by David Chill
"That's a little cynical," I commented.
"I suppose it might seem that way. I don't have children, so I don't have that financial responsibility. But I'm not blind either. I see it for what it is."
"And speaking of finances, any thoughts as to where this fundraising money might have disappeared?"
Mary Swain thought about this for a minute. "All money raised, no matter for what department, has to go through the school's accounting office. But everything they do needs to be approved by the principal. Mularkey."
"Oh," I said absently, trying to figure out where to go next with this. Then I had an idea. "You seem to know quite a bit. Might someone in Mularkey's office be open with you? Could I ask you to inquire about this?"
"You could, but I'm afraid you're a few days late."
"How so?" I asked, not liking what I sensed was coming.
"After I refused to switch the grades for one of his players at the end of last semester, Savich told me he'd get even."
"Really."
"That's right. And it looks like he did. Last week I got terminated."
I frowned and thought back to my conversation earlier with Jason Fowler. "I heard you were taking a sabbatical."
"That's just what the school says when they fire someone. The sabbatical never ends, the teacher never returns. Thirty-five years at St. Dismas. Oh, Mularkey gave me a nice severance package and said he'd start my pension right away. That's only to keep me from suing them. But make no mistake. I was fired last week. For trying to do right by the kids."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.
"Yes, well, I even recommended Jason take over the department. But you know what happened to him. First Jason, now Noah. They say bad things come in threes, so I can only imagine what will happen next. That school is just swimming in tragedy."
"I'm well aware. Do you have any idea who might have had a reason to do this to Jason?"
Mary Swain sniffed. "Probably one of his floozies."
"Floozies?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
"Oh, right. I believe the word people use today is skanks."
"I know what a floozie is. And a skank. I was just surprised he was involved with more than one."
"Listen, everyone has a weakness. For Jason Fowler it was women. He liked them, they liked him. Didn't matter who they were or how old they were. He had no boundaries in that department."
"I've heard rumors he was involved with a student. A young girl."
"I hadn't heard that," Mary said, looking at me curiously. "Although I wouldn't be surprised if he fouled the nest."
"What did you hear?" I asked.
"I heard he was involved with someone at the school. And he was careless about it. But that's about all I know."
*
I had much better luck the second time I tried the intercom outside of Vicki Sailor's condo. Just off of Sierra Madre, it was a decent building, freshly painted white with blue trim. It was on the small side, containing about a dozen units. The exterior was made of stucco, and it looked like it had been built sometime in the past few decades. Vicki picked up and asked a number of questions, the intercom screeching her voice in a much louder than normal way. After a few back-and-forths, the buzzer sounded and I walked up a flight of stairs to her unit.
I knocked and a slender girl with long, honey blonde hair greeted me. Vicki was pretty, with big brown eyes and a turned-up nose. She wore a sleeveless gray top and volleyball shorts. She looked like an innocent teenager, but looks are all too often deceiving. I needed to learn whether or not she was sexually involved with a teacher or even played some role in his murder. How I'd get her or anyone else to reveal that type of a secret was beyond me right now.
"Hi. Are you Vicki?" I asked.
"I am. Sorry for the suspicion. There's a lot of crazy stuff going on right now. My parents told me to be very careful."
"Understood," I said and handed her my card. Best to leave her with something more tangible than the memory of a fake badge being flashed all-too-quickly. "My name's Burnside. I'm conducting an investigation regarding St. Dismas. Can I ask you a few questions?"
"All right," she said and leaned against the doorway. She made no motion to invite me inside, and even if she had, I had no intention of going there. I didn't even want to ask if her parents were home, lest I raise any concern or fear that I might be after something beyond information. Vicki looked underage, as well as attractive, innocent, and waif-like.
"It won't take long," I assured her.
"It's fine."
"Obviously you know what happened this week with Mr. Fowler," I started.
"Obviously."
"Did you hear about Noah?"
She nodded. "One of my friends called a little while ago. The word's spreading. Do you know how he's doing?"
