"Come in," she said. "Help yourself If you need something, my office is here down this corridor."
"Thank you."
Inside, it smelled like a school. It was air-conditioned and clean, but the smell of school was adamant. I never knew what the smell was. Youth? Chalk dust? Industrial cleaner? Boredom?
I had seen enough diagrams of the school and the action in the newspapers to know my way around. There were four offices, including Dean Biegler's, opening off the central lobby. The rest of the school occupied two floors in each of two wings that ran left and right out of the lobby. The school gym was behind the rest of the school, connected by a narrow corridor, and beyond the gym were the athletic fields. There was a cafeteria in the basement of the school, along with rest rooms and the custodial facilities. A library was at the far end of the left wing. Stairs went to the second floor in stairwells on each side of the lobby. On the second floor above the lobby were the teachers' lounge and the guidance offices. I began to stroll.
They had come in the front door, apparently, and past the offices in the lobby and turned left down the long corridor that ended at the library. Each was wearing a ski mask. Each was carrying two guns. Each had a backpack with extra ammunition in magazines, color-coded to the guns they had. They shot the first teacher they encountered, a young woman named Ruth Cort who had no class that period, and who had probably been on her way from the teachers' lounge upstairs to the library. She had bullets from two different guns in her. But there was no way to say if she had been shot by one shooter with two guns, or two shooters, one gun each. In fact, they had never been able to establish who shot whom. The guns and the backpacks were simply left on a table in the library when Grant came out, and no one could identify which had been used by whom. The cops had tried backtracking, establishing who had what color coding on which gun, but the eyewitnesses gave all possible versions, and it proved fruitless. There was powder residue on two coveralls that the shooters had discarded in the library, but none on their hands, because they wore gloves. The gloves, too, were discarded, and there was no way to establish which pair belonged to whom. Both had powder residue on them.
The Norman Keep conceit ended in the lobby. The cinderblock corridor was painted two tones of green and lined with lockers, punctuated by gray metal classroom doors. I went into the first classroom. The walls were plasterboard painted like the corridor. There was a chalkboard, windows, chairs with writing arms. A teacher's table up front with a lectern on it. Chalk in the tray at the bottom of the chalkboard. A big, round electric clock on the wall above the door. It had the personality of a holding pen.
l could taste the stiflement, the limitation, the deadly boredom, the elephantine plod of the clock as it ground through the day. I could remember looking through windows like these at the world of the living outside the school. People usually going about freely. I tried too remember what Henry Adams had written. 'A teacher is a man employed to tell lies to little boys'? Something like that. I wondered if anyone had lied to little girls in those days.
I moved on down the corridor, following the route of the shooters. I was wearing loafers with leather heels. I could hear my own footsteps ringing in the hard, empty space. The shooters hadn't made it to the second floor. The first Dowling cops had shown up about the time the shooters reached the library, and the shooters holed up there. Hostages were facedown on the floor, including the school librarian, a woman of fifty-seven, and a male math teacher who had been in there reading The New York Times. I could almost feel their moment, complete control, everybody doing what they were told, even the teachers. The room was unusual in no way. Reading tables, books, newspapers in a rack, the librarian's desk up front. Quiet Please. I looked at some of the books: Ivanhoe, Outline of History, Shakespeare: Collected Works, The Red Badge of Courage, Walden, The Catcher in the Rye, Native Son. Nothing dangerous. No bad swearing.
The windows faced west. And the late sun, low enough now to shine nearly straight through the windows, made the languid dust motes glisten with its gaze. I walked to the back of the library, near the big globe that stood in the far corner. I would have stood there, where I could see the door and the windows, holding a loaded gun in either hand, in command. King of the scene.
The library door opened as I stood looking at the room, and two Dowling cops walked in. They were young. One was bigger. They were both wearing straw Smokey the Bear hats. Summer-issue.
"What exactly are you doing here?" the bigger one said.
"Reliving school days," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"School days," I said. "You know. Dear old golden-rule days."
They both frowned.
"Chief wants us to bring you over to the station," the bigger one said.
The fact that the chief wanted me didn't mean I had to go. But I thought it would be in my best interest to cooperate with the local cops, at least until it wasn't.
"I've got my car," I said. "I'll follow you down."
Chapter 5
THE DOWLING POLICE STATION looked like a rambling, white-shingled Cape. The Dowling police chief looked like a Methodist minister I had known once in Laramie, when I was a little kid. He was tall and thin with a gray crew cut and a close-cropped gray moustache. His glasses were rimless. He wore a white shirt with short sleeves and epaulets and some sort of crest pinned to each epaulet. The shirt was pressed with military creases. His chief's badge was large and gold. His black gun belt was off, folded neatly and lying on the side table near his desk. His gun was in the holster, a big-caliber pearl-handled revolver.
"I'm Cromwell," he said. "Chief of Police."
"Spenser," I said.
"I know your name," Cromwell said. "Sit down."
I sat.
"Real tragedy," Cromwell said, "what happened over at that school."
I nodded.
"We got there as soon as we heard, contained it, waited for backup and cooperated in the apprehension of the perpetrators," Cromwell said.
