Authors: David Anderson
Back in his favourite chair, Drumm went over in his head everything they had learned about Sarah Noonan’s life. She seemed to have attracted men to her like moths to a candle flame. Only it was she that ended up getting burned. For all that they now knew, they were no closer to finding out who had killed her. Further away, if anything. Forgetting for once to use his glucose meter, Drumm fell asleep in his chair.
Elmdale Elementary School was quiet at seven forty-five in the morning. Drumm sat in his Miata and noted only four vehicles in the school’s parking lot. One would be the custodian’s, he knew, and another was likely the secretary’s. The others would belong to the early-riser type, those who liked to get to work and prepare themselves. Drumm had been one of these, an early bird who liked the peace of the morning to prepare his daybook and organize his thoughts before the hubbub of the educational day overwhelmed him with its challenges. The principal would not be at school yet, of that he was fairly certain. Most principals, unless they had a meeting, arrived later than their staff. Drumm had arrived early today so as to explore the school on his own, before everyone else got there.
Drumm locked the Miata, introduced himself at the office to Mrs. McCall, who was, as he had guessed, already at her desk, and was given a visitor badge on a lanyard to hang around his neck. Gail McCall seemed to be the perpetually cheery type; she had given him a big smile and told him to make himself at home. “There’s coffee in the staff room,” she said. “Jim won’t be here for a while yet, but you can look around all you want.” And she had given him a master key that would get him into any room in the building. Drumm wasn’t looking for anything in particular. And he
did
want to poke about on his own, before Jim Shaughnessy came in.
The secretary is always the most important person in the school, he thought, as he walked down the quiet hallway. If she’s on your side, you can get almost anything you want. In this case, a free pass to any room. The doors to the classrooms in this hall were locked, the windows covered with construction paper so one couldn’t see in. Drumm knew this was a response to the rash of violent incidents involving intruders, both in Canada and the United States. The theory was that in case there was such an incident, the teacher could close the door, turn off the lights and have the students crouch under their desks absolutely quietly. The intruder would think the room was empty and move on. Drumm opened one of the doors, flicked on the lights and saw a typical classroom, likely grade four or five, judging by the size of the desks and the quality of the art work on the walls. He turned off the lights and locked the door again.
On the east side of the school was the gymnasium with its set of double doors propped open. It was pitch dark inside as Drumm entered, but then the lights flickered on, activated by his presence. There were four basketball hoops, a stage at one end, banners on the walls; Drumm had seen it all before. Exiting the gym, Drumm made his way to the back of the school where he found a small hallway leading off to the side. There was a door, slightly ajar, at the end of the hall. It was marked, ‘Custodian’, and Drumm pushed it open.
Inside there were shelves with various bottles and pails, mops and brooms in the corner, a filing cabinet and a desk. There was also a sink with a chair in front of it. And in the chair, tilted backwards slightly with his feet in the sink, was a man, eyes closed and head back. He was slight, about sixty, with grey stubble on his face and thinning hair. He had on a light-brown shirt and blue work pants; he was wearing safety boots and had the standard ID tag around his neck, the one that all school district employees were obliged to wear. Drumm leaned forward. This one identified the wearer as Pierre Pepin.
“Mr. Pepin?” Drumm used his loudest voice, intending to make the janitor jump. Which he did. Pepin opened his eyes, snorted, awkwardly removed his feet from the sink and stood up.
“Sorry, must’ve dozed off, me. Got here really early this morning, felt pooped. Not as young as I used to be, me. Just put my feet up for a minute to rest.” The custodian’s missing tooth was clearly evident, and Drumm agreed with Lynnette, it was a bit creepy. He also suspected that this feet in the sink thing was a regular occurrence.
Drumm showed the janitor his badge. “We’re doing some follow-up investigations today, Mr. Pepin. About Sarah Noonan’s murder,” he added. “Was she a friend of yours? How well did you know her?”
“Me? No, no, we weren’t friends. I mean, we got along. I get along with everybody, me.” Pepin’s eyes slid away from Drumm and he was scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t know her much at all.”
