Ahead of me, down the hall, I spotted a sign indicating the principal’s office. I could feel my anxiety mount as it had every day of my life during my high school years. I’d been so out of it, such a dork. I’d survived by rebelling—smoking dope and hanging out with other misfits like me. Here I was again, only all grown up (allegedly), crossing the threshold voluntarily, looking for answers to questions I’d never even dreamed of when I was young.
The school secretary was in her early thirties with brown eyes and short silky hair the color of pecan shells. A gossamer array of freckles lay across her nose and upper cheeks. She was casually dressed: beige slacks, short-sleeve brown sweater, and flat-heeled shoes. Her laminated name tag read ADRIANNE RICHARDS, and under that, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. She got up when she saw me and came to the counter. “May I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa. I’m working with a couple of police detectives trying to identify a homicide victim, who died in August of ’69.”
“You mean here?”
“We’re not sure.” I took a brief time-out, giving her a verbal sketch of the girl we were trying to identify. “We’ve been down here talking to local dentists, hoping to locate her through her old dental records. I just talked to Dr. Nettleton. He thinks she was a patient, but he can’t remember her name. I thought if I could talk to a couple of teachers, my description might ring a bell. Do you have any idea who was on the faculty back then?”
She stared at me blankly. I could almost see her compute the possibilities. I thought she might speak, but her expression shut down and she dropped her gaze. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Eichenberger. He’s the principal. All our student records are confidential.”
“I don’t want her records. I just want to know her name.”
“Mr. Eichenberger doesn’t allow us to give out information like that.”
“You mean you know her?”
Her cheeks had begun to color. “Of course not. I’m talking about school policy.”
I stared at her, annoyed. Maybe as administrative assistant she was unaccustomed to people talking back. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up in detention myself. “I don’t understand the problem.”
“Mr. Eichenberger’s the only one authorized to discuss the students’ files.”
“Fine. Is he available?”
“I’ll check, but I’d have to see proper identification first.”
I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and opened the flap to show the photocopy of my license. I passed it across the counter.
“May I take this?”
“As long as I get it back.”
“Just a moment.”
She crossed the office, approaching a closed door that bore the nameplate, LAWRENCE EICHENBERGER, PRINCIPAL. She knocked once and went in. After perhaps a minute, the door opened and Mr. Eichenberger emerged with Adrianne Richards right behind him. She handed me my wallet and then returned to her desk, where she busied herself with paperwork so she could eavesdrop without appearing interested.
Mr. Eichenberger was a man in his early sixties with sparse, soft-looking white hair, glasses, and a bulbous nose. His complexion looked sunburned, and I picked up the scent of his aftershave, which smelled like incense. He wore a vivid blue dress shirt, a dark sweater vest, and a hand-tied bow tie. His manner was officious, his expression suggesting he was hell-bent on thwarting me. “I understand you have a problem with one of our students.”
“Not quite,” I said. Mentally, I could feel my eyes cross. No wonder I’d hated high school, where I’d been wholly at the mercy of guys just like him. I went through my entire explanation again, feigning a patience I didn’t really feel.
Mr. Eichenberger said, “Ms. Millhone, let me make something clear. I’ve been here since the mid-sixties. As a matter of fact, I’m retiring in May. I came to the job when I was forty and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I don’t mean to brag, but I remember just about every student who’s come through those doors. I make it my priority to know who they are and what they’re about. That’s what these kids need—not a buddy or a pal, they need guidance from adults with their best interests at heart. We’re in the business of getting these kids shaped up to face the real world. They need skills—reading and writing primarily—all in preparation for productive, well-paid work. If they’re not college material, we make sure they find trades. Truancy, gangs, drug problems—we don’t see much of that here, despite our proximity to Los Angeles.”
I flicked a look over my shoulder. Were we being filmed? It’s not that his sentiments weren’t admirable, but the spiel sounded canned and had nothing to do with me. “Excuse me, but is this relevant?”
He seemed to collect himself, as though recovering from a momentary lapse of consciousness. “Yes. Well. You were talking about a student. It would help if you’d give me the details. I can’t be of assistance without that.”
Ever obliging, I repeated my tale while his assistant moved papers randomly across her desk. Before I could finish my account, Mr. Eichenberger shook his head. “Not here. Not during my administration. You might try Lockaby. That’s the alternative high school.”
“Really. I didn’t know there was one.”
“It’s over on the Kennedy Pike; a white frame building across from the town cemetery. You can’t miss it.”
“Is there someone in particular I should ask for?”
“Mrs. Bishop is the principal. She might be able to help.”
“You didn’t know the girl yourself?”
“If I had, I’d say so. I wouldn’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”
“What about your assistant?”
“Mrs. Richards wasn’t working here back then.”
“Too bad. I thought it was worth a try,” I said. I took out a business card and made a note of the motel number on the back. “I’m at the Ocean View for the next couple of days. I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything that might help.”
“You mentioned a foster family. I’d try Social Services.”
“Thanks. That’s a good suggestion. I’ll do that.”
