Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set

by S. W. Hubbard

  Within minutes Frank was on the line with Greta Karsten, the mother who had posted the warning on the TeenTurnaround message board.

  “What can you tell me about Glen Costello and the Langley Wilderness School, Mrs. Karsten?”

  “They nearly destroyed my son there.”

  Although her words were combative, Greta Karsten sounded not the least bit hysterical. “I’ve compiled documented evidence of their abuses,” she continued, in the tone of a congressional witness on C-SPAN. “They employed techniques of mind control used by tyrants like Jim Jones and Kim Il Jung to break down the kids’ personalities and make them totally subservient to Costello and his partner, MacArthur Payne. Anyone who resisted, as my son did, was punished further. The only way to end the abuse was to capitulate to the mind control. Luckily I rescued my son before he died. Others weren’t so lucky.”

  Frank had expected her to talk about the physical hardships imposed by the school, and her words caught him off-guard. “Do you mean the boy who died of heatstroke?”

  “No, his death was an accident. Maybe it could’ve been prevented, maybe not. I’m talking about Tristan Renfew. He committed suicide after being locked in an isolation room for twenty-four hours with the tapes playing.”

  “Tapes? What tapes?”

  “The mind control tapes. They played the same message over and over again. The kids were made to recite the precepts of the Langley School hundreds of times. If they stumbled over a word, they had to start all over again. They had to recite it perfectly the prescribed number of times, or they couldn’t get out of the room. Probably you think that doesn’t sound so bad—not like getting beaten or physically tortured. But believe me, the damage is far worse. A healthy young person can recover from bodily wounds. But what this did to young minds can’t be undone. My son will never be the same. And it killed Tristan Renfew.”

  “How did he commit suicide?’’

  “He ran across the room and rammed his head into the concrete wall. Repeatedly. They found him dead of bleeding in the brain the next morning.”

  “I read about the scandal the other boy’s death caused. Why wasn’t Tristan’s suicide ever mentioned in those articles?”

  “It was hushed up. They claimed the child slipped and fell. Even the parents insisted that’s what happened. I called them myself and told them that my son knew what really happened, but they refused to believe me.”

  “How does your son know that Tristan’s death was definitely suicide?”

  “He was in the isolation room next to Tristan’s. He heard the running, the thump of the impact, the scream. He called for help, but no one came.”

  Frank felt light-headed with the horror of what he was hearing. “But if there was even a remote possibility that this is what happened to their son, why wouldn’t Tristan’s parents want to verify the truth?”

  “I think they felt too guilty. The shock of knowing they sent their son there to meet such a horrible death was too much for them to bear, so they had to deny it. I can understand that. When I realized what I’d done to my son by shipping him off to the Langley School, I felt like committing suicide myself.

  “I tried to bring out what happened, but without the parents’ cooperation there wasn’t much I could do. And my son was in such a fragile emotional state, I couldn’t put him through telling that terrible story again and again. I had to do what was best for him. So I try to warn parents off by posting on the different Internet discussion groups. It’s not much, but I hope I’ve saved a few kids.”

  “I think you did the right thing, Mrs. Karsten. But I’d like to talk to Tristan Renfew’s parents myself. Do you know where I can find them?”

  “Unfortunately, I do. They both died in a car accident about two years ago. They’re buried somewhere in Connecticut.”

  “Is there any other family?”

  “All I know is that Tristan had a brother he called Juice.”

  “Juice?”

  “It was a nickname. That’s all I know.”

  Chapter 27

  Frank entered MacArthur Payne’s office without introduction or greeting.

  “Tristan Renfew.”

  Payne’s eyes widened slightly but he showed no other reaction. “What of him?”

  “He committed suicide in an isolation room when you and Costello ran the Langley Wilderness School, didn’t he?”

  “He slipped and fell. The coroner ruled an accidental death.”

  “That’s not what Greta Karsten says.”

  “Surely you’re not listening to that hysterical fool. Her son couldn’t succeed in our program, and now she’s put herself on a mission to destroy other children’s chance for recovery.”

  Couldn’t succeed? Is that what dying in Payne’s care constituted—a lack of success? A comeback to such an enormously arrogant remark was beyond Frank.

  Payne kept talking. “Even if Tristan’s death were a suicide, what has that got to do with Heather? Her injuries most certainly were not self-inflicted—she was murdered by Paul Petrucci. I don't see how dredging up this business about Tristan helps your case against him.”

  Frank wanted to say that he wasn’t looking to build a case against Petrucci, he was looking for the truth. But he didn’t feel too firmly seated on this high horse. Maybe this was just another distraction, another blind alley he felt compelled to stumble down. But he wanted to know about this mind-control business. Maybe that’s why Heather had been so distraught about the prospect of spending time in the isolation room.

  “I’d like to know more about these tapes that Tristan was forced to listen to. Did Heather have to listen to them, too?”

  “You’ve seen our isolation room, Bennett—it’s not wired for sound. The tapes at Langley were Glen Costello’s preferred technique. I never cared for them. When I established the North Country Academy, I discontinued their use.”

  “Why, because they drove kids crazy?”

