“Did you have a chance to select three of your students?” Monica asked Stephanie as they strolled by one of the administration buildings.
Stephanie stopped walking. “I have. However, I wanted to discuss that with you a bit more if you don’t mind.”
Monica raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Stephanie nodded earnestly. “I thought it best if perhaps you focused more on some of our success stories. Students who have thrived here at Stratton Grove.”
Monica said nothing.
“What I mean is: your asking to see our most troubled students could—and God forgive me for saying this—prove to be disappointing down the road when you return to follow up.”
Yup—the cunt cares more about this shit hole’s precious reputation than helping kid one.
“I don’t think I’ll be disappointed, Stephanie.” A child was in earshot. Monica took delight in Stephanie’s discomfort at being addressed by her first name. “Excuse me—Mrs. Sands.”
Stephanie Sands gave a quick, obligatory smile, irked yet eager to get back to her point. “It’s okay. As I was saying, we have many students here at Stratton Grove who have gone above and beyond—”
“You’re missing the point, Mrs. Sands. I have no doubt Stratton Grove is an exemplary facility. I have no doubt you have many children who are fine testaments to this fact. But I’m not looking for the after story. I’m looking for the before and after.”
“The students I mentioned, the ones who’ve thrived—I can provide you with all of their ‘before’ information.”
Monica looked in her bag, pretending to dig for something. She spoke as she rummaged, as if Stephanie and her beloved Stratton Grove were a dime a dozen, that she was doing the place a favor. And there was truth to this—places like Stratton Grove were a dime a dozen. The irony that tickled Monica was that if and when the officious little bitch did eventually yield to Monica’s request, there would be no favor for the place. Just one big fucking mess.
“Perhaps I came to the wrong place,” Monica said, still going through her bag. She spotted her cigarettes, and the craving for one only heightened her need to watch the woman squirm.
“No. No, no—you came to the right place.” Stephanie was flashing her PR smile again, talking fast, like a salesman who doubted closure. “I just thought I’d make things easier for you. That’s all, that’s all.”
Monica finally left her bag and looked up. She smiled at Stephanie. “I appreciate that. But as I said, I want to chronicle the before and after. Firsthand.”
“Yes, yes—I see you’re very devoted to your craft.”
Monica nodded. “Thank you. Can I talk to those three students now?”
Stephanie sighed and nodded. “Yes. I feel compelled to remind you though, Miss Cole: you did ask for our three most challenging students.”
“I’m well aware.”
“I just don’t want you to be shocked by anything they have to say.”
Monica smiled. “I don’t shock easy.”
Chapter 9
The room was like a police interrogation room. It was the shape of a rectangle, with an observation mirror running the length of one of the two longest walls. An emergency exit outside took up one of the shorter walls. An entrance from the hallway took up the other.
Monica Kemp, aka Belinda Cole, journalist, sat in the middle of a large table. An empty chair sat directly across from her, waiting for its first “interview.”
On the table were three files, one for each of the three adolescent women Monica had requested. Stephanie Sands had commented on how thick the files were when she’d handed them to Monica, perhaps one last subtle attempt at changing her mind. All it did was delight Monica that much more.
The door to Monica’s right opened. An African-American teen in blue sweats was lead inside by a male member of staff. The teen was tall and heavy. She looked as if she’d never smiled in her life.
“This is Charlotte Wilkins,” the man said.
Monica waved a hand towards the empty chair. “Hi, Charlotte. Please take a seat.” Monica looked at the male member of staff with a smile that said you can go now. “Thank you,” she said.
The man frowned. “I was told to stay.”
Monica was at her sexiest with her natural dark hair and eyes, but she was still traffic-inducing in her red hair and green eyes getup that was Belinda Cole. She shot the man a smile from her arsenal and had him instantly. “We’ll be fine, thank you so much. You can wait outside or—” Monica glanced over her shoulder at the observation mirror “—I’m sure Mrs. Sands wouldn’t mind if you joined her in there.” Monica was certain she heard Stephanie Sands huff through the glass.
The man nodded, smiled at Monica, and closed the door quietly behind him.
Charlotte sat in the chair as if she owned it. Monica opened her file. “Huh…been a naughty girl haven’t you?” Monica said.
Charlotte frowned. “What?”
Monica pulled out a photo and slid it across the table. “What happened there?”
Charlotte glanced down at the photo. Glanced back up and looked away. “Bitch got what she deserved.”
“Yeah?” Monica took the photo back then read the accompanying file. “Says she’s still in a coma.” She pulled another photo from the file and slid it forward, a close-up of the victim’s face. “Can hardly tell if she’s a boy or a girl. Can hardly tell if she’s human. What did she do to deserve that?”
Charlotte refused to look at the photo of the battered girl. She only shrugged.
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember. Bitch got in my face.”
Monica put her index finger on a spot in the file. “The girl was five-two. A hundred and fifteen pounds. How big are you?”
Another shrug.
“I find it hard to believe a little girl like that would get in your face.”
“So? I don’t care what you believe.”
“Charlotte, if you could be any animal in the world, what would you be?”
