“Right. Just prove it,” Nicole mumbled. She always had such little faith.
“Evidence is the easy part,” Kent said. “Honing in on the killer is the hard part. So, see, we’re on the downhill slope toward a capture.”
Apparently, Nicole did not see that, as she lagged behind, checking her phone. “Where are we going?” Nicole asked.
“Where else?” Kent challenged.
“Kent, I don’t have enough caffeine in my body to do this. Just tell me.”
She really was being a spoilsport this morning. Perhaps she should lay off the double shot espressos. Not that he was going to broach her caffeine addiction any time soon. That was like telling an elephant he was fat. There was just no upside.
So until they got her some more serious caffeine, he was going to have to placate her a bit.
“The guidance counselor,” Kent said.
“What for?”
“We need to look for a history of bullying.”
“So we can…?”
“Nicole, really,” Kent chided. “Even without a jumbo mocha latte you’ve got to get your brain working.”
Nicole frowned. “Even if we prove the boys are bullies, that doesn’t help build a murder case.”
Kent sighed. “Think this forward. Most bullying isn’t just verbal, especially with those muscle-bound footballers. They usually pull pranks, stunts, acts of humiliation.”
It was like a light bulb went off right above Nicole’s head. Her eyelids parted, yet her pupils constricted as her cheeks flushed. The look of someone having an epiphany was nearly as good as an orgasm. Nearly.
“Which, in most cases, constitutes assault,” Nicole said, catching up. “If we prove assault, we have cause for a warrant, and more than likely these boys aren’t sophisticated murderers, so we will find evidence of the murdered girls on them.”
Kent touched his nose. “Bingo. Yes, see you don’t need a Frappuccino to solve crimes.”
Again, that frown. Nicole was a bit sensitive about her caffeine habit.
“What if they don’t have a bullying history?” Nicole asked.
“Please, did you see the way they treated the water boy? And that didn’t even make the coach flinch,” Kent stated. “Plus, one doesn’t suddenly become a rapist murdering pack. They graduated to the big leagues after spending some time inflicting pain and getting away with it.”
“Bullies are twice as likely as the average population to become murderers,” Nicole noted.
“It is worse than that,” Kent said. “Statistics show that nearly 75 percent of all violent crime is perpetrated by those that bullied in school.”
“But doesn’t a lot of that start at home?” Nicole asked.
Kent nodded. “That’s unfortunately why bullying is so hard to uproot. Usually, the parents are the ones showing the bullies how it is done at home. The child then comes to school and acts out the behavior, identifying with his abuser rather than his victim.”
“And so the cycle goes,” Nicole said, shaking her head.
They made their way across the campus as a bell rang. Class let out and hundreds of uniformed students poured out of the classrooms and headed to their next class. Kent had to stop as a kid ran right in front of him. The vice principal, a burly looking woman, blew a whistle.
“Kenneth!” she yelled. “Half an hour detention.”
The kid stopped running, kicking at the dirt. “Dang it.”
Perhaps if the school were quite so on top of their bullying problem, five girls wouldn’t be dead.
Kent bet that the football team could run through this quad all day long and not a single whistle would be blown. They made their way through the maze of student flesh and arrived at the administrative office.
“The principal is out,” the secretary stated.
Sure he was. Lucky they didn’t need him. “Actually, we were looking for the guidance counselor. I’m assuming you have them stashed in some ridiculously small office around here?”
“Down the hall,” the woman said. “Last door on your left. Not right, that’s the broom closet.”
Like Kent said. Nicole led the way and knocked on the door. A surly “Enter,” followed. Kent looked to Nicole, who raised her eyebrow. Already not exactly a welcoming presence, this guidance counselor.
Nicole opened the door to find a tidy—too tidy—office with a whip-thin woman sitting behind a desk far too large for the room. The counselor was what Kent’s mother would have called a spinster. Lips pressed down so firmly that you couldn’t see the flesh, the woman looked like she’d never known a brief flirtation, let alone love. Her graying hair was swept up into a tight bun and her eyebrows had been plucked into a severe line.
This was the face of a woman who was not getting some, but dear God, needed it.
A healthy, active sex life prevented nearly everything. Psychosis, heart disease, diabetes—like he said, everything. Being as tightly wound as this woman, Edna Puinesh, was, could not be a good sign for this interview.
When she finally looked up over her reading glasses, her lips turned down. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Nicole introduced them.
Edna pulled off her reading glasses and let them dangle from their beaded necklace. “What has Wayne done now?”
“Wayne?” Nicole asked, shooting a glance to Kent. None of the footballers were named Wayne. He had no idea what the counselor was talking about.
“Yes, Wayne Carter. He usually keeps his acting out to non-violent misdemeanors such as tagging and shoplifting.”
“Trust me,” Nicole said. “A detective and FBI agent wouldn’t be standing here for vandalism or sticky fingers.”
Edna put her glasses on again as she waved to the chairs in front of her desk. “Then why are you here?”
“Five girls have died.”
“None from here?” Edna asked.
“No,” Nicole said. “From other schools, but we have backtracked the killers to this school. We are looking for students who might have exhibited bullying behavior.”
