by Glen Ebisch
We both nodded. There wasn’t much to disagree with there.
He continued. “The story you have told me is simply unbelievable . . .”
“But it’s the truth!” Elaine interrupted.
“And I believe it. But it’s just so incredible, so hard to believe, following so closely on the heels of Vicki’s death. It’s like a nightmare. Why would Vicki disappear from the restaurant without a reason? Why would a gang of hoodlums chase Elaine? And most of all, why would anyone kill Vicki?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any answers to that yet,” I said. “But we thought the headmaster should be told in case Elaine’s in any further danger.”
Elaine gave me a surprised glance.
“You don’t think Vicki’s death and the attack on Elaine are connected, do you?” Mr. Hawthorne asked. “These bikers have been making a nuisance of themselves for some time. It was probably just a coincidence that they chose last night to annoy Elaine.”
“They were hired by someone to do it. I heard that myself.”
“I agree that is certainly an odd point if what you heard is correct. At any rate, I will inform the headmaster immediately. He has always been very firm when it comes to trespassing on North Hill property by the young people from town. He will undoubtedly inform the police of everything that happened. They will want to come on campus and ask you some questions, Elaine, especially about Vicki’s disappearance. But I’m sure you can handle that. I can be present if you like.”
Elaine smiled with what I thought was a look of excessive gratitude. The least the guy could do was help her with the cops. After all, he was her advisor.
Once we were out in the hall, she pulled me away from Hawthorne’s door and whispered angrily, “What’s all this stuff about my being in danger? Mr. Hawthorne knows about my trouble with paranoia, do you want him to think I’m ready to go around the bend again?”
“Don’t worry, you’re as sane as I am,” I reassured her.
“I’m saner. You’re the one who thinks someone is trying to get me.”
“I’m not the one who thinks that, Templeton does.”
“Templeton,” she said slowly, and I saw a flicker of fear cross her face. She might not listen to what I had to say, but the magic word “Templeton” certainly got her attention.
“Yeah, he thinks someone may be trying to frighten you into having a relapse.”
“Why?”
I explained his theory about blackmail. Elaine grunted impatiently. “I think it sounds like a lot of supposes if you ask me, and if anyone is trying to scare me into going crazy again, it won’t work.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because nothing real could ever be as bad as the things I imagined when I was sick. What’s in your head is always worse than what’s really out there.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t tell her that.
“And I didn’t like lying to Mr. Hawthorne about what we did last night. He’s been real nice to me. I really value his friendship.”
I explained about Jameson’s threat, and told her that the headmaster might get more excited about a girl spending the night in the boys’ dorm than he would about a motorcycle gang taking over the campus. Reluctantly Elaine agreed that she could see my point.
“I’m sorry I fell apart this morning,” she said. “Thanks for taking me back to the dorm. I don’t know what happened. I guess it was seeing Vicki dead like that right after having dinner with her last night. She was always so alive. It was kind of overwhelming, I guess.”
“Yeah. You know there’s a movie on campus Saturday night. Maybe, just in case Templeton is right, we should play it safe until we discover who killed Vicki, and you ought to go with me—sort of for your own safety.”
“Real subtle, Charlie, but will I be safe with you,” she asked, suddenly developing a playful grin.
“Just as safe as you want to be,” I answered, trying to sound real cool. But I could tell she wasn’t very impressed.
Chapter 8
Saturday morning when I came back from a late breakfast, Templeton asked if I was ready for our trip into town. According to the thermometer hanging outside our window, the temperature had dropped into the teens during the night, and only by running quickly to the dining hall had I kept one step ahead of frostbite.
“How long will we have to wait for a bus?” I said, prepared to pull out the long underwear. Anything for Elaine.
“We’ll take my car. It will save time.”
“Your car! I didn’t know you had a car.”
“That’s because you never asked.”
I knew that students could only take their cars out on weekends. The hall monitors kept the keys for everyone on their floor, so you had to sign out to use your own car.
“Did you sign out with Randy?” I asked.
“I keep my own keys. I don’t have to account for my whereabouts.”
“Do you have a license?” I asked. I wouldn’t have put it past Templeton not to bother with that detail either.
“Of course. But if you would feel safer taking the bus, we can always meet in town.”
“No, I’ll take my chances with you.”
“I’m so grateful.”
As we walked past the headmaster’s residence on our way to the parking lot, a deep voice called out my name.
I glanced back and saw a short, stout middle-aged guy coming down the walk.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Templeton.
“Our illustrious headmaster,” he answered. “I’ll walk on ahead so the two of you can have a pleasant chat in private.”
“Thanks a lot.”
The headmaster pulled up in front of me and stared up accusingly, as though being tall was a personal offense to him. I remembered his name was Dr. Ortly. My parents and I had visited the school several months ago and an interview with the headmaster was required. I guess it was so he could judge whether I was “appropriate” or not.