"I was at the hospital earlier. They say he'll pull through."
"Good. I like Noah. I was a cheerleader last year, so I got to know a lot of the guys on the team. Actually, St. Dismas isn't a big school, so I know pretty much everyone."
"Are you still a cheerleader?"
"Good Lord, no. Getting tossed twenty feet off the ground and having to do twirls in mid-air isn't my idea of a good time. Cheerleading is practically a sport itself these days. For a lot of cheerleaders, the football game is merely a backdrop."
"Uh-huh. So how friendly are you with Noah?" I asked.
"Casual. Enough to know he was unhappy. I mean, I wouldn't have predicted this, but I'm not totally surprised, either. Everyone puts so much pressure on those boys. When the team wins, they're kings, when they lose, they're bums. I don't like that. This is my last year, I'm a senior. I'll be happy to be out of high school soon. Especially after what happened this week."
"It had to have been traumatic. Were you in Mr. Fowler's class?"
"I was. He was a great teacher. And a good guy. I can't believe anyone would do this to him," she said, and I saw her blink away a couple of tears. "I was just telling this to Dash this morning on the phone. We keep talking about it. Everyone's in a state of shock. The school brought in grief counselors, but I don't know how much good they do. It's like I was telling Dash. When someone's gone, they're gone. All you have are memories."
"Dash Farsakian," I said and then asked a question for which I already knew the answer. "Were you close to him?"
"I used to go out with Dash," she said, composing herself a bit.
"Not anymore?"
"No. I've gone out with him off-and-on for a while. Now it's off, probably for good. He's nice, I guess. We're still friendly. No real spark between us, though. But his mother, oh wow. Even if I really liked Dash, being with him meant being with his mom. Even when she wasn't there."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, some guys just want to be taken care of all the time. I guess he's used to that from his mom. She gives him everything, does everything. I swear, that boy doesn't even clear his own dishes when he finishes dinner. I'm into having a boyfriend. But with Dash I'd be more like his second mom than anything else. Not my idea of a relationship."
"You know his mom well?
"Well enough. She waits on him hand-and-foot. And his mom is a little too affectionate."
"With Dash?" I asked cautiously.
She shook her head. "With him, with everyone. I swear, Dash's mom flirts with every man who comes within a mile of her. She'd flirt with a dog if it were a male. That whole scene, it's weird."
"In what way?"
"Oh. When Dash's parents separated last year, it was as if something happened, I don't know, maybe the chains came off her. She started going out with a lot of men," she said and then added, "maybe to prove to herself she's still attractive. I don't know why adults think they have to do this."
I took this in. This was an impressive observation for a teenager. "You seem to have a pretty good understanding of human nature."
"I like psychology," she said and displayed a shy smile. "Everyone's got a calling. Mine seems to be in analyz
ing people. Trying to help them, although I think psychology is better at helping people figure out why they are the way they are, rather than giving them a plan for going forward."
"Maybe so. Look, when I went over to Dash's house today, I saw his father there. Hanging out. Are his parents back together now?"
"I don't think so," she said. "At least not full time. Sucks for Dash. I think he needs some help. He's got some anger issues. I'm just not trained to help him yet."
"You seem to know a lot about that family."
"More than I want to," she sighed.
"Oh? What else?"
She hesitated and looked down at the ground. "It, um, involves Mr. Fowler."
"What do you mean?"
"He was ... nice to me," she started. "Not in a perv sort of way. He just ... treated me well. He was a good teacher. But about a week ago I saw something I wish I hadn't."
"What was that?"
"It was after school. I was studying for a while in the library, mostly waiting around for my friends to finish cheerleading practice. One of them said she'd give me a ride home. Seemed like they were taking forever. I decided to see if Mr. Fowler was still around. Talk to him about a homework assignment. I had a question. Well, maybe I just wanted to talk. In general, about stuff. He's a good listener. I mean was, I guess. Geez."
