School Girl

by Dan Ames

There was an additional account with another name that allowed me to enter the Federal Bureau of Prisons and it was there that I began to collect the first credible information regarding his current location.

  It turned out he’d been released from prison two years ago, in stark contrast to what I’d been told about him being in lockup in California.

  However, the database wasn’t able to cough up any present address or last known location.

  Since I was on the road I decided to send a quick email to one of my contractors who specialized in computer locations and who I knew had access to nearly every parole office in the country. I figured that would be my best bet.

  I submitted my request and went to bed.

  Someone in this town knew where Casey Bennett was. It was only a matter of time before I did, too.

  10

  Someone came for me in the middle of the night.

  I had a habit before I went to sleep where I would identify the sounds I heard before I actually slipped under.

  For instance, at this hotel I came to recognize the sound of the elevator. The shuffling noises made by people walking on the floor below me. The banging of the ice machine as it spit out a new supply. And the squeak of the hotel’s front door opening.

  So when I heard the footsteps on the hallway outside my room, even though I was in the midst of a dream about Grande Isle High School, something alerted me.

  There was a moment when I thought I could hear a key card being put into the slot. I wondered if some local thief had enough initiative to somehow garner either a master key or a key for every room in the hotel. That wouldn't surprise me. There wasn't much else to do in Grande Isle.

  I silently slung out of bed and came to stand in the middle of the room with my 45 high-capacity automatic in my hand. The key card slid out and I saw the door handle turn and then abruptly stop.

  In my mind, I could see the person outside pausing to listen, worried about being discovered.

  It was possibly my imagination but I thought I could smell chewing gum of all things.

  I hesitated and moved to the right of the room but the shoddy construction of the hotel floor caused a sound.

  Suddenly, too late, I heard the footsteps running down the hall.

  I threw the door open and gave chase, making it to the stairwell before I heard another door shut. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairwell the door had already slammed so I pushed it open and ran outside, heard the sound of a car racing off into the night.

  I ran farther out into the parking lot hoping to get at least a glimpse of the make and model but by then whatever car there was had gone.

  A check of my watch told me it was five in the morning and as I came back into the lobby I saw two guys sitting at a table with paper cups of coffee. They had on camouflage baseball caps and I immediately knew they were the two guys whose boats were out in the parking lot.

  I looked at them and they looked at me wondering what the hell I was doing standing there in bare feet, shorts and T-shirt.

  Luckily I’d had the foresight to slip the gun into the back of my waistband.

  “Hey,” I said. “Where’d you get that coffee?”

  11

  My email pinged me and I opened the message from my contractor.

  The current address for one Curtis Redville now stared back at me.

  The address listed was in Mackinac City, roughly two hours from Grande Isle. I checked out of the hotel after I had a breakfast of oatmeal and some fruit in an effort make up for the steak and fries I had the night before.

  Traffic was light on highway 23 as I headed up toward Mackinac City. To my right Lake Huron sparkled in the early morning sun as rocks crowded the shoreline. Out in the distance I could see a boat trolling for salmon. I always loved this stretch of Michigan where Highway 23 hugged the shore of the lake.

  This part of the state was underdeveloped and touristy people from downstate had little to attract them, just modest cottages lining the shore.

  As I drove I thought about my visitor from the night before. What had they been hoping to accomplish? Had they been startled?

  Something about the visit bothered me and it wasn’t fear. It had something to do with the damn chewing gum but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  But even worse I felt like I was missing something even bigger. It was nagging at the back of my brain. A detail I'd missed. When that happens I knew not to press. I knew that if I just kept it going in the back of my mind eventually some dots would connect. That was the theory anyway.

  Eventually I saw the crowded buildings and the cluster of Mackinac City, a town that existed because of Mackinac Island and the world-famous bridge. It was the place people stopped to catch the ferry to Mackinac Island where a clutch of ice cream shops and horse-drawn carriages awaited them.

  I plugged Curtis Redville's address into the navigation app on my phone and followed it to an apartment complex that had clearly been a resort in a previous life. Probably in the 1960s or 1970s.

  Curtis Redville's apartment was the last cottage on the left. It was tiny. It couldn’t have been more than one room or maybe a room with a loft but that was it.

  I parked, got out, walked up and knocked on the door. I heard what sounded like the rustle of bedsheets, a thud, a few more thuds and then the door opened.

  Curtis Redville confronted me. He had a face so red it looked sunburned, messy yellow hair and breath that reeked of stale beer and fried food.

  "What the fuck do you want?" he said. His voice sounded like an outboard motor running out of gas.

  "I want to know what happened to your daughters," I said.

  He looked at me and I could see his body tense.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why don’t you come on in?”

  He stepped back and when I took a step inside I saw his body coil with tension and I saw the punch long before it even came close to reaching its misguided destination.

