She followed the handwritten signs to the makeshift office that was nothing more than a repurposed closet with a desk, telephone, computer and one staff person. The handwritten sign on the front of the desk read: ‘Administration Office Outpost – full services available in trailers 201 and 202 on the west side of the building.’ Fortunately, the woman in the small cubicle was able to direct Lucinda to the cafeteria where all staff had gathered for a meeting. She eased open the doors and slipped inside. A psychologist was talking to the group about the impact on students and preparing them to anticipate wide reactions from boisterous acting out to total withdrawal.
Principal Rose Johnson spotted the detective before Lucinda located her. Rose left her seat and walked to the back of the room and the two women stepped out into the hallway. ‘What can I do for you, Lieutenant?’ the principal asked.
‘I was hoping you could provide me with a list of parking permits for red pick-up trucks. Would that be possible?’
‘Thank heavens that the school district tech guru insisted on a rigid schedule of computer back-ups. The desktop where that data was inputted was totally destroyed but we were able to restore it all on to a laptop. We’ll need to go outside to the temporary office – oh my, what a mess.’
‘The staff seems to be taking it well.’
‘Ha! You should have arrived ten minutes earlier. They were acting like a bunch of twelfth graders ready to escape the system. Shouting questions at me and demanding answers I simply do not have. A few thought that we shouldn’t start classes up again until there was a memorial service for Fred Garcia. I told them that Mrs Garcia planned an early-evening celebration of her husband’s life that they all could attend but they objected, saying that we should have a remembrance here on campus. The moment I had that under control, a few others voiced their outrage that we were still in this building, but, honestly, there is no place else for us to go. The school-age population has been exploding in the district and there’s no room anywhere. I did get one good and reasonable suggestion out of the shouting match, though. We have maintenance workers on their way with plywood to block the sight of the ripped-apart hallway from the students’ view. That should be completed right after lunch. Well, here we are,’ she said, pulling open the door of the trailer marked 201.
Inside, three frazzled-looking women all talked on phones while non-stop ringing continued in the background. ‘Oh dear,’ Rose said. ‘I’m going to have to recruit a couple of teachers to help out in here.’
Before picking up another call, a gray-haired woman said, ‘Rose, it’s been non-stop all morning.’
‘Sorry, Meredith, I’ll go get some back-up for you but, unfortunately, right now I need to pull someone off the phones to get some data for Lieutenant Pierce.’
‘Tiffany was the first one in this morning and probably needs a break from the calls more than anyone.’
‘Thanks, Meredith,’ Rose said and turned to Lucinda. ‘Meredith is our office manager and you’re in luck, Tiffany is our go-to computer nerd so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting what you need.’ After making introductions, Rose excused herself to find more staff to answer the incoming calls.
Lucinda explained what she needed to the short-haired blonde with intense brown eyes peering from behind a boxy pair of black glasses. In less than five minutes, the detective had a print-out of the staff names for the drivers of red pick-up trucks and another one with the students who drove the same type of vehicle.
Before going back into the main building to talk to any of the teachers on the list, Lucinda went to the parking lot to see what she could learn from looking over the vehicles. The first one she located belonged to Tilly Campbell, a math instructor and 4-H Club sponsor. She drove a full-sized pick-up with a crew cab. The bed had a black liner that was scratched and pitted as if it had seen a lot of hard use. It sat up a bit higher than the average truck, making it a good fit for the witness description. Although not brand new, it was only a couple of years old and its paint was still bright and shiny. Inside, the cab was a rolling disaster with piles of paper and dozens of pens and pencils scattered on the floorboards.
The next red truck, owned by chemistry teacher Chet Bowen, was a small, faded red, older-model Ranger. It had quite a few years on it and the bed was nearly scraped clean of paint. The cab, though, was spotless. The dash appeared polished, the steering wheel wrapped in leather and not a single piece of trash or paperwork could be seen anywhere. The only visible article inside was a neatly folded T-shirt that read ‘If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate’.
The third vehicle in question was the most likely suspect of all. A GMC Sierra Denali in metallic red with large, chrome-laden wheels. The rear sat up higher than the front, giving it the appearance of a sprinter ready for take-off. The bed was as spotless as if it never carried anything heavier than a grocery bag. The interior was clean with black perforated leather seats and a shiny, reflective peace sign dangling from its visor. The owner was Brittany Schaffer, an English teacher.
Lucinda went into the building and located Rose Johnson who set her up in a classroom and sent someone to find Annie Potts, a cafeteria worker who could assist Lucinda by rounding up the teachers she wanted to question. Before Rose left, Lucinda showed her the list of teachers and said, ‘Do any of them seem likely to have been involved?’
Rose thought for a minute and shook her head. ‘Chet Bowen sure isn’t – he’s the most boring man I’ve ever met. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Put him in front of a classroom to talk chemistry to students and he transforms into the most animated instructor you’ve ever seen. Let him talk about his favorite subject and his eyes twinkle, his hands fly and he bounces around the room as if every instant leads to a new and dramatic discovery for mankind. Anything else and he’s a major yawner.’