"Go on," I said, watching her carefully.
"So I went up to Mr. Fowler's office. The door was closed, and I knocked, but no answer. I heard something, so I figured he was inside. I opened the door, it was unlocked, and well, yeah. He was inside all right. No wonder he hadn't heard me knocking."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, her mouth becoming hard and her facial expression tightening. "Mr. Fowler was inside of Dash's mom, Skye. Deep inside, if you get what I'm saying."
Chapter 9
When I called the Pasadena police station, I received a stroke of luck; the person I was calling actually picked up the phone. And adding to my good fortune, I learned he was working alone this weekend. I strolled into the near-empty station house and it took about a minute to find his desk. He sat there cleaning his weapon. He wore jeans and a black golf shirt, but he still looked decidedly average.
"Better make sure you've unloaded that thing, Detective," I said, pulling up a chair and sitting down, even though he hadn't invited me to join him. "Accidents do happen."
"I'll make sure it's pointed at a bad guy," said Al Diamond, displaying more character than I had given him credit for. "In case it misfires."
"Kind. Where's your partner?"
"Ah, Turco went up north this morning. Fishing trip. He stopped by before he left, to pick up some ammo."
"Ammo?" I asked, eyebrows up.
"Yeah. He brings a rod along. If the fish ain't biting, he uses his Beretta. Guess he doesn't want to go home empty-handed."
"Quite a sportsman, your partner."
"You get who you get," Diamond said with a yawn. "I've had better, I've had worse. Mostly better."
I smiled wistfully. Most of my partners on the job were very capable officers, but I suffered through a few who came with some jaw-dropping habits. From soliciting dates with attractive women we pulled over on routine traffic violations, to throwing a couple of sneaky punches on a manacled suspect, these partners pushed the envelope as far as the law would allow, and then kept going. One or two were dismissed after repeated charges were filed against them, but others continued on the job, surviving the occasional reprimand. Most had retired by now; once you put in your 20 years with the LAPD, the retirement benefits are generous. And due to a strong labor negotiation, the pension checks were an ironclad guarantee. The joke among the rank-and-file was that the checks would even be delivered to prison, if that's where a retired cop happened to wind up.
"How long have you been on the job?" I asked.
"Eighteen years," he said. "Would have been twenty, but I spent a couple of years with the Inglewood P.D. I live up in Lancaster, the drive was killing me. I like Pasadena better anyway. Nicer environment."
This was actually a little unusual. I knew cops who started out with the LAPD and left for nicer gigs like Thousand Oaks or Newport Beach, figuring their days would be more pleasant. It turned out their days were actually more boring, and most officers who enter law enforcement do so because it's interesting work. There's only so much job satisfaction one can garner by writing tickets for teenagers who were skateboarding illegally or shoplifting a six-pack of beer. The absence of a serious crime rate often sent those cops back to the LAPD. Time goes by faster when you're not suffering through terminal boredom at your job.
"Glad you're here on a weekend," I said.
"Had some paperwork and a few other things to take care of. So what brings you back? Planning to confess?"
"Nothing to confess to today," I said. "You crack the Jason Fowler case yet?"
"Nope. No suspects either. We've got some more work to do at that school. We'll be back there this week."
"Glad to hear you're giving yourself some space," I said dryly. "Maybe I can move things along a little quicker."
"Oh, yeah?" he asked, his attention suddenly becoming more focused. He put his weapon down on the desk. "What do you got?"
"I've got a lead that could turn you into a hero."
"Go on."
"I need something from you," I said.
"What do you think this is?" he sniffed. "Let's Make A Deal? C'mon. Out with it."
"I need help on a case."
"You and me both."
"So," I said, "if my lead pans out, I'd like some help trying to track down a check."
"A check?"
"Right. A large one. Maybe a few large ones. Drawn on Crown Bank. It's from the St. Dismas account, although it's probably set up as a charity or a foundation or something. That way the people who donate can write it off on their taxes. I was hired to track down what happened to over a hundred grand in missing funds. So any unusual activity in a St. Dismas account would be of great interest to me."
