When asked how truthful they thought Tracy was, each and every teacher hesitated. But once again, there was general agreement. "Hard to say," the social studies instructor said at last. "She's darned good at making up excuses for late assignments. I bought a few of them before she tried one too many."
Her art teacher was a standout. This was the one class where Tracy excelled. Even Connor could see real talent in the sketches Jennifer Lawson showed off. "Look at her clay project compared to the other kids'," she said, leading him back to a worktable beside a kiln.
He studied the rows of squat pots, as yet unglazed, constructed with coils. Only one had character and unexpected grace; it was both taller and narrower than the others, the neck taking an intriguing curve. Connor indicated it, and Ms. Lawson nodded.
"She's very focused in here. I don't get the excuses from her I know the other teachers do." She added simply, "Tracy Mitchell really has artistic ability. I hope she chooses to use it."
Tracy's mother had given permission for him to read her daughter's school file, starting with a pre-kindergarten assessment—"bright and eager"—and ending with the sixth-grade report card, which consisted of Bs and Cs. There had been up years and down years, he discovered; teachers who had seen promise in the girl and worked hard to cultivate her enthusiasm and ability, and teachers who had disliked that "smart mouth" and early budding of sexuality.
Nobody particularly noted lying as a problem. Yeah, she probably made up excuses for undone homework, but what kid didn't? Connor knew he had.
His one interview with the girl had left him undecided. Usually he had a gut feeling. Strangely, this time he didn't. Sitting in the living room of the apartment where she lived with her mom, she had told her story in a disquietingly pat way. But then, Connor had reminded himself, this was the third time in one afternoon she'd been asked to tell it. Wouldn't be surprising if it didn't come out by rote after a while.
If she was lying, she was smart enough not to let any smugness or slyness seep through. He had detected some real anger at the teacher, but not the distress a girl raped at her age should feel. If she was already sexually active, the actual act might not have disturbed her as much as it would have your average thirteen-year-old. Even so, how much experience could she have? Shouldn't she be traumatized?
But he wasn't making assumptions too quickly. Sometimes the trauma was buried. It could take time to claw its way to the surface. Or, hell, maybe she'd seen her mother trading sex for favors over the years, so this swap, a grade for a quickie, had seemed normal to her, something a girl did.
Could she, at thirteen, not be traumatized by forced sex with a man three times her age?
Connor was more depressed by that possibility than by any of the others. Damn it, a thirteen-year-old was a kid. A little girl, who shouldn't be seeing R-rated movies, far less be numbingly sophisticated about sex.
Anyway, assuming she was that sophisticated, why had she decided, after the fact, to tell her drama teacher what had happened? Because she was upset? Or because Gerald Tanner hadn't kept his side of the deal? Say, he'd decided she should put out a few more times if she wanted that passing grade?
The bell rang. Knowing better this time than to try to force his way up three flights of stairs against the lemminglike plunge of the middle-schoolers toward their next classes, Connor waited outside in a covered area. Shoulder propped against a post, he watched thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds flirt, gossip with friends, struggle to open ancient metal lockers and act cool.
On the whole, they hadn't changed since his day. Haircuts and clothing styles were a little different, but not the basic insecurity that was the hallmark of these young teenagers.
He didn't see a girl hurrying by who would have been as calm as Tracy Mitchell, talking about the first time her computer teacher exposed himself to her.
The crowd was thinning out, the next bell about to ring. Connor shoved away from the post and through the double doors into the tall A building with its Carnegie-style granite foundation and broad front entrance steps. Stragglers on their way to class cast him startled looks. He was an alien in their midst, an adult who wasn't a teacher or a known parent. He smiled and nodded when they met his eyes.
Tracy could be lying, all right. She wouldn't be the first teenager who'd decided an allegation of sexual molestation was the way to bring down an adult she hated.
But Gerald Tanner was also the classic nerd who had probably been hunched over his computer when his contemporaries were developing social skills. Not to mention fashion sense. Even Connor, who didn't give a damn about clothes, had shuddered at his polyester slacks, belted a little too tight and a little too high on his waist, and the short-sleeved white dress shirt and tie. Okay, Tanner didn't have a plastic pocket protector, but the black-framed glasses made him slightly owl-eyed. Who wore a getup like that these days? Hadn't he ever heard of contact lenses?
The point was, Gerald Tanner fit the profile of a guy who felt inadequate with women his own age. Here were all these teenagers, as awkward as he was with the opposite sex, the girls developing breasts, experimenting with makeup, learning to flirt and to flaunt what they had. What could be more natural than the realization that he was more powerful than they were? That he could fulfill his fantasies without having to bare himself, literally or figuratively, with a real woman?
Connor reached the top floor and paused briefly outside a classroom with its door ajar. The teacher was talking, but damned if any of the kids seemed to be paying attention. Some of them were studying, one girl was French-braiding a friend's hair, a couple of guys were playing a handheld electronic game, while others drifted around the room. Connor shook his head in faint incredulity. In his day, you were in deep you-know-what if you were caught passing a note, never mind openly playing a hand of poker in the back.
The teacher raised her voice. "Everybody got that assignment on their calendar? Remember, the rough draft is due Tuesday."