‘Maybe the chemistry of explosive reactions would interest him?’ Lucinda suggested.
‘Nah, not Chet. There’s not an extreme bone in his body. An unenthused Presbyterian, moderate Republican with a placid wife and two very well-behaved and equally boring children.’
‘So what about Tilly Campbell?’
‘She’s a real pistol from Texas: down-to-earth, with an uninhibited laugh and a devotion to livestock. She sees herself as an urban missionary for the wholesome farm life – but try as she might, she never seems to round-up more than a handful of students for the 4H Club. I doubt that she’d never get caught up in anything dicey.’
‘Brittany Schaffer?’
Rose rolled her eyes. ‘I swear I do not know how that woman managed to get a degree. I don’t think she’s capable of plotting anything but a party. She’s flighty and too flirty with male teachers and students alike – I’ve had to talk to her about that on more than one occasion since I came here as principal three years ago. And the way she dresses! I have had to speak to her about that more times than I can remember. In fact, I spoke to her about it this morning. Told her that dress she was wearing was perfectly acceptable for an all-staff day but I didn’t want to see it on a class day. She got all pouty with me, whining that it was a brand-new dress she bought especially to wear to school. I finally got her to promise not to wear it on campus when students were here but I doubt if she’ll remember that commitment for more than a week. As the common wisdom suggests, look up “sieve-head” in the dictionary and you’ll see her picture.’
‘Do any of them have any grudge or problem with Fred Garcia?’
‘Fred? You think he was the reason for what happened here?’
‘Just covering all the bases – no matter how unlikely.’
‘I can understand that,’ Rose said with a sigh, ‘but I think that avenue of inquiry is a waste of time. Fred was everybody’s friend. Even though it wasn’t his job, he’s the one they all turned to when they had a flat tire, a car that wouldn’t start or something heavy to carry into the school. And Fred helped them all, every time they asked. Well, look, here’s Annie. I’ll leave you two to get
your job done.’
Annie appeared young enough to be one of the students. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a perky ponytail and a meteor shower of freckles spread across her cheeks and nose. She wore jeans, a T-shirt and a big white apron folded over and tied tight behind her back.
‘Annie, you can take off that apron and leave it here if you like,’ Lucinda said.
‘Shoot, ma’am, nobody would recognize me without it,’ she said with a big grin. ‘Fact is, they’d probably hustle me outside and tell me that classes won’t start till tomorrow. I learned at the beginning of the school year that the apron is all that stops me from being sent to the office when I’m caught in the hallway in the middle of class periods.’
‘You do have a point,’ Lucinda said with a laugh. ‘I’d like to talk to Chet Bowen first.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ she said and bounced off with her ponytail swinging.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jake grew more and more exasperated with Connelly with every passing mile they drove. Jake tried logic, teasing, reverse psychology but nothing seemed to ease Connelly’s obsession with a Muslim plot. They visited a mosque where Connelly threatened and insulted an imam. They stopped in at every Pakistani-owned convenience store in town – even going out of the city limits to badger the handful of shopkeepers in the suburbs.
Connelly topped it all when he went into Dr Abhinav Singh’s office and barged into an examination room where a patient sat on the end of the examination table in his street clothes. ‘You,’ he said, holding up his badge and pointing to the turbaned physician, ‘have some questions to answer.’
‘Sir, I am in the middle of examining a patient. Please return to the waiting room and I will be with you momentarily,’ the doctor said in a measured, calm voice.
A nurse stepped into the doorway. ‘Doctor, I am sorry, I tried—’
‘Do not worry, Miss Frazier,’ Dr Singh said.
‘Come on, Connelly. This is highly inappropriate,’ Lovett objected, half convinced that if the cuffs belonged on anyone, it was Connelly.
‘Cuff him, Lovett,’ Connelly ordered.
‘No,’ Lovett said, shoving the ATF agent back. ‘Out of here now.’
‘Look at their headdresses, Lovett,’ Connelly said, pushing back. ‘They are probably conspiring in here right now. Terrorists are always making political statements with their headgear.’
‘They are Sikhs, not Palestinians, Connelly. It’s religious, not political. Get out of here now or this is not going to end well.’ Jake winced when he glanced over at the two other men, now standing side by side, appearing alarmed and uncertain of what to do.
‘I’m taking them both in, Lovett. And that’s that.’
‘Then you are doing it on your own and you won’t be bringing them into the FBI office.’
‘Fine, Lovett. I’ll have you off this case by lunchtime. You might want to start clearing out your desk, too. I’d lay odds that you’ll be terminated before day’s end.’
Jake thought about trying to overpower Connelly and force him outside. That action, though, seemed destined to escalate the situation into a violent response – someone could get injured or even killed. He spun around, walked out of the doorway, passing the shocked faces of the staff nurses, and went outside. He needed to get help for the ATF agent – Jake was now certain that Connelly was unstable and obsessed. Jake wished they’d taken his car. If they had, he could have left Connelly here without any transportation and easier to intercept.
