“Okay, let’s move on to what happened in the isolation room. Earlier today you said the blood was just a hoax to make it look like something terrible had happened—”
“You’ve got me there, Bennett. Obviously, something terrible did happen.”
“Yes, but if the intention was to kill Heather, why smear the blood, why hide the body? Why not strangle her and leave her there? You can’t ask for a greater scandal at a school than the murder of a student. Why would your ex-partner and his ally—whoever it is— want to conceal it?”
For the first time, Payne looked nervous. “I-I don’t know.”
“You put forward the idea that the blood in the room was a hoax, and that Heather had been given her ticket to freedom. I might have believed that, if the body had never been found. If, perhaps, it had been moved to a temporary hiding spot until it could be safely removed from the school and—just theorizing here—buried somewhere on the two hundred fifty acres out back."
“What? What are you implying? That I had something to do with that poor child’s death?”
“I’m not sure who killed her, Dr. Payne. Although I don’t see why, if she and Paul Petrucci were working together, he would want to kill her. All I know is, you’re the one with the best motive to keep her murder hidden.”
Chapter 22
Frank stumbled out of the county morgue Monday morning, gulping in the fresh cold mountain air with the greediness of a drowning man. He knew if he could see his own face it would be as green as a Martian’s. He'd never been good at autopsies. As a rookie, he’d humiliated himself by fainting dead away the first time he’d seen an ME crack open a murder victim's ribcage. Over the years, he’d learned to hold nausea at bay by filling his gut with saltines and rubbing his nose with Vicks, but it was often touch-and-go. He was out of practice now—it had been more than three years since he’d had to attend an autopsy. And Heather LeBron’s had been particularly bad.
But he’d learned three things. Heather had died on the night she’d been put in the isolation room, although the pathologist couldn’t pinpoint the time any closer than a range of six hours. The marks on her neck were not consistent with manual strangulation. Heather’s neck had been crushed by the pressure of an arm around her neck in a chokehold. And at the time of her death, Heather LeBron had been menstruating.
Frank got into the patrol car but didn’t start the engine. Operating on only a few hours’ sleep, he felt the information he’d gathered at the autopsy grind slowly through the gears of his mind.
Despite Payne's explanation, it bothered him that the headmaster had been right on the money about the menstrual blood. Maybe because he had some part in creating the bloody scene. But why would he do it?
And the chokehold grip that had killed Heather—was Lorrie powerful enough to apply that kind of pressure? Lorrie was a strong, solidly built woman, but so was Heather. Or, had whoever killed Heather killed Lorrie as well? Had the killer hidden the bodies in separate locations, and they just hadn’t discovered Lorrie’s yet? But why? None of it made sense.
He thought of Ray Stulke that night in the Mountainside—the way he had lifted his darts opponent up by the neck, the way he’d boasted of choking the resistance out of one of the students he’d transported to the academy. Ray would have to be interviewed again.
Frank turned the key in the ignition, and the surge of gas to the engine seemed to energize him as well. Meyerson said he planned to spend the morning at the academy with the arson investigators—he would compare notes with the trooper there and plan his next move. As he drove, he radioed the office to check in with Earl.
“Anything to report?” he asked, after the connection had been made.
“Nothing much, except Rollie Fister came over looking for you. But he says it’s not urgent—he knows you’re busy.”
“Okay, hold down the fort. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”
When Frank arrived at the academy, the school grounds seemed to be crawling with troopers.
Meyerson spotted Frank and started speaking the moment he stepped out of the Trout Run patrol car. “Jason Levine is missing again. Discovered it in the morning head count.”
Frank’s hand tightened on the car door, frozen in the act of slamming it shut. “What! Payne told me that all the students were accounted for when I arrived at the fire last night.”
“They were—as of ten p.m., we have three witnesses that place Levine in his room, with the doors locked. He disappeared sometime between then and this morning at seven.”
“Any sign of foul play in his room?” Frank asked.
“None. They found clothes rolled up under the covers to make it look like the bed was occupied. He ran again, but he’s not in Keene Valley this time.”
“Or someone wanted to make it look like he ran.”
Meyerson’s eyes narrowed. “What, are you buying into Payne’s conspiracy theory? Next thing you’ll be telling me the Cubans, the Mafia, and the CIA killed Kennedy.”
“Try coming up with an explanation that fits all the facts of this case—you’ll sound like a crackpot, too.” Frank fell into step beside Meyerson and told him about the autopsy results as they walked toward the administration building. “What did the arson investigators turn up?” he asked after he’d finished.
“Perfectly straightforward. Gasoline spread around those two rear classrooms and ignited.”
“Are there cans of gas stored on campus in the garage or toolshed?”
“Not that we could find. The lawnmowers have all been drained for the winter. Gas cans are all empty. Payne doesn’t use snowblowers—he makes the kids shovel. It could’ve been siphoned out of a few of the teachers’ cars, so the loss wouldn’t be noticed, but that would take time, and the parking lot’s right out in the open.”
