"And they'll all be here?" asked Lindsay.
"They'll all be here," said Brightman.
"They believed you," said Danny.
"They thought that I was giving them a line of total bullshit," said Brightman. "These are not stupid people. But they didn't have much choice other than to refuse to cooperate, which would make their children look guilty."
"So they aren't happy with you right now?" asked Danny.
Brightman shook his head and smiled.
"Detective, you have a gift for understatement. The only people they are less happy with than me is the two of you. The difference is that you can live with their displeasure. I have to deal with it. My ass may well be on the line. Will you be done by eleven?"
"Yes," said Lindsay.
"Good, we have an assembly scheduled at that time to honor Alvin Havel's memory. It would be good if you had his killer in hand by then, not that I have any great expectations of that. I have a school full of frightened people."
"No guarantees," said Danny.
"I didn't think so."
"Let's get started," said Lindsay.
"Let's," said Brightman.
Danny and Lindsay had arrived at nine and met with Bill Hexton, the Wallen security officer in the empty school lunchroom over coffee.
"Who has access to the video room?" Danny had asked.
"Me, Joe Feragmi and Liz Henning, both half-time security," Hexton had said, shaking his head. "Joe's retired NYPD. Liz was a deputy in the sheriff's department in Westchester. She got married last year. Husband's an architect."
"And that's it?" asked Lindsay.
"No," said Hexton. "Joe and Liz can get in there with their pass key, but so can Mr. Brightman and whoever's on the night cleaning crew."
"Who else?" asked Danny.
"Everyone," said Hexton, adjusting his tie. "We don't lock the door during the day, just close it. A student, a teacher, a secretary could go in."
"So that narrows it down to everyone," said Danny.
"Yes," said Hexton. "Sorry. We've never had any reason to- "
"How long would they have?" asked Lindsay. "In the video room before someone saw them?"
"Not long," said Hexton. "Ten minutes max. Not enough time to doctor the tape and you couldn't be sure one of my people didn't show up, but…"
"But?" said Danny, reaching for the coffee carafe.
The coffee was good, but what would you expect at the Wallen School?
"Yesterday was crazy," said Hexton. "I was on alone when Mr. Havel was killed. I don't think I was in the video room for more than half an hour all day."
"And the door was open?" asked Lindsay.
"Unlocked," said Hexton. "We've never had a problem with the video room before."
"You've got one now," said Danny.
"Big time," Hexton agreed.
"Any of the students in Havel's class know enough tech to alter the tapes?" asked Lindsay.
"All of them, probably," said Hexton. "It's not that hard. It just takes a little time."
"How much time?" asked Danny. "How long would it take someone to make those changes to the tape?"
"I don't know… Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen."
"Anyone fooling with the tapes ran the risk of being caught in the act, right?" said Danny.
"Not if there were two of them," said Lindsay. "One to alter the tape, the other to watch for security to return."
* * *
The call from Mac came while Stella sat in a chair at Connor Custus's bedside. She had more questions for Custus, who pretended to be asleep.
Custus had seen a soft orange-red when Stella focused a light on his closed eyes. There was no rapid eye movement under the lids, no vibration to show that he was dreaming. What she did see was a slight occasional movement that told her that Custus was faking.
She could have called him on his deception. She could have turned him over to the district attorney's office, but she had questions and she knew she was unlikely to get anything from the man other than more games and lots of talk. Stella was patient, but she was also tired and the chair was not comfortable.
When her cell phone rang, Stella quickly checked the charge in her battery. It had enough. She checked the caller ID and said, "Mac."
"How's it going?"
"A few loose ends," she said.
"Tie it up. I need you on the mutilation case."
He quickly brought her up-to-date. She listened, glancing at Custus who had turned his head almost imperceptibly so that he could better hear the conversation.
Stella asked questions. Mac answered patiently. Custus listened.
"I'll be right in," she said.
"No," said Mac. "Just go to the elevator. Take it up to six and go to room six-oh-three."
"What's there?" she asked.
"I am. We've got a possible lead. He was shot."
"The killer shot him?"
"It's more complicated than that. Come up and I'll explain.
"Hawkes?"
"He's back at the lab with a knife our wounded witness found in his pocket."
"His pocket? The killer put the knife in his pocket?"
"He did," said Mac. "And I'm hoping that it was a big mistake."
"I'll be right up."
She clicked off her phone and Custus, eyes still closed, said, "I gather from your end of the conversation that you have one very sick whelp you're trying to bring to ground."
"Yes," said Stella.
It happens sometimes. More often than Stella wished it. She would track down a murderer only to find that she felt sorry for him or her or even liked the person. Connor Custus, if that was really his name, was responsible for the death of four people and who knows how many before that. True, he had not meant to kill anyone in Doohan's, but the law called it murder. Still, Custus was a charmer.
"I'm somewhat of an expert on murder for revenge," Custus said. "I've worked for and with organizations that exist for the sole purpose of vengeance. It's all relative. They tend to be dull and mirthless fanatics and no fun at a pub or poker table."
"Your point?" asked Stella.
