by Jeramy Gates
“I know I’d hate to be the one in charge of putting it all back together,” I said.
Linda gulped. “You know, I just had a thought. You might want to try the school library. That’s where we keep the old yearbooks. I don’t know if that’s any help or not.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll take a look.”
We left the office and walked down the hall. Joe was leaning heavily on his cane, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, but he was grinning from ear to ear.
“You handled that pretty well,” he said. “I think Linda was about to have a panic attack.”
“It didn’t do much good.”
“She told us about the yearbooks, didn’t she?”
I rolled my eyes. “We didn’t come here to look at yearbooks, Joe. I want to see those files.”
“I’ll come back later,” he said.
“Later?”
“Yes, after dark. After everyone goes home.”
I lowered my voice. “Joe, are you talking about breaking and entering?”
“Of course not. I don’t plan on breaking anything.”
I stopped, and turned to face him. “Breaking and entering is not subjective,” I said quietly. “It’s against the law. As someone who used to be a police officer, I think you would appreciate that.”
“Pfft. When I was undercover, breaking and entering was part of my job description. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t busted into this place before…”
“Joe!”
“Relax, Fed. I’m just kidding. Although technically, as private citizens, we have a lot more leeway in this sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t matter. We have to do the right thing.”
“Which in this case, means finding the killer.”
“Don’t drag me into something like this, Joe.”
“What are you talking about? I told you I would come alone.”
“That’s the problem. I have to go with you, because you’ll probably fall down, break your hip, and be stuck here all night like a ninety-year-old man. Unless you die of a blood clot or something. Wouldn’t that make a nice story for our baby?”
“Geez, forget I said anything.” He went hobbling down the hallway and I stared after him a minute. A slight smile came to my lips. I’m getting him trained, but this sort of thing takes time.
Joe turned the corner and disappeared, and I hurried after him. By the time I caught up to him, he was already thanking the school librarian.
Joe motioned for me to follow him, and he led the way to the back wall. There, we found a collection of yearbooks going back to 1964. Joe pulled out the 1990 edition, and we settled down at one of the tables to thumb through the pages.
“Joe and Myles were both students at the same time,” Joe confirmed, pointing out their pictures. “Let’s check the sports section. They may have played football together, or baseball.”
We flipped through the pages and found nothing. We checked the other extracurricular activities and clubs, and found neither Richard nor Myles in any of them. I was about to give up when Joe flipped the page again, and landed on the Journalism spread. I gasped.
I was staring at a photo of Myles Meyer, Richard Sweet, and James Pishard. They were posing with a mockup of the yearbook I was holding. A much younger Mr. King was standing behind the three boys, smiling.
Joe looked at me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That it’s awfully strange that Solomon King never mentioned his relationship with Becky’s father?” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Perhaps he didn’t think it was relevant. You remember what Kendra said. Everybody in this town knows everybody else.”
“Look at the picture again,” Joe said. “I see four people there, and half of them have been murdered.”
I stared at him. “You’re saying one of the others is the killer. Either Solomon King, or James Pishard?”
Joe leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know, but what are the odds? There’s a connection there. More than the obvious fact that they were King’s students.”
“I think we need to have another talk with Solomon” I said.
“Perfect,” said Joe. “I know where he works. As I recall, it’s about a hundred yards from here.”
Just as we arrived, the bell rang and hundreds of students filed into the halls. As the journalism classroom emptied, Joe and I stepped inside. Solomon King was at the far end of the room, looking over a student’s shoulder, discussing something in his notebook. Joe cleared his throat, and Mr. King practically jumped out of his skin.
“Oh!” he said, blinking at us. “You surprised me.”
“Do you have a few minutes?” I said.
“Not really. I have a meeting in the teachers’ lounge…”
“It’ll just take a minute,” said Joe.
“I suppose so. Alec, we’ll work on this assignment later.”
The boy closed his binder, shoved it into his backpack, and left quietly. Mr. King came over to us. “So what’s this about? Have you learned anything about that poor girl who was killed?”
“Yes, we have,” Joe said with a smile. I opened up the yearbook and pointed out the image we’d found.
“Is that you, Mr. King?” I said.
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“You didn’t tell us that these three boys were in your class.”
“I don’t understand. Why is that important?”
“Can you tell us where you were on the night Becky Sweet was killed?” said Joe.
King’s gaze danced between us. “I don’t understand… are you accusing me of killing that poor girl?”
“Just answer the question,” said Joe.
“I can’t. That was five years ago. I have no idea. I might be able to go through my old calendars, but-”
“What about Myles Meyer?” I said, cutting him off. “Where were you when he was murdered?”
Mr. King’s face paled. “I… I’m not sure…”
“It was 1990,” said Joe. “I’m sure you remember. It happened right after this picture was taken.”
