by A. J. Flynn
“Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant?” The words came out sounding cordial, but there was a cloying sweetness to her manner that irritated McPherson.
“No, thank you. I would just like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, of course not. Please take a seat and I’ll answer everything I can.”
Once they were seated, McPherson asked her if she might have a smoke. She regretted it immediately, for it brought on a scurrying about such as she had never seen before.
The woman couldn’t seem to remember where she’d put the ashtray, and when she finally found it, McPherson had to sit and wait while she danced around plants and statues, so there might be a place to set it.
Finally, once everything was arranged she sat down again.
“Now. What would you like to know?”
“It’s about Charlie Turner—“
“Isn’t it terrible?” Mrs. Johnson interrupted. “And he was such a nice boy, too. There aren’t many boys nowadays who are interested in the arts, and he took his music so seriously.”
“So you knew him quite well, then?”
“He stopped by fairly often. I try to keep tidbits around for the children when they come over. He was always so fond of my cream cakes. I can still see him, sitting in front of the computer, listening to violin music and eating my cakes.”
McPherson didn’t have a problem with hyper-feminine women, but this felt like it was getting out of hand. “Other than his violin, do you know of any other interests he had?”
“No, nothing besides his Boy Scout membership. He attended the meetings religiously.”
McPherson took note of that. It was strange that Mrs. Johnson knew just how often the boy went to meetings.
“Then I take it you liked the boy?”
Colleen clasped her hands against her breast. “He was such a sweetheart. So quiet and shy and well-behaved. We used to talk for a long time together. He liked to hear stories about the South. I’m from the South, you know.”
She knew, but she was pretty sure Charlie was more talked at than talked with. The part about him stopping over to listen to violin music fit perfectly with what they already knew, but the kid probably paid a high price for his curiosity in having to listen to this pseudo-Southern belle.
“Then you can’t think of any reason why someone would have disliked Charlie enough to want to hurt him?”
“There wasn’t any reason,” she said dramatically. “A person who could work themselves up to such a state to where they mutilate that poor little boy would have to be insane.”
She mentally rehearsed some of her favorite swear words, then said in a deceptively soft voice, “It appears to have been a simple strangulation, Mrs. Johnson.”
“I know,” the woman answered in a confidential tone. “You officers won’t dare let the public know what really happened.”
McPherson had a choice. She could either leave or tell the woman what she thought about her and her kind, so she rose quickly to her feet and walked towards the door.
“That’s everything for now. If you can think of anything else that might help, feel free to call me at my office.”
Mrs. Johnson looked disappointed that she was leaving so soon. “I’ll call you if I think of anything. The sooner you get him, the sooner we can all get back to sleeping safely. By the way, have you spoken to my husband? He was gone the night of the murder. Not that he could have had anything to do with it, but I just wondered.”
“A few of the other officers will pay him a visit today,” she answered shortly and started briskly toward the car, leaving Mrs. Johnson behind to wonder where her husband must have been at the time of the murder.
“How was your nap?” McPherson snapped at Taylor when she returned to the car.
“Haven’t been able to sleep this time,” the handsome young officer answered. “I’ve been sitting here counting out all the times those crazy housewives come running to the window to peek out. That Fitts woman is leading the pack, with thirteen trips. What the hell do they expect to see?”
“Probably a pedophile, itching to take them next,” McPherson said sourly.
“What?! Out in broad daylight, with a police car sitting out in plain sight?” Taylor asked in amazement. He knew better than to think he was being joshed.
“I don’t think that Fitts woman expects to find one, but it seems to suit her purpose just fine to act like she does.”
“What the hell for?”
“Personal reasons, most likely. She doesn’t seem to like it here, and so what better reason to move than to protect herself and her children from a pedophile?”
Taylor settled himself and started the car. “Hell.”
“Yeah. Let’s take a trip down to the school. I want to talk to the boy’s teachers.”
“OK. Maybe we’ll finally learn something.”
XII
McPherson took in the school as Taylor pulled to a stop in the front of the building. It was a modern design, built using sandstone bricks and wide expanses of glass. To the left of the parking area was a large playground where a track class was in progress.
“Take a look at the legs on some of those kids,” Taylor chuckled. “They’re so skinny you wonder how they even stand on them, much less run.”
“And you think your legs are pretty?” McPherson’s disposition still hadn’t improved after the Johnson interview.
“No, not pretty, but sturdy and serviceable.”
“Well, then you’re very fortunate,” she said sarcastically. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so go ahead and take a nap.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The order had been well-received.
McPherson made her way up the sidewalk, flanked on both sides by a green velvet lawn, and thought about how different her own school had been. A thin-framed building in need of paint, with halls so dark that the lights had to be on all the time, was a far cry from this.
She pushed open the glass door and found a sign pointing the way towards the principal’s office. When she found the door, she knocked and went in.