Drumm wondered about Pepin’s accent. Clearly the man was French Canadian but his way of putting ‘me’ at the end of his sentences was not something Drumm had ever heard before. He wondered if it was legitimate or something that Pepin did for some strange purpose of his own. “What did you think of Sarah, Mr. Pepin?”
“Ah, well… …the kids liked her, you know? I t’ink she was a good teacher. Nice to talk to.”
“What time do you arrive at school, Mr. Pepin? And what time do you leave?”
“Me? I’m here at 6:30 in the morning. I go home at 3:30 most days.”
“What about last Friday?” Drumm asked. “Did you leave at 3:30 that day?”
“Sure. It was the weekend. I wasn’t going to hang around, me.”
“So you left at 3:30. Did you see Sarah Noonan before you left?”
Pierre Pepin looked puzzled. “Sarah? No, no. I go out dat door dere, you see? The parking lot is right dere. At 3:30, I’m outa here, t’rough dat door. Don’t see nobody, ‘cept a t’ousand kids and parents outside dere.”
“OK, Mr. Pepin, thank you. I’m sure you have work to do. I might want to talk to you later, though. Have a good day.” Drumm left the janitor still scratching his head and made his way back to the front of the school.
At the office Gail McCall introduced Drumm to the principal, who had just arrived. There were many more people about now as the school came to life, preparing for the normal busy day. The principal invited Drumm back into his office and waved him to a seat. Drumm noted the bulk of the man, the red face and sweaty forehead. He had been warned about this and Lori hadn’t exaggerated; the perspiration seemed to be a recurring problem.
“How can I help you, Detective?”
Drumm preferred to be addressed by his proper rank but he didn’t normally make an issue of it. “We’re going to need to interview a number of your staff, Mr. Shaughnessy, and I thought it would be the least disruptive for you if we did it here at school. If you don’t object, that is? I thought you could lend us a room, out of the way, and we could talk to some of your people, as unobtrusively as possible. Can you arrange coverage so that we can call your teachers out of their rooms for a bit?” Drumm was polite, but in reality he was issuing orders, and James Shaughnessy knew it.
The principal blinked rapidly a few times, then said, “Um, absolutely, Detective Drumm. Just give me a minute to – I think we can find someone. It’ll mean a bit of disruption to programming but it won’t be the first time that’s happened.” He excused himself and was back shortly. “All arranged. We have an empty conference room on the second floor, Room 223. You can use that. For now, Bill Deans, our VP, will cover the classrooms of anyone you want to talk to. Will that do?”
Drumm was impressed. “Certainly. That will work just fine. I’m expecting Detective Singh shortly. When she gets here, we’ll begin with Mr. Donald Musjari.”
Donald Musjari came into Room 223 shortly after nine. He didn’t look thrilled to be there. Drumm introduced himself and Lori Singh, asked him to be seated and then studied the man before him. He already knew Musjari was of Arab descent, so he wasn’t surprised to see black hair and dark skin. Musjari was powerfully built with broad shoulders but he was only about five feet seven, Drumm estimated. He had on a striped sweater over a dress shirt and dark slacks. He looked fit and athletic.
“How long have you been at this school, Mr. Musjari?” Lori asked.
“Almost three years now. Three years next month.”
“And you teach fifth grade. Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes. Fourth or fifth grade, they’re my favourites. The kids are still mostly interested, not like the sevens and eights.”
Drumm said, “How well did you know Sarah Noonan, Mr. Musjari?”
Musjari looked uncomfortable. “As well as most people, I guess. We talked a bit, now and then. But we’re in different – we were in different divisions. She was intermediate, I’m junior, so there was no planning together or anything like that.”
“Were you interested in her, Mr. Musjari?” Lori asked.
“Interested?” Musjari looked even more uncomfortable. “What do you mean?”
“Come on! You know what she means!” Drumm had raised his voice, now he lowered it. “She was a good-looking woman, you’re a good-looking guy – were you interested in dating her? Did you ever ask her out? You’re single, aren’t you?”
Musjari slid his eyes away from Drumm’s steady gaze and said, “I’m single, yes. But she wasn’t interested in me.”
“That’s not what I asked, is it?” Drumm was leaning forward. “Were you interested in her?”
