by A. J. Flynn
McPherson rose to her feet. “I would like to thank you again. I appreciate you both giving me your time. You’ve been a huge help.”
Miss Powell paused at the door and asked, “It had to have been a drifter, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. That Charlie would climb out his window, only to meet a passing drifter, was a bit too far fetched for her own imagination, but if it made Mrs. Helen happy enough to leave the room she was willing to let her carry on thinking so.
McPherson had just turned her back to the door, when Mrs. Helen poked her head in and said, “I forgot to tell you band practice is set to be over in a few minutes and Mr. Hardwood will be here once that’s finished. Also, Miss Tack asked me to give this to you.” She held out a small piece of paper. “It’s Mr. Nerdelbaum’s address. He was Charlie’s science teacher. He’s trapped at home with a bad cold.”
McPherson thanked her and returned to her seat. The teachers had each given her something to think about. They presented a far different picture of Charlie from the one she’d received from the boy’s family or friends. It was beginning to look like he had learned early on in life how to politely do as he pleased so he could save his time for things that interested him. He probably would have grown up to be one of those people possessed with enough drive to raise them to the very top of whatever field they chose to pursue.
McPherson was still thinking over everything when the music teacher arrived. He was a well-dressed man, about five foot eleven and exceedingly thin. His cheeks were sunken low and his dark hair needed to be combed, but it was his eyes that held McPherson’s attention. They were frantic and wavering, and the constant movement caused them to shine, as if there were fire behind them burning. McPherson had little trouble picturing him as a music teacher. He would have looked perfectly at home wearing a beret, like an artist from Paris’s left bank.
“I’m Hardwood,” the man said. “They tell me you’re Lieutenant Emma McPherson.”
McPherson admitted her identity.
“Band practice just finished. Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, although it was obvious he didn’t give a damn. McPherson had come into contact with his type many times before. To those who liked them, they possessed self-confidence. To those who didn’t, they were arrogant bastards. She was inclined to agree with the latter.
Hardwood took a seat and pulled a pipe from his pocket. “I take it you want to talk about Charlie.”
“Yes, I’d like to hear your opinion of him.”
“The boy was pathetic.” There was no doubting the earnestness of his words.
“Pathetic?” McPherson echoed in surprise. “How do you mean?” So far she’d heard many words used to describe Charlie, but pathetic wasn’t one of them.
“To strive after something when there’s no chance of reaching it always struck me as pathetic. He loved music with a passion that was difficult to conceive in someone so young. It was the only thing that mattered to him. Everything else he did, he did because he had to.”
The man was embarrassingly intense; in fact, the entire time it seemed as though he was making a speech.
“Well, lots of people have a love for music. I enjoy it myself.”
“Well, that’s just my point,” Hardwood said quickly, “he was never satisfied to just sit and listen and enjoy it. He wanted to create it, write it and play it, but he hadn’t a shred of talent. He had no sense of pitch, was practically tone deaf, and hadn’t the slightest sense of rhythm, but he had enough will and determination for ten children. It was as I already said, pathetic. I have plenty of students who could develop themselves into wonderful performers, and perhaps one that might even be great, but none of them are willing to practice. Charlie practiced as faithfully as anybody and he still didn’t stand a chance of being passable.”
“I was told he played in the orchestra,” McPherson offered.
Hardwood put his hand to his face and kneaded the skin between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed that there was always movement around him of some sort.
“Yes,” he admitted, “but that’s just because of the belief among most educators that a child shouldn’t be discouraged from what he wants to do. I’ve listened to many great arguments on the subject, and I must say I don’t agree with them.”
“I’m not familiar with the theories of modern education,” McPherson said.
“I’m afraid I judge mostly from my own case. My father wanted for me to be a concert pianist, almost as much as I wanted the same. I studied and studied for years on end. It wasn’t until much later that I learned my teachers had told my father that although I’d be an excellent pianist, I lacked the spark to be a great one—but nobody told me that. I’ll never forget the day it dawned on me that I would never be anything beyond second-rate. I was perfectly convinced that my reason for living had vanished.” The set of the man’s long face showed that the memory was still painful to him.
“That’s why I understood Charlie so well. Sooner or later he would have to face the music and realize that all the work in the world wouldn’t make up for his lack of talent.”
McPherson revised her opinion of the man somewhat. The man appeared to be truly distressed at what the future held for Charlie.
Hardwood sat back in a more relaxed manner, but continued kneading his cheek. “Sometimes life’s inequalities make me wonder if there’s any pattern to it at all.”
McPherson had no time for waxing philosophical, so she interjected, “Aside from him being a musician with no talent, what was Charlie like?”
“He was a fine young lad. Eager to please and never caused trouble.”
“Can you think of any reason why somebody might have disliked him or held a grudge against him?”
“No, not at all,” Hardwood assured her. “I doubt if Charlie had an enemy in the world.”
“Alright. Now if you could tell me where you were two nights ago, I’ll let you go.”
“You want an alibi—from me!” Hardwood exploded. McPherson felt as if she’d just asked Wagner to conduct a rock and roll session.
“It’s part of regular police procedure to check the whereabouts of everyone who was connected with the murder victim. It’s nothing personal.”
