“The upside? We have sixteen murdered teenage girls, and one murdered coach. A memorial service is not going to address that in the same way that a criminal prosecution would. The city is aching for justice.”
The word ache seemed to strike a chord with Warren, and she wondered how his “core” was feeling right about now.
“Justice. You love that word, don’t you? You and Rivera both.”
“It’s more than a word.”
“That it is.” She followed his gaze to his watch. Her five minutes were up. Warren rose from his spherical chair and sidled past her toward the door of his office. “I’m sorry. I need to run.”
“At least tell me if I can send Graham and Novak back to Stevens Academy for some further investigation into what was going on in Russell Lanford’s life just prior to the killings. They might find more probable cause to support a warrant.”
“I understand how frustrating it is to have to let this go. Whatever Wesley Lanford showed you on his son’s computer, I’m sure it was disgusting, or heartbreaking, or both. And you want to do something about it. But there are limits to the power of the district attorney’s office. We don’t police the internet.”
“I agree that there are a lot of uncertainties. But isn’t it better to look for answers than to just assume there aren’t any?”
“Not always.”
“You know I’m experienced enough to distinguish a good murder case from a lost cause. Give me one week. Let me see what I can learn. If the detectives and I can’t turn up a solid reason to continue with the case, I’ll let it go. But if we find something—if there’s a real case here—you’ll be glad you gave me some leeway. And so will Rivera.”
Warren stepped across the threshold of his office doorway. Half in, half out. “I’m late for my meeting. Believe it or not, you’re not the only prosecutor working cases here.”
“Please, Warren. I have a feeling about this one.”
His eyes closed and he let out a sigh. A long moment seemed to pass. “Christ, you’re tenacious.”
“Please.”
“Okay,” he said at last. “One more week. See what you can find.”
9
The next morning, Jessie met Detectives Graham and Novak outside Stevens Academy. The school had reopened, but Jessie wondered how many parents had chosen to keep their kids home today. The students who had come in walked the halls with blank, faraway expressions that reminded Jessie of photos she’d seen of shellshocked soldiers. No one talked. Aside from the sound of footsteps on linoleum, the hallways were silent—which felt chillingly out-of-the-ordinary for a high school. The somber atmosphere that pervaded the air seemed to extend to Jessie and the detectives. They did not speak to each other as they made their way to the principal’s office for their interview with Clark Harrison. Novak didn’t even check his phone for grandchild updates.
They needed more information about Russell Lanford’s relationship with the Manpower website. The principal had voiced his desire to help their investigation. Talking to him about the troubled student seemed as good a place to start as any.
A receptionist greeted them in the outer vestibule of the office. She was a gray-haired matron with reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Across from her desk was a row of three small chairs aligned against the wall, all of them vacant at the moment. For a second, Jessie was sixteen again, and a pang of fear shot through her at the sight of those chairs. She’d sat in a similar waiting area when she’d been caught trying a cigarette with two of her friends in her junior year of high school. She knew before even being ushered inside that Harrison’s inner office would feel familiar, too. Private school or public school, Pennsylvania or New Jersey, city or suburb—somehow every principal’s office was the same.
Jessie glanced at Emily Graham. The expression on the detective’s face implied that she was having similar thoughts. Jessie grinned at her. “Bring back memories?”
Graham quirked an eyebrow. “I was a model student.”
“Right on time,” Harrison said. “I’m glad you reconsidered my offer. It’s a relief to finally be able to assist the police. Come on in.”
Jessie, Graham, and Novak squeezed into Harrison’s office. An old desk dominated the windowless room. There was a bookshelf on one wall and his diplomas on the other. Two small, uncomfortable-looking chairs faced the desk. Jessie didn’t sit down, and her thoughts must have been obvious from her expression.
“Don’t worry,” Harrison said, “I won’t give you detention.”
“Thanks for agreeing to see us on short notice,” Graham said. Jessie noticed that the detective didn’t sit down either. “We just have some follow-up questions about Russell Lanford.”
“Okay,” Harrison said. He looked at his own chair and hesitated, as if unsure of the etiquette of sitting while his guests stood. “It’s a little cramped in here, isn’t it?” he said. “Why don’t we take a walk?”
“Great idea,” Jessie said.
They followed him through mostly-empty hallways. As they passed lockers, trophy displays, and bulletin boards, Jessie felt more high school memories boil to the surface. Names and faces she hadn’t thought about in ten years or more came to mind as clearly as if she’d just graduated. Maybe she should take a cue from Novak and get on Facebook, try to reconnect with some of her old friends.
“In here,” Harrison said. He unlocked an unmarked door between two classrooms, reached inside, and touched a switch. Banks of fluorescent lights pulsed to life inside. “This is the teachers’ lounge.”
The room was sparsely furnished with three battered Formica tables, an ancient-looking refrigerator, and a kitchen counter. There was a microwave on the counter that looked crusted with grime and emanated a stale popcorn smell. A coffeemaker beside it looked dirty enough to make even a caffeine junkie like Jessie turn away. Above their heads, the drop ceiling was stained with cigarette smoke.
“Nice,” Novak said.
