The wombats were the school janitors and cleaning ladies, usually old arthritic men and bearded women, some nearly illiterate, most were—at least according to the students—feebleminded.
They were not, but their labors could not remove the stain of ridicule, as the boys laughed at their humped and withered bodies, their sweaty armpits, their wild, haggard, frightened faces. They had small, dingy closets in each building, where—as they wrung out washrags and dumped water into cast-iron sinks—their gray backs protruded into the hallways.
As Ballard stood up, trying to get his bearings, Mabel looked over at him; for an instant he imagined she was a savage. As if by some unwritten law, both he and the woman turned away from each other.
Ballard walked toward Ardsley and saw another wombat, Stanley, meander under the stone arch, swaying side to side, bowlegged as a cowboy. The lines in his old face traveled from his forehead down his cheek, around his chin and up the other side. His skin was a pale yellow. Stanley spent most of his time in the power plant, where he tended the boilers. He watched the oil heaters and made sure the temperature gauges held true. He usually had a grimy cloth dangling from the back pocket of his khaki trousers. He was known to show up during morning break under Madison Hall, where the cleaning ladies drank coffee. That’s probably where he had just been.
Ballard’s stomach began to churn as he entered Ardsley Hall. He turned abruptly on the stairs once and jumped. There it was again, that dread, that fear.
STANLEY WAS CLEANING gauges when the little cop, Marty, came shuffling down the long hallway into the boiler room. Marty took off his hat and had to duck his kinky hair underneath the pipes that were wrapped with insulation.
“You Stanley?”
Stanley was startled, but smiled immediately, sending a stream of spit through the gap in his front teeth as he talked. “Yes, I am. I’m Stanley, keeper of the keys, lord of the manor.”
“That so.”
“What can I do you for?”
“Well,” said Marty, “all I want to know is who emptied the garbage on fourth floor of Ardsley Hall last night. Somebody said you would know.”
“I know all.”
“Okay, who?”
“Lydia. Lively Lydia, lithe Lydia, Lydia of Ravenstown, that old, once divine, dark-haired beauty of Greek parentage, who is now my girl.”
“What time does Lydia do her thing?”
“Four-thirty.”
“P.M.?”
“Of course, otherwise how could she get her beauty sleep?”
“Look—could you tell me where this goddess is right now?”
“In the basement,” Stanley said.
6
IN THE CANTEEN, Mr. Toby was still shaking from his interview with Lieutenant Fowler. He sprinkled salt and pepper on an egg sandwich at the counter, squeezed some catsup on the paper plate, and turned around to look for a chair. There was a hushed buzzing in the room. Most of the faculty members who were not teaching during third period were there, sitting in small groups, shaking their heads and talking about the murder.
Toby saw Mr. Allington sitting at a table with Dr. Nathan Clarence, the school psychologist. They were both sitting in silence staring out the windows. Toby pulled a chair out at their table.
“Hello Elliot . . . Nathan.”
Allington looked up. “Hi, Bill . . . aren’t you the one who found the body?”
“Schwerin did actually,” Toby said, sitting down. “He came and got me. Poor kid was in a state.” He took a wary bite out of his sandwich. “That lieutenant certainly is thorough.”
“Thank God for that,” Allington said.
“What did the headmaster say?”
Allington ran a palm over his gray wiry hair. “He went calm almost immediately, like the eye of a hurricane.” Dr. Clarence snickered, uncrossing his legs, gazing at Toby.
“What’s he going to do anyway?”
“Well, his decision not to close the school for a few days has infuriated almost everyone.”
Mr. Toby was chewing ravenously. “Of course, he should have. The man is . . .” He waved his hand absently.
“Out of touch,” Dr. Clarence offered.
Allington nodded. “Well, he thought if the routine were broken, students might drop out, but actually it’s money—every headmaster’s undoing.”
The three men fell into a silence as Toby gulped his sandwich, staring straight ahead. Dr. Clarence lit a cigarette and glanced around the room.
“Well, what do you think?” Mr. Toby had wiped his mouth with a napkin and was looking at Allington.
“About what?”
“Who do you think . . . I mean . . . who could have done it?”
Allington sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “I’d hate to think it was one of the students.” He stood up. “Sorry, I have to get back.”
Dr. Clarence sat up and stretched. “Why do you say a student?”
Allington reached down for his cup and drained his coffee. A worried expression crossed his features. “Because . . . think how awful it would be if it were a teacher.”
The two men at the table seemed to pall. They stood up so they were at eye level with the assistant headmaster, traded meaningful looks, and stared around the room at the other faculty members.
Mr. Toby rubbed his neck. “We’re all shuffling around, on edge, looking over our shoulders. It’s . . . crazy.”
“It is,” said Clarence.
Allington sighed, patted Toby on the shoulder, and walked out of the canteen. Toby and Clarence blinked at each other, turned away, and looked out the window.
ON THE BACK stairs, Ballard sat down between the second and third floors where he thought he had seen that shadow. Now the place felt empty. Two prefects, the upperclassmen who monitor each floor, had to step over him; they shot him nasty looks. He overheard one say that the police technicians were still studying the scene of the crime. Cary finally started up the stairs. As he neared the fourth-floor landing, he prayed the fear would go away. He remembered he was supposed to look for his tie on the stairs. He hadn’t seen it.