“Alright! Yes, I was interested in her. She was cute and sexy as hell – who wouldn’t be? But she wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
“You tried, then, Mr. Musjari?” Lori asked.
Donald Musjari’s eyes switched to the female detective. “Yes.” His voice was quiet. “I asked her to go for a drink a few months ago and she kissed me off.” His voice was rising. “She told me she was busy but I knew that wasn’t it. It was because I’m Arab!”
“She told you that?” Lori sounded sympathetic, thought Drumm.
“She didn’t have to, I could tell. She didn’t like me, would hardly talk to me. But with the others…” Musjari stopped suddenly.
“Yes? With what others?” Lori asked.
“No, never mind. I shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t like me, I’ll just leave it at that.”
“Do you mean she dated some of the other teachers, Mr. Musjari?” Lori was pressing for an answer.
“You’ll have to ask them, won’t you? I wouldn’t know.”
“Where were you Friday night, Mr. Musjari?” Drumm asked.
“Friday? I went out to Casey’s with a friend. We had some drinks, something to eat, And then we were over at Sparkles for a while.” The answer came out quick and sure.
Drumm knew that Sparkles was a nightclub, but it wasn’t a place he frequented himself. “What time did you get home?”
“Would have been about eleven, I think. I pooped out. It was a long week.”
“Your friend’s name, Mr. Musjari?”
“His name’s Omar, Omar Khan. We’ve been friends for years. He’ll vouch for me.”
“You said you were drinking at Casey’s and Sparkles?” asked Drumm. “I didn’t think your religion allowed that.”
“Just because I’m Arab doesn’t mean I’m a strict Muslim. I quite often go out for dinner or a drink. Just like normal people,” Musjari said pointedly.
Musjari’s sarcasm was a sign of the anger just below the surface, Drumm thought.
“Alright, Mr. Musjari, I understand you. Give your friend’s address to Detective Singh here. That’s all for now, thank you. But we’ll probably need to speak to you again.” Drumm stood up.
Musjari rose also, squared his shoulders and looked Drumm right in the eyes. “Sarah’s death was nothing to do with me.” And he left.
“What do you think, Lori?” Drumm had sat down again.
“He seemed defensive. And uncomfortable.”
“There was something between them, wasn’t there? That came through loud and clear.” Drumm was rubbing his chin.
“Yes, I agree. And it will be interesting to find out what these other teachers have to say.”
“Check out this Omar dude, Lori. See if he’s real or something out of The Arabian Nights.”
Their next subject rushed into the interview room like a breath of fresh air, after the rather edgy presence of Don Musjari. “Kevin Callaghan,” he said, holding out his hand. Drumm shook it, then introduced himself and his partner.
They established that Callaghan taught third grade, he was twenty-seven years old and had been at Elmdale for two years, a teacher for five. He answered these questions readily, with a friendly smile and an easy manner. Callaghan was boyish in appearance, with blue eyes, a roundish face and long, brown hair. He was constantly brushing it out of his eyes. In a golf shirt and blue slacks, he was dressed rather casually for a teacher, Lori thought. With the runners on his feet, he could have been heading out to the golf course.
“How well did you know Sarah Noonan, Mr. Callaghan?” Drumm asked.
“Oh, pretty well, I guess. She was fun to be around. We shared a few laughs together.”
Drumm asked, “Did you ever see her socially? Go out for a drink, that sort of thing?”
“Sure. We saw quite a lot of each other for a few months. But it was nothing serious. I wasn’t looking for anything permanent, you understand. Just a pleasant evening, some interesting conversation. She was good company.”
“What was the exact nature of your relationship with Sarah Noonan, Mr. Callaghan?” Drumm sat back in his chair, with his hands behind his head.
“The nature of our relationship? Oh, you mean, were we having sex? Well, yeah, a few times. She was up for it, that’s for sure. She was one hot lady.” Callaghan was smiling again in remembrance.
“You said you weren’t looking for anything permanent, Mr. Callaghan? Was she?”
“Sarah? God, no. She’d already tried that and it didn’t work out. No, she was just out for fun. She liked teasing, flirting, dressing up. Sarah just wanted a fun evening now and then, and she liked me well enough. We got along.”