Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  He asked Marge, “Do you have a Bell and Wakefield yearbook?”

  “I can get one.”

  “I’d like to have faces to go with the names. In the cases of Heddy, Ramona, and Lisa, I’d like to have last names.” He went through some of Myra’s texts: c u soon, pick u up at 5.

  It would take way too long to go over all her texts. Decker returned the phone to the nightstand. “I’d love to keep it, but I suppose I have to ask permission.” He regarded Marge. “Two kids from the same school kill themselves within a month and a half of each other. Both of them were . . . outsiders. What do you think?”

  “That it’s often the outsiders who commit suicide. Plus, one was male; the other was female, different ages, different grades.”

  “And the female had a history of depression,” Decker said.

  “But . . .” Marge said. “It’s still two kids from the same school within a very small period of time. I’m thinking maybe some kind of suicide club or suicide pact or . . . Did they even know each other?”

  “I’m wondering about the gun. Where did it come from?” The room fell quiet. Decker finally said, “I don’t see a computer.”

  “Maybe there’s a shared computer,” Marge suggested. “I can ask Eric about it.”

  “If we want to break into Myra’s personal life, we’re going to have to ask Mrs. Gelb for permission.” Decker raked his hair with his hands. “And unlike Wendy Hesse, she hasn’t asked for our help.” He returned his eyes to the closet. In the corner were two cardboard moving boxes. He pulled one out and opened it up. “Lookie here, Margie.”

  Hundreds of drawings—pen and ink, pencil, crayon, pastels, watercolors—on random pieces of white paper, scratch paper with advertisements on the other side, a dozen sketch pads, and lots of napkins, newspapers, and Post-its: anything made of pulp.

  “At last,” Decker said. “We’ve found the real Myra Gelb.”

  “She was good.” Marge picked up some material on the top and regarded it with a critical eye. “Very good, as a matter of fact.”

  There were faces, there were landscapes, there were still lifes and lots of cartoons and caricatures. They began to sort through the material one by one by one. An hour later, Decker was looking at a detailed pen-and-ink drawing of a big jock-type guy grunting on the toilet. The caption was Dylan’s artistic output. He showed the drawing to Marge.

  “Dylan Lashay?” When Decker shrugged, she said, “Whoever he is, Myra wasn’t a fan. I’ll get a yearbook tomorrow.”

  By midnight, Marge stood up and stretched. She’d been in the apartment for almost six hours, the last four of them spent in the bedroom. She heard footsteps. Eric knocked on the doorpost, and Marge and Decker came out of the room.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “I just got a call from Dr. Radcliff. They’ve admitted my mom. I need to go to the hospital. I’d really like to close this up for tonight.”

  “Not a problem,” Decker said. “We’re going to rope off the room with tape. Please don’t go in or out of it.”

  “I guarantee you that won’t be an issue.”

  “We’ll come back tomorrow. Thanks for letting us stay so late.”

  “No problem.” Eric paused. “What are you looking for?”

  “I know your sister was depressed. But she was on medication and seeing a psychiatrist. She was also functioning. She certainly was drawing a lot.” Decker paused. “Do you think your mother would mind if I took these boxes to the station house and looked them over?”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Your sister’s artwork.”

  “My mom’s going to want them back.”

  “Of course,” Decker said. “But this way, I can look through them and not be in your way.”

  “I guess it would be okay.” Eric exhaled. “Sure, take them.”

  Marge took one box, and Decker took the other. They were bulky but not heavy. Eric locked up the door, and the four of them walked to the elevator. When they got to the ground floor, Eric went out first.

  “Give our deepest sympathies to your mom,” Marge said.

  “I will.”

  Decker hefted one of the boxes. “This may be a little awkward, Eric, but I’m going to ask it anyway. We couldn’t find your sister’s computer. Did she have one?”

  Eric nodded. “She had a Mac. That’s weird.”

  Marge lifted her box. “Maybe we’ll find it tomorrow.”

  “That’s really strange. It’s usually right out in the open.”