  “No, because I didn’t think they were the most effective route to lasting, organic change.”

  Frank looked at the photos of smiling kids and their parents on Payne’s wall. Were they smiling because they’d been programmed to smile? As he scanned the montage of photos, one jumped out at him: Steve Vreeland standing between two beaming adults who were obviously his parents. There was a kid whose change had been lasting.

  “Steve Vreeland must have been a student at Langley at the same time as Tristan Renfew. Did they know each other?”

  “The school was small enough that all the students knew each other. But Steve was well on his way to recovery. He and Tristan were at different levels.”

  Frank knew what that meant. Steve would have been at the level where he had power over Tristan. “I’d like to talk to Steve. Where can I find him?”

  Payne’s face hardened. “That won’t be possible. The state police have made an arrest in Heather’s murder. The case is closed. I can’t have my staff disturbed any further—we have to get back to our routine.”

  ROLLIE FISTER CORNERED Frank in the plumbing department of Venable’s Hardware as he searched for an elbow joint. Frank had been tactfully avoiding the older man since his grandson’s involvement in the academy fire had been revealed, knowing how ashamed he was that Brad had to go before the county magistrate to face charges of criminal mischief.

  “Frank, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Don’t worry, Rollie. I fully intend to come to Brad’s hearing and recommend that the boy just receive community service.”

  Rollie looked muddled. “That’s nice of you. I think they oughta lock him in the pokey for a few days, myself. No, what I wanted to tell you is, there’s still someone gettin’ into the library. Yesterday morning I went in there and found a small sack of groceries.”

  Frank stopped rooting through the pipe-fittings. "What kind of groceries?”

  “Little stuff—some applesauce cups, crackers, a package of American cheese slices.”

  The kind of snacks
a person on the run could use. “You sure it didn’t belong to one of the workers?”

  “Well, I didn't call them all, but no one had worked the day before, because we’re waiting on the electrician and he didn’t come.”

  "Did you ever change the lock over there?”

  Rollie hung his head. “After we found out it was Brad who borrowed the tools, we figured there was no need . . .’’ Rollie turned to look at some browsing customers. “Maybe it’s not important.”

  “I think it might be important,” Frank said. “After all, Justin Levine is still missing. He might be crashing there.”

  “I thought of that. But Brad returned the library key, and his parents have been riding herd on him. I don’t think he could sneak out to meet that kid.”

  The way Rollie said "that kid” he could have substituted “that terrorist.” Frank knew that Justin Levine was being portrayed around town as the evil urban delinquent who’d led the innocent Trout Run kids astray. But Brad had displayed plenty of devious ingenuity of his own. Frank nodded toward the key-copying machine near the checkout counter. "Brad could have made a copy of his key and given it to Justin as part of the escape plan.”

  Rollie looked as if he were about to protest, then caught himself. The boy’s recent behavior had obviously undermined his confidence.

  “I guess you’re right. You want me to ask Brad?”

  “No, don’t say a word about talking to me or about noticing that someone’s been in the building. I’m going to keep an eye on the library for the next few nights and we’ll see who turns up.”

  When Frank returned to the office, Earl was at his desk typing. He continued pounding the keys as Frank passed him. Things had been tense between them since the blowup over Lorrie. Frank refused to apologize; he saw himself as wholly in the right on this one. Still, he found the silence in the office oppressive. He pulled a folded newspaper out from under his arm. “I’ve got today’s Beat—I wonder what bullshit Dawn Klotz is printing about us today."

  Earl said nothing, but a brief sideways glance told Frank that he’d caught his assistant’s attention.

  “Let’s see,” Frank read the front page headlines aloud, “ ‘Mayor Tells Gov—Come Up with the Dough’; ‘Freak Accident Kills Six in Bronx.’ Oh, here it is, in a box at the bottom of the page: ‘Cover-Up Continues at Tough-Love School (see page 7).’ ”

  Frank braced himself for aggravation and flipped open the paper. There was the headline again with Dawn Klotz’s byline. He continued to read to Earl, who had dropped his pretense of typing.

  Although state and local police claim to be investigating the horrific murder of 15-year-old Heather LeBron at the North Country Academy, so far their efforts have produced more questions than answers.

  “Well, she got that right,” Frank commented, then continued to read.

  Despite egregious violations of safety and education regulations, the North Country Academy continues to operate under the protection of local authorities eager to preserve the jobs the school provides at any cost...

  “Egregious—there’s that word again,” Earl said. Pleased that he had engaged Earl, Frank lowered the paper. “Was that one of the words in your vocabulary book?”

  “No, don’t you remember? It was in that article from the Utah paper about MacArthur Payne’s other school, the one that closed.”

  “You’re right. Must be a popular word to describe these schools.” He found his place in the article to continue reading, then he let the newspaper drop to his desk.

  “Where is that article from the Utah Guardian—do we still have it?”

  Earl shuffled some papers and came up with the article that he’d printed from the Internet. Frank scanned the lead paragraph until he found the sentence, “Battling charges of egregious safety violations, the Langley Wilderness School defended its controversial disciplinary practices.” Then his eyes moved up the page to the byline. "By Dawn Trefedi.”