  In fact, I caught it in my hand, twisted and heard his elbow pop. He let out a yelp of pain and I pushed him backwards until he fell on his ass.

  “I can see you’re not used to getting visitors,” I said.

  “What’s your problem, asshole?” he whined at me. I kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over and formed an S-shape on the floor. S. For shit.

  “You’re my problem right now,” I said. “But I’ve made a career out of making problems like you go away.”

  He sat up and I looked around the place.

  It looked like a halfway house for criminals, which is probably what it was being used as.

  “Maybe I should call the cops,” he said as he struggled to sit up.

  I ignored him and kept looking around the place. There was a case of beer on the kitchen counter next to an apartment-sized stove and fridge. There were porn magazines on the kitchen table. Porno magazines? Who even published them anymore? No computer. No internet. Curtis had to go old school for his whacking pleasures.

  “Please do,” I said. “I’d love to tell them about how you assaulted me. I’m sure your rap sheet speaks for itself.”

  He half-groaned in response.

  “So why don’t you tell me where Casey is?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve got no fucking idea,” he said. “If I knew that I’d go get her myself.”

  “Sure you would,” I said.

  Curtis Redville stank. I could smell the foul odor coming off him even though I was now standing as far away as possible.

  “So I heard Kelsey had gotten into some trouble in high school,” I said. “Know anything about that?”

  “What do I look like?” he said. “You think I went to parent teacher conferences?” He laughed and eyed a pack of cigarettes on the table.

  “Nothing?”

  “All I heard was that some teacher got caught poking a fat girl from band class and got fired,” Curtis said. “But Kelsey was beautiful, just like her Mom. She wouldn’t have been playing hide the salam
i with some middle-aged nut job.”

  It was interesting no one had mentioned to me a scandal involving a teacher and sex with students.

  “I always meant to kick the guy’s ass just for the hell of it,” Redville continued. “But I heard they chased him down to Detroit somewhere.”

  Something rattled around in my head for a brief moment and I tried to catch it, like a scent that triggers a distant memory. But as fast as it came, it was gone. And I was left with the stench of Curtis Redville.

  I went back to the front door and turned to look at him.

  “I’ve enjoyed your hospitality,” I said. “See you around.”

  12

  A quick stop at the only coffee shop in town and their public Wi-Fi on my laptop allowed me to quickly discover that the teacher who was forced to resign under dubious circumstances was named Walter Pimm.

  It seemed Mr. Pimm had been the band teacher at Grande Isle High School for nearly seven years until a former student claimed she’d had a sexual relationship with him during her senior year.

  A brief dip into one of my premium databases yielded an address. It was a small town I had to look up on my map app. Ashland, Michigan was nearly two hours west of Grande Isle and I immediately hit the road.

  As I drove, I thought about what I’d read. Had Kelsey been the girl who’d been involved with Pimm? If so, is that what had caused the breakup with Mark Banner?

  And if so, it stood to reason that Mark Banner, Mr. Hothead himself, might have had something to do with her death. Sure, he claimed he had an alibi and clearly the police must have believed him or he’d be behind bars. But alibis could be faked, and a solid alibi could also mean that a scorned lover could have hired out the job.

  The miles flew by and I wondered how I should handle Mr. Pimm. The direct approach was my favorite. Come right down to it, it was my only approach.

  When Ashland came into view it was about what I expected. A tiny main street anchored by an IGA grocery store, a tavern, and a gas station. A few other little shops, mostly of the outdoorsy persuasion, and a small stand of homes.

  My navigator led me to a tiny ranch house painted a dark green. There was an ancient Honda Civic in the driveway. The shrubs out front were dead and the curtains were closed.

  I parked on the street, walked up to the front door and knocked.

  From inside, I heard the deep sound of a tuba.

  I waited and then knocked again.

  Again the sound of the tuba.

  This time, I gave three knocks on the door in quick succession.

  Three toots from the tuba followed.

  Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, I laughed.

  The door opened and a guy with a head of curly hair peered out at me.

  “You’re interrupting my practice,” he said.

  “Really?” I said. “It sounded like a duet.

  He just stared back at me.

  “Sorry, are you Walter Pimm?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed and he didn’t answer. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Kelsey Bennett.”

  The door began to close but I reached out and stopped it. The technique had gotten to be a habit with me, apparently. His eyes went wide and I wondered if he called the cops how long it would take them to get here. It depended on where they were coming from.

  “Mr. Pimm, I don’t give two shits what may or may not have happened between you and any student,” I explained, in a voice as friendly as I could make it. Which wasn’t very much. “I don’t care if someone played your skin flute. But look, they found Kelsey dead and Casey is still missing. Her family wants me to find her and I just have a couple of questions.”

  “Oh, fine,” he said. “But make it quick, I’ve got a concert tomorrow and I need the practice.”

  He led me into a living room that was filled with musical instruments. A piano. A tuba. A couple of guitars. And two chairs sandwiched between a harp and a kettle drum.