He was wearing one of those wool sweaters with designs running in bands around it. I don’t know what you call them, but I always expect the wearer to break out into a yodel at the first opportunity. It stretched tightly around his stomach, making him look like a colorful sausage. But I had to hand it to him; he wasn’t wearing any coat, even though the wind was whipping across the hill like cold knives. Maybe he couldn’t feel it through those layers of fat.
“Mr. Hawthorne informed me of the charges Ms. Sharp and yourself have made against these bikers. Very irregular, I must say,” he said. I couldn’t tell if we were irregular or the bikers.
“I have asked the police to investigate and report their results to me at the earliest opportunity. However there have been . . . um . . . occasional conflicts in the past between our boys and those in town, and the police have always been unable to apprehend the responsible parties. I’m afraid that I expect the same in this instance.”
He looked up at me expectantly as though it was my turn to speak. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said helpfully.
“And I must say that you were not completely in the right. You shouldn’t have been walking around the campus after hours.”
I had told Hawthorne that I was out walking because I frequently had trouble sleeping and only exercise would help. I couldn’t very well admit I was gathering branches for an illegal fire. Templeton would have killed me.
“But I can understand how disruptive insomnia can be,” Ortly continued. “Perhaps in the future, however, you would be better off if you tried calisthenics in you room rather than violating curfew. A few jumping jacks or push-ups can be an excellent way of inducing sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good,” he said and nodded at no one in particular while he rubbed his woolen belly meditatively. “Ms. Sharp’s situation, however, is rather more serious given the death of her roommate and her past emotional problems. Mr. Hawthorne said you were familiar with these.”
“But she seems to be handling it all very well,�
�� I volunteered.
“Yes, well we’ll have to see. These mental problems can be very tricky, very tricky,” he said vaguely. “The mind is an amazing thing.” Turning away he added, “And I’m pleased to see you’re getting on so well with Templeton. He’s never quite fit in as a North Hiller. I hope you prove to be a stabilizing influence on him rather than the other way around.”
Was that some kind of warning?
When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Have a good day, Wood.”
“You have a good day, too, sir,” I said, trying to appear stable.
I got down to the parking lot and stood there in the cold wondering where Templeton had got to when a silver sports car, a two-seater with a long hood, quickly pulled up in front of me.
“What is it?” I asked as I got in beside Templeton.
“An old Corvette. Runs like new. It’s a classic.”
I folded my legs carefully into the small space. The dashboard was made from some kind of polished wood, and the seats gave off the aroma of expensive leather. I’d never been in anything like it. You sat so low it was like being right on the road.
“Where did you get this?” I asked as we swung down to the highway.
“Someone ran an advertisement in a magazine specializing in classic automobiles. I had the uncle who handles my trust fund purchase it for me.”
“I never expected . . .”
“You never expected what?”
“Well, I thought you would have something more . . .”
“Conservative?”
“Yeah, that’s the word. You know, one of those compact Japanese things.”
“In my line of work, speed in sometimes of the essence, so this car is not a foolish extravagance but a necessary tool for my profession.”
“Right, if you say so.”
When we got out on the highway, Templeton competently shifted through the gears, while I enjoyed the feeling of speed and freedom.
“I meant to ask you, did you find anything by studying the snow around Vicki’s body?” I said, finally pulling my eyes away from the road rushing up to meet us at eye level.
“Whoever killed her had a car.”
“How do you know that?”
“She certainly didn’t walk the five miles from town, and if she had taken the bus Elaine would have seen her.”
“Couldn’t she have taken a later bus? Wasn’t there one at eleven? That would put her on campus about when the bikers were chasing us. Maybe they killed her when they didn’t get Elaine?”
“I checked with the bus company. The same driver was on the eleven and the twelve o’clock runs. He remembers clearly that he did not make a stop out here.”
“What about a taxi? She could always have taken a taxi.”
“I called the company. They didn’t take anyone up here that night.”
“These places just give out information like that to a student?”
“I may have given them the impression that I worked for school security.”
“I can see why you and Sergeant Foster are such good friends.”
Templeton ignored my comment.
“But what does any of this have to do with the snow around her body?” I asked.
“A car is also likely because she was killed somewhere else and transported to where she was found. The snow clearly shows that.”
“Transported? You mean someone carried her to that spot?”
“Yes, probably from the parking lot. You may have noticed that her body was in the snow just off from the walk, and there was no sign of footsteps nearby. This indicates that there was no struggle in the vicinity of where she was found, which leads me to believe that she was killed elsewhere. I believe that whoever carried the body didn’t want to risk walking into the snow and leaving footsteps, so he stayed on the path and simply tumbled her body into the snow in back of the teachers’ bungalows.”
“That means the killer must be a man.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Vicky was not very big. A strong woman could have carried her if she knew what she was doing.”
“But Elaine isn’t that strong. So they can’t hold Elaine responsible.
