Mr. Warren patted his wife's hand. “You did what you thought was best,” he said.
“Could you tell me what you thought about Jeff Trask?” I asked.
“She brought him around occasionally,” Mr. Warren said. “He was always quiet and well-mannered. He always brought Susan home at least fifteen minutes before her curfew. We're glad you're helping him. He couldn't have murdered her.”
“He was good to her,” Mrs. Warren said. “He isn't of our faith, yet he went to church with us once in a while. Susan hoped he would go more often.” He hadn't mentioned churchgoing. Maybe this was true love.
“She'd emerged from her shell these past few months, but that was a welcome change,” Mr. Warren said. “She was always an introverted girl. She even talked about attending the summer religion camp we help sponsor every year. Jeff said he might go along. We told the police we couldn't believe he killed her. He was so mild-mannered and polite.”
Mrs. Warren dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she clutched in her hand. Her husband put his hand on her arm. “God will give us strength,” he assured her.
They could give us no information as to Susan's activities that final Sunday. She'd left with Jeff at noon. They hadn't known anything until the police arrived at the door. As to who could have killed their daughter, they had no idea. It was after four by the time we left.
“I don't think they had a realistic view of their daughter's life,” I said.
“What parent does?” Scott asked. “My parents could have figured out anytime in thirty-seven years about my sexual orientation.
They never did. They didn't want to. If the Warrens are strongly religious, maybe that's what they did see.”
“Or maybe that's what Susan wanted them to see.”
“What we don't have is a reason for someone to kill her,” Scott said.
“Yeah. So far this drug thing is a bust.”
“Not funny,” he said, then suggested, “Maybe Becky killed her in a fit of revenge.”
To that, I had no answer. As far as I could see, Becky had no reason to kill Susan.
We stopped at the Trask home. I wanted to check on how Eric was and see whether he could tell us anything about the attack.
Eric met us at the door. His mom was out Christmas shopping. “You look okay. How're you feeling?” I said as we stepped into the living room.
White bandages covered his fingers. He reported that the doctor said he'd be fine. He wouldn't lose any body parts. “I was lucky. You saved my life.”
We talked doctors for a while, then I said, “You know Roger's dead.”
“Yeah, man, that's awful. Roger was cool.”
“Had you talked to him since you were attacked?”
“The guys came over as a group last night. They snuck some beer past my mom. We had a great party. I'm still not up and around as much as I want, so it was great to see them.”
“How'd Roger seem?”
“Normal. He told about a million jokes, like he always does.”
“Who in the group was connected with Becky in selling stuff? I'm especially interested in Susan and Roger.”
“Nah. Forget those two. They were pretty straight. Susan hardly ever said boo. Roger was the life of everything. He drank a little beer like everybody, but that's all. Kids hoped Roger'd be in class with them because they knew he'd keep it interesting. Everybody liked Roger.”
“Everybody but one,” Scott said.
“Well, yeah,” Eric said.
“About drugs and the group,” I reminded him.
“Well, we all bought small amounts once in a while. Most of us didn't really buy all that much. What little I know of the actual setup is that she had kid distributors at each grade level. They'd pick up stuff at her house mostly, I think, although I've never seen it. Like on Sundays, people knew to come over to the Conlans' to buy drugs.”
“All people knew?”
“Well, some anyway. Maybe ten or so kids would show up.”
“Who were the dealers?”
“I don't know. Some kids came over because they were friends of friends and they'd heard it was a place to buy. Some were dealers. I don't know which were which. I never asked. I was never part of it. I didn't even know their names.”
“What happened Wednesday?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don't know. Last thing I remember is the wall outside the gym doors. I didn't hear or see anything. Somebody grabbed me and then I got belted in the head. That's all until I woke up in the hospital.”
“Are you covering for somebody right now?” Scott asked.
“No, Mr. Carpenter, honest,” Eric replied.
In the car, I announced, “We're going to see Mrs. Twitchell.
“You've lost your mind,” Scott counterannounced.
“Somebody's dealing bullshit. I intend to find out who.”
“She's head of the board. They could fire you.”
“She's covering up something.”
“So you say. Why not check with Frank Murphy?”
“Frank is conducting a sociological tea for the good citizens of River's Edge. And I'm pissed at the idiot parents. We're going to find the murderer.”
“Your job could be on the line,” Scott said.
“I can handle it.”
Mrs. Twitchell answered the door. She let us in but stopped us three feet inside the door.
“This is incredibly impudent and shows extremely poor judgment on your part,” she said.
I barely avoided shielding my eyes from her outfit: solid white pants, clinging to the bulges around her hips and thighs, and a clinging orange-gray sweater vest that revealed amazing amounts of breast. Her red high heels gave the outfit a vague Christmas sheen.
I said, “Perhaps it is a rotten decision. If so, then I need to get what I came for.”
“You have thirty seconds to explain before I throw you out. I would use that time to convince me not to have you fired in the morning.”
“Bully somebody else. Becky's done something and you're covering for her like mad ⦠more than usual is my guess. Why? Did she kill Susan?”
“Get the hell out of my house.” Her eyes glittered angry daggers. She grabbed several folds of my overcoat and pushed toward the door. A foot taller than she, I moved less than an inch. She yelped in frustration and backed off.
“You must have had some inkling of your daughter's problems after all the reports you got at home. Don't you realize how much help your daughter needs?”
She advanced upon me again. I suspected an invitation to dinner was not forthcoming. We left with her icy silence forming glaciers behind us.