“So that would seem to eliminate the students as suspects, and brings us back to Payne’s idea that he’s got an enemy on the inside. Have you spoken to Paul Petrucci?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Let’s do it.”
PAUL PETRUCCI SAT AT the teacher’s desk in an empty classroom, staring out the window at the bare black branches of a huge elm creaking in the breeze. He glanced up as Frank and Meyerson entered the room, but their presence didn’t seem to hold his interest.
Frank dropped into a student desk in front of him. “How’s it going, Paul?”
Paul turned slowly, his face wan and strained. "My student is a suicide. How should it be going?”
“She didn’t commit suicide; she was murdered.”
“Murdered! What do you mean? I assumed—”
“Heather LeBron was strangled on the night she disappeared from the isolation room,” Meyerson said flatly. “We need to verify a few facts.” He riffled through some papers. “Let’s see, you were not working that night, correct? You say you were home with your wife and children. Can anyone else confirm that?”
Paul looked back and forth from Meyerson to Frank in astonishment. “No, of course not. Why should I need confirmation?”
Meyerson made a brief notation, shuffled his notes, and continued talking. “You’ve worked here four years, so you were here when the classrooms at the end of the hall on the second floor of the administration building were remodeled?”
“Yes.” Paul looked at Frank. “That’s where the fire was, right? Did it have something to do with the remodeling?”
Meyerson asked his next question before Frank could answer. “Do you remember what those rooms looked like before they were remodeled?”
Paul opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. His gaze shifted from Meyerson to Frank and back again. "Not really,” he said finally. “I never taught in those rooms. I’ve always used classrooms on the first floor, or in this building.”
Impassively, Meyerson made another note. “Was Heather LeBron one of your favorite students?” he said without looking up.
“Favorite? I don’t have favorites.” Paul tapped a pencil on the desk
. “I was concerned about her. She was quite bright, but very troubled.”
“So you made special allowances for her?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Didn’t you make a special effort to get Heather included in the camping trip on which Jake Reiger was killed?” Frank asked.
“I asked Jake if she could go—it was no big deal.”
"Why did you want her on that trip?” Meyerson spoke without looking up from his notebook.
"You know about Payne’s ridiculous point system.” Paul pushed back from the desk and stood up. A bookcase full of paperbacks stood against the wall and he began to rearrange them. “In order for Heather to have a part in the class play I was putting on, she had to have thirty points by the day of the auditions. She needed eleven more. Going on the hike was a way to earn more points. She wanted to be in that play so badly. The poor kid had already volunteered for every disgusting job on campus.”
Frank remembered some of the chores Lorrie had mentioned the kids could do to earn points—scrub toilets, shovel manure. He wondered if Heather had ever done any jobs in the kitchen, like scour pots or peel potatoes. He made a note to check with the cook.
“Did Heather like Jake Reiger?” Lew asked.
Paul offered a rueful smile. “Heather didn’t really like much of anyone, even me. She didn’t like herself, so it’s hardly surprising."
Frank crossed the room to lean against the radiator next to the bookcase. “Did you have to plead with Reiger to get him to take Heather on this hike, or was he willing?”
Paul shrugged. “I wouldn’t say plead—”
“But Reiger had worked with MacArthur Payne before. Presumably he supported his methods. You were trying to circumvent the rules, weren't you?” Meyerson pressed.
Paul, who had seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts at the beginning of the interview, now sharpened his focus. He stopped fiddling with the books and looked hard at Frank, then Meyerson. "Why are you making such a big deal about it? I asked him to do me a favor and he agreed.”
“Did you ever ask Jake any other favors? Like maybe to borrow money?”
A muddy red flush spread up from Paul’s neck to his face. “No, I never asked him for money.”
“But you do need money, don’t you?” Frank leaned forward confidingly. “I’ve heard you’re having trouble keeping up with the payments on your house.”
“Who told you that? Christ, this town is impossible—you might as well walk around with a sign on your back listing all your personal problems.” Paul pivoted and walked toward the window. “We had a few money problems but we straightened them out. Everything’s fine now,” he said with his back turned to them.
“How did you straighten them out?"
Paul whirled around. “We just did! What’s this got to do with Heather?”
Frank was not yet ready to reveal Payne’s suspicions about Paul and Glen Costello. It was enough that he’d elicited that defensive response. He’d come back to that line after he knew more about Costello.
“Paul, you must’ve heard by now that there’s some speculation Reiger’s death wasn’t an accident—that someone intentionally put bacon grease on his sleeping bag.”
“Of course I know there was a story in that rag, the Beat, but surely you don’t believe that?”
Frank’s answer was a slight arch of the eyebrows.
“You’re not saying you think Heather did it? My God, the poor child’s dead, and people are still maligning her! Instead of trying to find out who killed her, you’re trying to pin crimes on her. Well, I want no part of it. I have nothing more to say to you.” He strode toward the door.
“You’re not obliged to cooperate with the investigation, Paul,” Frank said. "But if you truly care about finding out who killed Heather, I need help in understanding why she was killed.”
Paul paused in his angry march. "What makes you think I know anything about why she was killed?”
