After the recessional, a number of masters regretted how many of the students left the service walking out, numbly, in shock.
FOWLER LEANED ON the wrought-iron railing of the stairs near the entrance to the chapel. He could get a good look at the faculty members coming through the tall wooden doors, between the Doric columns, down the long set of steps.
Dr. Clarence was walking alone. Nick Fowler approached him.
“Dr. Clarence?”
Taken off guard, the doctor drew back, carefully looking the tall blond man over. “Yes?”
“I’m Lieutenant Fowler,” he said, flipping his ID open.
The man paused, still staring. “Let me see that,” Dr. Clarence said, reaching for the leather folder. Fowler opened it again, without releasing it. “All right,” Dr. Clarence said finally. “One can’t be too careful these days.”
“May I speak to you for a moment, Doctor?”
“I thought we were speaking,” the doctor said with a trace of innuendo. Fowler frowned. The two men eyed one another, turning up the sidewalk.
“We’re trying to learn as much as we can about the students living on the floor where the crime took place.”
“I see.”
“I understand you’re seeing a student named Cary Ballard.”
“That’s correct. I saw him today.”
“Does he have a particular problem?”
“I’ve only been seeing him for a month.”
“Well, Doctor, what I’d like to know is—can you briefly state what you think may be bothering him?”
“Not briefly.”
Fowler looked over at the thick pink frames. “Well,” he said, “take as long as you like.”
The doctor’s neatly cropped head had not moved but was facing forward as if there were a wall between them. Another pause. “Have you ever been in therapy, Lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Not briefly.”
Fowler thought he actually saw a faint smile flicker across Dr. Clarence’s features. The man just kept looking forward as he walked. He lit a cigarette with a gold monogrammed lighter; Fowler noticed how the butane flame was adjusted to exactly the right height. “His sessions are confidential, you realize.”
“Can you give me a general overview, then, Doctor?”
After a pause, Clarence said finally, “He doesn’t seem to be suicidal. He is depressed, however. His tests reveal a high level of paranoia.”
“How can you tell?”
“His Wechsler results, where he was hypervigilant in math, particularly the matching exercises, and the digit symbol sections—reflected part of his anxiety. His Rorschach tests also revealed an overattention to detail, an obsessive nature. I could go on and on about his TAT cards, but I will leave it at . . . a preoccupation with sex.”
“Sounds like a normal fourteen-year-old.”
Dr. Clarence stopped in his tracks. “Lieutenant, for your information, he also does something that healthy children never do. He hallucinates.”
“Can you tell me what he sees?”
“As I told you, that’s confidential.”
“If what he might see, or not see, has any bearing on the case, I’ll find out anyway when I have you subpoenaed, so why don’t you—”
“I can wait.”
“Is there anything else, anything unusual—anything I might—”
“That’s enough, I should think.”
Fowler stopped in the middle of the sidewalk under a giant maple. “Doctor, excuse me for pressing you, but we think the Crawford boy may have been killed right outside Cary Ballard’s room. Is there any condition, any occurrence that he has told you about—when he might not remember things?”
“No.”
“Then how do you explain your statement in Cary’s file at the infirmary, which says—”
“If you don’t mind.” Dr. Clarence turned to face him, planting his feet. “I think I’ve answered enough questions.”
Fowler was frustrated. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re withholding information that is valuable to this case.”
Dr. Clarence swallowed to contain his emotion. His eyes became impermeable. “Lieutenant, someone should teach you some manners.” He pivoted on his heel and disappeared into the evening shadows.
FROM HIS WINDOW in the infirmary, Ballard had witnessed the conversation between the two men. They were out of earshot, strolling along the sidewalk by the chapel.
His mind worked feverishly. He imagined the leaves in the green maples above their heads, full of sensitive surveillance equipment, the stems carrying wires, the leaves installed with a unique fabric of microphones that turned with the wind to record any nuance in the human voice.
There were light sensors, he was sure, computer screens concealed beneath the bark that registered any change in blood pressure between the two men, any emotional change that might reveal to the boy from a distance what they were saying.
Ballard knew his imaginings were defensive. He knew the longer he kept fantasizing, the longer he could keep the fear out. Still a terror seemed to pry open his thoughts as he thought of heels striking the door enough times to wear off the paint. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming about last night at four A.M.
IN HIS OFFICE in Ardsley, Fowler was just finishing his preliminary report. The end of his first day, and all he had was a few leads. He was going blank. He threw down his pencil.
He closed his eyes.
His mind was already racing back, searching every memory like a computer, trying to find out what was stirring deep inside him. The last image in the back of his mind died on a blank screen. The face he had seen before reappeared—it was his father—surrounded by white; more police forms? No, white sheets. The face leaned forward . . . to say something, and . . .
Nick opened his eyes, shook his head. He sipped some cold coffee, started pacing. He had to concentrate now. He picked up the report to review outstanding questions, facts.