  “Could someone have taken it?”

  “I don’t know who. But if it’s not there . . .” A beat. “I’m stumped.”

  Decker said, “Sometimes people give stuff away before they act.”

  Eric shook his head. “She only had a few friends. Ask them.”

  “Okay.” Decker picked up his box. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  But Eric didn’t appear to hear. “Do you think she might have left like a note on it or something?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” Decker said. “But if we don’t look, we’ll never know.”

  Even though Yasmine had told him that the boy writes first, Gabe always waited until she texted him. That way he knew that she had total privacy. His phone gave off a beep at 12:30 in the morning. He had been in his bed with the lights off, resting, thinking about her and getting very aroused.

  r u up?

  He felt his heart sing in his chest.

  w8ing 4 u. Without waiting for a reply, he texted: that was a close one 2nite.

  omg, i was going 2 have a heart attack.

  u were cool. i was a real dork.

  no, i was a dork. at least u talked.

  if u call mumbling, talking. Then Gabe wrote: ur sister’s a brat.

  daisy is daisy. it’s hard being in 11th grade.

  Gabe smiled. Yasmine was probably one of those nice people who always saw the good in everyone. i’m just protective of u.

  :) thx.

  Gabe texted: btw, someone’s been keeping secrets from me.

  someone should talk!!! She texted another line. harvard!!!! Another pause. HARVARD!!!!

  He texted back: Maybe.

  Maybe????? r u nuts?

  there r other options.

  Like?

  Tell u l8r.

  A long pause. Then she wrote: r u going 2 college in the fall?

  He wrote: yeah.

  :(

  maybe i’ll stay here.

  seriously, gabe, if u get n2 harvard, u go 2 harvard.

  maybe. A beat. i want to hear u sing.

  no.

  c’mon.

  no.

  chick-en.

  sticks and stones . . .

  how long have u been singing opera?

  i don’t sing opera.

  Gabe smiled. liar.

  m not.

  ok. u don’t sing opera. so what aria were u singing in the house over and over and over according to Daisy.

  nothing.

  c’mon yasmine enuf. i want 2know.

  u’ll laugh.

  Gabe texted back: ?????

  Yasmine responded: promise u won’t laugh.

  of course i won’t laugh.

  der holle rache.

  “Der Hölle Rache”—the revenge aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute sung by the Queen of the Night. It was an iconic piece of music, one of the first arias that children hear when introduced to opera. Yet it was one of the hardest bits of music to sing because of the coloratura required.

  Not too shabby. Feeling mischievous, Gabe texted back. lol.

  shut up!

  seriously, that’s really impressive.

  not the way i sing it.

  i don’t believe u.

  u should.

  so ur a coloratura soprano.

  so they say.

  who’s they? ur voice coach? u must have a teacher if u can sing der holle rache.

  i do. my dad thinks i take piano lessons but i really take voice les
sons.

  The truth comes out. Gabe wrote: ah. now things r making sense. ur mother is n on this?

  yeah.

  any1 else besides me know?

  just u n ariella.

  ah, ariella, the keeper of the secrets. i hope she’s a gd friend.

  she is.

  Sneaking around seemed to be the Nourmand family pastime. Not unlike Gabe’s own family. He texted: i can’t picture all that coloratura coming from such a small chest.

  ur horrible. now i’ll never sing 4u.

  i didn’t mean it like that. But of course, he did. He loved teasing her.

  i h8 u, Yasmine wrote.

  Gabe texted: 2 bad cuz I’m madly crazy 4 u.

  A long pause. Then Yasmine wrote: maybe i don’t h8 u.

  Gabe wrote: let’s kiss n make up.

  kiss n make out u mean.

  that, 2. A pause. i’m serious. when can i hear u sing?

  never.

  Gabe wrote: come over this saturday. the deckers are going out 2 lunch 4 shabbos. They’ll leave at 10 so come at 11. i’ll play accompaniment 4u.

  i can’t. i’ve got 2 go to shul. i already missed last saturday bcuz of u.

  plzzzz?

  gabe, I can’t.

