We both looked at it.
“Biology. Tarlow. A. She got an A in biology,” said Ingrid.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Mr. Tarlow must have changed his mind.”
“Does that happen often?”
She frowned. “With Mr. Tarlow, that never happens.”
“Then…”
“I mean,” she said, “it could happen. Theoretically. If the grade were improperly entered by someone in the computer center. Then the teacher could authorize it to be changed.”
“But…”
“But Ira Tarlow is very precise. A singularly uninspiring teacher, perhaps. But precise as hell. And hardly susceptible to persuasion, if that’s what you’re thinking. I really just don’t understand this.”
“So where could this D have come from?”
“Maybe,” said Ingrid, “the question is where the A came from.”
“The real question,” I said, “is what’s the significance of it.”
“If there is any,” she said. “All I can say is that Alice would not have been pleased with a D. Not pleased at all.”
“Are you suggesting…?”
“What, that she managed to change it? Not likely. Gil says this system is absolutely hackerproof. And Alice was no whiz at computers.”
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Tarlow.”
Ingrid smiled. “You’re welcome to try. He’s not the most, ah, cordial individual.”
“You forget. I am an attorney. Persuasion is my game.”
She shrugged. “I’ll introduce you. You might want to keep in mind a couple things, though.”
“Like what?”
“Like, Ira Tarlow is not a popular teacher. His job, in fact, is in jeopardy, although I am handicapped by a contract that protects him by virtue of his seniority.”
“Ah, yes. Tenure.”
She shook her head. “No, not tenure. That does not protect an incompetent teacher, contrary to popular belief. It simply gives teachers access to due process. No, in this case I face declining student enrollments, which requires me to cut back on staff. My goal is to protect our best teachers, regardless of seniority. The teachers’ union makes that difficult. In any case, my relationship with Mr. Tarlow is, ah, strained these days.”
“You want to get rid of him because he’s unpopular?”
“Oh, no. That’s not it. I mean, his unpopularity is obviously linked to the fact that he’s not very competent. Look. He’s a very old-fashioned man. He has grown very bitter. He’s hanging on here to sweeten his retirement benefits. He can’t understand how kids today can be any different from kids in the fifties. He doesn’t like them—or me—questioning his methods. And he has not kept up in his field. Take biology from Ira Tarlow, you’d never hear about DNA. I’m not so sure he’s even up to date on Darwinian theory. He blushes when he uses the word ‘reproduction.’ Refuses to discuss it as it pertains to primates. He stammers when he talks about stamens.”
“Oh, my virgin ears,” I said.
She grinned at me.
“Actually, I love it when you talk dirty.”
She shook her head in mock disgust. “Come on. I’ll take you to the science wing. Last period is just about over.”
I followed her out of her office and into the corridor. “Mr. Tarlow is one of those whose daily departure is signaled by the last bell. Most of our conscientious teachers hang around to confer with students, meet with committees, work on lessons, correct papers, whatever. The science teachers like to set up their labs and demonstrations before they leave. But not Ira. We should just catch him.”
As we were walking a bell jangled. The doors along either side of the broad corridor opened and students poured out, bursting with that adolescent energy that translated itself into loud laughter, much punching of shoulders, obscene language, and acute sexual awareness. The kids ignored Ingrid and me. We ignored them. We pushed our way against the general direction of the tide, which reluctantly opened to let us pass.
She ducked into an open doorway. I followed her in. A chest-high counter ran across the front of the room. It was equipped with two sinks, a variety of pipes and spigots, and several knobs, which I figured were hookups for Bunsen burners. Papers were strewn on top of it. There was a rack of dirty test tubes and several empty beakers.
Behind the counter stood a man stuffing papers into a briefcase very similar to my ventilated Harlan Fiske Stone model. He was a trim little man, with round rimless spectacles and a narrow little white mustache. He peered up myopically at Ingrid and me.
“Dr. Larsen,” he said tonelessly.
“Mr. Tarlow, I realize we may be detaining you, the bell having rung and all, but I have a gentleman here who would like to speak with you.”
He looked at me, nodded once, and extended his hand. “Ira Tarlow, sir.”
“Brady Coyne,” I said.
Ingrid Larsen smiled quickly at me, as much as to say, “Don’t be deceived. The man’s a charmer. But evil.” What she actually said was, “Stop in when you’re done, if you’d like. I’ll be here all afternoon.”
I thanked her, and she turned and left, closing the door behind her. I turned to the biology teacher.
“I’m an attorney, Mr. Tarlow. I am involved in an indirect way with the murder investigation of Alice Sylvester and Buddy Baron. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Would you like to sit down?”
I shook my head. “Been sitting most of the day.”
“You don’t mind if I sit, do you?” he said. “We teachers spend most of our days on our feet. And mine happen to be killing me. Teachers and nurses and airline hostesses all suffer podiatric distress. Occupational hazards.” He climbed upon a tall stool and hooked his short legs around it. “Ahh. Better. Young teachers, they do not seem to mind sitting while they teach. To me, a teacher ought to be standing. It conveys command. I do not agree with the informality of our new generation of teachers. It encourages disrespect. Disrespect for the teacher, disrespect for the subject. Disrespect for education.”