When he reached his floor, he saw the yellow police line bordering the area where the body had been discovered. The light from the windows revealed a lot of men, but Ballard noticed the figure of one man on his hands and knees; he seemed to be crawling up one of the walls. Ballard approached the yellow tape out of curiosity. He looked at the man, who now was beginning to stand, inspecting the wall.
Nick Fowler heard the old floorboards creak in the hallway. It made him think of something. He turned and saw the boy staring at him.
“You live on this hall?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear anything last night, any struggle—sounds of any kind?”
The boy raised his shoulders silently, opened his palms, and shook his head. The shake seemed to vibrate down the boy’s legs. “No,” he said almost inaudibly.
A technician turned his head, then went back to work.
Fowler lifted the tape and ducked under it. He looked down at Ballard as the scuff of his own shoes echoed in the cavernous hallway. The boy was shivering.
“Don’t be afraid. This happens sometimes.”
Ballard blinked. “Does it?”
“What’s your name?”
“Cary Ballard . . . in four-oh-one, right here.” He pointed at his door.
“Did young Crawford have any enemies among the boys that you know of? Anybody threatening him?”
Cary started to shiver again. “. . . No.”
“Was he out to get anybody who might have wanted to get him back?”
“I don’t think so.” Ballard realized his palms were lined with sweat.
“What’s the matter? You seem . . . upset.”
Ballard put his hands in his pockets. “. . . Do you know who did it yet?” he said.
Fowler itched his nose. “Would I be standing here with this serious look on my face if I did?” He smiled, then looking down at the boy’s w
hite shirt, his expression changed. “Did you forget your tie?”
“I lost it.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. On the stairs, I thought, but . . .”
“What color was it?”
“Blue with gold crests . . . the school tie . . . we all get them.”
Nick Fowler studied the boy’s face. “Cary, I’m going to need to take a statement from you. Don’t worry, it’s just routine. Do you have any time this afternoon?”
“Uh—”
“Two?”
“No, I’ve—”
“Got a class?”
“An appointment.”
Nick smiled in spite of himself. “I hope you can fit me in—what kind of appointment?”
“Therapy.”
“Oh,” he said. “What about after that? Say, three?”
“Okay.”
Fowler patted him on the shoulder. “Just come back up. I’ll be taking statements from everyone on the floor. Don’t sweat it.”
“See you then,” Ballard said quietly. He slumped only a few feet to his door, the same planks squeaking under his shoes.
Fowler watched him intently. Ballard unlocked his door and disappeared.
Fowler stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He walked back to the bloodstains.
IN HIS ROOM, Cary stared down at the green blotter on his desk. The color relaxed him. He could collect himself, even try to figure out what was happening to him. He thought back to when the headmaster, Dr. Hickey, had approached him the second day of school.
It was a month earlier, as he was changing classes. Ballard heard someone call his name as he was walking under the stone arch. Dr. Brandon Hickey had come walking briskly up to him. He always wore a tweed check blazer, and the thin strands of hair pulled across his bare sunburned head made him seem like a specimen from a museum, with a mustache.
“Could I speak to you for a moment?” he intoned.
Ballard looked up at him. Dr. Hickey smiled down at him as if looking into a microscope.
“What is it, sir?” Ballard said.
Dr. Hickey lifted his flat nose in the air. “Let’s take a walk.” He put his hands in his blazer pockets, starting out from under the shadow of the arch toward the athletic fields.
“I have Latin out at language arts, sir.”
“Mr. Curamus?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll write you an excuse. This is important.”
As they strode in silence past the boiler plant and the infirmary, past the chapel, the gymnasium, toward the football field, Ballard watched the headmaster’s profile. He was unusually serious today. The boy studied the way the man’s blunt nose seemed imbedded in his brow, how the corners of his eyes wrinkled when he was about to speak.
“How are you . . . feeling?” he began. “I mean, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
As they crossed the cinder track, the white uprights on the football field seemed to sprout out of the grass. Dr. Hickey stopped. “Tell me, how did you feel when you were accepted here at Ravenhill?”
Ballard seemed confused standing there in the morning light, trying to remember. “I—I was very excited, sir.”
“Did you know that my assistant, Mr. Allington, insisted that you should be accepted here as an experiment?”
“An experiment, sir?”
“Well, given your recent suspension from Fieldcrest Academy, your problematic history, Elliot felt we should reach out and give students like yourself a second chance. It was entirely his decision. What bothered me was the scholarship . . . but that’s another matter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You see, the school psychologist, Dr. Clarence, felt very strongly from your tests that—due to your somewhat difficult childhood, your history of classroom outbursts—you might, well, the doctor felt you might not respond well to this environment.”
“Respond?”
“Don’t take this too hard,” Dr. Hickey said. “It’s part of what happens with evaluations. Dr. Clarence can tell you more about the tests. The point is, a number of people on the admissions committee also registered some doubt that Ravenhill was the right place for you. You were, after all, dismissed from your last school for fighting, wasn’t it?”