Harrison let out a laugh. “No, it’s not. But no one has much time to use it anyway, so what does it matter?”
“What do you mean?” Graham said. She walked closer to the counter and wrinkled her nose at the microwave.
“Apparently, in the old days, the faculty used to hang out in here, gossip about the students, play cards. But that was a different era. Now, with longer classes and shorter lunch periods, there’s no time for socializing. When I was teaching, I would sometimes eat my lunch in here. I had 28 minutes for lunch.” He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “It’s so much better to be in the administration. I eat in my office now. I take as long as I want.”
“It’s good to be the king,” Novak said. When no one responded, he said, “Mel Brooks? History of the World Part I?”
Harrison smiled politely and shrugged.
“When did you stop teaching?” Jessie said. “Do you miss it?”
“A little over a year ago. I do miss it, a little bit. The kids, mostly. But getting the principal gig was a huge step up for me. I don’t think I could ever go back. If I ever lose this job….” He shook his head, as if the thought were too painful to think about. “So you said you have more questions about Russell?” He pulled a chair out from one of the tables—its metal legs squealed against the linoleum—and sat down. “I’m kind of surprised. I mean, doesn’t his suicide end the investigation? You’re not, you know, looking to place blame on Stevens Academy for his suicide—”
“No, nothing like that,” Graham said.
“I guess the Philly PD is just really thorough,” Harrison said.
Graham shot Jessie a look and said, “Something like that.”
“We’re interested in talking to people who might have known Russell on a personal level,” Jessie said. “Friends. Teachers he was close to. Anyone he might have confided in.”
“Confided about what?” Harrison said.
“Extracurricular activities,” Graham said.
“Hobbies, interests outside of school, that sort
of thing,” Jessie said.
“Why do you want to know about his hobbies?”
“Just being thorough, like you said,” Graham said.
Jessie sensed Harrison didn’t like their vague answer, but when no additional information was forthcoming, he said, “Personally, I don’t know about his hobbies.”
“Friends?” Jessie said.
Harrison looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think Russell had any friends.”
“He didn’t have any friends?” Jessie said.
“Not that I can think of. That’s not, you know, all that unusual for some high school kids. It’s not something a school would generally be expected to take action about.”
“Mr. Harrison,” Graham said with a trace of exasperation, “I give you my word that we are not here to place blame on the school.”
Harrison nodded, but didn’t look convinced. Definitely a tightly strung guy. “Maybe if you told me a little more about what you’re looking for. When you say hobbies, or extracurricular activities, or whatever, what do you mean?”
Jessie did not want to specifically mention the website. The evidence would be stronger if it was offered without prompting. “What about teachers?” she said. “Was Russell close with any of his teachers?”
“Teachers he confided in? No, I don’t know of any. Russell Lanford was a quiet kid. He kept to himself. Obviously if we’d only known what was going on in his head, we would have tried to help him, but”—Harrison spread his hands—“there was no way for the school to know.”
Graham was pacing the length of the teachers’ lounge now, clearly finished with the interview. Novak, sitting at another table, was looking at his phone.
“Okay, Mr. Harrison,” Jessie said. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, anyone who Russell Lanford spent time with, please let us know, okay?”
“I will. Of course.” Harrison rose from his chair. “Let me show you out.”
10
As they walked down the hallway with Clark Harrison, Jessie kept her eyes open—for what, she wasn’t sure. All she saw was the sad spectacle of students and teachers trying to go back to their ordinary routines as if a horrific mass murder had not just rocked their school to its foundations. They passed classrooms only half-filled, a few quiet kids in the hallway, and administrative offices that seemed to exude solemnity. At the school’s entrance, when Harrison opened the door for them, the anticipation of getting out of the place brought her a sense of relief. The weight of the grief at Stevens Academy was oppressive.
“Thanks for everything you’re doing for the school,” Harrison said. It seemed like a weird comment—they hadn’t done much of anything—but the principal seemed sincere enough. They said goodbye.
As soon as Jessie and the two detectives stepped outside, the media crews at the edge of the school grounds came alive. The news vans, camera people, and reporters were no longer here in full force, but the media outlets had been savvy enough to keep some on hand, just in case. Now someone pointed a video camera in their direction. They’ll take anything at this point before the story fades completely, Jessie thought.
“Jackals,” Graham muttered.
Jessie did not respond. Her gaze had drifted from the reporters to the school’s faculty parking lot, where something caught her eye amidst the cars.
“More like vampires,” she heard Novak say to his partner. “Feeding off the blood of a tragedy.”
“And you say I’m the dark one?” Graham said.
Jessie said, “Who is that woman over there, wearing the purple sweater?” She pointed into the lot where two women, one in a sweater and pants and the other in a form-fitting skirt-suit, were talking next to a late-model Toyota Camry. She knew the woman in the suit. All too well.
Graham’s gaze followed her pointing finger to the woman in the sweater. “Christiana Weaver. One of Russell Lanford’s teachers. We interviewed her as part of the initial investigation. I don’t know who she’s talking to, though.”
“I do.” Jessie headed for the parking lot, anger already rising in her chest. She sensed Graham and Novak coming after her, and she was glad. A show of force would be useful.