"Uh-huh. Okay, look. I'm not promising anything. If this lead pans out, then maybe we'll see."
"All right," I said, figuring this was likely the best I could hope for. "So I've been told Jason Fowler was having an affair."
Diamond snorted. "Guy wasn't married. Can't have an affair if you're not married. How does that work, smart guy?"
"It works," I said slowly, as if talking to a small child, "when the other person is married."
Diamond thought about this for a moment. "Okay. Who?"
"Her name's Skye Farsakian. Son goes to the school. Plays football. Again, this is just what I've been told. I wasn't there and I don't have much, other than hearsay. But right now, hearsay evidence is better than anything else you have. And it may actually be pretty solid."
Pulling out a folder, Diamond started combing through notes. "Yeah. Skye Farsakian. I interviewed her. Blonde, blue eyes, nice rack. Not bad for her age."
I frowned. "Why did you interview her?"
"She approached me. Right after the Fowler stabbing. I was talking with Mularkey, the principal, when she runs up. All distraught. Makes sense now. When you have a murder, everyone's on edge, but she was really upset. Didn't have anything concrete to say, only that the whole thing was horrible. We didn't think much of it at the time. Who would've thought she'd been getting banged by the dead guy. Makes sense now."
"You have a wonderful way with words, did you know that?" I said.
"Ah, lighten up. We'll talk to her again. If she had a kid at home, I imagine she and Fowler got a hotel room."
"Why do you say that?"
"Guy lived with his mom. Over thirty years old and still living at home. Fowler hadn't left the nest yet. Doubt he'd be bringing a married broad back to his mom's crib and then go do her in the bedroom he grew up in."
I took a breath. Diamond and Turco reminded me of why I didn't miss being a cop. "They did it in the school. On a desk in his office."
"No kiddi
ng. In a religious school? I'll be darned. Some people have no respect."
"Just don't say he got what was coming to him."
"I wasn't going to say it, but I was thinking it. How'd you learn about this?"
"A little bird told me."
Diamond sighed. "I'll need to talk with them."
I stopped and thought about this. I didn't like giving Vicki's name up, but realistically I had no reason to hide it. Maybe I could stonewall for a while. "I don't know as if I'm ready to pass a name along yet."
"Oh, you're not ready, huh?" Diamond said, his voice sounding annoyed. "So Fowler had a girlfriend. Girlfriend was older and married. They did it in a public place. Maybe they liked the thrill of living on the edge and not getting caught. Someone caught them. From all that, I can deduce two suspects. The girlfriend he was banging and the someone who walked in on them. You see why I need to talk with both, don't you?"
I looked down at the ground. I was pretty sure Vicki Sailor had nothing to do with Jason Fowler's death, but pretty sure wasn't good enough. I didn't know Vicki and couldn't rule her out. I did know what the police were going to put her through, though. It was fine if she were indeed the guilty party. If she were not, the episode would be humiliating and depersonalizing for her. And it was all because she was forthcoming with me.
"All right," I sighed and wrote down her contact info. "I think you're going down the wrong path here, but I see your point. I assume you're going to get a DNA sample."
"Of course we are. How about this? A real-life P.I. who cooperates with the police. I ought to nominate you for an award or something."
"I'll settle for some help tracking down one of those checks."
*
As I began leaving Pasadena, I absently cruised past the stone building that housed St. Dismas High School, small shadows beginning to loom from the trees lining the perimeter of the campus. Next to the athletic facilities, I saw two vehicles in the parking lot. One was a silver Mazda 3 with a bumper sticker indicating it was owned by a rental car chain. The other was a dark blue Ford Expedition, shiny and new. I parked behind the Ford, and noticed a small emblem stuck on the back window, one that told me who the owner was. The emblem featured a green shamrock and was embellished with the words Fighting Irish.