"Murder weapon in the pocket of an unwary and randomly selected traveler. I've actually seen just that before. It's all relative. Why this traveler's pocket? Because he had a wide and open pocket? And why not just throw the weapon away? Why take a chance on being caught in the act of reverse pocket picking?"
"Why?" asked Stella.
"Because," said Custus, "he wants to be caught. He has a message to deliver to the world about the wounds he has suffered and he will continue to send that message through his murders until you catch him and give him a martyr's forum. He leaves messages, doesn't he?"
"Are you a psychologist, too?" she asked.
"Oh, far better and worse than that," he said with a smile, looking directly at her now. "But it's all relative."
* * *
Hawkes had spent three hours in bed after showering, shaving and making himself a protein shake. He couldn't down solid food, not yet. He hadn't slept. Each time he started to fall asleep he had felt the sudden sensation of falling, rapidly falling backward into darkness, knowing that if he didn't wake up he would keep falling until he was too deep to awaken.
He had sat up moist with sweat, hyperventilating.
The phone had rung and Mac asked him if he were up to going to the lab and examining the knife he had recovered from James Park. Hawkes welcomed the excuse for getting up and out.
He had showered again.
He knew the symptoms. He knew what was wrong. He would continue to feel the urge to clean himself, try to get rid of the imagined and real darkness of the damp pit he had shared with Custus. He could prescribe something for himself, probably would but he knew he would also have to deal with that fear he did not want to face, the fear of being entombed in an avalanche of filthy water and sharp-edged heavy slabs of plastic, plaster, metal and dead rats.
If he was not better in three days, he would
seek help, short-term patch-up therapy. The department had good people, good therapists. The problem, he knew, was that he would know what they would say and what they would try. It was the curse of being a physician. In the long run, even with help, it would be a matter of physician heal thyself.
The best thing to do was to lose himself in work and Mac had just offered him the opportunity.
Hawkes finished dressing. He had a knife to examine.
* * *
Waclaw handed the diary to his widowed daughter-in-law. The children, Thad and Clara, were playing video games in Thad's room. They had been told that their father had died. They had been told that it was an accident. The trick would be to keep the truth from them, an impossible trick given the ready availability of the Internet, emails, television news, friends who found out, newspapers. They were young, but they would, when they were older, find out. She would have to talk to them about it but Anne didn't know how or when.
Her father-in-law was no help. He sat in front of her, his heavy lids drooped, his eyes moist. She understood no Polish and Alvin was no longer alive to translate for her.
The diary was on her lap, a clothbound book with the word "Journal" in black letters on the cover. Men called it a journal. Women called it a diary.
The word "Journal" was the only thing written in English. The rest of the journal was in Polish in Alvin's no-nonsense, highly legible but incomprehensible block letters.
"You know I can't read this," she said.
She was tired. She longed for the rain to return and set up a protective dark waterfall around the house. If someone had covered her eyes and said, "Quick, which dress are you wearing?" she wouldn't have been able to answer with more than a vague guess.
"He says her," Waclaw said.
"He says her?"
"Uh-huh."
He held up both hands, fingers splayed. Then he made a fist and opened his fingers again. Then he pointed at the journal.
"Page twenty?" she asked.
He didn't know the word twenty so he reached over and flipped pages. Alvin Havel had numbered the pages in the upper right-hand corner. Waclaw tapped the open page with a lean finger.
"Hers," he said.
Waclaw knew he looked like a fool. In Poland, he was considered to be a fine speaker, a union spokesman, a man his son, when he was alive, had been proud of. Waclaw knew he should have made a greater effort to learn English, but Alvin spoke perfect Polish. Waclaw's grandchildren spoke no Polish.
"Dzieweczyna," he said pointing to the page.
"Dizwezna?" Anne repeated.
Close enough, thought Waclaw. Dzieweczyna. He didn't know the English word "girlfriend," but her name was in Alvin's journal. Well, not her name exactly, but the name he had given her in Polish. He pointed to the name.
Nogi.
"Her name is Nogi?" asked Anne.
"Niech pomysle."
Waclaw pointed to his legs, then ran a hand down each of them.
"Legs?" Anne asked. "Nogi? Legs?"
Waclaw shook his head "yes" and sat back exhausted by his effort. "Legs."
* * *
Annette Heights was the first student through the door of the conference room. A tall man with hair as dark as hers stood behind her. She was still cute. He wasn't. He wore a blue suit, carried a briefcase and had a face that did not promise a smile.
It wasn't Robert Heights, the concert pianist, who Danny would have been happy to meet. This man was all lawyer and no more than thirty years old.
"John Rothwell," he said, pulling out a chair for the girl who smiled up at him.
Danny wondered if she thought Rothwell was cute too.
No one shook hands. Rothwell and Annette Heights sat at the table. She looked at the metal box with the black cable and the orange goggles. Rothwell didn't look. He had a very good idea of what they were.
"What are you looking for?" Rothwell asked.
"Glass," said Danny.
"Glass?"
"Glass," Danny repeated.
"Why?"
The girl seemed to be amused. Her lawyer wasn't.
"Evidence that would go a long way toward removing your client from any possible suspicion," said Danny.
