by Andrew Grant
“Daniel, that’s not fair.” Diane gripped her purse tight, distorting the fine Italian leather. “I’m doing everything I can to help, you know that. You’re on track to become an outstanding scientist. But you’re only fifteen! You’re in high school! Postponing one trip by a few days isn’t going to hurt your future career.”
“No. Your betrayals and your broken promises are what’s going to hurt it.” Daniel glowered at his mother, then turned and walked away down the hallway. “My high school’s a joke. It’s a waste of time. An asylum for losers. Lobotomy candidates. The corporate slaves of tomorrow. I shouldn’t even be there. I should just teach myself. And you know what? I will. You go. Investigate your little story. I’ve got stuff to do. I need to design a new syllabus. As of this moment, I’m officially withdrawing from the public educational system.”
Diane sat for a moment, staring blankly at the spot where Daniel had been standing. Then she shook her head as if snapping out of a daydream and got to her feet. She hurried down the hallway. Let herself into the garage through the door from the utility room. Pulled out her key and unlocked her dad’s old car. And paused. That car had been her father’s pride and joy. It was a 1967 Volvo P1800 in white, with limited-edition Empi-style wheels. Volvo wasn’t most people’s idea of an exotic brand, but this car was an exception. With its two-door coupe body; sweeping, sexy curves; and low, sporty stance, it was frequently mistaken for an early Ferrari. Diane remembered the looks they’d get from pedestrians and other motorists when her dad took her out for drives on the rare Saturday or Sunday he wasn’t working when she was a little girl. She still liked to drive it herself on weekends, and sometimes late at night when she couldn’t sleep. But there was a snag. The reason her father had ordered that particular make, model, color, and specification was because he wanted to have the same car as Simon Templar. Simon Templar, aka The Saint. Hero of the Leslie Charteris novels. Played in the cult TV show by Roger Moore. For complete authenticity her father had imported it specially from England. That meant it was right-hand drive, and had stick shift. Not the greatest combination for cutting through city traffic. Maybe having to parallel park. Probably with an audience. No. Diane figured that even though it was the weekend, she’d be better off using her trusty—and already dented—Mini Cooper.
What would her dad have made of her Mini? He’d have hated it, Diane thought. He’d have wanted an original, not a prettified faux imitation. He’d liked things done right. Which begged the obvious question, what would he have made of her life? Diane was pretty sure she knew the answer to that one.
Diane locked the Volvo’s door, blinked away another impending flood of tears, turned, and bumped into a tall stack of three-foot-cubed cardboard boxes that had been pushed against the wall. The top one wobbled, then fell, hitting the hood of the car before tumbling onto the hard concrete floor in front of her. She lashed out with her foot, caving in the side of the box and bursting open its top flaps. Styrofoam packing chips flooded out like giant hailstones, blocking her path. She kicked out again, sending a slow-motion plume of chips floating high into the air. Then she jumped into the middle of the heap, kicking and stomping and spinning around in the narrow space, bouncing dizzily between the wall and the side of the car. Struggling for breath, she eventually slowed down, picked up handfuls of chips instead, and flung them around her, not stopping completely until the garage looked like the inside of a giant urban snow globe.
A couple of errant chips were clinging to her hair when she climbed into her Mini, still breathless, five minutes later. Useful little things, she thought, pulling them free of the static. Not what they’re designed for, of course. And not why I bought them. But if I can also use them to keep me from doing more destructive things, that’s got to be good, right?
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday. Afternoon.
“This is the guy?” Captain Emrich turned away from the observation window and glared in turn at Devereaux and Hale. “Are you sure?”
“What’s the problem?” Devereaux glared back. “You wanted someone more photogenic?”
“No. Although, really?” Emrich gestured through the window at Bateman, who was cowering behind the scratched metal table in the interview room rather than sitting at it. Aside from his gaunt face and thinning hair he could have been mistaken for a scared little boy who’d borrowed his father’s clothes. “I hear you’ve pulled in an old buddy of yours, and I see him, and I’m supposed to take it seriously? What are you trying to pull here, Devereaux?”