He headed up the sidewalk in the direction of the coffee shop he’d seen just up the street. Stepping inside, he ordered a coffee with a shot of espresso and sat down to think over the situation. Connelly clearly had an unhealthy obsession with anyone whose skin color and features made them appear Middle Eastern. He seemed willing to believe that they all were Muslim and that every Muslim was a terrorist. And it appeared to Jake as if Connelly had come completely unhinged. Was he having a serious mental breakdown or a psychotic break? Or was it all a symptom of the early onset of dementia?
Jake had worked with ATF agents before and found every one of them to be competent professionals who didn’t jump to conclusions or take rash actions. They were analytical, logical and knowledgeable. Connelly didn’t appear to be any of the above.
But what exactly can I do about it? Jake wondered. Should I call the Wicked Witch or should I go directly to the ATF and let them handle what is their internal problem? Would that look like a power play? Or would the Deputy Federal Security Director appreciate my discretion? It was hard to tell. Wesley clearly had a bias against local law enforcement. Did that extend to every agency but his own?
Jake got up and ordered another cup. He knew he could not sit on the sidelines. Connelly had authority over the general public and he was misusing that power in a way that indicated psychiatric problems of some type.
He stepped outside, coffee cup in one hand, cell phone in the other. He stared at the keypad for a moment and then placed a call.
TWENTY-SIX
Chemistry teacher Chet Bowen did not look capable of speaking to a group of three or four, let alone a whole classroom of teenagers. A red bow tie bobbed on a prominent Adam’s apple. His striped shirt struck a discordant note with a plaid sports jacket that appeared to be a refugee from the 1970s.
Lucinda started to stand when he entered the room. Then she noticed his tiny stature and the expression of meek surrender behind his dark-framed glasses and decided that he required gentler handling to get his full cooperation.
Chet stood in the doorway as if waiting for her permission to enter. When Lucinda greeted him, he walked into the room with tiny, hesitant steps as if he was afraid the floor might collapse beneath him at any moment.
‘Please have a seat, Mr Bowen,’ Lucinda said, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the table from hers.
He eased down and folded his hands on the surface. ‘I don’t really think I know anything about the explosion at the school but I will be glad to answer any questions you have for me.’
‘You drive a red pick-up truck?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Did you drive it up to the school on Sunday morning?’
Chet furrowed his brow. ‘No, I did not. You think my truck was here that morning? That’s not possible.’
‘Did you loan your truck to anyone else or give anyone permission to drive it?’
‘Not since last summer.’
‘Who did you loan it to then?’
‘My neighbor – but he had it for less than an hour. He needed to pick up a dresser he bought at a yard sale.’
‘Could he have made a copy of your key?’
Chet’s eyes widened. ‘A copy of my key? Why would he do that?’
‘Maybe he wanted to use your vehicle without your knowledge in the future.’
‘We’ve been neighbors for nineteen years, I can’t imagine—’
‘I’ll need his name and address, please.’
He provided the information and then added, ‘Please make it clear to him that I have not accused him of anything.’
‘Certainly, Mr Bowen,’ Lucinda said. ‘Do you know a student named David Baynes?’
‘The boy who died? No, he was never in one of my classes. I can’t recall ever hearing his name before learning about his death.’
‘How about Todd Matthews?’
‘The name sounds vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. I don’t think he was one of my students. I could check the school records if you like.’
‘You did know Fred Garcia, didn’t you?’
‘Of course. Fred’s as much a part of this school as the roof above our heads.’
‘How would you describe your relationship with him?’ Lucinda asked.
‘Well, we weren’t friends, we didn’t socialize outside of the school, but we had a cordial acquaintance. Exchanged greetings when we passed, like that. He once helped me tie up my muffler tailpipe when it was dragging. Good Lord, Lieutenan
t, you don’t think Fred was involved in this conflagration, do you?’
Lucinda ignored his question and asked, ‘Where were you on Sunday morning, Mr Bowen, and what did you do?’
‘I was home until sometime after noon. I rose at approximately six twenty-five a.m. Answered the call of nature, brushed my teeth and then brewed a pot of coffee. After putting on my robe and slippers, I walked out front to collect my newspaper. Then I read it while drinking coffee. About nine a.m., I set that down and turned on the CBS Sunday Morning show, then switched over and watched the last half of Meet the Press. After that, I read a couple of journal articles until the phone rang and I heard about what happened at the school.’
‘Would you call that a typical Sunday morning for you?’
‘Until the phone call, yes. I am very much a creature of habit,’ he said. A weak grin flashed across his face and then faded as quickly as it had arrived.
‘After the phone call, you left the house?’
‘Yes, I went up to the school but I left right away when I saw all the media there. We’re not supposed to talk to reporters ever, unless it’s been cleared by the principal.’
‘Do you have any students who have demonstrated an abnormal interest in chemical reactions that cause explosions?’
Chet chuckled. ‘Adolescents – particularly the boys – are very destructive by nature. Every year, someone asks me how to make a Molotov cocktail or how to blow up an anthill or something like that. But abnormal interest? I wouldn’t say that.’
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