It was a small, decent office, with a good-sized desk, behind which sat a pleasant-looking blonde girl. The sign atop the desk read Miss Tack.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely.
McPherson removed her credentials from her pocket and showed them to her.
“I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson. I’d like to speak to the principal, if possible.”
A dark shadow crossed the woman’s face. “About poor little Charlie?”
She nodded, and Miss Tack stood up and walked to the inner door. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
In a few seconds she was back. “You can step in.”
The principal’s office was a much larger version of the secretary’s, and he stood for her, waiting with his hand outstretched.
“Happy to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m Mr. Lewis, this school’s principal.”
While they shook hands, the secretary withdrew back to her own office.
“I imagine you’re a busy man, Mr. Lewis, so I’ll be brief. I’d like to speak to some of the teachers who had Charlie as a pupil.”
“Of course, anything we can do to help. A thing like this is so strange and foreign to us that we don’t know much about what’s required, but you can count on our complete co-operation.”
The principal walked to a large file and thumbed through an array of folders. “I’ll check, just to confirm who his teachers were. I hate to say it, but most of the contact I have with the students is with the troublemakers, and believe me, Charlie wasn’t one of them.”
He picked out one of the folders and returned to his desk. “I’ll write up a list and have Miss Tack let them know you’re here.”
He jotted down the names and tapped a button on his desk. Miss Tack re-appeared a second later.
“The lieutenant would like to speak with Charlie’s teachers. Could you contact them and request that they report
to the teacher’s lunchroom? I think that would be a good place.”
“Of course, Mr. Lewis.”
“I’d like to speak to them one at a time, if that’s possible,” McPherson said.
The girl glanced over the list. “Miss Preacher has a free period now, so I’ll ask for her to go first.”
McPherson nodded. “That will be fine, and where can I find the teacher’s lunchroom?”
“I’ll walk you there,” Lewis offered, and he and McPherson exited through the outer office and into the stone-tiled hallway.
“We aren’t familiar with this sort of thing, Lieutenant, but hopefully we can be of help. Have you been making progress?”
“Very little,” McPherson admitted. “In cases like this it’s difficult to find the motive, so it’s always a little slow going.”
“I can imagine. Here we are,” he said, as he pushed open the door. “Go right along and make yourself comfortable. Miss Preacher will be along shortly.”
McPherson thanked him and stepped inside. It was a pleasant, sun-lit room, with a long table, flanked on both sides by folding chairs. Clustered in front of a massive window sat several upholstered chairs and a large couch. In the center of the grouping was a large coffee table with more than one ashtray.
She took a seat and lit a cigarette, mentally reminding herself that she needed to cut down. She knew she wouldn’t, but she did her best to remind herself anyway.
The window was overlooking the playground and she watched as the kids were readying themselves for the hundred yard dash when the door pushed open. She put out the cigarette quickly, and stood to see a thin dark-haired woman enter.
The woman was hardly attractive, but she’d seen worse. Her mouth was a few sizes too small for her face, but she had wide hazel eyes that gazed at her steadily.
“Lieutenant McPherson?” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Miss Preacher, Charlie Turner’s math teacher. Miss Tack told me you wished to speak to me.”
“Yes, shall we sit?”
Miss Preacher walked gracefully to the couch and sank into it. McPherson chose one of the nearby chairs.
“You wanted to ask about Charlie, of course.”
“Yes, as his teacher, there might be something you can tell me that I haven’t been able to learn from his family or friends.”
Miss Preacher sat uneasily for a few seconds, then said, “It’s foolish of me to feel so nervous, but a thing like this doesn’t feel possible. I know intellectually that people are murdered every day, but it’s always someone far away, never anyone you know.”
“That’s what everyone thinks until it happens. Do you care if I smoke?”
“No, not at all. In fact, could I please have one? Mine are all the way in my locker.”
She handed the woman a cigarette and lit both of them.
“I can’t seem to find out much about Charlie’s personality from the people I’ve spoken to so far, and I thought we might gain a more objective point of view from his teachers.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Most teachers have the interest of their students at heart, but they aren’t blinded by parental pride or love.”
Miss Preacher paused, but McPherson remained quiet. It seemed best to let her tell it her own way.
“Charlie was an extremely talented math student,” Miss Preacher went on. “His mind grasped problems quickly, and solving them was always easy for him. He was polite and quiet and gave one the impression of shyness. Perhaps he was shy, but I’ll tell you, that boy had a will of iron. I noticed several times whenever he thought he was right about something that was wrong, it took a great deal of effort to convince him. I wouldn’t exactly call him stubborn, although he was close. It was more like inner determination.”
“What about friends? Would you say he was able to make friends easily?”
“I wouldn’t say he made any. He got along just fine with the other children, but the only one who seemed to want to be his friend was Rudy Murphy. He and Rudy were rather close, but even that wasn’t the kind of strong bond most boys his age form.”