I nodded.
"You ever been a police officer, Spenser?"
"Yes."
"Then you know how it goes. You do the job, and the press looks for some way to make you look bad."
I waited.
"We got some bad press. It came from people who do not know anything at all about policework. But it has stung my department, and, to be honest with you, it has stung me."
I nodded.
"We played it by the book," Cromwell said. "Straight down the line. By the book. And, by God, we kept a tragedy from turning into a holocaust."
"Should I be taking notes?" I said.
Cromwell leaned back in his chair and looked at me hard. He pointed a finger at me, and jabbed it in my direction a couple of times.
"Now that was a wiseassed remark," Cromwell said. "And you might as well know it right up front. We have zero tolerance for wiseasses around here."
I liked the we. I wondered if it was the royal we, as in we are not amused. On the other hand, it still seemed in my best interest to get along with the local cops. I looked contrite.
"I'll try to do better," I said.
"Be a good idea," Cromwell said. "Now what we don't need is somebody coming along and poking around and riling everybody up again."
I was back to nodding again. Cromwell liked nodding.
"So, who hired you?" Cromwell said.
I thought about that for a moment. On the one hand, there was no special reason not to tell him. Healy knew. DiBella already knew. On the other hand, it didn't do my career any good to spill my client's name to every cop who asked. Besides, he was annoying me. I shook my head.
"You're not a lawyer," Cromwell said. "You have no privilege."
"When I'm employed by an attorney on behalf of a client, there is some extension of privilege," I said.
"Who's the lawyer?" Cromwell said.
"I'm not employed by a lawyer," I said.
"Than what the hell are you talking about?" Cromwell said.
&nb
sp; "I rarely know," I said.
I smiled my winning smile.
"What's our policy on wiseasses around here?" Cromwell said.
"Zero tolerance," I said. "Except for me."
Cromwell didn't say anything for a time. He folded his arms across his narrow chest and looked at me with his deadeyed cop look. I waited.
Finally, he said, "Let me make this as clear and as simple as I can. We don't want you around here, nosing into a case that is already closed."
I nodded.
"And we are prepared to make it very unpleasant for you if you persist."
I nodded.
"You have anything to say to that?" Cromwell said.
"How about, Great Caesar's Ghost!" I said.
Cromwell kept the dead-eyed stare on me.
"Or maybe just an audible swallow," I said.
Cromwell kept the stare.
"A little pallor?" I said.
Cromwell stared at me some more.
"Get the hell out of here," Cromwell said finally.
I stood.
"You must have screwed this up pretty bad," I said.
"If you're smart, you son of a bitch," Cromwell said, "you won't be back."
"I never claimed smart," I said, and walked out the door. At least he didn't shoot me.
Chapter 6
FRESH FROM MY TRIUMPH with the Chief of Police, I thought I might as well go and charm the kid's lawyer, too. Richard Leeland had an office in a small shopping center, upstairs over the village grocery. From his window you could look at the eighteenth-century meeting house which lent New England authenticity to the town common, so you wouldn't get confused and think you were in Chicago.
"Wow," he said, "a private eye. We don't run into many private eyes out here."
"Your loss," I said.
"I'm sure," Leeland said. "May I ask you a question?"
He was a tall, slim man with a well-tanned bald head. He looked like he'd be good at tennis or bike riding.
"Sure."
"Who hired you to try and clear Jared?"
"You don't know?" I said.
Leeland smiled.
"It's why I'm asking," he said.
I thought about it for a minute. It made no sense that he didn't know, and it made no sense for me to keep secrets from my client's lawyer.
"His grandmother," I said.
"Oh, God," Leeland said, "Lily."
"Oh, God?" I said.
"She means well," Leeland said, "but she's beginning to allow her age."
I nodded. Leeland was silent, his left hand at his mouth, looking at me, squeezing his lower lip between his thumb md forefinger. I waited.
After a while he said, "Jared confessed, you know."
I nodded.
"The Grant kid says Jared was with him."
I nodded.
"Doesn't that seem like you really have no case?" Leeland said.
"I have a case," I said. "I just don't know the outcome."
"The boy's guilty," Leeland said.
"Mrs. Fllsworth thinks otherwise."
"For God's sake, Spenser. She wouldn't believe it if she saw him do it."
"So you're going to plead him?"
"Guilty, see if we can bargain."
"How about insanity?" I said.
"He knew what he did was wrong," Leeland said.
"Irresistible compulsion?" I said.
He shrugged. "Won't fly," he said.
"You have a shrink talk to him?" I said.
"We have the Dowling Academy consulting psychologist."
I nodded. "Name?"
"Why do you want to know?" Leeland said.
"I want to talk with him or her."
"I don't know if I should tell you," Leeland said.
"You think I can't find the name of the Dowling Academy consulting shrink?" I said.
Leeland shrugged.
"Her," he said. "Dr. Blair, Beth Ann Blair."
"See," I said, "how easy that was?"
"Mr. Spenser," Leeland said. "The boy is guilty. I know it, his parents know it, everyone knows it."
