by Rick Homan
“Well, if he did, then it’s more likely he killed Kate, and I’ll be glad the sheriff is investigating him. But if Devon didn’t hurt Teresa, I want to make sure the sheriff knows that.”
“And—just remind me—why wouldn’t the sheriff know that?”
“He was evasive when I asked him whether he talked to this girl.”
“So we’re driving three hours up to Ada, Ohio to make sure the sheriff is doing his job?” Abbie raised an eyebrow.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“No. Like I said, it beats staring at four walls.”
Ohio farm country looked different from California farm country, cute by comparison. In the Central Valley of California crops are raised on a vast, industrial scale. Even around Salinas where the crops require lots of labor, the flat fields seem to go on forever. But in Ohio it seemed one could always see the road or the line of trees that bordered the farm, and the land seemed to have shoulders. The road pitched and rolled and curved, making for a more entertaining ride.
“Since we have a couple of hours to kill,” I said, “what was your first semester like?”
“How do you mean?”
“Were you comfortable teaching your classes?”
“I wouldn’t say comfortable. I got through it.”
“Did you feel like you knew how to teach?”
“Oh God, no.”
That was a relief. “So what did you do?”
“Just kept at it. I’d see a story in the news that related to some concept in my course, so I’d copy it and throw it in my file for next time. I tried to get them to think about something in their world and then show them it’s something economists have already thought about.”
“I like that. In effect, you illustrated the textbook with current events.”
“Right.”
“So then for the assignment or for the exam, did you ask them to solve a problem in economics or just to recognize the material you’ve covered?”
“I have yet to meet the student who wants to think like an economist, let alone be one. My situation is a little different. Nobody takes ‘macroeconomics’ for fun. They take it because it will help them get ahead in the business world. So I help them understand what economists are talking about.”
“But that’s not how you think about economics.”
“No, but, as I said, my students aren’t going to become economists.”
“Mine aren’t going to become art historians either. Thanks, Abbie. That gives me some things to think about.”
“I thought your history class was going great since you started them on the mural.”
“It was. So long as I had Kate in class, showing them how to think like art historians made sense. With her gone, I’m the only one in the room who wants to do that.”
Abbie stared through the windshield for a few moments. “We spend years in grad school surrounded by people who are scholars, and then we get a job teaching people who are not going to be scholars. It’s a shock. We have to find out what our subject has to offer to people who are going to be managers, entrepreneurs, paralegals, tradesmen, and so on. Don’t worry about it Noonan. You’re doing fine and you’ll get better.”
We pulled into Ada a little after nine thirty. The streets were busy in anticipation of that afternoon’s football game on the campus. I guessed folks turned out in force for home games at Ohio Northern because there didn’t seem to be much else in town to attract a crowd.
We parked a few streets away from campus and took a walk to wake ourselves up after the three-hour drive. What we could see of the campus from Main Street was fairly impressive. At about ten minutes before ten, we moved the car into the parking lot in front of the Northern on Main Cafe. I went in first and got a small table. Abbie came in a minute later and sat at the counter. It was comforting to look across the room and see her sitting tall at on a stool, blonde hair caught in the morning light.
I asked for coffee and two menus and divided my time between watching the door and choosing an omelet. At ten on the dot a young lady walked in and stopped to look around the room. She was, I guessed, a little taller than me, dressed business casual with navy slacks and a pink sweater over a white blouse. I wasn’t immediately sure if she was Teresa Zannetti, because she had her hair pulled back. She had no such trouble recognizing me. She would have seen my photo on Budstem.
Chapter 22
Teresa Zannetti sat opposite me with a big smile on her face and took a CD out of her purse and set it on the table. She must have brought samples of her radio shows. I lost my appetite at the thought of how I had raised her expectations of a career breakthrough, and was about to turn her day around and send it in a much less pleasant direction.
“Order whatever you want,” I said. “It’s on me.”
“I’ll just have some coffee.”
The waitress took our order.
I paused for a moment before saying, “Devon Manus is in serious trouble.”
Her face froze for a few seconds. “Devon? What . . . ? Wait. Who are you?”
“I am the person who reached you on Budstem, Nicole Noonan, assistant professor of art history at Fuchs College.”
She took a moment to let it sink in. “So you’re not here about a show for NPR?”
“No. I lied. I needed to speak to you in person about Devon’s situation, and I was afraid you wouldn’t meet me. Devon is in sheriff’s custody.”
She gasped. “Why? What did he do?”
“I’m not sure he did anything. A student at Fuchs College was murdered two weeks ago, a young woman named Kate Conrad. She and Devon had been dating, but they were not out together the night she was killed.”
“Why do they think he killed her?”
“The sheriff thinks Devon beat you up when the two of you were dating in high school.”
After she thought about that for a moment, her jaw dropped, and she said, “Oh my God!”