“Was he the kind of child who inspired dislike?”
“No,” she said reflectively. “Now that I think back on it, I don’t think he cared enough about others to bother making an impression.”
“Thank you for your help. After I talk to the others teachers, I think I’ll have a better mental picture of Charlie. By the way, could you tell me where you were the night of the murder?”
She smiled. “I was home all evening. I live in a rooming house, so quite a few people can bear witness.”
They both stood up and walked to the door.
“I hope you’re able to catch whoever’s responsible. The thought of a person capable of such savagery running around free is frightening.”
“Our department is working twenty-four hours a day and I can promise you he won’t have very much chance against us,” McPherson said. The words weren’t exactly true, but they came off as reassuring.
After Miss Preacher left, McPherson thought back over everything she’d said. At least Charlie had been a person to her, which was more than he’d been to his neighbors. It would be interesting to see what the others thought of him.
She didn’t have to wait long before the door flew open and two women entered the room. The older of the two spoke first.
“Are you Lieutenant McPherson?” she asked briskly, giving her just enough time to nod before continuing, “I’m Mrs. Helen, Charlie’s history teacher, and this is Miss Powell. She teaches literature.”
This was the sort of teacher McPherson had been used to. She doubted very much whether this woman gave any real thought to child psychology while presenting her lessons, or in punishing them for having not completed them.
Mrs. Helen looked to be in her late thirties, and her hair was sprinkled with grey, but her face remained unlined. From her composure, McPherson decided it must be because she never worried about whether she was right or wrong, because she knew she wasn’t.
Miss Powell was an entirely different species. She had light-blonde hair, and her small coquettish face wore a remote, almost etherial, expression. So far she hadn’t said anything and didn’t seem like she was going to.
“Should we sit down?” McPherson said when Mrs. Helen paused for breath.
“Yes, let’s. You sit over there, Miss Powell. Mr. Lewis said you wanted to question us separately, but both Miss Powell and I have classes beginning soon, so I told her I was certain you wouldn’t mind us coming together.”
McPherson didn’t try to interrupt. She had a feeling she might have just about as much success opposing Mrs. Helen as a king who orders the tide to stop coming in.
“There isn’t much to say about Charlie that will help you in finding his murderer,” Mrs. Helen continued with egregious reassurance. It didn’t seem to occur to her that a trained officer of the law may be a better judge of what was of value, but McPherson let it pass.
“I’d like your opinion of Charlie, both as a student and as a boy. I’m trying to figure out just what sort of person he was.”
Mrs. Helen scoffed with disdain at such foolishness, but Miss Powell remained still and in silence. Apparently she had figured out that it was the better part of valor to let Mrs. Helen have her say first.
“He was an average student in history. I couldn’t seem to hold his interest. He only did what he had to do, and nothing more, not that he wasn’t capable of better performance. He was an obstinate child.”
“How do you mean?” McPherson asked.
“He had a decent mind,” she explained, “but history was far too abstract to interest him and he refused to make any effort to improve his grades. From speaking to his other teachers I found that any subject where there was something he was able to get his hands on, like art or music, he was always quite interested. I’m sure he could have been interested in history just the same, but he didn’t care enough to try.”
It was obvious the woman thought the boy was going to hell in a handbasket because he didn’t care about history.
“Did he ever refuse to complete assignments? I mean, was he ever rebellious?”
McPherson waited for her to carry on, but Mrs. Helen seemed to have already said what she wished, so she turned towards the more amiable-looking Miss Powell.
“How was your relationship with him, Miss Powell?”
Miss Powell shifted in her seat and crossed her legs carefully. “I had some of the same trouble Mrs. Helen spoke of, but not to the same extent. Charlie struggled his way through the required reading list, but his book reports showed me that he had missed a lot of what he read. However, in his essays it was different. We ask the students to write two essays throughout the semester, and they’re allowed to choose their own subjects. In both of his, Charlie showed a level of alertness and feeling that surprised me. He was the last student I would have expected to make that kind of impact on me. Sure, his composition left something to be desired, but he both knew and understood his subjects very well.”
“What subjects did he choose to write about?” McPherson asked.
“Both of them were written about the lives of the famous composers Haydn and Schubert. It was obvious that the men were heroes to him.”
“Then would you agree to say that he did excellent work so long as the subject interested him, but otherwise was an average student?”
“That would be my assessment,” Miss Powell answered.
“Now, just as a matter of routine, could you tell me where you both were on the evening of Tuesday?”
Mrs. Helen looked irritated by the question, which she’d already expected.
“I spent my evening at home. With two children to raise and care for, I don’t have time for running around.”
“Thank you. And you, Miss Powell?”
“I went out to the movies with a friend. His name is Clyde Reynolds.”
Mrs. Helen scoffed again. Apparently she must have gotten her two children without going to the movies as a warm-up.