One or two students appeared to make notations in open binders.
Still shaking his head, Connor moved on.
What kind of teacher was Gerald Tanner? Did he wear any mantle of authority? Or did the kids see him as a computer geek, too?
Connor's stride checked as it occurred to him that maybe times had changed. This was Microsoft country, after all, and Bill Gates was the Puget Sound area's biggest celebrity. Hell, maybe jocks weren't the only object of teenage girls' lust these days. Maybe visions of the next computer billionaire danced in the heads of thirteen-year-old girls.
He'd have to ask Mariah.
Her door stood ajar, too. She sat behind her desk, papers spread across the surface, a red pen in her hand. Her concentration seemed complete. Connor wondered if she'd forgotten he was coming back.
But, although he didn't make a sound, he was no sooner framed in the doorway than her head shot up. For a moment she stared at him with the wide-eyed look of a doe frozen in car headlights. Was she afraid of him?
But then she blinked, her face cleared, and he told himself he'd imagined the fear.
"Detective. I thought maybe you'd gotten lost."
"Just avoiding the rush."
"Smart." She started stacking the assignments, her movements precise, the corners all squared. "What can I do for you?"
"Tell me what you know about Tanner."
"Gerald?" Her hands stilled momentarily, then resumed their task. "Well … not very much, actually. As I said in Mrs. Patterson's office, I didn't even know whether he was married. We simply haven't become that personal."
Connor sat as he had that morning on a student desk in the first row. "Is he shy?"
"Um…" She considered. "No, not really. He's friendly in the teacher's lounge. He's surprisingly funny."
Okay, Connor thought, torpedo the stereotypes. Horn-rimmed glasses did not mean a man was humorless; skinny arms did not mean he was pathologically shy.
"We've sat together to eat lunch several times, especially since we've started a di
scussion on doing a joint project coupling writing skills with Internet research."
"Have you seen him teach?"
She pursed her lips as she thought. Connor was annoyed to find himself fixated on the soft curve of her mouth. Scowling, he tore his gaze away.
"Only briefly. Generally, of course, he isn't lecturing like I might do. The students work on computers, beginning ones on keyboarding skills, more advanced on computer animation or simple programming. So he tends to be wandering, looking over their shoulders, responding when they ask for help." She shrugged. "That kind of thing."
"Do they pay any more attention to him than the students down the hall—" Connor nodded toward the next classroom "—are to that young blonde?"
Mariah started to rise to her feet. "Is she having trouble?"
He waved her back. "If you mean, are they rioting, no. Are they hanging on her every word? No." He told her about the activities he'd seen going on.
Sounding rueful, Mariah said, "Karen is a student teacher. She probably won't be alone with the class for more than a few minutes. When Rich Sadow pops back in, the cards will vanish."
"Ah. The substitute syndrome."
"Exactly."
"To get back to the point…" he prodded her.
"Gerald? He is new this year, remember. But I'd say the kids are pretty enthusiastic. He brought some very cool programs with him, I understand. Stuff that's way beyond the school budget."
Glancing around the classroom, Connor muttered, "Is there a budget?"
She wrinkled her nose. "No, now that you mention it. But, to get back to Gerald, he seems passionate about computers as tools, and that kind of enthusiasm almost always gets through to kids. Besides," she added, "they like computers these days. They're a lot cooler than books."
"Does he always dress so…" He hesitated.
"Yes." She frowned, as if annoyed at herself. Firming her mouth, Mariah said, "I don't see what his choice of clothing has to do with your investigation."
"Just trying to … create a picture. See the whole man, so to speak."
"I honestly don't know him very well." Ms. Stavig sounded very businesslike this afternoon. "You're going to have to look elsewhere for help with your portrait."
Was she unable? Or unwilling? Connor couldn't tell.
"All right," he said agreeably. "On to Tracy. I took a look through her school record."
Some of Mariah's visible tension dissipated as she sighed. "It's full of ten-inch-tall warnings, isn't it? Here's a girl who needs lots of attention, who is lacking positive reinforcement at home, who will get lost if you ignore her. And then what did half her teachers do but ignore her."
"I noticed that," he agreed. "She yo-yoed—is that a word?—from year to year. Her sixth-grade teacher downright disliked her, I'd say, reading between the lines."
Mariah nodded. "Roberta Madison has, um, a reputation for doing better with boy students. The good little girl who can sit quietly in class is okay with her, too. A Tracy Mitchell apparently offends her sense of what's right."
Connor shook his head. "Okay. Let's go back through your talk with Tracy."
He had Mariah repeat yet again every word as close to verbatim as she could recall. She had a good memory—perhaps photographic, as she would pause, gaze into space with those tiny puckers gathering her brow, and then give a line of dialogue or describe an expression with certainty.
As she thought, Mariah Stavig seemed unaware that he was watching her. He found his mind drifting more than it should from what she was saying.
Light didn't play off her hair the way it normally would. The texture wasn't sleek and smooth, but more … downy, he decided. Connor imagined her hair loose, a fluffy, soft cloud like cotton candy, but less sticky.