I decided not to make another move until I’d brought Dolan up to speed. For the second time that morning, I was headed back to the motel. I left the car in the parking space in front of his room and gave a rap at his door. From inside, I caught the muffled sounds of the blaring television set. Dolan must not have heard me because he didn’t answer my knock. Head tilted against the door, I waited and then tried it again. No deal. I turned and stared off across the parking lot toward the office. I let my eyes stray to the alcove that housed the soft-drink and Coke machines. No sign of him. I knocked again, this time sounding like the ATF at the outset of a drug raid. Maybe he was in the shower or otherwise indisposed.
I crossed the parking lot to the office and poked my head in the door. The desk clerk, a girl in her twenties, was sitting on a swivel stool, flipping through a copy of People magazine. I’d interrupted her in the middle of an article about Princess Di. The clerk was dark-haired, pretty in a sulky sort of way, with a mouth way too wide. Her lipstick was dark red and her lashes were so thick I thought they must be false. She was wearing a navy skirt and white blouse, topped by a smart red blazer with a phony crest on the patch pocket. The outfit must have been provided by the motel because it didn’t look like anything she’d have worn without the threat of being fired. To compensate, she’d shortened the skirt and left the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She was chewing gum, a habit I’d been warned against when I was in tenth grade. My French teacher swore it made you look like a cow and I haven’t chewed gum since. I hadn’t even liked the teacher, but the admonition stuck.
I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you’ve seen the fellow from room 130? I know he’s expecting me, but he doesn’t answer his door.”
She leaned over and checked the register, flipping back a page. While she did this, she pushe
d her tongue through the wad of gum until it bulged like a small pink lung being extruded through her lips. “You’re talking about the old guy?”
“He isn’t old,” I said, offended.
“Yeah, right. The day he checked in? He got an AARP discount. Fifteen percent off. You can’t get that unless you’re old. You have to be fifty at least.”
“I’m fifty myself.”
She said, “Far out. You look forty.” She blew a bubble and popped it to punctuate her point. She looked at me. “Oops, sorry. You were kidding, right?”
“Never mind. I asked for that,” I said. “Did he leave the motel for some reason?”
“He went out for cigarettes, but I saw him come back.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Hour. He stopped by to pick up messages and then he went to his room.”
“Had any calls come in?”
“Ask him yourself, you’re such a pal.”
“Ring his room for me, okay?”
“Sure.” She picked up the phone, blowing another bubble as she punched the number in. It must have rung fifteen times. “He must have gone out again. Lotta old people get antsy. Too much energy. Have to be on the go or it drives ’em nuts.”
“I appreciate your assessment. Can you come with me to his room and use your key?”
“Nope. I’m here by myself and I can’t leave the desk. Why don’t you go around the back and bang on his bathroom window? He might be on the pot.”
I didn’t like this at all. I returned to his room and knocked again about as loudly as the villagers at Frankenstein’s castle door. Nothing. I circled the building, counting off the intervening rooms until I reached one I assumed was his. All the bathroom windows were too high off the ground to do me any good. I went back to his front door and stood there, undecided, while I thought about life. Why wasn’t he answering? I reached for my shoulder bag and pulled out my wallet. In the windowed compartment under my driver’s license, I keep a simple set of lock picks. This was not the battery-operated device I own that opens just about anything. I’d left that one at home, primarily because if I happened to get caught with it, the cops would take a dim view. What I had in hand was a set of the old-fashioned picks, a little hook and a tiny torque wrench, for occasions such as this. In my bag, I also carry a pin light and a folding screwdriver, neither of which would be necessary for today’s B&E.
I knocked one more time and called Dolan’s name in bullish tones. The guy in the next room opened his door and stuck his head out. “Hey! Keep it down, for cripes sake? And while you’re at it, you can tell that jerk to turn off his TV set. It’s been blasting since ten o’clock and I’m sick of it. Some of us have to work.”
“Sorry. He’s handicapped,” I said, and tapped my ear. “Severe hearing deficit, the poor guy.”
The man’s expression shifted from annoyance to something less. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”
“That’s okay. People treat him badly all the time. He’s used to it.”
I waited until he’d disappeared and then I set to work. In movies, thieves tend to pop the locks in no time flat, often with the use of a credit card, a method I avoid. I don’t trust the process. I knew a guy once whose credit card snapped off in the door he was trying to open. A neighbor spotted him breaking in and called the cops. When he heard the sirens approach, he hightailed it out of there, leaving half his card behind. The cops picked up his surname and the last six digits of his account. He was busted within a day.
In reality, picking locks takes practice, great patience, and no small measure of dexterity. Though most lock mechanisms are similar, there are variations that would drive the novice burglar insane. It usually takes me a few tries. I manipulated my little torque wrench with one eye on the parking lot. If Dolan was out, I didn’t want him to catch me breaking into his room. And I was not all that keen on having the cops called if one of the other occupants was watching me from behind the drapes. At the same time, if he was in there, it was time to find out what was going on. I felt the last gate give way. I turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped in. “Lieutenant Dolan?”