"Except Mrs. Ellsworth," I said.
Leeland ignored me.
"My job," he said, "quite frankly, is to try and soften the consequences the best way I can."
I nodded.
"Have you ever tried a murder case?" I said.
"Not really."
"Not really? How do you not really try a murder case?"
"I guess I meant no, I haven't," Leeland said.
"Do you know who's prosecuting?"
"Bethel County District Attorney's office."
"Know the prosecutor?" I said.
"His name is Francis Cleary."
"Be interesting to know how many murder cases their guy has tried."
"I'm a damned good lawyer," Leeland said. "I resent what you're implying."
I nodded. Spreading good will wherever I went.
"No offense," I said. "Did you get him a deal for copping?"
"Excuse me?"
"Did he get anything from the prosecution for confessing."
"He confessed without coercion or enticement," Leeland said, "to the Chief of Police."
"Cromwell," I said.
"Yes. You've met him."
I nodded.
"Fine law officer."
I nodded.
"How about the other kid," I said, "Grant. He get any kind of deal for fingering Clark?"
"I don't represent him," Leeland said.
"Who does?"
"Firm in Boston-Batson and Doyle."
"Who's the attorney?" I said.
"Alex Taglio."
"You and he talked?"
"We have," Leelund said. "We don't entirely agree."
"What's his plan?"
"I'm afraid that's confidential among attorneys."
"Sure," I said. "How's the kid doing?"
"He seems very withdrawn," Leeland said.
"I can see why he might," I said. "I'll need to talk with him."
"He really doesn't have much to say," Leeland said.
"Maybe he will," I said, "if he talks to someone who can at least entertain the possibility that he's innocent."
"I'd prefer not," Leeland said.
"You won't set up a meeting?"
"His parents have requested that he see only them and me," Leeland said.
"They think he's guilty, too," I said.
"They have taken him at his word," Leeland said.
"Trust is a wonderful thing," I said.
Chapter 7
RITA AND I browsed the food stands that lined both walls in Quincy Market in midafternoon, selected our lunches, and I paid for them. We took our food to the rotunda and sat among the tourists and suburban teenagers to dine.
"We may be the only residents of this city in the building," I said.
"I know it's not hip," Rita said. "But I kind of like it here. It's very lively, and there's lots of stuff to see."
"Yeah," I said.
There were old people-almost certainly retired, they had the look-and white kids from Littleton and Plymouth wearing three-hundred-dollar sneakers and sloganed T-shirts and hats at odd angles, trying hard to look ghetto. There were harried-looking young men and women with strollers. There was a scattering of suits, mostly young, and noticeable numbers of solemn Asian tourists.
"There's not much to know," Rita said, "about Richard Leeland. Comes from money. Yale Law School. Joined his father's law firm. His father also comes from money. Nobody has to work very hard. Father's semiretired. Richard does the heavy lifting."
"Which is?" I said.
"Real estate closings, wills, that stuff," Rita said. "No criminal experience. You know who the prosecutor is?"
"Francis Cleary," I said.
"Oh, Jesus," Rita said. "He'll eat your guy alive."
"He's good?"
"Not only good but zealous. He started life as a Jesuit priest, then left and became a lawyer. He's the chief AD in Bethel County."
"Not driven by greed," I said.
Rita smiled. She had a slice of pizza, from the pointed end of which she took a small bite.
When she had chewed it and swallowed, she said, "He believes in good and evil."
"One of those," I said.
"One of those."
"He says there's no insanity defense."
"He got a shrink?"
"School psychologist."
"You talk to him?"
"No."
"Well, even if the shrink is good, and sometimes they're not," Rita said, "oversimplified, an insanity defense is going to go something like this:
"Expert: Because of a flopp to the fanottim, the defendant suffers from irresistible compulsion.
"Cleary: How do you know he has a compulsion?
"Expert: I've interviewed him.
"Cleary: And he told you he had a compulsion?
"Expert: Yes.
"Cleary: How do you know it's irresistible?
"Expert: He acted on it. He couldn't help himself.
"Cleary: So if somebody commits a crime, and claims compulsion, the commission is proof that the compulsion was irrvsistible?
"Expert: Well . . ."
I held up my hand. "Got it," I said.
"A good defense lawyer and a good expert, or maybe several, can shape this, make it work better than I've described," Rita said. "But there's no reason to think this guy is a good defense lawyer. If the kid is a credible witness on his own behalf, it would help."
"I haven't seen him yet, either."
"You sound like you're getting stonewalled," Rita said.
"Local Police chief doesn't want me around. I figure that's because he botched the thing badly and doesn't want attention called."
"So why doesn't the kid's lawyer want you around?"
"Doesn't want me screwing up the kid's plea, if I had to guess."
"Which you do," Rita said. "Not having anything in the way of facts.
"He doesn't want me talking to the kid," I said.
"Bethel County Jail?"
"Yeah."
"I know people out there, you need any help."
"Healy can get me in there," I said.
"I'm sure he can," Rita said. "You talked to the parents yet?"
"Not yet."
"That might be interesting."
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