The teen frowned again. “Huh?”
“Any animal in the world.”
“Shark. Like the one in Jaws.”
“Why a shark like the one in Jaws?”
“Cuz it fucked everybody up.”
Monica nodded and mentally scratched Charlotte off her list, though she suspected she’d be doing so the moment she’d met the girl.
A few more questions later (useless filler, but necessary to complete the act) and Charlotte Wilkins was excused, paving the way for the next student.
***
Jeanine Marconi was similar to Charlotte Wilkins in size, but unlike Charlotte, Jeanine was Caucasian. From a distance, Jeanine Marconi might be pegged as a boy—her height and bulk owning up to some of that misconception, but the clear culprit lay with her shaved head.
Monica took a photo from Jeanine’s file and slid it across the table. It was a close-up photo of a teenager’s skull, a softball-sized spot shaved into the scalp so stitching could be performed. The injury was so severe that metal staples were needed to close the wound. It looked as if a six-inch zipper had been sewn into the victim’s skull.
“What happened there?” Monica asked.
Jeanine Marconi glanced at the photo then looked away.
“Jeanine?”
“She made fun of my hair.”
Monica said, “I like your hair.”
“I hate it. They won’t let me have a Mohawk.”
Monica scanned Jeanine’s file. “Yeah—says you keep trying to grow one, and they keep making you shave it. Why do you want a Mohawk?”
“Because I’m Native American.”
“With a name like Marconi?”
Jeanine leaned back hard in the metal chair. “Fuck you, bitch. You don’t know me.”
Monica calmly read the girl’s file aloud. “Father is James Marconi; mother Anna Marconi…maiden name Pellino? Come on, kiddo, you probably shit lasagna.”
Jeanine Marconi stood abruptly, the me
tal chair tipping over. The door opened and the male staff member and Stephanie Sands rushed inside. The man attended to calming Jeanine, while Stephanie Sands asked to speak with Monica in the hallway.
“Miss Cole,” Stephanie Sands began, “I’m beginning to find your questions a bit unorthodox.”
“You’re not a journalist.”
“No, no I’m not. But profanity? It seemed as if you were deliberately trying to enrage Jeanine.”
“I was.”
Stephanie gave an incredulous snort. “May I ask why?”
“Anger clouds judgment. They have the home-field advantage here; they’re comfortable and confident. I’d like to remove that advantage.”
“Why on Earth would you want to do that?”
“I’m not interested in the bravado of these girls, Mrs. Sands—who they pretend to be.”
“You talk more like a therapist than a journalist.”
“I watch Criminal Minds.”
Stephanie frowned.
Monica smiled. “That was a joke, Mrs. Sands. I have extensive training in behavioral health.”
Stephanie Sands took a deep breath. “My goodness, Miss Cole. This really is so unorthodox. You could have been hurt just now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well I think that’s all you’re going to get out of Jeanine today.”
“That’s fine,” Monica said. “I’m much more interested in meeting the last of the three you selected. Her file looked intriguing.”
Stephanie Sands said, “Kelly Blaine,” and then held her breath.
Chapter 10
Stephanie Sands did not brief Monica about Kelly Blaine. The male member of staff Monica had met earlier was given that honor. Stephanie Sands claimed she had a prior engagement, would not be able to observe the final interview, but would meet up with Monica when it was over and escort her to her car. Monica thought Stephanie Sands’ fear reeked more than her gaudy perfume.
The male member of staff took the chair across from Monica. Kelly Blaine had yet to be introduced.
“I’m Kevin Lane by the way,” the man said, extending his hand. Monica shook it.
“Belinda Cole.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Kevin Lane had a rugged handsomeness about him. Tall and fit. A faint goatee. He wore jeans and a white golf shirt with the school’s emblem over the heart. His muscular arms bulged in the short sleeves.
In another life, Monica might have found him attractive. She was capable of seeing that, capable of recognizing beauty in men. A penis, however, was never enough for her. It proved a decent enough conduit, but when things got going, and her urges got the best of her, the end result was usually the same: an exquisite orgasm for Monica, death for the poor guy beneath her. Often, she would let them stay inside her after they expired, their death erection—a common occurrence in men who’d just met their maker, she’d found—sometimes lasting long enough for Monica to get herself off a second time. Sometimes, those second rides were even better.
“So,” Kevin Lane began, “it looks like I’ve got the honors.”
“Looks like it. Please don’t tell me you’re going to attempt to talk me out of interviewing this little girl.”
“I’m not, no. But there are some things you should know about this ‘little girl.’”
Monica held up Kelly Blaine’s file. “Anything I can’t find in here?”
“Yes and no. You’ll find pictures in there, victims. You’ll find disciplinary reports.”
“But?”
“You won’t find anything concrete.”
Monica said, “I’m not following.”
“The things she’s done—we’ve never found any definitive proof against her, only circumstantial.”
“And yet you seem certain she’s accountable for—” Monica held up the file again.
“Some of the staff don’t. They’re the type who see the good in every child. The type who have an astrology chart instead of a calendar. Energy and chakras and cosmic moon beams and shit. Why they’re allowed to work here I’ll never know.”