  He looked at Earl. "Would you say Dawn is a very common woman’s name?”

  "Not really. I’ve never known anyone with that name until that reporter showed up.”

  “So what are the odds that two different reporters named Dawn wrote critical articles about two tough-love schools owned by MacArthur Payne, in which they both used the word egregious?"

  Earl’s brow furrowed. “So you think Payne’s right? Someone really is out to close down his schools? Why would this Dawn want to do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I'm going to find out.”

  FRANK STRODE DOWN THE main aisle at Malone’s toward the back booth where Dawn Klotz hunched over her computer. "Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Trefedi!”

  Her head snapped up. “Why did you call me that?”

  “Because it’s your name. Or was your name, two years ago when you wrote these articles.”

  Dawn glanced at the Utah Guardian pages that Frank clutched. He saw a flicker of nervousness cross her face, but she regained her composure quickly. “So? I got divorced. What interest is that to you?"

  “Your marital woes—none whatsoever. Your journalistic pursuit of MacArthur Payne, on the other hand, interests me quite a bit.”

  “I happened to work for the Utah Guardian when his school there was responsible for a student’s death. Now I work for the Beat, and Payne has opened a new school in New York where people are dying. I was a natural to cover the story.”

  “You sure you didn’t follow Payne out here for the express purpose of finding a scandal at his school?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been at the Beat for eighteen months. Check my personnel records.”

  “So when the news editor of the Beat returns the message I left for him, he's going to tell me that he assigned you to this story because of your past experience?”

  Dawn slid toward the edge of the blue vinyl booth. “Uh ... yes.”

  Frank extended one long leg to block her exit. “Only if you’re able to get to him before he gets to me, I think. Otherwise, I bet he’ll tell me that you came to him with the idea for the story. Reporters can do that, right?”

  “You seem to think you know quite a bit about journalism, Chief Bennett. I won’t attempt to change your preconceived notions.”

  “How did you—or your editor—find out about Jake Reiger’s death to begin with? The Beat doesn’t have a High Peaks bureau chief, does it?”

  “We have a research assistant whose job it is to scan local papers looking for interesting stories that we can investigate further.”

  “And a camper being attacked by a bear is the sort of thing this research assistant would flag for follow-up? I don’t think so.”

  “Black bear attacks are very unusual—your ranger friend said so.”

  “You knew Jake Reiger when you were in Utah, didn’t you? You must have interviewed him for your story about the hiker’s death at Langley Wilderness School.”

  “I interviewed him by phone—I never met the man.”

  “Maybe Jake was providing you with some inside information on MacArthur Payne’s latest educational venture,” Frank persisted. “Maybe that’s why he died."

  Dawn shut her laptop with a snap. “It’s just a coincidence that a person I once interviewed happened to be the victim in this case. The real issue—which you seem to be blind to—is the terrible abuses that go on in these schools.”

  “Cops don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “You should.” Dawn clambered over Frank’s leg and exited the booth. “There was a big article about it in the Sunday New York Times Magazine a while back. People assign mystical or sinister meaning to coincidences because they don’t understand the mathematical principles of probability.” With a toss of her hair, she marched toward the door of the diner.

  “I don’t think your showing up in Trout Run has anything to do with advanced mathematics, Ms. Klotz," Frank called after her.

  IT HAD TAKEN FRANK quite a while to unearth the tiny clip-on book light Caroline had given him for Father’s Day y
ears ago so that he could read in bed without disturbing Estelle. Now that he slept alone every night, he didn’t need it. He could stay awake with the lights on as late as he wished—small consolation for his loneliness. But the book light was coming in handy on this late-night vigil at the library.

  Rather than watch the building from outside, which would have been impossible to do unseen, he had very casually walked in the front door of the Store and bought something, then exited through the back door and slipped around the backs of the other buildings on the green until he came to the back door of the library. He used Rollie’s key to let himself in, and sat on the risers where Penny planned to have her children’s story hour, reading by the tiny glow of the battery-operated light as he waited for Justin Levine to appear.

  He had finished Jane Eyre during one of the restless nights he’d lain awake worrying about Heather. Tonight he was starting a biography of Alexander Hamilton, and more than once his chin had hit his chest and the book had slipped from his hands.

  He had read the same paragraph on Hamilton’s monetary theory three times when a soft click registered deep in his cop’s subconscious and jolted him into instant alertness. The doorknob rattled and the back door opened with a creak. Frank clicked off the book light and let his eyes adjust to the dim illumination provided by the moonlight slanting through the front window. The back hallway, where the intruder would enter, was utterly black.

  Frank heard footsteps and a rustling sound, then a slight clunk as the intruder set something down. He had his hand on his flashlight, ready to shine its powerful beam into the hallway.

  Then he smelled something, and knew exactly what to expect.

  Chapter 28

  The shriek that cut through the night when Frank flicked on his flashlight must have been heard in Albany.

  “Penny! What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” The familiar floral scent had tipped Frank off to whom he would find in the hall when he turned on the light, but he was still shocked to see Penny standing there with two plastic bags from the Stop’N’Buy at her feet.