“Excuse me,” she said when she reached the two women. “The media has not been granted permission to enter school property, as I’m sure you are well aware, Ms. LaVine.”
Shira LaVine turned, then beamed at her as if they were the best of friends. “Jessica Black! So great to see you again. How are you?”
“Is there a problem here?” Graham said as she reached them. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on LaVine.
“No problem,” Jessie said. “Ms. LaVine was just leaving. Right?”
The woman in the purple sweater, Chistiana Weaver, looked from the reporter to the police and seemed to shrink into herself.
LaVine’s friendly smile slipped, but only for a fraction of a second. Then it returned, brighter than ever. “Detective Graham. Let me introduce myself.” She extended a well-manicured hand to the detective. “Shira LaVine. I write for the Philadelphia Inquirer.”
Her hand hung in the air. After a moment, she lowered it, somehow managing to make the gesture seem graceful rather than awkward. The reporter was smooth, Jessie would always give her credit for that. But maybe the better word was slippery.
Graham spoke to her partner without taking her stare off of LaVine. “Detective Novak, it seems Ms. LaVine has accidentally wandered away from the designated press area. Would you please escort her back to her friends at the gate?”
Novak looked up from his iPhone. “What? Oh, sure. Come with me, ma’am.”
The teacher, Christiana Weaver, had watched the confrontation in silence. Now, as Novak led LaVine away and Jessie and Graham turned their attention on her, the teacher took a step back. She was chewing her lip hard enough to draw blood. Jessie noticed for the first time that she was holding a thin, manila folder in her hands. “I should really, um, get back to my classroom now.”
She tried to step around them. Graham blocked her path.
“Just stay here another moment, if you don’t mind,” Jessie said. “Your name is Christiana?”
“Christy. I teach English. My AP class is actually starting in a few minutes, so….”
She spoke in a quiet voice and seemed to be avoiding eye contact. Jessie wasn’t sure if she should interpret these signals as signs of a guilty conscience, or if the woman was just shy. Weaver was young and pretty, but seemed to be trying to hide both under shapeless, conservative pants and a bland sweater. Jessie thought of the claims of “sexual leverage” that users of the Manpower forum charged women with using to get ahead in the workplace, and she almost laughed. In Jessie’s experience, most women erred on the side of downplaying their gender, like Weaver, whose blonde hair was held back in a knot and who wore little in the way of jewelry. Jessie remembered dressing similarly during her first few years at the DA’s office, when she’d feared sending the wrong signals or not being taken seriously.
Jessie decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and be direct. “What were you talking about with Ms. LaVine?”
“I … do I have to answer that?”
“Is there a reason you don’t want to?” Jessie said.
“Well, I….” Weaver’s voice trailed off.
“Let me be clear,” Graham said. “If you are withholding information from an active investigation—”
“But I didn’t know it was active,” Weaver blurted. “I mean, when Russell killed himself, I just assumed it was over, and there’d be no harm in, you know….”
“No harm in what?” Jessie said.
“It’ll be better for you if you just tell us everything now,” Graham said. “Trust me.”
Weaver sighed, and her posture seemed to slump with defeat. “It’s embarrassing. I mean, this is going to make me look like a bad person or something, but I’m not. I’m a good person. It’s just … a teacher’s salary….”
“Go on,” Graham said.
> “Russell’s a student—I mean, he was a student—in my writing class. I always assign the kids personal essays. It’s a good way for them to focus on the writing itself, instead of research and that sort of thing. I ask them to write about themselves.”
“And you were, what?” Graham said. “Trying to sell a few of Russell’s essays to the Inquirer?”
“Just one essay,” Weaver said. She cringed. “I told you this would make me look like a bad person.”
“What’s the essay about?” Graham said. “How I Spent My Summer Vacation?”
“No,” Weaver said. “It was about women. Russell’s views on women. Here.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the manila folder and handed it to Graham.
Jessie watched from beside her as Graham unfolded the sheet. There was a typed, single-spaced report: Discrimination Against Men, and How It Has Affected Me, by Russell Lanford. Scanning the paragraphs that followed, Jessie saw the now-familiar rhetoric of the Manpower website. There was no date on the essay.
“When did Russell write this?” Jessie said.
“Two weeks ago.”
“You didn’t think to bring this to anyone’s attention in the administration?”
“I did! I walked it over to Clark Harrison’s office and showed it to him. I even made a copy for him.”
Jessie and Graham exchanged a look. Interesting that the super-helpful principal of Stevens Academy hadn’t mentioned it.
“What did Harrison do after you showed him the essay?” Jessie said.
Weaver shrugged. “As far as I know, nothing.”
They would have to ask Harrison about that.
“Did Russell turn in any other assignments like this?” Graham said.
“No, nothing like that one.”
“Did you assign him other personal essays?”
“Yes, one other one, but—” She bit her lip.
“You didn’t think it would sell as well to the media?” Graham said. Her tone dripped disdain.
Weaver nodded. Her gaze was locked on her shoes. “It was about how he didn’t want to move to Delaware. It wasn’t very interesting.”
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