Mr. King looked faint. “I need to sit down,” he said. He walked around us and settled into his chair. He began to massage his forehead.
“Do we need to call the sheriff?” I said.
“No, please. Just give me a moment.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I was always afraid this would happen. All these years… I was always afraid it would come to this.”
“To what?” said Joe. “Did you think you’d never get caught?”
“No, you don’t understand. Please, have a seat. I will explain everything.”
Joe and I pulled two chairs up to his desk.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I knew those boys. I knew them all very well. The truth is, I was something of a father figure to them. You see, they were latchkey kids. Generation X; the first generation of kids to go home after school to an empty house.” He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as he summoned the memory.
“All three boys had absentee parents, or parents that were neglectful, possibly even abusive. In my job, you see signs, but you never can be sure. I try to watch out for them, I really do.” He shifted as he spoke, right to left and back again, as if he couldn’t get comfortable.
“What happened?” I said.
“The boys used to party a lot. They liked to drink, smoke some marijuana… they were just being boys, really. I knew what they were doing, but I didn’t say anything. I thought it was better for them to blow off some steam that way, rather than picking fights or vandalizing property. For kids like that, with so much anger and energy, it has to go somewhere. They need an outlet.”
“So you gave them drugs and alcohol?” said Joe.
“No! Of course not. I just heard things. Heard them planning things, here and there. Instead of saying something, I just smiled knowingly. What was I supposed to do? I never thought it would come to any harm.”
�
�What does all of this have to do with Myles’ death?” said Joe.
King leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. “The children used to go to a lake near Vine Hill. A place just off the road.”
“The reservoir?” said Joe. “At the dairy farm?”
“Yes, that’s the place. The teenagers used to gather there, because it was private. It was close to town, but far enough out of town that they wouldn’t be caught drinking. I don’t think the old farmer paid much attention to what was going on there. It was across the road from the dairy, and out of sight.”
“That’s the same place where Becky was killed,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“Because I was afraid,” he said.
“Afraid of what?” said Joe. “Prison?”
“No. I told you, it’s not like that. I didn’t kill Myles. But I might know who did.”
“Who?” said Joe.
He sighed. “One day, Myles didn’t show up for school. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then he was absent the next day, and the next. Of course, by then his disappearance was all over the news. I could tell by watching Richard and James that they both knew something. They had been acting strange all week. I asked them to stay after class, and that’s when they told me what had happened.”
“Go on,” I said.
“The boys told me they had been out drinking, and that Myles had fallen and hit his head on a rock. It killed him instantly. Naturally, they were terrified. They all had drugs and alcohol in their systems, and they had been trespassing on private property. They were afraid the police would accuse them of murder, and they had no way to prove it was an accident. So instead of coming forward, they hid the body.”
“And you kept this secret?” I said. “Mr. King, that’s obstruction of justice. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking of them!” he said. “Don’t you see what it would have done to them? Their lives were already hard enough. Lousy or nonexistent parents, reputations for getting into trouble. The police would have come down hard on those boys. They would have made the boys into examples. And for what? None of that would bring Myles back.”
“What about his parents?” said Joe. “Do you have any idea how they must have suffered all these years?”
“Would they have suffered less, after sending two innocent boys to prison?”
“What about Becky?” I said. “How is her death connected to this?”
“She came to me before she died. She was researching her father’s death. She believed he had been murdered. I believe James Pishard must have learned about this, and decided to stop her before she found out what had really happened to Myles.”
A silence fell over the room as we considered that possibility.
“Hold on,” said Joe. “You’re saying that James killed both Becky, and her father? All to cover up an accidental death?”
“I don’t know how else to explain it,” said King. “Perhaps James feared Richard would go to the police. He may have killed Richard to keep him quiet. A few years later, Becky started asking questions.”
“If that’s true, you must have suspected it,” I said. “Why didn’t you come forward before now?”
“I was afraid!” he said. “Don’t you understand that? Because if I was right about Richard, if James was willing to kill Becky, too, then he would surely kill me.”
“Do you realize that you could be considered an accessory to murder?” I said.
Mr. King closed his eyes and began massaging his temples. “I knew what would happen to me if I came forward, so I kept my mouth shut. I stayed alive. That’s all.”
Joe leaned forward. “Mr. King, has it occurred to you that Myles’ death may not have been an accident?”
“Of course it has. Looking back now, it makes perfect sense. Back then, I was just trying to help those boys.”
“You may have helped them get away with murder,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I was just trying to protect those poor children, and later, I was afraid…”
“Will you testify to all of this in court?” I said.
King leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Only in exchange for immunity.”
“We need to call the sheriff,” Joe said. “Mr. King, don’t leave town.”