The waitress brought her coffee and my omelet and topped up my coffee cup while she was at it. I was glad for the distraction and took some time putting marmalade on my toast. Teresa needed time to understand what I had told her.
I took a bite of the omelet, followed by a bite of toast, and washed it down with coffee. “Did Sheriff Mason Adams of the Edwards County Sheriff’s Department talk to you about this?”
She shook her head.
“Devon didn’t hurt you, did he?”
She looked alarmed. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re still sitting here with me.”
She relaxed. “No. He didn’t.”
“Devon told me a man out jogging thought you were hurt and called the police, and after that everyone assumed Devon had hurt you. Is that what happened?”
A few tears escaped her eyes. She nodded. “I told them—the police, my parents, everybody—that he didn’t do anything to me. I just slipped and fell, but they wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why not?”
She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something rotten. “It was all just a big mess. I don’t know what happened.”
“I don’t know if the sheriff has brought charges against him yet, but Devon is very close to being arrested. It might help him if you called Sheriff Adams and told him what happened that night.”
For the first time, she looked frightened. “I couldn’t do that.”
“It’s important that they don’t use this against him.”
She kept her eyes down and shook her head. “No. No. I can’t do that.”
“Teresa . . .”
“No. I have to go.” She put the CD back in her tote bag and picked up her jacket.
“Teresa, let me give you my card so you can get in touch with me.”
She stood up. “No. And you didn’t have to lie to me.”
She turned and walked out.
I kept my eyes down, because I didn’t want to know if people at the tables around me were staring.
The waitress came to the table. “Everyth
ing okay here? More coffee?”
“No, thanks. Just the check.”
She walked away and Abbie slid into the seat where Teresa had sat. “How did it go?”
“Devon didn’t hurt her, but she won’t talk about it.”
“Why not?
“She’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
Traffic streamed into Ada in advance of that afternoon’s game, but it wasn’t bad leaving town and getting on the freeway going south. We passed exit signs for roads and towns we had passed going the opposite direction about an hour ago. It felt like we were going in circles.
Meanwhile, inside me, my guts were twisting. I broke the silence. “That was not fun.”
“Which part?”
“Playing a trick on a student.”
“Well, Devon’s not having much fun either.”
“That’s not her fault.”
Abbie hummed for a few seconds as she thought about that. “It’s a little bit her fault.”
“How so?”
“She could speak up and clear him, but she won’t.”
“Yes, she could. So, why doesn’t she?”
Abbie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel while she thought about it. “You said she seemed afraid, right?”
“Definitely. Deer in the headlights. She said, ‘No. I can’t talk about that,’ and it wasn’t ‘can’t’ as in, ‘I don’t feel up to it.’ It was more like, ‘I’m not allowed to.’”
“So who won’t allow her to talk?”
“In her situation, most likely a parent.”
Abbie checked her mirrors, changed lanes, and passed a pickup truck loaded with furniture. When we were again cruising in the right lane, she asked, “Why would her mom or dad want her to keep quiet about a mildly embarrassing incident that happened a few years ago in high school?”
“I can’t imagine. It’s not as if she got pregnant or arrested for drugs, at least so far as we know.”
Abbie’s finger tapping reached a climax, and she hit the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “Maybe it’s not about her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Does your phone get a signal here?”
I fished it out of my purse and checked. “It does.”
“You said she’s from Mansfield?”
“Yes.”
“See if you can find a website for the city of Mansfield.”
I typed the name of the town into my phone’s browser and searched. The town’s website was the first hit. “Got it.”
“Does it list the mayor and city council members—people like that?”
“There’s a city directory.”
“Do you see anyone named Zannetti?”
I did a quick scan. “Not on this page. Let me try a search.” I typed “Zannetti” into the search box and hit enter. “Nope. That name is not on the city’s website. What’s your idea?”
“If her dad is in politics, he might be protecting his reputation, not Teresa’s. The same would be true for her mom.”
“I see what you mean. Let me check something else. Mansfield is the County Seat for Richland County.” I went to the county’s website, searched for “Zannetti,” and saw a portrait of a middle-aged man in a conservative suit. “Here he is, Judge Thomas P. Zannetti. Court of Common Pleas.”
“Could be her father, but he could also be an uncle. See if you can find some local news stories with both her name and his.”
I searched, scanned the list of headlines that turned up, and read one of the stories. “Yep. She won an essay contest in high school. The end of the story says she is the daughter of Maureen and Thomas Zannetti.”
Abbie nodded. “Okay. Now go back to the county’s website. Are judges elected?”
“Yes. judges in Richland County are elected to six-year terms. What does all this tell us?”
Abbie held up her right hand, as if warning me to slow down. “Just thinking out loud here. Let’s say he was running for office back when Teresa and Devon had their little snafu. Would he want the voters to see news stories about his daughter and her boyfriend picked up by the police in some park?”