“Are you saying you don’t see the good in every child?”
“I see the potential in every child.”
“And Kelly Blaine’s potential?”
“Consider an addict. In order for an addict to quit, they have to want to quit. Deep down, I believe all these kids, despite their tough exterior, want a better life, want to grow to be a success. Want to quit.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “Kelly Blaine will never quit. She likes being an addict too much.”
“You were saying about circumstantial evidence only.”
“Kelly arrived here five years ago. She was eleven. She’s a tiny thing now, but when she first arrived she was like a minnow. Do I need to do this place was the tank with sharks analogy?”
Monica smiled. “You just did.”
Kevin smiled back. “So in comes this little girl from the suburbs. I can remember approaching her parents, trying in the most subtle way possible to ask: What the hell are you thinking?”
“What were the parents like?”
“Wealthy suburbanites. Nice enough people.”
“And what did they tell you?”
The corner of Kevin’s mouth tightened in contempt for it all. “They told me what would prove to be the label Kelly would wear to this day. Bad luck follows her around.”
Monica started leafing through Kelly Blaine’s file. “Dead cat…dead dog…fires…”
“All of the wonderful hallmarks of a psychopath.”
“Assuming she’s responsible. Suburban parents like to throw money at the problem, let someone else deal with their kid. Teachers and nannies are often the real parents. Is it possible that the Blaines jumped the gun here?”
“It’s possible.” Kevin took the file from Monica, flipped through a few pages, found what he wanted, and handed it all back to her, important page on top, photos accompanying it. Monica looked down at the file.
“Uh oh…”
“Yeah,” he said.
“She’s partial to fires.”
“Police found a charred packet of cigarettes among the remains. They eventually surmised that the boy had gone up into his tree house to try smoking.”
“Could they account for Kelly’s whereabouts?”
“She was at a friends’. Her friend said they were together the whole time. She specifically remembered watching TV with Kelly at three p.m. Time of death for Kyle Blaine was figured between three and four.”
“But the parents suspected her. The cat, the dog, the previous fires. I’m guessing the death of their son forced their hand, so to speak.”
Kevin nodded.
“Did she ever cop to it?”
Kevin shook his head. “Never copped to anything. Ever. And God damn if she doesn’t always have an alibi. I see it though. Say what you want about me, but I see it. That little glimmer in her eye. The faintest of smirks. I God damn see it.”
Monica bit back her own smirk, was pleased she was wearing green contacts to shield her own glimmer. All the same, she dropped her head into the file again, ran a hand through her fake red hair.
“She’s been busy since she got here,” she said.
Kevin nodded. “Like I said, when she first arrived, you might as well have stamped victim on her back. And she had it rough for the first few weeks—a black eye here, a bloody nose there.”
“What happened after that?”
“It all stopped.”
“Just like that? No incidents?”
“Not at first. I suspected she was dealing. Her parents have money, and I’d figured she’d somehow found a way to get drugs into the ranch. Buying her safety if you will.”
“No?”
“Nope. We started random drug tests. Found traces of pot in some kids, but it was negligible.”
“So then why did it all stop?”
Kevin pointed to a place on
the file. Monica read: “Jenny Holt, 17, was found…impaled?”
“She was one of our more troublesome kids. Was always trying to make a run for it. She gave Kelly hell when Kelly first arrived. Actually stabbed Kelly in the back with a pointed stick during group.”
“So you figured an eye for an eye?”
“Maybe. Jenny was found in a hole, far off school grounds. The hole was at least four feet deep and wide. We counted six makeshift spears sticking out of the ground at the bottom of the hole. Jenny impaled herself on three of them.”
“A hunter’s trap?”
“That would be the most likely assumption.”
“Sounds very likely. I can’t see an eleven year old child digging a four-by-four hole, making spears, and then fastening them into the earth in the hopes that another girl may drop in one day.”
Kevin frowned a little after the pun. Monica’s beauty did not guarantee immunity to what most considered poor taste.
“Sorry, bad choice of words.”
Kevin nodded, smiled, and continued. “I couldn’t see it either—an eleven year old digging the hole, setting the trap—but it was a hell of a freaky coincidence. And when word got back to the kids—it always does—people started to suspect.”
“But it didn’t stop after that,” Monica said. “You said the bullying stopped after Jenny Holt…” She slid the file back to Kevin, and tapped her find with her index finger. “But it didn’t.”
Kevin glanced down at Monica’s finger for only a second, as if her find upset him. “It stopped for a while. All of the students who were attending Stratton Grove at the time steered clear of Kelly.” Kevin paused, shook his head. “You know, it’s funny—as much as it pains me to say, most of these kids perform several grades below what’s expected of them. And it’s not out of laziness or defiance. They just don’t have the tools; they were never taught them. They’ve been playing catch up their whole lives. But when it comes to intuition? Avoiding danger? They’ve all got PHD’s. Even after that one incident with Jenny Holt, they knew something was off.”
Bad Games: Hellbent - A Dark Psychological Thriller (Bad Games) Page 4