  :(

  i’ll c what I can do. no promises.

  Plzzzz, plzzzz, plzzzz???

  i’ll c.

  u know i don’t want 2 get u n trouble. i just miss u.

  i miss u,2.

  She added: a lot.

  Gabe wrote: plz come, yasmine. i want to c u cuz I really like u, but i also really want 2 hear u sing. if u don’t come, it’ll be an entire week w/out c-ing u.

  A long pause. rn’t we on 4 thurs?

  i can’t. have 2 meet with this agent and b at SC by 8.

  agent?

  yeah, musicians need agents 2 get jobs.

  did he get u a job?

  maybe. there’re openings 4 a pianist at some chamber music festivals in wyoming, texas n oklahoma. mozart piano quartet. i have to play it for him so i need 2 b perfect.

  u only play perfect.

  c, that’s y i like u so much. can u make fri morning?

  no, i have a math test.

  so come sat, plzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  A long pause. ok. i’ll come sat. i’ll think of something.

  Thx,thx,thx. Then he wrote, u know i really m crazy 4 u.

  She responded: i feel the same way.

  Gabe texted: a thousand kisses.

  a million kisses.

  it’s l8. u have school. go to bed.

  Yasmine wrote: i will. it’s just that i’m soooooo happy when i talk 2 u.

  i know. it’s so hard to let go. But it’s after 1. u need 2 go 2 bed, i’ll see u on sat.

  okay.

  gnite n sweet dreams.

  they’ll b sweet if i dream of u.

  Gabe wrote: ur intoxicating. i can’t stop thinking about u. i can’t w8 4 sat., gnite, my luv, gnite, gnite.

  Yasmine wrote: gnite, my angel gabriel, gnite, gnite.

  His phone went dead.

  His heart was thumping in his chest. He closed his eyes and let his brain and other things take over, imagining the feel of her lips, the taste of her skin.

  It didn’t take long.

  The second time didn’t take long, either.

  It seemed sacrilegious to do it after talking to her. She was so gorgeous, and pure and angelic. But he couldn’t help it.

  He was a dude. He was fifteen. He was Chris Donatti’s son.

  It was what it was.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday morning—the day after Myra Gelb put a gun to her head—Bell and Wakefield had canceled all classes. The daily grind of AP calculus and advanced composition had been replaced with special programs on the hour every hour starting at eight in the morning. Scheduled were three all-school assemblies held in the massive auditorium as well as smaller class seminars. The topics ranged from bullying to establishing healthy peer relationships to teenage depression and suicide, all the information printed on packets embossed with the B and W lion logo in crimson. The cover page featured school photos of both Gregory Hesse and Myra Gelb with an in memoriam and the dates of their truncated lives printed underneath the photos.

  Waiting in Dr. Martin Punsche’s office, Marge and Oliver sat on hard-back chairs and perused the pages of the paper packet. It was now ten in the morning and they had been there for fifteen minutes. Oliver was getting antsy. Today he wore a brown suede jacket over a black shirt and black pants. His penny loafers were shined to maximum reflection. Marge was dressed in one of her favorite cashmere sweaters. Good knitwear was like wearing a blanket—roomy and soft. These particular sweaters fell below the waistband of her pants, camouflaging the imperfections. She had bought the same garment in six colors. Today, it was baby blue day.

  Oliver hit his hand on the papers. “You think any of this psych crap helps?”

  “Who knows?” Marge said. “Teenagers are on another planet. Only fate and pain stop them from self-destruction, and sometimes even those are not enough.”

  Oliver studied the pictures of the deceased teens. “So there was like a month between the two deaths.”

  Marge nodded. “Six weeks. If they were two random suicides, that’s bad enough. But you can’t help but wonder if something weird is going on inside the school—like a suicide club or gun games.”

  “Gun games are a white male thing. Maybe Gregory Hesse. Not Myra Gelb. Do the two victims have anything in common besides going to the same school?”