I smiled. “I see your point.”
“I do go on, sometimes. I know. Dr. Larsen loves to remind me of it. I apologize. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to talk about Alice Sylvester.”
“Very well,” he said. He folded his arms, propped his chin up on his fist, and regarded me expectantly.
I laughed. “What I meant was, I’d like for you to talk about Alice Sylvester.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I am a very literal man. Tell me what you’d like me to say.”
I summarized the case for him. “So you see,” I concluded, “this report card was for some reason very important to Buddy Baron. It got him killed, in fact. And the only interesting thing about it seems to be the D in biology. Your course.”
He had begun nodding his head as soon as I mentioned the report card. When I finished talking, he put both elbows onto the counter and leaned toward me. “She did get a D,” he said. “She probably should have failed, but, frankly, her reputation cowed me.”
“She was an excellent student, I thought.”
He shrugged. “She failed the final exam. She left it blank. A zero. It counted fifty percent of the year’s grade. I don’t know why she left it blank. She knew the material. When she handed it in I glanced at it and asked her. She said she didn’t feel like doing it. She said it was a stupid test. It was not unlike her. She was fully aware that my job has been in jeopardy, that the administration has been pressuring me to retire. I suppose she thought I wouldn’t dare to fail her. Well, she was right, in a sense. I gave her the D instead of the F she deserved. And now you tell me they have changed it. That, too, could have been predicted, I suppose.”
“Dr. Larsen says that she doesn’t know how it was done, if it wasn’t ordered by you. It was not done officially.”
Tarlow shrugged. “Or else she isn’t telling you. Mr. Coyne, truly I cannot see how this can be related to her unfortunate mu
rder or that of the Baron boy.” He smiled shyly. “Or am I some sort of suspect?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m having trouble with it, too. But it seems to be the only link.”
He held out his hands, palms up. “I’m an old-fashioned man, Mr. Coyne. Computers I do not understand. I would like to. But I don’t have the energy for it. Now administrative prerogative, that I do understand.”
“Are you saying that someone above you ordered the grade changed?”
He shrugged. “I see no other explanation. Do you?”
“I don’t—”
He hitched himself forward on his stool. “Look, Mr. Coyne. Let me be frank with you. Alice Sylvester was a spoiled child. Rather pretty, in a pouty way. Fairly bursting with hormonal spirit, if you follow me. And she was, indeed, quite intelligent. But typical of her generation. Self-centered. Demanded recognition of her accomplishments. Figured the school—and the other parts of her world—existed for the sole purpose of serving her. Her teachers earned none of her respect. She cultivated them, like—like my dear wife cultivates her roses, snipping at their thorns, twisting them into the shapes she wants. Flattering them to their faces, criticizing them behind their backs. Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that I felt anything but a horrible tragic loss when I heard she was murdered. She was no different from her peers. They do tend to grow into adults. Often they come back, oh, years later, and they thank me for having standards, for insisting on civility in my classroom, things like that.” He paused and grinned. “You have to stop me, Mr. Coyne. I get off the track.”
I shook my head. “It’s all right. It’s helping me to understand.”
“My students see me as dry, humorless, one-dimensional. I don’t care. My job is to teach them biology. I am very conscientious about it. I never try to become their friend, to make myself available to hear all their petty problems. Adolescence is the most carefree, irresponsible time of a person’s life, or at least it is for those fortunate to live in a community like Windsor Harbor. But to hear these young people talk. The worries, the burdens, the pressures. My goodness, Mr. Coyne. Do you realize how important it is to get early admission to an Ivy League college? Not only to the children, but to their parents? I am not sympathetic to this. This is not life. These are not problems.”
“Alice Sylvester and Buddy Baron had problems,” I said mildly.
“Of course. They have been murdered. That is not what I meant.”
I smiled. “I have two boys myself.”
“I suspect from talking with you that they’re nicer people than Alice Sylvester.”
“You’re suggesting that somebody pressured the administration to change Alice’s grade, then.”
He shrugged quickly. “It’s the only explanation I have. It would be unethical. But such things happen.”
“Dr. Larsen says that did not happen. But it is a thought.” I straightened up and held out my hand to Ira Tarlow. “Mr. Tarlow, thank you for your time.”
His eyebrows arched quickly. “Is that all?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t helped you, sir.”
“I don’t know whether you have helped me or not, to tell you the truth.”
We shook hands and I turned for the door. Tarlow followed me. “Mr. Coyne,” he said.
I stopped. “Yes?”
“I did not murder the girl.”
“I never thought you did.”
He smiled at me. “Sure you did, Mr. Coyne.”
Fifteen
I FOUND MY WAY back to the main office through the empty corridors. I strode past Emma, eyes forward, shoulders squared, and went directly into Ingrid Larsen’s office.
She was reading from a sheet of pale green paper. She looked up when I cleared my throat, put the paper into her desk, and smiled. Dazzlingly.
“Please sit,” she said.
I complied, and she came over and sat beside me.
“So what do you think of our Mr. Tarlow?”
“I liked him very much,” I said.
She grinned. “He’s quite good with adults.”