The teacher appeared to be somewhat mollified, but it was obvious that he still felt a little insulted.
“A concert was scheduled for the University String Quartet at Grover Hall. I went, but they had a power failure, and the concert was put off. So I decided to take a walk around town for a little while, then finally went to the library. As long as I was downtown, I used my time to do some research for one of the papers I’m working on.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your co-operation.”
“You’re welcome. If there’s anything else I can do, feel free to give me a call.”
McPherson was fairly sure the faculty hadn’t mentioned her presence, but she was growing aware of the inquiring stares of the students as she walked down the hall. The grapevine flowered early, even among the young.
Taylor had spotted her coming and already had the engine running. “I haven’t had spectators like this since I won my first sack race back in fifth grade,” he said, motioning toward the playground fence.
McPherson looked and sighed. There were at least thirty children standing almost motionless, staring at them like they were animals in a cage.
“Let’s get out of here. They’re looking at us like we’re a couple of circus freaks.”
The car crept slowly out of the parking lot and into the street.
“Find anything useful?” Taylor asked.
“Not much. Just that Charlie was human enough to prefer his own way, and he could be quite hardheaded about getting it.”
“Well, that’s a whole lot better than having to listen to how good and sweet he was. He was starting to sound like a wind-up toy or something—hardly a living human being.”
“Yeah, I was getting a little tired of it myself. Better make a stop at
the drive-in. We can grab a couple sandwiches, then head back to the Turners.” McPherson handed Taylor the piece of paper Mrs. Helen had given her.
Taylor glanced at it. “That isn’t too far from here. Who lives there?”
“Charlie’s science teacher—a guy named Nerdelbaum. He’s ‘trapped’ at home sick, so I’ll have to catch him there.”
“OK. The drive-in is only a few blocks over. We can grab a bite if you want, but I don’t think I’ll have much of an appetite.”
McPherson stared at the young man with exaggerated disbelief. “I can’t believe it. With the way you sniff out food, I figure you could live though a five-year famine and come out ten pounds heavier.”
“Not when my aesthetic sense is wounded,” he answered, “and every time I stop by the Tasty Top, it gets a little more distressed.”
“Fine, tell me about your troubles, but don’t mind me if I take notes while you talk.”
“That’s fine… My main trouble has to do with shorts, and the fact that it’s too cold around here.”
McPherson didn’t bother opening her notebook. She’d listened to Taylor before and understood that it would be useless to try to think until she had finally heard him out.
“If you find shorts are too cold for you, why don’t you try pants?”
“I’m not talking about my shorts. I’m talking about the waitress’ shorts.”
McPherson turned and stared at the driver’s bland expression. “It’s probably not wise of me to say this, but haven’t you been married for two years?”
“It all started on my vacation last summer. Bella and I took a trip together down to California. They had drive-ins down there, too.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“It’s not enough just to hear about it, you know. A man has to see in order to appreciate it. There was one about two blocks from our motel in California. The New Frontier, they called it, and all the carhops were dressed like pioneers.”
“I’ve seen plenty of pictures of pioneer women. If they ever wore shorts, you sure couldn’t tell from the outside.”
“Yes, but The New Frontier improved on the costume—they cut off the skirts to about halfway between the waist and the knees. That way the poor girls didn’t have to suffer the heat. Up here, though, they’d probably freeze to death.”
McPherson rolled her eyes and sighed. “Did you and Bella go to this place a lot?”
“Not exactly. The change of climate seemed to make Bella sleepy, so she wound up taking a nap every afternoon. Meanwhile, I’d take a trip down to the drive-in just to kill time.”
McPherson shook her head dejectedly. “I gave you a good review on your last report, and now I find out you’re a Peeping Tom.”
“I never said I was a Peeping Tom!” Taylor defended himself. “Their skirts were like that to make the girls more comfortable, and I showed my gratitude by giving them my business.”
“Well, as you said yourself, it’s too cold for them to dress that way up here, so what’s the problem?”
“They’ve got a little blonde over here that would look fantastic in a short dress, but because of the weather she’s forced to wear pants.”
McPherson didn’t bother replying. Taylor pulled into one of the marked parking spots at the drive-in and killed the engine.
“She should be working today. Just wait until you see her.”
They waited a short while, then a girl dressed in blue pants and shirt appeared at the window.
“What do you want?” the girl demanded in a voice that showed she still had possession of her adenoids. She couldn’t have been much over seventeen or eighteen. She still had adolescent skin, complete with blackheads and pimples. Sure, her figure may eventually fill out, but for now she looked flatter than an upended ironing board.
“Burger and coffee,” Taylor said in a tight voice.
“Both of you?” she squeaked.
“I’ll take the same,” McPherson struggled to suppress a smile as she watched Taylor, who diligently looked the other way.
“You were hoping for shorts,” McPherson said, gravely, “but I gotta say, I’m willing to bet she has kneecaps like doorknobs.”
“She’s not the one I was talking about,” Taylor snapped.
“I think you should give this some deep consideration,” McPherson carried on in a solemn tone. “Have you ever considered just how few women are built to wear shorts?”