Ballard felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “Why are you telling me this now, sir?”
“We’ve all been troubled, Ballard. Given the early loss of your father, and your mother’s situation, we felt you needed a chance. So, we twisted a few arms.”
“I don’t like feeling beholden to—”
“Don’t be silly, you’re not.”
Dr. Hickey looked out across the end zone to the trees in the distance. They formed a tight border along the edge of the practice field; they seemed to contain his racing thoughts. “I’d like you to see Dr. Clarence, Ballard. I’m sure you wouldn’t hurt anyone. In fact, I know you wouldn’t, but I—”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I didn’t say that. I want to make sure you’re all right. Seeing the doctor is only a precaution. None of the students have to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Hickey reached his bony hand down, as if asking to be forgiven. Ballard shook it without looking at him.
On the green blotter the whole scene flared up before him. There in his room, Cary saw the seeds of fear. He saw them all trying to tear something out of him—some knowledge—now a small hell inside his head.
7
AT 1:15, INSTEAD of a lunch break, Nick Fowler drove down the hill into town to the Edwin R. Koenig Funeral Home. The elderly woman at the front desk said the autopsy was in progress and went back to her magazine. Vogue. Fowler cleared his throat.
“Studying for the bar exam?”
The woman looked up, squinting at him. “Just what can I do for you, sir?” she said coldly.
“I’d like to speak to the medical examiner for just a moment.”
The woman leaned forward, leveling her jaw at him. “As I just said, sir—”
Fowler flashed his identification.
She paused, stood up quite imperiously, marked her place, and marched down the hall. Fowler noticed the all too familiar smells even out in the lobby. A moment later he heard the woman’s high heels clicking along the linoleum tiles. It was his turn to look up.
“The medical examiner will see you,” she said, “but only for a few minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
Inside the room, Dr. Koenig turned around from the white Formica counter where his instruments lay. As he washed his hands in a small basin in the counter, he nodded at Fowler. He was a tall man, with a gray receded hairline, a reddish complexion. His body was festooned in a long white coat. Dr. Koenig was not only the county coroner, he owned the largest funeral home in Ravenstown.
On a long table, a sheet covered the body. In the corner, one of the detectives from the police team, Bill Rodney, looked apprehensive. Fowler could see he was filling out a report.
Koenig reached his hand out.
“Lieutenant Fowler. I understand you’re in charge of the investigation.”
“That’s correct.” They shook hands.
“You want a report?”
“As much as you’ve got so far.”
Pulling on a fresh pair of elastic gloves, Koenig turned toward the body. “Normally the neck is the no-man’s-land of the autopsy.” He pulled the sheet back. The first thing Fowler noticed were the boy’s eyelashes, he didn’t know why. Koenig’s white hands hovered above Crawford’s blue neck. “Well, here is a large incised wound, which severed the larynx. This was done with a sharp instrument, perhaps a stiletto or a simple deboning knife, or a fillet knife found in most kitchens.”
“Right.”
“There were some defensive wounds, scrapes along the posterior aspect of the left forearm, and on the palmar surfaces of the fingers of the right hand.”
“He put up a fight.”
> “Yes. But there is where we leave solid ground, Lieutenant.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you look closely, there are visible cutaneous injuries to the area, underneath the knife wound. Notice the inclined furrow along the sides of the neck, which duplicate the pattern of either a small rope or a cord of some kind.”
“He was hanged?”
“Further testing will be needed to verify this, but . . . cause of death, as far as I can see, was cerebral ischemia, brought on by compression of the vasculature here”—he pointed to the furrow—“thus halting the venous return from the head—here you can see engorgement above the level of where the ligature was tied.” He lifted Crawford’s eyelids. “And here, you see the bulging of the conjunctivae. He was hanged.”
“Then had his throat cut?”
“Yes, killed twice, it seems.”
Fowler absorbed this. “Okay.”
“Toxicology may reveal any number of causes. The deep cut could have the effect of hiding the real cause of death. For instance”—he pointed above and below the large incised wound—“notice the smaller cuts.”
“Made when he was still alive?”
Koenig paused. “Perhaps.” He lifted an arm up and, straining a little against the rigor mortis that had set in, traced red blotches around each wrist. “These abrasions almost certainly point to the victim being bound.”
“Rope burns?”
“More likely, a thin gauge of cord.”
“Any semen, Dr. Koenig?”
“No. Acid phosphatase reveals no semen at this point, but on the genitalia we found traces of cervical secretions.”
Fowler looked up at him. “A woman?”
“That’s correct.”
“Anything else?”
“A rectal swab did not reveal penetration . . .” Koenig’s thin white fingers suddenly probed Crawford’s mouth. Fowler thought the boy’s lips would break like the petals of a pressed rose. His mind began to drift, but Koenig’s voice made an incision in his thoughts. “A hint of lipstick left in the corner of the mouth, the rest removed presumably by alcohol—evaporated by now; we’re checking for color and composition of the lipstick. Swabs of the face and neck exhibited an alkaline pH; traces of mucus and the enzyme amylase point to intense salivary activity.”
Kiss Them Goodbye Page 3