“I can see how he might put kids off,” I said. “They can’t run into too many like him.”
She nodded. “It’s a problem. You’re right.”
“Yes. You need to find more like him.”
She cocked her head at me to see if I was joking. I arched my brows and nodded once to indicate that I wasn’t.
“I tried to call you after you were here last time,” she said after a moment.
“I got your message. An apology, I believe it was. Unnecessary. Instantly accepted.”
“It’s just that pressure from people like Tom Baron—”
“I understand,” I said.
“There was a hint in that message, too.” She smiled. She had excellent teeth. In fact, she was altogether quite flawless.
“Yes, I got your hint. I’ve just been real busy lately, and with murders and whatnot…”
She frowned for an instant, then tossed her head. “Sure. Maybe sometime, huh?”
I nodded. “Sure. Maybe. Look, Ira Tarlow says he did not authorize any change of Alice Sylvester’s grade. He gave her the D.”
“Then,” she said, “it’s a mystery to me. I think you’d better talk to Gil Speer. It must be some kind of computer glitch, and he’s the only one who understands that stuff.”
“Can I see him now?”
“Let me give him a buzz.” She went over to her desk and tapped out a number on the phone. “Mr. Speer, please,” she said. After a pause, she said, “It’s Dr. Larsen. … Well, I’ll only take a minute of his time. … Thank you.” She looked up at me. “His students are very protective of him.” She waited, then said, “Gil. It’s Ingrid. … Yes, I understand. The budget projections. I appreciate your position. But Mr. Coyne is here. … Brady Coyne. He’s an attorney. You met with him after Alice Sylvester’s… Right. We were hoping you’d have a minute… Of course. Perhaps a little later, then. … Well, why don’t you give me a time and I’ll…” She rolled her eyes for my benefit, then returned her attention to the phone. “Let me check,” she said. She turned to me. “He’s really tied up now. He says if you want to go to the computer room around six he should have a little time.”
I nodded. “Six is okay.”
“He says six will be fine,” she said into the phone. She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Well, I do appreciate it, Gil. This could be important… It has to do with a grade that may have been changed on a student’s transcript… Alice Sylvester, as a matter of fact. … No, nobody’s accusing anybody. Mr. Coyne… Well, for that matter, I’m curious, too, Gil. … Well, good. Thank you. He’ll be there at six.”
She placed the receiver carefully back on its cradle. “A difficult man, sometimes. But irreplaceable. I’m sorry he couldn’t see you sooner.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”
“Well, it’s true that I am more than a little curious myself. If some kid has gotten into those files, we’ve got major problems.”
“My hunch is that Alice Sylvester’s is the only grade that’s been changed around here.”
She shrugged. “I hope you’re right.”
I stood up. “Thanks for your help,” I said.
We shook hands with excessive formality, and I left her office, wondering why I had failed to take her up on her suggestion that we have a drink together sometime. She was intelligent, gorgeous, sexy. My kind of lady. No harm in having a little drink with a lady like that. My own perversities confused me.
I had a leisurely cup of coffee in the little restaurant on the main drag in Windsor Harbor, smoked a few cigarettes, accepted a refill of coffee, and scanned the previous day’s Herald that I found on the chair beside me. A little after five customers began to trickle in, so I left. I still had an hour before my date with Gil Speer. I found an outdoor pay phone and called the Windsor Harbor police station. Chief Harry Cusick wasn’t in, b
ut I left a message for him. I was in town and would try to get back to him before I left. Had some possible new developments in the Sylvester case. Would be visiting Gil Speer, the computer expert in the high school. The on-duty cop read my message back to me. He had it exactly right.
Then I wandered down the street until I found myself standing in front of Computer City, the place where Buddy Baron had sold computers.
Through the front window I could see Bob Pritchard, the bearded guy who worked there, sitting at a computer monitor. He was alone in the store.
A bell on the door jangled when I went in, and Pritchard glanced over his shoulder at me for an instant before returning his attention to the screen. I went to him and looked over his shoulder.
He was playing a game that seemed to require the operator to shoot falling objects out of the sky before they landed on a fortress. He seemed very skilled at it. The computer made beeping and booming sounds, and the falling objects appeared to explode when struck.
“Can I sell you something?” he said to me without turning around.
“Nope.”
He maneuvered the joystick rapidly. “Wanna look around, help yourself. Turn on the machines, play with them, if you want.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
He grunted and muttered “Damn” under his breath. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Buddy Baron again.”
He swiveled his head around. “Who’re you?”
“Brady Coyne. We met before.”
He scowled, then turned his body in his chair to face me. “You look familiar.”
“I was in last week. I was looking for Buddy.”
He nodded. “Oh, sure. Right. Guess you’re not looking for Buddy now.”
“No. He’s been found.”
He nodded and sighed. He pivoted around to face his machine. He switched it off, slid a disk out of the disk drive, inserted it into an envelope, and placed it in a rack. Then he stood up. “Come on over here. I got a few minutes. Got to be at the hotline at six-fifteen. Close up around six. Miss my dinner. Worth it, though.”
He went over to a small desk near the front door and sat behind it. I pulled a metal chair alongside it.
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