“What do you mean, you see him?” Devereaux raised his eyebrows. “You can tell if someone’s guilty just by looking at them? That’s some mighty fine police work right there, Captain. I’m truly impressed.”
“That’s enough of your bullshit, Detective.” Emrich scowled. “And given that you know this man, you shouldn’t be questioning him, anyway.”
“I agree.” Devereaux nodded. “Best if someone else takes it from here.”
“I’m sorry, Captain.” Lieutenant Hale resisted the temptation to smile. She’d never thought she’d hear Devereaux admit to being on the same page as the captain. The two of them being in the same room was usually a recipe for disaster. They were a year apart in age. Both had been born in Birmingham. But they were poles apart in every other respect. Devereaux did little to hide the fact that he’d happily take Emrich into a blind alley and come out alone. And the word in the department was that Emrich was only delaying his inevitable move into politics in the hope of finally making one of Devereaux’s many suspensions stick. “I thought the same thing. But there’s a problem. The suspect has refused to talk to anyone else. There’s no point antagonizing him, if we want to get this thing cleared up as quick as possible.”
—
Bateman sat up straighter when he heard the door to the interview room squeak open, and by the time Devereaux had taken the seat opposite him and laid his slim beige folder on the table, a look of childish enthusiasm had returned to his face.
“Cooper, good. I didn’t know where you’d gone. Let’s—”
“Hold on, Dave.” Devereaux held up one hand. “Don’t say anything. Not before you get yourself a lawyer.” He suppressed a smile of his own, thinking of the consternation he’d just caused in the observation room.
“Do I need one?” Wrinkles appeared along the length of Bateman’s forehead.
“I think you should get one, yes.” Devereaux nodded. “If you’re worried about the cost, remember what I told you earlier, in the car. The city will provide one for you. It won’t cost you a cent.”
“Do I have to get one?”
“No.” Devereaux folded his arms. “You don’t have to. But my advice is, you should. This is a serious situation, and you need to protect yourself.”
“You think I don’t know how serious this is?” Bateman slammed his hand on the table. “You think I’m an idiot? This isn’t school. I can protect myself now!”
Devereaux didn’t respond.
Bateman took a few moments then pressed his palms together as if he was praying. “OK. Let’s get this straight. There will be no lawyer. Just you and me. And I want to get it done right now. Can we just cut the crap and get the show on the road? Please?”
Devereaux took a pen from his jacket pocket—one of the cheap disposable ballpoints he regularly pinched from restaurants and hotels because he didn’t want murderers and rapists touching his personal property—and slid it across the table along with a piece of paper from his folder. “Here. Sign this. It says you’ve declined your right to a lawyer. Anything you tell me is worthless otherwise.”
Bateman scrawled his name across the bottom of the page without even reading it. “There. Can we get started now?”
“I guess.” Devereaux pulled out his notebook. “OK. The ball’s in your court. Tell me what happened.”
“Easy. I set fire to the school. Jones Valley. Yesterday afternoon. I’m officially confessing. Do I have to sign to that, too?”
“W
e’ll come to that. First, tell me how you did it.”
“How?” Bateman scratched his left wrist. “Oh. Well, I got a bunch of gas, took it—”
“What did you take it in?”
“One of those special red containers. Four gallons.”
“Where did you get it? This container?”
“At a DIY store. Out on Flintridge Drive. In Fairfield.”
“Got a receipt?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Dave, we talked to the manager of that store. They have no record of any of those containers being sold.”
“Do their records go back ten years? Because that’s how long ago I bought it. I’ve been planning this a long time.”
“OK. What about the gas?”
“I got it at the Shell station on Arkadelphia Road, just off 20/59.”