"Clients. I represent all of the students on behalf of Wallen School. And if we say 'no'?"
"We ask a judge to step in," said Danny. "Won't look good. Could get out to the press."
"Cut it out, John," Annette said with a sigh. "Let them do it and let's get out of here. Where are you looking for the glass? You want me to undress?"
"Not necessary," said Lindsay. "Just your hands."
"All right," said Rothwell. "But they'll answer no questions."
And they didn't, nor did Lindsay and Danny ask them any.
It went faster with the other students in Alvin Havel's chemistry class, James Tuvekian, Karen Reynolds, Cynthia Parrish. No trace of glass on any of their palms.
"Let's check the boyfriends," said Lindsay after the students and their lawyer had left. "Someone was in that closet. Someone watched for security to come back when the tapes were being altered. Someone's got glass in their palm."
* * *
Jim Park sat propped up in bed. A pretty woman with an Irish face and red hair, his wife, stood on one side of the bed. Stella and Mac stood on the other side. Park's wife touched her husband's shoulder. He winced.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot."
"I wasn't going to hurt anyone," Park said. "I didn't even know the knife was in my pocket."
"We believe you," said Mac.
"They believe you," Park's wife said reassuringly.
"Good, then they can be witnesses," Park said. "I'm suing the man who shot me. Sioban, get me a lawyer."
"What kind of lawyer?" she asked.
"A mean one," he said.
"Mr. Park," Mac said. "We've got a few more questions."
"I did not have a good morning," Park explained.
"We know," said Mac.
"Ask your questions."
"Any idea when the knife was put in your pocket?" asked Mac.
"Yes, between nine-thirty and ten-seventeen. I was late for work. I reached into my pocket to check my cell phone messages at nine-thirty. I was on the train platform. The next time I checked was ten-seventeen in the elevator. That's when I found the knife in my pocket."
"See anyone suspicious near you?" asked Mac. "Anyone bump into you?"
"Everyone was suspicious-looking, even me, and everyone bumped into me. No one says 'I'm sorry' or 'Pardon me.' Wait, one man on the platform who bumped into me did say 'Sorry.'"
"What did he look like?" asked Mac.
"What did he look like?" Park's wife prompted.
Park looked at her with mild exasperation.
"I don't know," he said. "Just bumped into me, said 'sorry' and limped into the crowd."
"Which train stop was it?" Mac asked, looking at Stella who rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
"Gun Hill Road, the Bronx," Park said.
"Gun Hill Road, Bronx," his wife repeated.
"Where's your jacket?" asked Mac.
"Over there," said Park, gesturing at the closet a few feet away.
"I'll need it," said Mac.
"Keep it," said Park. "It's got a hole in it where that guy shot me."
"Blood too," said Park's wife.
Mac nodded.
* * *
Gary House was, more or less, Annette Heights's boyfriend. He was, like her, a junior. According to Annette, Gary was her best friend.
"He's smart," she said. "He's quiet, except when he gets excited about computers, and he likes to be bossed around."
"And you like bossing?" asked Lindsay.
"Love it," she said.
Gary House was pudgy, pink cheeked and straw haired. He was quite willing to put his hand out to be checked.
"There's a newer model," he said, looking at the metal box. "Detects a dozen substances."
"
Too expensive," said Danny.
"Technology is always ahead of forensic economics," said Gary House.
"Okay," said Lindsay.
He pulled his hand back and placed it in his lap.
"You have chemistry with Mr. Havel?" asked Danny.
"Everyone has chemistry with Mr. Havel. There's only one chemistry teacher in the Wallen School. He had the market cornered."
"That all he had cornered?" asked Danny.
"Gary," John Rothwell warned.
Gary House looked at Danny blankly and then at Lindsay, who said, "He corner any of the girls? Annette, for example?"
"No," he said emphatically. "She would have liked it if he tried though. She likes to flirt."
"I noticed," said Danny.
"Gary," the lawyer said. "No more talking."
"Can I go now?" the boy asked.
Lindsay nodded. Gary had no trace of glass in either palm.
Karen Reynolds's boyfriend, Terry Rucker, was not a nerd. He wasn't a fool either. It took a little persuasion by Headmaster Brightman to get him into the conference room.
"Hands," said Lindsay.
Terry reluctantly put out both hands. He was several inches over six feet tall and well built. His shirt was about half a size too small to show off his upper torso.
"Palms up," Lindsay said.
He complied.
Lindsay turned the light on his hands.
"Is this dangerous?" Terry said.
"No," said Danny. "Where were you at ten yesterday morning?"
"When Mr. Havel was killed, right?"
"Right."
"Terry, you don't have to answer any questions," Rothwell said with a hint of resignation.
"In Ithaca, at a basketball game."
Lindsay could see no sign of glass, but there was the residue of something on his palms.
Cynthia Parrish did not have a boyfriend. She did, however, have a close friend, a very close friend, on the cross-country team. Jean Withrow was black, model lean and pretty. Her hair was pulled back and tied tightly. She wore a blouse and a skirt that revealed lean, powerful legs.
"I'm not telling you anything," she said, sitting and folding her arms across her chest.
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