He called the coroner once more. A last-minute report from the lab yielded an interesting discovery: On Crawford’s pajamas, the transfer of fibers, presumably from the killer’s clothes, had the thickness, the type of weave, and the dye content to reveal that the killer was wearing the type of suede often used on the lapels of vintage gowns and tuxedos.
This gave credence to Fowler’s theory. The shape of the bloodstains, splashes that had struck the floor from an elevation of fifty-three inches—the exact height of Crawford’s neck—all were in the same oblique patterns that showed the victim had been moving continually.
Fowler sat writing his report between an open encyclopedia and a forensic text. He was surprised that the small library in town had so many reference books on ballroom dances. He determined from the oblong trail of stains and heel smears that the killer—though allowing the victim to appear to lead—was doing the American Waltz. In fact he or she was doing a basic box step, where the quarter turn on the accentuated beat—from music in the killer’s head, no doubt—created the spirals of blood.
He wrote a personal note to Captain Weathers asking him to at least give this theory a try. He provided pictures of the stains from above, matched with foot positions of the waltz from The Encyclopedia of Ballroom Dancing.
He mentioned the discovery of the place of death, by hanging, out in the hallway, but left Cary Ballard’s name out; he didn’t know why yet—just a hunch. He checked and rechecked the report, then signed it.
There was a sudden scraping sound out on the fire escape. He glanced out the window, but didn’t see anything. He was in a hurry, so didn’t bother to open the window.
HE STEPPED OUT into the night air. As he turned the corner toward the squad car, he saw two boys kick gravel with their shoes, trying to get away from the car.
“Hey!” he yelled after them, but they bolted out of the light down into the trees by the power plant. Fowle
r looked down at the old brick smokestack in the darkness.
He noticed one of his tires was low. Kids had been letting the air out. He half smiled. He wondered how Dr. Clarence would classify these boys. Hardened criminals, no doubt.
He drove down the hill, across the highway, and into the parking lot of the station house. He waved the file at the booking sergeant, who nodded, and put the report on the captain’s desk himself.
Then he decided to go out for a late dinner.
The dispatcher, Judy Bayard, was just coming out of the ladies’ room when Fowler breezed out the front door. She saw the venetian blind on the door swinging back and forth as she peered through the slats. She turned to the booking sergeant.
“What’d he come in for, free coffee?”
The sergeant’s feet were up on the counter. He peered around the side of his shoes, his attention on a television set in the background. “Naw, he brought somethin’ in.”
“What?”
“Somethin for the Cap. Put it on his desk.”
Judy cocked her head. “Really?”
11
SILENT. EDGE OF the roof. Crawl around a chimney . . . over the edge of the wall, cinders under gloves, shoes on metal stairs. Down. Kneel. See into the fourth-floor window. The blond hair slumped forward, writing something. There he is. Case work.
Eyes and mind intent. Threw down your pen, why? Something keeps you away from the others. What is it?
Want to catch me, don’t you? Before I kill you, I’ll tell you who I am, with thoughts. Just read the mind. Ready? Now, concentrate.
Court took me away from my parents—beat me so much. See it in your mind, Lieutenant. My father tied me to trees, whipped me while my mother screamed and threw herself at his feet. But she didn’t stop him, did she?
The drums inside again, beginning to pound in the distance. A vein throbbing, tapping—bumb—bumb. Touch it—oh, shoe off the step—losing my balance—a ringing sound, echo down the fire escape.
You move toward the window, stare through the glass, seeing nothing. I jump over the wall. Back on the roof, hyperventilating. Terrible cadences in my head. Can you hear? Can’t stop them . . . that’s why I stayed in my room and painted with bright colors—streaks on the walls—craving my parents’ blood.
Wait. Lights out. Your shadow in the stairwell. Down more flights. Listen. Neighbors reported the screams . . . Lieutenant, I’m following you . . . down the fire escape . . . thoughts searing me . . . years in an orphanage . . . feet on metal stairs, racing to keep up . . . they threatened me with knives. I’m catching you now. Down. Terra firma.
Into your car, start to drive under the arch. I’m right behind you. Now running . . . thirty feet behind the car . . . your brake lights . . . see my parents’ fins, tiny taillights over a cliff—meteors exploding . . . bastards killed in a car crash . . . never a chance to say thank you, fuck you. Listening, Lieutenant? The meter inside me pulsing now, veins beating again . . . accentuated . . . coming closer, taking me. Grandparents took me out of there and gave me a home, a life, an education. End of story. The cadence inside screaming now. I seeeee yoooou.
My grandparents loved me. That’s not why I killed them. I corrected them for giving birth to monsters.
12
IN THE DINER, two blocks down from the state police station, a woman was paying for her coffee and rice pudding at the register as Nick Fowler strode in, shimmied onto a seat at the counter, and ordered some food.
She asked the cashier who the man was and got a shrug. She brushed some change into her free hand and walked outside.
Through the glass she stared at the wide back of the man as he leaned against the counter. A strange sensation took hold of her inside. She liked the feeling, but it scared her.