  Marge thought a moment. “They’re not exactly outcasts, but they certainly weren’t part of the ‘in’ crowd like the B and W Mafia, nothing more than a bunch of stupid rich kids playing criminal idiots. But that doesn’t mean that the boys can’t do damage.”

  “Yeah, teenagers with guns aren’t good news for anyone,” Oliver said. “So Myra was suffering from depression?”

  “According to her brother, yes. We have no indication that Gregory was also afflicted. The two of them don’t seem to have friends in common. Also, with fifteen hundred kids in the school, it’s likely that the two of them didn’t know each other, especially since she was a grade older.”

  “What about teachers in common?”

  “Don’t know,” Marge said. “To tell you the truth, after Wendy Hesse stonewalled our mini-investigation, we stopped with the psychological autopsy on Gregory Hesse. But now with two suicides, and Kevin Stanger’s bullying and reports about mini Mafia gangs, it may be worth dissecting. There are always cliques, but this may go beyond.”

  At that moment, Martin Punsche flew in like a tornado, attired in a white shirt and dark pants. His face had gathered a heavy etching of lines since the detectives had last seen him. The VP checked his watch. “I know that I’m late. Couldn’t be helped. It’s been . . . hellish. There’s no other word for it. Hellish. This is totally unprecedented.”

  “You’ve never had suicides at B and W before?” Oliver asked.

  “Two in the past eight years, and we thought that was extraordinary. We screen for the psychologically robust. Of course, you can’t predict things like death and illness that crop up during the four years that the kids are here, but we try to deal with those things right away. We knew that Myra had some issues. We require all parents to report what medications their children are on for legal reasons. Her mother told us that Myra had gone on antidepressants. But she seemed to be doing fine.”

  “What is your definition of doing fine?” Oliver asked.

  “Her grades were excellent and she had friends. Her teachers didn’t report anything odd.”

  Marge said, “Would you like to sit down, sir?”

  Punsche realized he was pacing in a tiny space. He collapsed into his cushioned desk chair. “I’ve only got a minute before the next seminar. What can I do you for?”

  “Last time we spoke, you said that you didn’t know Gregory Hesse very well,” Oliver reminded him.

  “Yes, tha
t was true. Since that time I did speak to a couple of his teachers. Gregory didn’t seem to have any problems, either. He was an excellent student, no behavioral and social issues. He actually did some tutoring that I wasn’t aware of. I’m completely in the dark.” Punsche stared at the detectives. “I’m not even sure why you two are here. It’s great to have the police interested in the welfare of our young people, but I’m not sure this is really a police matter.”

  Oliver said, “We want to make sure that these deaths aren’t part of a larger issue at the school . . . that the two cases aren’t related.”

  Punsche ran his hand over his bald head. “I don’t see how. Myra and Gregory weren’t even in the same grade.”

  “That doesn’t mean they didn’t know each other.”

  Marge said, “Maybe the two of them were in some common class.”

  “Usually eleventh grade and tenth grade are pretty separate, but there are some electives that can be taken in any year in any grade. Let me see . . .” He booted up his computer. “I’ll pull up Myra’s class list and Gregory’s class list . . .”

  “We still have that list of Gregory’s classes.” Marge pulled out a piece of paper. “We understand that he was particularly interested in investigative journalism.”

  Dr. Punsche shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Oliver said, “Was Gregory working on the school paper?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about Myra?” Marge asked. “She was a very good artist and cartoonist.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, either. The journalism teacher and newspaper adviser is Saul Hinton. Feel free to talk to him. He’s in room . . .” He clicked a few keys on the computer and pressed the print button. “What was I saying?”

  “Saul Hinton’s room number.”

  “Twenty-six or twenty-seven.” Punsche pulled the list from the printer and handed it to Marge. “Here you go—Myra Gelb’s classes.”

  She briefly compared it to Gregory Hesse’s class schedule. The lists didn’t appear to intersect, and neither was currently taking any journalism class.