In the early-evening darkness, we drove to the White Hen on 191st and Wolf Road. Most mornings in the summer, I walk the two miles there for the daily papers. The people who work at the Mokena store are great. They make the best sandwiches. Try the chicken salad on rye, with lettuce, tomato, mustard, mayonnaise, and American cheese. Throw in a pickle from the vat on the counter and it's perfect.
We hurried to my place to eat. Scott had a speaking engagement that night.
At my place, car tracks led up the fifty-foot drive. They weren't ours. We hadn't been home. Two pairs of footsteps from the driver's and passenger's side led from the car around the house. The outside lights weren't bright enough to reveal many clues. The alarm system hadn't been tripped. It could have been cops, or those who'd been following us, or maybe itinerant Bible salesmen, or perhaps someone totally innocent.
We examined the footsteps as best we could.
“Large work boots?” Scott said.
“Sherlock Holmes read volumes from things like this,” I said.
“Was he freezing his ass off in forty-five-below wind chill?” Scott's teeth chattered.
Moments later, we devoured sandwiches and beer at the kitchen table.
Scott dressed in his charcoal gray suit for the speech. He looks incredibly sexy in so many different ways. Sometimes it's when he's totally naked, other times when he's in white jockey shorts and white gym socks, or sometimes in his baseball uniform, or his tight jeans and muscle T-shirt, or a business suit âor when I see him fully dressed in front of a crowd and know I've made love to the beautiful body and person underneath. I enjoy starting lovemaking fully clothed. There's something about unzipping a man's pants, a sense of power and permission that you don't have unless intimately given or violently taken, that makes it especially sexy. Maybe it's just him, and that I love him so very much.
Before Scott left, I called Kurt Campbell. We'd talked about my stopping by earlier in the week, and after a final check with his wife, Beth, Kurt said it'd be a perfect night to pick up more packets for the union-negotiations team's meeting and for a visit. I wanted to go over information with him about the kids and teachers involved. Even with the alarm system, we didn't
want to take chances with one of us alone in the house. Kurt invited us both over, but Scott was late, so he dropped me off without going in. He could visit when he came by to pick me up. In the car, I kissed him hard.
“Be careful,” I warned as I got out. I'd offered to ride with him to the Harvey Holiday Inn, but he'd said not to worry. It was expressway all the way, and he'd be in a crowd.
Â
Kurt and Beth lived in an all-brick two-story home off 143rd Street in Orland Park. They greeted me at the door. It was just past seven-thirty. We sat in front of a glassed-in fireplace. We propped ourselves up with cushions against the couch. Over the years, I'd become almost as close a friend to Beth as I was to Kurt. I explained what we'd been up to.
Beth said, “I've met George and Pete's wives at faculty parties, but I've never felt I had much in common with them. They hang around together. They're harmless enough, I've always thought, but you might want to talk to them.” Beth was a thin, plain woman whose warm good humor I'd enjoyed from the first time I'd met her. While we talked, the noise from their kids drifted up from a family room. Unable to have kids of their own, they'd adopted five, who now ranged in age from six months to seven years old. Occasionally, pairs of eyes peeked around corners, followed by silly giggles. A toddler or two would drift in, bury his or her head shyly in a parental lap, and then retreat to the playroom. In the middle of the conversation, Kurt brought the baby down for a bottle, after which the child slept peacefully on his chest.
“I've know those guys for years,” Kurt said. “I've found them a total pain in the ass. As athletic director, I work with them pretty closely. They push themselves hard as coaches, sometimes to little effect.”
“Why keep them on?”
“Politics, length of service to the district, inertia. It would be
a tremendous pain to get rid of them, and it might not work. They have factions that support them strongly.”
Certain power centers exist in every school district. These seldom correspond to who is nominally in charge. In some districts, it's the athletic boosters, in others, a cabal of teachers who've taught there since the year one. I knew one district where a new math teacher came in and criticized the band program. The man was out of a job before January. Of course, there are also the old standby power centers of the janitors and secretaries. A new teacher crosses either of these at his peril, an old teacher with great discretion. I knew one teacher, new to the districtâback in the days when the custodians handed out all suppliesâwho needed chalk. She asked for some and got two pieces. She explained that this wasn't adequate. She got two more. In frustration, after weeks of this, she went and bought her own supply. The janitor never forgave her. Fortunately, he quit within the same year.
Beth said, “Don't waste time talking about that sports crap, get to the good stuff. They both cheat on their wives.”
“We only have conjecture, no real proof,” Kurt said.
“Stop being so damn rational and fair,” Beth said with a smile.
“That's what makes him a good union president,” I said. Beth sniffed. “It's fairly well documented by those of us in the gossip grapevine that those two fuck anything in a skirt. They go on these long hunting trips and catch far more than a few dead birds.”
“Beyond cheap gossip,” Kurt said, “there's the incessant bitching and moaning they do about every little thing. The inability to accept responsibility for themselves, their inability to think before they speak. They both have to take stupid pills in the morning. Nobody could be that dumb all by themselves.”
“Personally,” Beth said, “from the few times I've been around those two, I presume their stupidity is a congenital defect.”
“The odd thing,” Kurt said, “is George is good with kids. The
boys on the teams respond to him, and I've heard the girls in class do, too. He understands teenagers and their problems. Now, Pete is incredibly intense. He has to win at everything. I've played poker with him. He slams the cards on the table if he loses even a small pot. He's the same at sports, even pickup games among the coaches at school. He'd knock you over if you got in his way.”