On the way back to the Suburban, I told Joe that Mr. King had been lying to us. He stopped, and turned to stare at me.
“Lying about what?”
“I don’t know. All I can be sure of is the fact that he was hiding something from us. And when he was thinking about what had happened, he kept looking to the left.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he wasn’t searching for memories, he was creating them. He was using his imagination instead of his recall.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not one hundred percent. I know the signs, but I can’t guarantee their accuracy. You know that.”
“Maybe he was just nervous,” said Joe. “He had good reason to be, all things considered.”
“Or perhaps he was just covering.”
“Covering for what?”
“I don’t know.”
Joe and I hurried back to the car, and I called Sheriff Diekmann as soon as we were on the road. I explained the situation. After hanging up, I turned to Joe.
“Diekmann is going to issue a warrant for Pishard. He said they should have him in custody within the hour.” Joe grinned from ear to ear.
“Let’s go wait at the department. I want to see that piece of trash do the perp walk.”
“Joe… I’ve gotta eat, honey.”
“Drive-thru?”
I sighed. “It’s a good thing I take prenatal vitamins. Promise me we’ll start eating real food as soon as this case is over.”
“Scout’s honor. Don’t worry, it won’t be long now. I can feel it.”
We swung through the drive-thru on our way out of town, and hurried back to the sheriff’s department. Half an hour later, Joe and I were in the break room finishing our lunch when they brought Pishard in.
We heard the commotion outside and rushed to the door to see two deputies ushering him through the front door. He was not happy. Pishard had already spent the night locked up on a drunk and disorderly charge, and was back in custody less than eight hours later. He also still had a nice purple glow around his eye from Joe’s right hook three days earlier.
There was a lot of screaming about lawyers and lawsuits, about abuse of power and so on. Things finally got quiet when they shoved him into an interrogation room and cuffed him to the chair. A few seconds later, Diekmann appeared in the doorway of the break room.
“Pishard has agreed to an interview without his lawyer,” Diekmann said with a grin. “Seems they had a falling out after our last talk. You two ready?”
“You’re letting us go in?” said Joe.
“I can’t think of anyone more deserving,” he said. “Or motivated. Just don’t hit him, Joe. Think you can manage that?”
Joe blinked his eyes innocently. Diekmann snorted and shook his head.
“Do you mind if I ask the questions?” I said.
“I don’t see why not. You’re the one with all the fancy-pants training.”
Pishard was sitting behind a small metal table with his hands cuffed behind his back when the three of us walked in. He was furious, and instantly went into a tirade.
“I’m going to sue you for false arrest!” he shouted, staring at Diekmann. “This is harassment.”
“You can’t sue me for false arrest, because you haven’t been charged yet,” said Diekmann. “Besides, you don’t have a lawyer anymore, remember?”
“Then what am I doing here? Why am I handcuffed to this chair?”
“We’ve taken you into custody. I can hold you for forty-eight hours if I want, so I suggest you try to cooperate. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
Joe settled down across from him.
Diekmann and I both remained standing. I looked Pishard up and down, trying to gauge his emotions. I turned to sheriff.
“Can you take off his cuffs?” I said.
Diekmann raised his eyebrows. “You sure you want to do that?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Joe said, cracking his knuckles. Pishard threw his gaze back and forth between the three of us, trying to figure out what was going on.
“This some kind of mind game?” he said. “Like a good-cop, bad-cop thing?”
Diekmann sighed and stepped around the table to remove the cuffs. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
Pishard massaged his wrists and propped his elbows up on the table.
“Better?” I said. Pishard shot me a sarcastic grin. Joe leaned closer, and he shifted nervously.
“Where were you last night?” I said.
“At the pool hall. The sheriff already knows that. That’s where he arrested me for no reason.”
“Drunk and disorderly was the charge, I believe,” said Diekmann.
“You were just looking for an excuse.”
“I did drop the charges, James. Don’t make me regret that.”
I watched Pishard’s body language as he spoke. James sat leaning slightly to the right, with both arms on the table, his legs open. He looked reasonably comfortable. Pishard’s demeanor and lack of movement implied that he was telling the truth. But I already knew that. I just needed a baseline of behavior to determine whether his body language would be reliable.
“Did you kill Becky Sweet?” I said abruptly.
He fixed his gaze on me, but otherwise remained motionless. “I thought you had decided my worthless kid killed her.”
“Did you kill her or not?” I said, pressing him.
“No.”
I was looking for a signal, a movement that would indicate his guilt, or at least his discomfort with the subject. A hand over his face, or arms crossing over his chest perhaps. I saw none of that.
“What about Myles Meyer?”
Pishard’s eyes widened. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs first, and then crossing his arms over his chest. Bingo.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