She felt the hoods of several cars. When she found the warm one, she looked through the windshield at the small red flasher on the dash. On the front seat was a cap that said “Buffalo Bills.” It didn’t take long for her to figure out this guy was the rookie lieutenant from upstate everybody was heated up about.
In the reflection of the car window, she brushed out her long red hair. Glancing over, she applied a shade of dark pink in the side-view mirror, then pressed her lips over a tissue. She picked a cinder out of the corner of a blue eye with her fingernail, then standing up, pulled her gray-check suit down to her knee, only to fluff it back up again. She walked across the gravel and opened the door to the diner.
As she brushed past the register again, the cashier’s eyebrows went up, but not very far—something about the mournful, imitation country and western Muzak coming from the speaker dulled her surprise at most things.
When the woman’s heels clacked up behind Nick Fowler, he was just pushing his soup bowl away. She leaned over the red stool cushion beside him and placed her palm on the counter.
Fowler looked down at her hand. He could see her legs too. As his eyes climbed the gray business suit curving up to the white ruffle under the dark pink mouth, he blinked.
“Hey,” he mumbled.
“Hello,” she said quietly. “You aren’t by any chance the cop from upstate everybody’s talking about, are you?”
Fowler’s eyes were glued to her face. She was a very beautiful woman. “Is everybody talking about it?”
“Like a public service announcement.”
He smiled. “Have we met?”
“I think I would have remembered.”
He smiled again, offering a hand. “Nick Fowler.”
“Maureen McCauley,” she said, shaking his hand.
Nick held on to her hand. “Would you join me?”
She released her hand awkwardly. “Sure, Lieutenant.” She sat down on the stool.
“So, Maureen,” he said, glancing over at her. “Who’s telling you about me?”
“Ravenstown’s finest.”
The waitress dropped his platter with a steak on it down on the Formica. “Sour cream for the potato?” She flicked the pages of her order pad, found his check, tore it off, and slapped it on the counter.
Nick lifted the platter up and handed it back to the waitress. Her eyes looked down as if it was still alive.
“Could you keep this warm for me, please? I’d like to talk with this lady for just a minute.”
“Allllriiight,” the waitress said. Hoisting the platter. “Anything else for you, honey?”
“No thank you,” Maureen said.
The waitress wheeled through the swinging doors.
Maureen swiveled on the stool. “That was nice of you. I’d like to talk to you too.”
“Anything to please our women in the press.”
She stared at him, slightly dumbfounded. “How did you know?”
Fowler shrugged. “You don’t look like you work for the sheriff’s department; too much quality for that. There isn’t any industry around here. You could teach or work at a hotel or a travel agency, I suppose, except there’s something vaguely literary about you, but you’re too well dressed to be a struggling writer. Besides, who else would know about a flap at the department but a reporter?”
“You’re good.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“Who told you about me?”
Maureen unrolled her neck from her shoulders like a cat stretching. “I have my sources.”
“I’m just doing my job, Maureen. I never meant to step on anybody’s toes.”
“You can’t blame them. The only thing to happen around here, now and then, is when somebody gets run over. Suddenly there’s a big murder case, and they turn their noses up at the local guys and call you in. Better watch your back.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He was staring. “So, who’s upset?”
“Look around.”
“You know, this is a very tricky case. Somebody should explain that to the men.”
“Maybe I could do it.”
“I meant the captain,” he said. “I’m up against a
frightening individual, after all.”
Her eyes lit up. “Tell me.”
Nick noted the eyes, admired the face. There was something yearning there, shining back at him with anticipation. “I wish I could,” he mumbled.
“Come on.” She leaned over playfully, nudging his shoulder. Nick caught a whiff of her hair. The smell was so sweet it actually startled him. He turned and looked at her again. He saw something in her expression that touched him, had a sudden presentiment that he had known her before. Couldn’t help feeling, though, it was too close, too fast.
She realized he was studying her now, and smiled back. “Well?”
He was on the ropes. “Can’t reveal my sources.”
Maureen nodded slowly. “I don’t blame you. My readers would sure like to know though.”
“You with the Tribune?”
“Yeah, it’s a rag, but when they made me feature editor, I knew my stay in this town would be longer than . . . well . . .” She adjusted herself on the stool. “Can I level with you?”
“Please.”
“I’m stuck here . . . I mean, I need something to sink my teeth into. Let me help you with this case, Nick.”
Fowler’s brow was clouding over. “This isn’t feature stuff. I’m getting inside the mind of a psychopath. It’s dangerous, not to mention grim going; just legwork, details, layers of tests, evidence.”
“I love details; in fact, I’m compulsive.”
“You don’t know what I mean.” A little ruefully. “Look, just stick to . . . whatever it is you do.”
Maureen’s ruffle began to stand up. “Wait. You think all I do are garden parties?”
“No way, I just meant—”
A flash of anger across her brow. “I can’t handle it—because I’m a woman?”
“Never said that either.”
“Then why don’t you give me a nibble?”
Nick tried grinning at her. “Where?”
“On the front page.” Maureen didn’t blush.
Kiss Them Goodbye Page 6