“Unless they think she had an accomplice. But really, Wood, I have told you that the authorities should be the least of her concerns.”
“Isn’t there some kind of scientific test the police could perform to get more information? Finger prints or something like that?” I asked.
Templeton snorted. “The average person exaggerates the role of science in the art of criminal investigation. Let us say that there had been a weapon left at the scene, which there wasn’t; and that the killer’s hands were bare in the sub-freezing weather, which is unlikely. Let us further suppose that the crime laboratory could raise a clear print, which is not as common as most people think. Even under such ideal circumstances, the question remains, what would they compare the print to?”
“Don’t the police keep files?”
“Of course, the F.B.I. has files on convicted criminals, and there are files on people who have been fingerprinted as a job requirement, such as those in the military, for example. But that only adds up to a small fraction of the total population. Most people’s prints aren’t on file anywhere, so until you have a suspect to fingerprint and compare to the ones you’ve found at the scene, they don’t do you any good.”
“It isn’t as easy as it looks on television,” I said.
“That’s why there is a need for experts like myself.”
I let that one pass. “But we do know, then, that none of the teachers living in those houses could have killed her, because it wouldn’t make sense for one of them to dump her body in their own back yard.”
“Unless one of the teachers was trying to incriminate another one. And, of course, even if you’re right, that still leaves us with all the teachers and administrators who live off-campus and the entire student body as suspects, except for you and me. And if I remember correctly, you were out for a long time last night.”
I let that one pass too.
Soon we were heading down the main street of town. Small to medium stores, and an occasional restaurant, laundromat, or real estate office filled in the three blocks of the business area. It wasn’t a big town, but because it was a Saturday morning there was a fair amount of activity.
Templeton went around the first corner and down a side street where he parked.
“We’re going up the street two blocks and then over one,” he said.
“How do you know where this gang hangs out?”
“Connections.”
“What are we going to do when we get there?”
“Ask questions.”
“I know, I know. And I’m supposed to be the intimidator, so they get so scared they sing like birds in the spring.”
“Yes, but if violence should start, don’t be overly concerned. I am an expert in karate, kung fu, and la Sevatte.”
“La Sevatte?”
“Yes, French footfighting.”
“Good. Well if they look like they’re getting ready to tear our heads off, mention all that to them. I’m sure they’ll stand back in awe. I only hope they speak French and know enough to lie down so you can kick them.”
Figuring that I might as well save my breath, I went along quietly, if not happily. In a few minutes we walked past a hardware store and into a small yard in front of what seemed to be a combination gas station and luncheonette. Seven or eight motorcycles were parked out in front, and two guys in the always-stylish black leather jackets were looking at something on one of the bikes. As we walked into the clearing they stared at us as though we had wandered in from another planet.
“We would like to speak with Spacer,” Templeton announced as though keeping an appointment with the headmaster.
One of the bikers went into the luncheonette; the other smiled evilly and took a wrench out of the utility compartment on the back of one of the bikes. He began pounding it in the palm of his hand while
looking at us. Somehow I had a feeling that he wasn’t getting ready to loosen a nut. A few seconds later about seven or eight guys filed out of the luncheonette, all in the same black uniform.
“Move up in front of me,” Templeton whispered, “and see if you can identify any of them.”
Hitting three figures with snowballs in the dark at twenty yards didn’t give me much to go on, but I ambled forward until I was about ten feet away from the gang. They all looked to be in their late teens and early twenties, except for one guy who moved in front and stood facing me. He had long hair and a bushy beard. His face had lots of lines in it like he was either older than the others or had lived a lot in a few years.
“Who was it you wanted to see?” he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.
“Spacer,” I answered, trying to sound calm. The gang took a small shuffle step forward in unison like a pack of dogs that have spotted an open package of chopped meat.
“What do you want him for?” the leader asked.
“He and two other members of your gang—”
“We are not a ‘gang,’” he corrected me with a sleepy smile. “We are a ‘brotherhood,’ the Benevolent Brotherhood of Cheetahs to be exact. Cheetahs are the fastest land animals, did you know that?”
I nodded and started over. “Spacer and two other members of your brotherhood were chasing a girl across a field up at North Hill Academy the other night when they ran into me.”
“He’s the one, Spacer!” a whiney voice that I recognized blurted out. It belonged to a dark-haired, scrawny kid, who looked a little lost in an oversized jacket. A blond kid leaning against a bike said, “Shut up!”
“Are you Spacer?” I asked him.
“If you want to ask them anything, you talk through me. I am the official spokesman for the Cheetahs,” the bearded one said softly, but in a tone that suggested he wouldn’t tell me again.
Spacer, the Whiner, and a tall thin guy, who looked like he might be the third figure I’d seen that night, moved up behind the leader. Spacer was carrying a wrench, the Whiner a bicycle chain, and the thin guy had what looked like a Little League baseball bat. I wondered whose model it was.