Edna shook her head. “This school has a zero tolerance policy for bullying.”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “We saw exactly how zero that tolerance is out on the football field, where the quarterback verbally harassed the water boy, and then the coach, instead of intervening, called the water boy a derogatory name. So please spare us the school’s mantra.”
Edna’s eyes shifted from Nicole to Kent, then back. She knew something.
“You must have complaints on file,” Kent prompted.
“Not for bullying,” Edna said. “There are very specific requirements a complaint must fall under for it to be categorized as bullying.”
“Then what do you have?” Nicole pressed.
“Inappropriate Interpersonal Interactions. Triple ‘I’s, we call them.
“Kind of like No Child Left Behind,” Nicole commented, “Where the lower-performing students are kicked out of school to keep the averages up.”
Edna shrugged. “I don’t implement the policies of the board. I just enforce them.”
Ah, the “they told me to do it” defense. Hope that helped her sleep at night.
“Well?” Nicole said, holding out her hand.
Edna turned around, unlocked a file cabinet, and handed Nicole five files. The detective flipped through them. “Can you call these students to your office right away?”
“No,” the counselor said, leaning back in her chair.
“No?” Nicole responded, arching her very real eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I mean that I can’t… at least not four of them,” Edna said. “Four of them have transferred to different schools.”
“All of these reports are about the football team,” Nicole informed Kent as she flipped through the files.
“Surprise, surprise?” Kent commented. “Four out of five complainants no longer go to this school. Who arranged that?”
The counselor shrugged again, as if nothi
ng could stay put on her shoulders. “There was no arranging. Students transfer schools.”
“Hmm… and exactly how many students besides these four have transferred in the last two years?”
Edna frowned again, bringing her drawn-on eyebrows together. “None.”
“And how many the two years before that?”
“None,” Edna answered, looking down at her hands.
“So, statistically speaking, having four students transfer out in the same year after being bullied sounds pretty significant. You didn’t notice this pattern? Or did you create it? Talk the parents into transferring, rather than pursuing the complaints? Shooting for guidance counselor of the year award?”
“Perhaps the parents realized that their children participated in the event and decided to start fresh elsewhere,” Edna suggested.
“Getting strung up on the flag pole in their underwear?” Nicole pressed. “Or getting their head flushed in the toilet?” Nicole looked to Kent. “These four all suffered typical bullying.”
“Not according to our bullying oversight committee,” Edna said.
“That is made up of what? Football boosters?”
The blanched look on Edna’s face told Kent he’d hit the nail on the head. The people most invested in the football team were the ones who decided if they crossed any lines. Not exactly an impartial panel.
“I really don’t see what this has to do with the girls’ murders.”
“Of course you don’t,” Kent said, standing up. “Which is why those girls died.”
Nicole stood up as well. “Can you call this last one, the one still attending this high school, this Dell, to the office?”
“Delia,” Edna corrected.
“I’m sorry, what?” Nicole responded.
“The kid started out boy, but now wants to pass as a girl.”
“A transsexual then?” Nicole asked.
Edna nodded. “Little freak is always a problem. Expecting us to protect him against the inevitable response to his decision.”
“Ah, there it is. Your keynote speech for guidance counselor of the year.”
CHAPTER 5
Nicole trotted to catch up to Kent. They were headed to the school’s executive conference room to meet with Delia. Her father was already there, expecting to pick her up.
“Kent, remember this child is not just traumatized, but usually these transgender children are brutally traumatized.”
“What?” Kent said. “Haven’t I proved that I’m great with kids?”
“Like the football players?”
“I never get along with sociopaths,” Kent said.
“Just be gentle, okay?” she begged.
They entered the room to find a guy who looked like he worked in a factory of some sort. His gray overalls were stained in shades of brown. Perhaps a furniture manufacturer? A young girl sat next to him dressed in a bright yellow dress with a matching yellow hair band. Her fingernails were painted an equally vivid yellow.
“Delia?” Nicole asked, extending her hand to the girl.
“Dell,” the father grunted. “Don’t contribute to his delusion, please. It’s bad enough the school lets him wear a dress. He’s got a gender identity crisis.”
Kent sat down across from Delia, though he spoke to the father. “Actually, nearly every psychological association in the world has declassified transsexual behavior from a crisis to simply a state of being. You aren’t confused, are you Delia?”
“No, sir,” she answered sweetly.
“It is just a case of a soul being put into the wrong body,” Kent said with a grin. “I totally get that.”
Delia grinned back. Okay, maybe Kent was good with kids, Nicole thought as she sat down across from the father. “Where is Delia’s mother?”
“It broke her heart to see her boy like this. She died three years ago.”
Delia rolled her eyes. “Heart attacks run in my mother’s side of the family. Her cholesterol was over three hundred from the bacon and eggs you made her make every morning,” she said, looking sideways at her father.
Wow, this girl was a fighter.
“Mom was supportive of my transition,” Delia said, finishing up her point. “She bought me my first dress and taught me how to put on lip gloss.”
Kent put a hand out to Nicole. She gave him Delia’s complaint file. He scanned it quickly. “It says here that the football team cornered you in the showers and tried to give you a cold water enema? It was only the janitor that rescued you before they did?”