“Really? Because we checked. No one’s filled a container with gas there in the last three months.”
“I didn’t fill the container. I filled my car. Then I syphoned the gas into the container back at my house. Last Tuesday. And the gas, I do have a receipt for.”
“What did you do next?”
“Nothing, till yesterday. Then I drove to the school. Parked in my usual spot that I use for church. Broke into the school. Splashed the gas around all over the place. Threw down a match. Then watched it burn, till the fire trucks came.”
“Why didn’t an alarm go off, when you broke into the school?”
Bateman shrugged.
“And how come no one saw you?”
“Someone did! They took my picture. Outside the church. That’s what you said.”
“True point.” Devereaux closed his notebook. “OK. I’m going to check out everything you’ve told me, Dave. Don’t worry. It’s standard procedure. But before I do, there’s one more thing I need to know.”
“OK. What?”
“Why, Dave? Why did you do it? Torch the place?”
“You’re going to make me spell it out?”
“Absolutely. Motive’s a key thing. This is a high-profile case. Lots of tax dollars are up in smoke. People are pissed. So I’ve got to go by the book. I need you to tell me.”
“Cooper, please! You of all people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bateman held his hands an inch above the table for a moment, moving his fingers as if he was playing scales on an invisible piano. “OK. You remember Principal Oliver? You must. You were in his office enough times.”
Devereaux cast his mind back and recalled a thin, gray figure in a baggy suit lurking behind a giant, ornate wooden desk. He regularly hauled Devereaux over the coals about his grades, and threw out veiled threats about curtailing his extra-curricular activities, though without having the balls to ever act on them. In the hierarchy of assholes who Devereaux held grudges against, Principal Oliver didn’t even make the top twenty. “Right. I do. He was a weasely little guy. I never liked him. He was always harassing me about something or other.”
“And when you were in his room, he never…oh God. This was a mistake.”
“What was? Setting the fire?”
“No. Telling you. I figured you knew. But maybe you don’t. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Can I go?”
Watching Bateman squirm in his seat brought another memory to Devereaux’s mind. Of seeing a younger version of the guy sitting outside Oliver’s office. Small. Red-eyed. Fidgety. And Devereaux remembered feeling no sympathy for him whatsoever. He’d been too busy keeping his own activities out of the school’s spotlight. Plus his attitude had always been, If you can’t do the time…But now he was beginning to worry. Maybe he’d missed something. Maybe Bateman hadn’t been the one at fault…
“It’s all right, Dave.” Devereaux tried to make his voice sound warm and unthreatening. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. And if I can help you, I will. You have my word.”
“Like that’s worth anything.”
“Come on, Dave. I’m not the bad guy here. Tell me what happened. What did Oliver do?”
“Nothing.” Bateman shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I want to go.”
“You can’t go, Dave! You’re under arrest. That’s why you’ve got to tell me. If there’s something that explains what you did, that shifts the blame onto someone else, I need to know. That’s the only way I can help you now.”
“I don’t care.” Bateman turned his head and lowered his gaze to the floor. “I’m not saying another word.”
“Would it be better to write it down? Would that be easier than saying it?”
Bateman shook his head.
“Do you want to talk to someone else, instead? Another detective? A counselor?”
“No.” Bateman’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s OK. Let me write it.”
—
Devereaux read every tiny, spidery word on the three pages that Bateman had covered, then laid the legal pad down on the table. He felt a wave of calmness and clarity wash over him, the way it always did when a violent outcome became inevitable. Or preferable. But this time the feeling was tinged with regret. He’d been there at the school when the things Bateman described had happened. He could have stopped them. If only he’d seen the signs.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this, Dave.” Devereaux could barely meet Bateman’s gaze. “Truly. And I’m sorry I have to ask, but it’s important. Was anyone else involved?”
“A few times.” Bateman shivered, as if an icy blast of wind had cut through the room. “Sometimes Oliver let people watch. I don’t know their names. And I didn’t look at their faces. I was too ashamed.”