“No. He would not.”
“It wouldn’t even matter why they were picked up or whether there were any charges. The words ‘daughter’ and ‘police’ in the same headline would put a dent in his political aspirations.”
I saw where Abbie was going with this. “So he might have used his influence to keep the police quiet and keep the story from getting out.”
Abbie nodded. “And he might have imposed a gag order, so to speak, on daughter Teresa.”
“If you’re right, he’s in the middle of a six-year term. He’s not facing re-election now, so why would she be afraid to talk?”
“He might have higher ambitions.”
“I don’t know, Abbie. It’s hard to imagine voters getting very upset about something his daughter did years ago. Maybe at the time, yeah, but not now.”
Abbie stared out the windshield at the farmland we were passing. “Maybe whatever influence he used to keep the incident quiet wasn’t strictly legal. Or maybe it just looks a little too insider. An opponent could still make an issue of it. I don’t know. I’m just guessing about all these details. My point is, Teresa may be afraid of daddy and what might happen to her if she jeopardizes his career.”
“Okay. Assuming that’s true, I wonder if I could sell her on the idea that she could have a private phone conversation with Sheriff Adams and that it wouldn’t go any further.”
Abbie nodded. “It’s worth a try.”
When I got home, I looked up Teresa’s Budstem root and found we were no longer buddies and most of her information was now visible to friends only. Smart girl. I took some comfort in the idea that I had taught her that lesson, and perhaps saved her from getting truly scammed. I still had her email address, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble to write. I recalled her grim look as she left the diner. She did not want to hear from me ever again.
I decided to work the problem from the other end, and called the number on Sheriff Adams’ card. It went to voicemail, and I left a message saying I had some information for him.
Chapter 23
Sheriff Adams called back on Sunday morning and suggested we meet in my office around eleven. That left time for me to call home. I hoped to reassure Mom and Dad by reporting the good news and leaving out the bad stuff.
Once we were all on the line, I thanked Dad for his check, and told him I was keeping that money for emergencies.
“Glad to hear it, darlin’,” he said. “Let me know if you need more.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Nicole, honey, did you call Anna Petretti?”
“Gosh, Mom, it’s been such a busy week. I didn’t get around to that, but I’m really making progress on my study of this mural in the college’s old chapel.” I decided they didn’t need to know about Jacob going behind my back to get my student’s notebook.
“That’s wonderful,” said Dad. “They’re lucky to have you there.”
“Thanks. I think it could tell us a lot about the history of the school. I might write an article for a history journal in addition to one for an art journal.”
“Are you seeing Lionel?” asked Mom.
“We were going to do something this weekend, but he had to go to New York. His father’s having surgery.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
Dad asked, “Did security ever come up with anything about the vandalism?”
“No, Dad, but thanks for reminding me. They were supposed to call me back, but they haven’t. I’ll have to check.”
“Well, if your boyfriend hasn’t had any of that trouble, it may have been a one-time thing.”
“Right, Dad. That’s a good point, although he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Nicole, Honey, did they find out anything about your student, the one who died?”
I could have told them the sheriff
was focusing on another of my students as a suspect, and I didn’t see much reason to bring it up since I now knew he had no history as an abuser. “They’re still looking into that, Mom. I haven’t heard anything definite.”
I tried a couple more times to bring up my research, and they encouraged me, but it was clear they were more concerned about my personal life and my safety. Perhaps they felt somewhat reassured, but my insides felt like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. Filtering out things that would only upset them was more strain than I wanted to bear on a Sunday morning. Maybe I would sit down later in the day and lay it all out in an email.
Adams’ patrol car was parked outside the Arts and Humanities Building when I got there. We didn’t speak as we walked together up the stairs to my office on the third floor. Once we were seated, he took out his notebook. “You said you have some information for me.”
“Devon Manus did not abuse Teresa Zannetti.”
“How do you know this?”
“I asked her, and she told me.”
Adams said nothing for a moment, but his face flushed. “Dr. Noonan, you have crossed a line. When you start questioning people who are involved in the case, you are interfering with my investigation.”
“The last time we talked, you told me you didn’t want to involve her and her family. So, I wasn’t talking to someone involved in your investigation.”
“Do not twist my words. You know exactly what I mean. If I even suspect you have influenced what this young woman might have to say about Manus, I will charge you with obstruction. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
Adams studied me for a moment. “If I have one of my deputies talk to Ms. Zannetti, will she confirm what you’re saying?”
“Yes, but it would be best to make this confidential. I think she’s under pressure not to talk about it, probably from her parents.”
Adams shook his head slightly, the only physical sign of frustration he allowed himself.
“Sheriff, without this supposed history of abuse, it seems much less likely that Devon killed Kate.”
“He still has no alibi for the time of the murder.”
“He was in bed asleep. There’s nothing suspicious about that.”