Or he'd contemplate her long, slender neck, bowed gracefully when she gazed thoughtfully at her desktop. He liked her carriage, too; her back was always elegantly straight, her shoulders squared, as though someone in her childhood had impressed on her the importance of posture.
Mariah Stavig was a fairly tall woman, five-seven or -eight, he guessed, but slender. She was small-breasted, but he wasn't a man who liked more than a handful, anyway. Her fingers were long, her wrists narrow, her legs… Well, with her sitting behind the desk, he couldn't see them, but once, three years ago, when he had come to her house she'd been wearing jeans and he'd seen despite himself how long her legs were. A man's fantasy, those legs.
Mariah would have been too tall to be a ballerina, but that's what she made him think of. Delicacy and strength mixed together, grace coupled with innocence and unconscious sexuality. That's what he saw when he looked at her.
Which he had no damn business doing, he thought in exasperation. Connor moved restlessly and the desk creaked beneath him. Mariah, pulled from a momentary reverie, cast him a surprised glance with those catlike eyes, as if she'd forgotten he was still there.
"So you mentioned the possibility of her having to testify in court," he said gruffly. "And Tracy didn't like the idea."
"No." Mariah's brow crinkled again. "It obviously had never occurred to her that her complaint might go that far. 'Can't he just be fired?' she asked."
Mariah went on to tell him what she'd explained to the girl. Connor tried hard to listen and get his mind above his belt.
What in hell was he thinking? Mariah Stavig hated him! He'd broken up her marriage. She despised what he did for a living and was cooperating now only reluctantly, because of a sense of duty and a knowledge of the law. He hated to imagine how she'd react if she knew how intensely he was aware of her.
"Okay," he said finally. "I'll be talking to her again this evening. We'll see whether she's forgotten any of her story, or decides to embellish it a little."
"Do you think she's lying?" Mariah asked.
"At the moment, I have no idea," Connor admitted.
"Has she, um, been examined by a doctor yet?" She sounded timid. "I know it's probably not any of my business, but…"
"No, it's okay," he said. "Yeah, she had the works. Looks like she did lose her virginity in the past few days. No bruising or obvious signs that force was used. It was probably too long ago to recover DNA, assuming a condom wasn't used."
"She was afraid of being pregnant."
"She's thirteen years old," he said bluntly. "When I asked whether he might not have put on a condom before they had intercourse, she stared at me with complete blankness. In theory she knows what one is. Unless it was neon-green, I'm not convinced she'd have noticed if he put one on quickly, with his back to her."
The distaste and even embarrassment on Mariah's face might have been comical, under other circumstances. "She was probably trying not to … look." She was being very careful to keep her gaze fixed on his face, too.
A fact that stirred him uncomfortably.
Frowning, he said, "Exactly." Looking at the bank of windows, he made himself think about Tracy Mitchell, not the prim teacher behind the desk. "I need to start talking to kids. Hard to do without lighting a bonfire of rumors."
"Impossible, I imagine." Mariah looked worried. "If word gets out to parents, they may want Gerald suspended."
"Unfair as that could be," Connor acknowledged, "I'm hoping to find answers soon. Dragging this out will only make it uglier."
"You're mostly counting on her making a mistake, aren't you?"
"Or confessing all to a friend who has more conscience than she has."
Mariah didn't like that. "What if it's the truth?"
"Then my guess is we find that Tracy Mitchell isn't his first victim." Connor's voice hardened. "I'll be talking to his former colleagues, students, neighbors… You name it. If he's a pedophile, he'll have offended before. And found he liked it, which would explain his taking a job where he'd be working with all these young girls."
"Oh." Her eyes were huge and alarmed, making him wonder how feral his expression had become.
He rose to his feet. Time to get out of here and do his job, not hang around wis
hing for the impossible.
"If I have more questions, I'll be in touch, Ms. Stavig. Thank you for your help."
"You're welcome." She almost sounded as if she meant it. He felt her gaze on his back as he left her classroom.
He headed for the office, where the principal would have students called to talk to him one at a time, starting with Lucy Carlson, the girl who had suggested Tracy tell all to Mariah in the first place. He wasn't halfway when it occurred to Connor that he'd committed more than foolishness in lusting after a woman who hated him.
He'd committed a sin. He had to have lusted after her three years ago, when she was married and he was investigating her husband. Why else would he have remembered her face so well? Noticed her gloriously long legs in snug jeans to the point where he could still close his eyes and picture her walking away from him?
He might not have acknowledged his attraction, but what if it had affected his judgment, his objectivity? Looking back, he knew it had increased his abhorrence and animosity for Simon Stavig. Question was, had his peripheral but powerful awareness of Stavig's beautiful, puzzled, hurt wife changed the way he'd conducted the investigation? Had he done something differently, because he'd disliked the son of a bitch for wounding his wife? He growled in his throat.
Did it matter what he'd felt for Simon Stavig, when lately he'd begun to wonder whether his reasons for going into this line of work in the first place had prejudiced him beyond hope? Hell, wasn't he already afraid he'd become a sort of avenger rather than a dispassionate investigator?
What was one more small sin added to the weight on his conscience?
THE WORD OF A CHILD Page 5