He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, his shoes off. He turned toward me. His breathing was shallow and his face was a pasty gray. I flipped off the TV and crossed the room.
His voice was hoarse and raspy. “Heard you knocking, but I was in the bathroom being sick. I’m not doing so good.”
“I can see that. You look awful. Are you having chest pains?” Up close, I could see a fine sheen of clammy sweat on his forehead and cheeks.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Tightness across here. Hard to breathe. Feels like an elephant sitting on my chest.”
“Oh, shit.” I picked up the phone and dialed 911.
16
The Emergency Medical Services crew seemed to take forever, though in truth it was no more than six minutes. I alerted the front desk and then waited in the parking lot so I could flag them down. I heard the sirens before I saw the Fire Department Rescue van speed into view. I waved and the vehicle veered toward me and pulled in with a chirp of brakes. The woman driver and two other EMS techs emerged, wearing bright yellow jackets with FIRE DEPARTMENT written across the backs. They carried their equipment with them as they followed me into Dolan’s room.
I stood to one side, watching as the two guys moved the furniture aside, clearing space to work. Their manner was efficient but conversational, taking care not to further alarm Dolan, who was doubtless already aware of the depth of trouble he was in. One tech loosened his shirt and then placed a stethoscope against his chest. He took Dolan’s pulse and jotted notes on his clipboard, then attached a blood pressure cuff, pumped it, and took a reading, his gaze fixed on the dial. He asked Dolan a series of questions designed to assess the symptoms and events preceding the episode. I was surprised to hear Dolan admit he’d experienced something similar the night before, though the feeling had been less pronounced and had passed within minutes. The woman tech stepped in. She administered two sublingual tabs of nitroglycerin, and then started an IV line while the third technician secured an oxygen cone across Dolan’s nose.
I went outside. A minute later, the crew emerged from the room. Dolan had been loaded onto a gurney. They rolled him as far as the back doors of the ambulance, which they opened to slide him into the rear. A few people passing through the parking lot paused to stare, but most moved on as soon as they realized what was happening. I appreciated their discretion. It’s hard enough to be ill without feeling as though you’ve made a spectacle of yourself.
One tech climbed into the van with Dolan. The rear doors were slammed shut. The hospital was seven blocks away. I got directions from the second tech before he got in the cab of the van on the passenger side. The woman took the wheel again. She backed out and made a beeline for the street, sirens warbling, bar light flashing. I made sure Dolan’s motel room door was locked and followed in his car.
When I arrived, the ambulance had already pulled into the emergency entrance. I parked in the main lot and by the time I entered the waiting room, he’d been rolled into the rear. I spoke to the desk clerk, telling her who I was. She asked me a few questions about Dolan, making me aware how little I really knew about him. I told her he had insurance coverage through the STPD and she said she’d pick up the remaining data from him. She got up and left her desk, clipboard in hand, indicating that the ER doctor would be out as soon as she was finished with him.
I took a seat in the waiting room, which was spare and reasonably pleasant: pale green carpet, fake plants, and piles of tattered magazines. An assortment of children’s toys was scattered on the floor. Lines of interlocking chairs had been arranged, cotillion-fashion, around the edges of the room. In the corner, the face of a television set was blank. Someone had brought in Easter decorations; a basket filled with plastic eggs nestled in impossibly green paper grass. I wasn’t even sure when Easter fell this year, but it was doubtless coming up soon, unless these we
re left from last year. Two patients came in while I was waiting: a man with superficial contusions and abrasions from a bike accident (judging from his shaved legs and his bun-hugging Spandex shorts), and a woman with her right ankle sandwiched between ice packs. Both were taken into examining rooms in the rear, but probably placed on hold while the doctors dealt with Dolan.
Outside, the sun was shining and the town of Quorum was going about its business as though nothing unusual had occurred. It was odd having a medical emergency in the middle of the day. Somehow, in my life, crises of this sort always seem to happen in the dead of night. I couldn’t tally the number of times I’d been sitting in waiting rooms like this one while outside, city streets were deserted and shrouded in darkness.
Restless, I left my seat and wandered into the hall, where I asked a passing nurse for the nearest pay phone. I was directed to the hospital lobby, two long corridors away. I dialed Stacey’s home number, charging the call to my credit card. Two rings later, he was on the line and I was filling him in.
“How’s he doing?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t talked to the doctor yet. I wish I’d busted into his room when I first got there. I’m telling you, Stacey, his face was gray. He should have dialed 911 himself, but I think he was in denial. You know him.”
“This is ridiculous. You can’t do this alone. I’m coming down.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not well yourself. Just stay where you are. I’ve got enough on my hands.”
“I’m fine. Didn’t Dolan tell you? The docs showed my X-rays to some big muckety-muck and she says the shadow’s insignificant. I forget now what they call it, but it’s bullshit. Biopsy came back negative too so I got a clean bill of health.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. Why would I lie about a thing like that? I’m in remission. At least for now.”
Sue Grafton Page 22