“I don’t remember,” Delia said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Don’t remember?” Kent pressed. “You don’t remember being mobbed by a bunch of boys, stripped naked, then bent over?”
Nicole was about to intercede when Delia sighed.
“As bad as that was, reporting it was the worst thing I could have done,” Delia said, starting to play with the ends of her belt.
“We think the boys have moved on to rape and murder. We need your help to put them away. You are already so brave, coming out as you have. I just need you to be a little bit braver.”
Delia shook her head. “They are finally leaving me alone. No way am I going to say anything more.”
“Leave him alone,” the father grunted. “We’ve got enough trouble. We don’t need to invite anymore.”
“Mr. Sherrer, did anyone suggest to you that Delia should be moved to another school?”
“Are you kidding me?” the father said. “From day one they wanted us gone, but he’s here on a scholarship. I couldn’t afford this kind of education on my own, so he stays and everyone just sucks it up.”
No kid should have to suck anything up, but Nicole didn’t waste her breath on this guy. He clearly was way past listening if he treated his daughter this way.
“Thank you,” Kent said, putting his hand out to Delia. “Call me if your memory improves.”
Nicole stood up as everyone else did, not sure why Kent was quitting so quickly. She was sure he had a reason—she just didn’t know which one.
Delia and her father made a beeline out of the room. Nicole turned to Kent. “Why such a short interview?”
“She isn’t going to trust easily. I think it’s better if I go for a slow build rather than a short circuit approach.”
Well, that was pretty restrained of Kent. Usually, he went for the jugular. But then again, they were talking about a kid, and it turned out he was pretty good with them.
“I think we’ll drop in on her later today and separate her from her father,” Kent said, “And see if I can’t get through that armor of distrust.”
* * *
Ruben hung up the phone. Joshua had just informed him that there was no forensic evidence to be found on any of the girl’s bodies. No DNA to compare to the football team.
Kent and Nicole walked into the bullpen. Ruben noticed that she still wasn’t wearing her ring. How interesting.
“Find anything at the school?”
“Maybe,” Kent said, but Nicole looked more doubtful.
“We talked to the boys. They are certainly arrogant and entitled enough to do something like this,” Nicole stated. “But nothing to prove it.”
“No, they used condoms, and by the lack of pubic hairs, Joshua thinks they all shave their scrotums,” Ruben added.
“Is that more organized than you thought, Kent?”
“No,” the profiler said. “Not in the day and age of CSI. These boys pressed the limits at school with their bullying. Sorry, ‘Three ‘I’s,’ they were testing the waters, so to speak, on how they could escalate and get away with it.”
Ruben had no idea what it was, but it didn’t sound good.
“Reggie has a long, financially successful career ahead of him,” Kent said. “He isn’t about to jeopardize that. Reggie did some homework so that they didn’t get caught right out of the gate. Their forensic knowledge only makes them more arrogant.”
“I’m still not sure how they leapt from
bullying to rape and murder,” Nicole said.
“You really don’t understand the male brain, do you? Especially the teenage male brain?” Kent said. “With all of that testosterone hitting the hypothalamus, it is downright shocking we don’t have rape/murders on every high school campus. The cerebral cortex, the part of the brain that determines right and wrong, in males is especially under-formed in the teenage years. Impulse control is at a minimal, and the understanding of their actions causing consequences is about a decade away.”
Kent took in a long breath, all part of his show to Ruben, and continued. “Then add in testosterone, a hormone that is primarily present to make men brave enough that they don’t run away from saber tooth tigers. A hormone to make you feel like you have a shot against a big cat outweighing you by four hundred pounds. Now, that is a dangerous combination.”
“Just make sure the defense attorneys don’t hear you talking like that,” Ruben commented. “You make it sound as if the boys aren’t responsible for their actions.”
“No,” Kent said. “But their impulses are natural. As much as it is un-PC to say, rape is instinctual.”
“Whoa,” Nicole said. “Walk that one back.”
“No can do,” Kent said. “In nature, rape is essential to keep any one gene pool from getting too inbred. I’m not saying it is right, I am saying it’s something that is baked into our DNA that we have to override. Given the right environmental factors, that is impossible for some.”
“And where does personal responsibility come in?” Ruben challenged. “It isn’t all brain chemistry.”
“And who taught them that concept? Of personal responsibility?” Kent shot back. “For you and me, it was our mothers. For Nicole it was her dad. These kids’ parents are off skiing in Europe most of the year.”
“Not every latchkey kid resorts to violence,” Ruben countered.
“But these aren’t latchkey kids. They are spoiled, pampered, nannied kids with no moral compass. Add in male teenage brain chemistry, and we’ve got violent felons in the making.”
Ruben grunted. Not that he necessarily agreed, but to end the argument. He could never win with Kent, so why bother trying?
Kent’s phone dinged. He read the text. “It’s from Delia. She just asked me, ‘Do you want to really know the truth?’”
The Harbinger Collection: Hard-boiled Mysteries Not for the Faint of Heart (A McCray Crime Collection) Page 58