?”
Colin wasn’t about to admit he wasn’t sure. “Last night.”
“Snug in my bed.”
“And before bed?”
“I talked to Steven for a while. Did some homework, messed around on the computer. Watched a little porn, Father.”
Colin ignored the taunt. “The police aren’t sure the overdose was accidental.”
The boy’s head came up. “Somebody seriously killed him?”
“It’s a possibility. And yes, I would say murder is serious.”
“So I’m the first suspect,” Graham mused. “Oh, man, this really is getting interesting.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
He shrugged. “I’m not a hypocrite, Father McAvoy. Anything bad is either a catastrophe or an inconvenience. For people who loved Philip, this is a catastrophe. I wasn’t one of them.”
“Well, I can certainly see that it might be an inconvenience to be suspected of murder for the second time in a year. Unless perhaps you enjoy the attention?”
Graham picked up an antique snow globe − a finely carved miniature of Edinburgh Castle with a pinpoint of orange flame shooting from the one o’clock gun − and turned it upside down, holding it by its mahogany base. Colin swallowed hard and said nothing.
“I don’t care one way or another,” Graham told him, righting the globe and tilting it so the snow piled on one side. “And that’s exactly how I felt toward Philip Grant.”
Colin rose. He wanted this boy out of his study. “I suggest you explain as much to the police.”
*
Ten minutes later, he was knocking − a little too hard − on the milkhouse door. He had no right to be furious with Sarah, he reminded himself. Granted, she’d reassured him about a sociopath who’d probably just killed his favourite student and destroyed his school. But he’d put her in an impossible position because, well, he wanted her company.
Tentatively, Colin pushed the door open. Frantic with joy, Simon bounded away to find a toy to bring him, a gift of hospitality. Duck in hiding, he settled for one of Sarah’s sneakers. Colin knelt and put his arms around the dog’s sturdy body, stroking his back. “It’s okay, pup. Everything’s going to be okay.” When the sneaker thunked to the floor, Colin realigned it with its mate. “Good boy. You stay here. She’ll be back.”
As he shut the door, he caught sight of Sarah by the school’s entrance, talking to one of the police officers swarming the grounds. She broke away and came over.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“Sgt. Milton was wondering if there was any chance something had been stolen. I must have looked at him like he was nuts, because he took pains to remind me that drugs are involved, and people who use need money. Did Philip have a lot of cash lying around his room?”
“He might have. He liked grand gestures. He . . .” Colin froze. “Oh sweet Jesus, Sarah, he had the map.”
“He what?”
Colin took off running. Down the stairs, across the snow. He dragged in breath as he ran − the gut-punch of panic had knocked the wind out of him. Slamming through the dormitory door, he raced upstairs and ducked under the yellow plastic tape in the hall. Another band stretched across Philip’s open doorway. Inside, a police officer stood with his arms folded, contemplating a plastic male mannequin with a club tie draped around its neck and a packet of condoms slid between its thumb and forefinger.
Bracing himself against the doorway, Colin leaned in. “Is there a map in there?” he got out before stopping for air. “Big. Hand drawn, really old.”
“Might be,” the officer said with a shrug. “We haven’t gone through his drawers yet.”
“He wouldn’t have it in a drawer. It’s too big. And it’s mounted, so he couldn’t have folded it.”
“Then no, there’s nothing like that.”
The
back of Colin’s shirt was damp under the wool jacket, chilling the skin around his overheated core. “You’re sure?”
“Sounds like it’d be pretty hard to miss.”
“Right.”
Sarah had arrived, and Colin let her take his arm and steer him to the dorm’s rear door. “The sight of somebody running is blood in the water,” she whispered. “There will be TV crews out front by now.” She led him into the cloister walk. Hardly any snow had blown through the arches, and the stone canopy sheltered them from the wind.
“Okay,” she said. “We need to regroup. First, are you sure Philip still had the map?”
Colin nodded miserably.
“But who would want − sorry. I mean, why would anybody take it?”
A muscle jerked in his cheek. “Because it’s worth a quarter of a million dollars.”
*
Snow weighed the boughs of the pines behind the dorm, and the bare-branched trees in the distance looked like pen-and-ink drawings topped with thick white paint. Morganstern’s stride slowed. How could a place this peaceful inspire murder?
And yet, it had, she was sure of it. No syringe next to the body, no syringe anywhere in the room. So somebody had left with it − and might have dropped it. “Walk the grid,” she told the extra patrol officers who’d finally shown up.
They conferred briefly and set out, pacing parallel, going deep into the woods before turning and walking back along the next imaginary row. Two more officers had overturned the school’s Dumpster on a tarp and spread out its contents: a Pop Art canvas of slimy brown banana peels, crumpled notes, soggy wads of Kleenex, greyish-white cotton socks with holes in them, Q-tips smeared with brownish-yellow ear wax, and soda cans the boys should have recycled. They were raking through the debris as she passed.
DiSalvo, the death investigator, came out of the dorm.
“Bernie!” she called, waving. He waited, impassive, until she reached his side. “So Gradwohl came to the scene,” she said.
He shrugged. “Kid with money. That means media.”
“So what are you thinking?” she asked, counting on ego to loosen his tongue. After doing the old coroner’s job for him for almost thirty years, Bernie had been passed over for the job, and the county had brought in a younger woman with a medical degree and St. John suits to be his boss. He liked to speculate as publicly as possible before Gradwohl made her official pronouncements.
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