“Other adults?”
Bateman nodded.
“How about other students?”
“Never in the room with me.” Bateman shrugged. “But there probably were others.”
“Got any names?”
Bateman shook his head.
“Where’s Oliver now?” Devereaux opened his notebook.
“I’ve got no idea.” Bateman started to play his imaginary piano again. “I haven’t seen him or heard of him for years. Not since he retired. I think he moved away. Maybe left the country.”
“Are you sure?” Devereaux turned the legal pad facedown. “Because in a situation like this, let’s say you’d been to see him one time. A while ago. Just to talk things through. Hoping to reconcile, perhaps. And he had some kind of accident? Like, a terminal one? No one would take a very close look at that. I certainly wouldn’t, and this is my case.”
“You think I killed him?” Bateman stopped moving his fingers and looked up. “Honestly, I wish I had. I wanted to. Many times. But I didn’t have the nerve. I’m a coward. That’s why I had to burn the school down, instead.”
“All right, Dave.” Devereaux nodded. “I’ll make you a promise. I’ll find Oliver, if he’s still alive. And I’ll make him pay for every single thing he did to you. But there’s just one thing I don’t understand. The school. It’s the wrong one. The one we went to, where the bad things happened? It was demolished years ago. This new one’s not even a high school. So why burn it? What was the point?”
Bateman covered his eyes for a moment, then dropped his hands to the table. “Look, I get it. I should have done something before. I know that. I tried to. Over and over. Every time I wussed out. And every time I hated myself a little bit more. But is it my fault they demolished our old school before I could set it on fire? No. And what else could I do? Travel back in time? No. So it might have been too little, and it might have been too late. But at least I finally did something.”
WHO IS TO BLAME?
Does the guilt lie at Jonathan Ford’s door? Or at the Birmingham Police Department’s? This reporter examines the rival candidates:
First under the microscope is Jonathan Ford, who had the simple task of driving from one place to another at the correct time to act as a witness. He failed. He’s clearly a moron. But can the fault of derailing one part of the plan be placed entirely on his
shoulders?
Even without Mr. Ford’s unreliable contribution, experienced police officers should have been capable of detecting a burning school on their own. They should have done this quickly enough to have the flames doused in time to retrieve the clues the genius had left for them like toys for a roomful of imbecile children. They, too, failed. Their failure was immense. But was it the critical factor?
With all the failure in the air, perhaps a measure of blame should also be borne by the genius? After all, a person of such colossal intellect should know better than to formulate a plan that depends on the competence of regular mortals.
And in conclusion? The actors in this particular scene may have fluffed their lines, but the public should be assured: The play is not over! In fact, the drama has only just begun. The only question is: Where will the genius stage the next act? No doubt the answer will soon be revealed…
Chapter Seventeen
Sunday. Late afternoon.
Of course the damn Porsche was in the way!
Alexandra had forgotten it was there until she hit the button to open her garage door. And of course it wasn’t actually a Porsche anymore. It was a Ferrari now. A red monstrosity. At least she only had to put up with it temporarily. Just until Devereaux’s Porsche was fixed. Although she still couldn’t understand how it took twelve weeks and counting to replace one lousy rear speaker. Or how Devereaux came to choose such impractical cars in the first place. Or how he was able to pay for them. The cost of his old one hadn’t really struck her when she originally met him, when she was a full-time lawyer. She was used to being around people with expensive toys back then. But now that money was tighter, it stood out to her a little bit more. And then there were the whispers at her church. A detective’s salary. A sports car…
The Range Rover was the only luxury item Alexandra had held on to from her days in the law firm, and she wasn’t happy about having to keep leaving it in the driveway. Still, she told herself as she scooped the grocery bags out of the trunk and waited for Nicole to climb down from the back seat, that’s a small price to pay for no longer being alone in life. Isn’t it?