  Pimm grabbed a ukulele from somewhere and began to pluck at it. It was some kind of little jazz tune.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Did you have a relationship with Kelsey Bennett?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “Teacher student. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “Did you have any relationships with students that went beyond that?”

  He momentarily stopped plucking at the ukulele.

  “I thought you wanted to talk about Kelsey.” He glanced toward the door, letting me know that any more questions in that direction would result in a hasty exit.

  It was time for me to take a different approach. I could see that Walter Pimm was a very particular kind of man.

  “So your reason for leaving Grande Isle High School had nothing to do with Kelsey Bennett.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said you didn’t have a sexual relationship with her.”

  “That is correct. My relationship with her was strictly teacher to student.”

  “Then how could she have anything to do with you being forced to leave the school in a scandal?”

  He smiled at me and it was the kind of grin that came from a place of deep fatigue and not a small amount of anger.

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  His thin, pale fingers went back to the ukulele and as he played, I felt something shift in the narrative I’d slowly been putting together in my mind.

  Pimm seemed to sense it.

  “Let me give you a scenario and a question,” he said. “Imagine you’re a high school band teacher. You’re lonely. You live in a small town with very few romantic options. One night, you’re home and there’s a knock on the door. It’s one of your favorite students. Not only is she beautiful, talented and kind, but she’s a little drunk. And so are you. After all, what else is there to do on a Friday night in this shit stain of a town?”

  He began to pluck again at the ukulele.

  “Things go to the next level. It’s a trifle dangerous but it’s nearly graduation and she turns eighteen in a month. Yes, it was a mistake. It was also a mistake to repeat the escapade several more times, including once or twice on school property.”

  Pimm put down the ukulele and began to tap out a rhythm on the top of his knee.

  “Eventually, the student leaves and the teacher never hears from her again. Until Kelsey Bennett disappears. And then a few days later, an envelope arrives at the teacher’s home with photographs of a most lurid nature, starring himself and the student.”

  He clasped his hands together, as if it were the only way to get him to stop doing something musically.

  “A note is included telling him to resign immediately or two lives will be ruined. His. And the student’s. So he does. Because of the odd timing, the police suspect him for a long time in the disappearance of Kelsey Bennett. The public has already convicted him.”

  Finally, Pimm picks the ukulele back up.

  He hits a couple of notes with a flourish.

  “But the girl with whom the teacher had an affair? It wasn’t Kelsey Bennett.”

  Pimm began to play what was obviously the end of the song.

  The final note seemed to hang in the air and in its vibrating flourish, the piece I’d been struggling to grasp slid neatly into place.

  “Bravo,” I whispered.

  13

  There is only one liquor store in Eagle River and when I parked in the lot, mine was the only vehicle there.

  Inside, it took me a minute to find what I was looking for.

  I went up to the clerk, held up the bottle and said, “This brand is hard to find. My buddy told me you guys would have it.”

  I mentioned my buddy’s name and the clerk, a ruddy man with jeans up to his navel and a pair of star-spangled suspenders nodded in agreement.

  “He’s the only other one who buys it,” the clerk said. “Can’t stand the stuff, myself. Might as well drink a breath mint.”


  14

  He would be home. Guys like him are always home.

  It was easy to find the address, park a block away and determine there was a car in the garage. And, of course, sliding the .45 out of its holster and into my hand was a simple matter. As was picking the lock on the back door and slipping inside the house.

  I listened quietly. It would be the basement, most likely. Or an upstairs bedroom.

  The benefit of the basement was the ability to soundproof. But depending on what he was doing to her, an upstairs bedroom had its advantages. Namely, having her in a room right next to him, as opposed to two floors below.

  A convenient captive.

  In the silence, I heard a voice above me. Followed by the sound of a soft thud against a wall.

  The room smelled like breath mints.

  Just like the kind I’d smelled in Principal Van Boren’s office.

  And eerily similar to the smell of gum outside my hotel room in the middle of night. Mint gum.

  It had a definite peppermint scent, the kind that could be from schnapps. Just like the Peppermint Schnapps bottle I’d found in the woods near the schoolhouse. The kind the liquor store stocked specifically for one customer.

  Martin Van Boren.

  When I’d found the bottle in the woods near the old schoolhouse, I’d remembered how it was popular with high school kids.

  Especially girls.

  Guys like Van Boren always figured the angles. They were masters at it.

  Obsession can give an average mind incredible focus.

  I climbed the stairs silently, glad they didn’t creak even though it was an old house and the steps were worn oak.

  At the top of the stairs were four doors. Two were open, showing empty bedrooms. The third was also ajar and inside I could see a toilet and a shower stall. The doors were old, one of them already showing cracks.

  The fourth was closed.

  And behind it, I could hear a man speaking in a low voice.

  No time like the present.