Taylor’s face lit up like a great light had dawned on him. “Yeah well, even if you’re right, think of all the fun I can have window shopping.”
“Oh for Christ sake,” McPherson said in disgust.
“There’s a drugstore nearby, Lieutenant. I’m gonna go pick up a pack of cigarettes. You want anything?”
McPherson fished some change out of her pocket. “Yeah, you can grab me one too. You can save yourself a trip though. There’s a machine just inside, and I’m sure our charming little waitress would be glad to bring them to you.”
“I don’t want to trouble her. Overwork, and all that.”
When he had finally left, McPherson began making her notes. She hardly ever wrote anything down in front of the person she was questioning. A lot of people wouldn’t even tell you their name if they knew it was being written down.
She jotted down out some of the things the teachers had said, and where they had claimed they were on the night of the murder. She also added a few of her own observations.
She’d just put her notebook away when Taylor arrived back with the waitress carrying the sandwiches behind him.
After the big man had squeezed into the car, the waitress fastened the tray, and said, “Seven twenty, please.”
They paid, and Taylor passed McPherson a sandwich and a cup of coffee before taking one for himself. The coffee was half cold, the burger was thin, and the bread was dry. It was an average lunch for the two of them.
When they finished, Taylor flipped on the light to summon the waitress and said to McPherson, “I picked up some literature in the drugstore. It should give me something to do while I’m waiting for you.”
McPherson glanced down at the brilliantly colored paperback. It showcased a scantily-dressed woman with a massive chest, being clutched by a dark-looking rogue. The book blurb said something like, “Dark passion amongst the elite.”
“Literature?” McPherson said.
“Yeah. Realism. It’s the trend nowadays.”
“I think you might do better to study for your next exam.”
“I’m all out of ambition. All I want to do is retire.”
“Well, go ahead. I want to see this Nerdelbaum guy this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The Nerdelbaum home was more or less what she had expected. It was a small cream-colored building with bushes growing close to its side. Years before, homes like these were called bungalows and had been very fashionable, but that was then.
McPherson mounted the steps and tapped the doorbell. Nerdelbaum answered almost at once. He was the perfect picture of a man who had settled in for a quiet day of nursing a cold, all the way down to the cloth tied around his throat.
“I’m Lieutenant Emma McPherson of the police,” she said, flashing her credentials. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”
Nerdelbaum was surprised, but quickly recovered. “Of course, Lieutenant. Come in.”
McPherson stepped into the small dark hallway.
“You better let me take your coat, Lieutenant. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace and the living room is rather warm. I’m suffering from a cold and would prefer not to risk any drafts.”
McPherson shrugged off her coat and handed it to Nerdelbaum. He hung it up, then took the hat and set it on a small table.
“Follow me. We’ll have to keep our voices low. My mother is napping. When she first learned that the boy who was murdered was one of my students, it threw her into shock. You see, she’s getting on in years and has grown rather sensitive.”
&n
bsp; “Certainly, Mr. Nerdelbaum. I’m sorry we must trouble you, but everyone with even the slightest connection to the boy has to be questioned.”
Nerdelbaum smiled, but the expression looked out of place on his face. All the lines and furrows seemed to be formed towards displeasure rather than friendliness. His left eye was twitching uncontrollably, just as it had always done whenever he was nervous. Many a student had been reprimanded for making fun of the affliction in his presence.
“Yes, I understand,” he said. “Each of us has a job to do. It’s just that Mother gets easily upset. It’s just she and I, and she’s grown accustomed to the quiet life.”
McPherson grabbed a stick of gum from her pocket and unwrapped it. There weren’t any ashtrays around, which made her think Mrs. Nerdelbaum must disapprove of smoking. It had been her experience that elderly women who somehow managed to keep their middle-aged sons at home and unmarried, were apt to disapproval.
“Please sit down, Lieutenant. The room is rather warm, but, as I mentioned, I’d rather not risk a draft.”
McPherson took a seat on the couch and managed to knock a souvenir pillow onto the floor. When she picked it up the effort made sweat break out on her forehead. It wasn’t just warm in there, it was hotter than an oven. Nerdelbaum didn’t need to worry, there was no way a draft would stand a chance.
“I wanted to ask you about Charlie. As his teacher, Mr. Nerdelbaum, what did you think of him? Was he bright, dull, well-adjusted? I just want your opinion.”
Nerdelbaum raked a hand through his coarse grey hair and wrinkled his forehead in concentration.
“His grades were above average in science, but it seemed to come too easily to him to hold his interest. The sort of thing that would challenge the rest of the students, Charlie could take one look at and remember perfectly. It was all very natural to him.”
McPherson nodded.
Nerdelbaum steepled his fingers and went on. “There isn’t any doubt in my mind that given enough time, Charlie could have easily been one of the most brilliant students I ever had, but if I’m going to be honest I have to admit that the boy lacked something. I don’t know quite how to put it, but he gave me the impression that he was just trying to kill time in my class. Bored is the right word for it, I suppose. I’d talked to his other teachers and they all seemed to be having the same trouble. Mr. Hardwood, the music instructor, in particular.”