“Because you knew her, understood her, maybe better than anyone here." Frank had taken the lead in the interview and Meyerson sat back.
Paul ran his hand through his wavy, dark hair. Frank was sure the teenage girls in his class must find their teacher very attractive—the combination of soulful eyes and a buff body would have to be a winner with the under-eighteen set. He tried to imagine those muscular arms around Heather’s neck. Certainly Paul was physically strong enough for the deed, but did he have the stomach for it?
“I don’t think I really understood her. I just sensed her pain. I wanted to help her. And I failed—it’s too late.”
“A lot of people failed her, Paul, including me. Finding her killer seems like the least we can do for Heather now."
Paul’s eyes were focused on a scuff marking the linoleum floor, but he nodded.
“Would you say that Heather was very suggestible? Would she have gone along with planting that bacon grease if someone offered to get her out of this school in exchange?”
“But why would anyone—”
“One thing at a time. Give me your opinion. Was she desperate enough to get out of here that she would have agreed to such a plan?”
“She claimed she was anxious to leave, but where would she have gone?” Paul paced up and down as he talked. “She wasn’t welcome at either of her parents’ homes. She wanted someplace to belong. She might have been able to belong here if I could have gotten her involved in that play. She seemed really enthused about it—it’s hard to believe that at the same time she was telling me she wanted to do the play, she was scheming with someone else to pull off this sabotage. But . . .’’ Paul’s gaze met Frank’s. “She was a little, uh ...”
“Manipulative.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Do you know a man named Glen Costello?”
If Paul was startled by Frank’s sudden change of tack, he didn’t show it. “No.”
He answered without nervousness, but the response came quickly. He hadn’t paused to consider the question.
“Did Heather ever mention him?”
“No. Who is he?"
Frank shook his head. “All right, Paul, thanks for your time. We may need to speak to you again.”
“Wait—that’s it?"
Frank and Meyerson stood. “Yes. For now.”
Chapter 23
“Why did you back off when Petrucci wouldn’t tell you how he solved his money crunch?” Lew demanded when they were alone. “I would have pressured him to reveal his source.”
“Petrucci’s a smart guy, and he knows his rights—he won’t roll right over. If there’s really some truth to this idea of Petrucci and Costello working together, then I want some more evidence of the connection before I confront him. Otherwise, he’ll start covering his tracks.”
Lew’s mouth twisted in disapproval. “Maybe. And what was all that about Heather pouring the bacon grease on Reiger? I thought we agreed there was nothing suspicious there?”
Frank shrugged. "That was before this murder. You know, Heather told me she was afraid someone else was going to die, and she thought it might be her. She knew something was going on at this school, but I wasn’t patient enough to get her to tell me everything she knew or suspected.”
Meyerson huffed in exasperation. “Frank, you sat there in that meeting with me and the rangers and said yourself that the kids on that campout had no opportunity to get bacon grease and wouldn’t know what to do with it even if they had.”
“If Petrucci was working with Heather, he could’ve gotten her the grease.”
“If they were allies, why did he kill her?”
“She knew too much, she threatened to talk.”
“But you said she was fearful from the time of the campout. If she were in on the murder—”
“All right! All right!" Frank rested his head in his hands. “Look, I know none of it makes sense, but I want to keep my mind open to every possibility. I’m not ruling anything out this time.”
“Well the
n, you’re never going to solve this case. Because that’s our job—to rule out everything that’s impossible and examine what’s left for the truth. Jake Reiger’s death was an accident. Don’t let it distract you from what happened to Heather.”
EARL WAS HOVERING AROUND the outer office when Frank strode through the door.
“Frank! Can I talk to you for—” The ringing of the phone interrupted Earl. He answered it, then handed the receiver to Frank. “It’s Rollie Fister. Wants to tell you about that problem at the library.”
Frank accepted the phone with a sigh. Rollie must’ve been watching the office from across the green to have called the moment he walked through the door.
“Hi, Rollie. What can I do for you?”
“Someone broke into the library and stole some tools yesterday,” Rollie announced.
Frank reached for a pen and prepared to take notes. This was more serious than Earl had led him to believe when he’d called in earlier.
“Except that whoever it was broke in again and returned them today.”
Frank dropped the pen. “I wouldn’t call that stealing, Rollie. Obviously, one of the guys working over there borrowed them.”
“I knew you were going to say that! I just knew it!” Rollie’s usually good-natured voice cranked up half an octave. "Then why is there pee in the toilet?”
“Huh?”
"The toilet’s been used, and all the guys working over here know that the plumbing’s not connected yet, so they go over at Malone’s. I asked everyone if they borrowed my rechargeable power screwdriver, and they said no.”
Frank knew how fussy Rollie was about his tools, so it was hardly surprising that no one owned up to it. “How did they get in? Have the door or windows been tampered with?”
“No,” Rollie admitted. “And they were all locked.”
"So whoever broke in used the key. How many copies of that key are floating around?
“Well, I have one, and there's one up at Stevenson’s . . .” Rollie continued to mutter names under his breath as he counted. “I’d say six.”
Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set Page 43