"You don't know which of three papers he was reading, and you don't know if he was reading about the presidential appointments."
"It's easy enough to check the date; all you have to do is call the Albany cops when we stop. They should give you that information. You'll see I'm right."
"You still haven't told me what makes you so suspicious of Madison."
"For openers, he's currently Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and will remain so until he's confirmed."
There was a long silence. Finally, Garth said: "Go ahead."
"Being Director of the C.I.A. isn't a big deal in itself. The position can be, and usually is, a political appointment made for lots of different reasons, including political payoffs, and the man who gets it usually has a public record a mile long. That's not the case with Madison. He came up through the ranks, and it was a shadowy journey to say the least. He was appointed to the top post two and a half years ago, but before that he was Director of Operations in charge of all the heavy, sneaky stuff the C.I. A. does. You don't even get a published photo of the Director of Operations, much less a public record, and you usually find out damn little about the man even after he leaves the post-which you usually don't find out about."
"There has to be information about him available now."
"Oh, sure. The Times bio is filled with all sorts of personal information-but nothing about his record when he was running Operations. That's all classified. He's fifty-eight years old, and he's been with the C.I.A. one hell of a long time. We can't even know how much of the personal stuff is made up. He's a Goddamn pig in a poke."
Garth thought about it. "To the public, yes, but certainly not to Kevin Shannon-and not to the House and Senate members who know him and must have worked with him. Christ, after all the embarrassments caused by cabinet members over the past fifteen years, you have to assume that Shannon and his other people have vetted all those nominees-especially this Orville Madison-more thoroughly than any nominees in history. Nobody's ever accused Shannon of being a dummy. Hell, you even like him. Finally, don't forget that all of the nominees will be grilled at the confirmation hearings by senators who've gotten very picky about whom they consent to put into those kinds of positions of power. It won't fly,
Mongo. Shannon's not about to nominate some crazy who could sink his administration before it even sets sail."
"Not if he knew Madison was crazy. In fact, that may be precisely what's going on here, the key to it all. Sure, Madison's been vetted-but let's assume the investigators missed something, and it's a biggie, something very dark and nasty that's been buried for a long time and which would prevent Madison from being confirmed if people found out about it. Madison knew that once his nomination was made public, there were certain people-Veil Kendry, for one-who could hurt him badly if they ever started talking about what they knew, and they were believed-his link with Po, for example. God knows why Shannon wants a former C.I.A. Operations man for a sensitive, up-front post like secretary of state, but he obviously does. And Madison wants the post. Now, once Madison becomes a public figure he knows he's going to be vulnerable to disclosures to the press, or at the confirmation hearings, and so he decides to launch a preemptive strike against the man he fears most-Veil Kendry."
"If Madison were so afraid of these past associations coming to light, why would he wait two weeks to kill Po?"
"He wasn't concerned about Po saying anything to the press, because Po had enough problems of his own and certainly wouldn't make a very creditable accuser. Po became a danger to Madison only when we discovered a link between Po and Veil Kendry. Madison was worried about what Po might say to us. That's how that tune goes. It has to be Orville Madison, Garth."
Garth began drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. "Keep looking, Mongo," he said after a long silence. "Nobody ever said you didn't have a silver tongue, and you make a pretty good hypothetical case for our man being this Madison joker. But it's still all speculation, without a single shred of proof; no matter what you say, I find it damn unlikely that the kind of cold-blooded maniac we're looking for could get through the kind of screening process any cabinet nominee goes through. There must be something else in one of those newspapers."
"Damn it, Garth, there isn't. This is it."
"Keep looking, anyway."
We stayed overnight at a motel just off the Kingston exit of the New York State Thruway, thirty miles from Colletville, to the west. Garth called the Albany police, identified himself as a New York cop, and asked for the date of the newspaper Po had been reading in his study the night he'd been killed.
I was right.
We checked out at dawn in order to get to Colletville early. We ate breakfast at a diner in Veil's hometown, then drove directly to the high school. Given more time and less pressure, we probably could have been a bit more subtle in our approach. Not being blessed with these things, we simply marched into the high school office and introduced ourselves to a secretary. Garth showed his shield and asked if it would be possible for us to see the principal for a few minutes. It was. We were ushered into a nicely appointed office highlighted by a rust-colored rug and a collection of hunting trophies in a display case next to a window looking out over the surrounding Catskills, their forests covered now with early morning mist.
The principal, Matthew Holmes, was a boyish-looking man in his early thirties. Garth introduced me not only as his brother, but as a criminologist working on the matter in question as a paid consultant. The preliminaries over, I sat in a chair to one side of the office, letting Garth, with his police credentials, take the point.
"Lieutenant," the young principal said, "how can I help you?"
"First, we appreciate your agreeing to see us on such short notice," Garth replied.
"I take it this is a police matter?"
"Yes, it is, but I have to tell you that I have no official capacity in this county. I can only ask you to give me certain information, some of which may be confidential, as a courtesy. We're searching for a material witness to the crimes of arson and multiple murder. Other murders may be committed if we don't act quickly, which is why we really don't feel we can afford the time to go through the process of getting a court order to see certain school records."
"I see," Holmes said tightly. Suddenly the man seemed decidedly uncomfortable as he toyed with a heavy glass paperweight and stared out the window at the mountains. "Why don't you tell me what it is you want to know?"
"We have reason to believe that the crimes that have been committed are closely connected to a man by the name of Veil Kendry. Kendry-"
"Who?" the principal asked as he turned quickly and looked at
Garth. He had stopped playing with the paperweight, and his discomfort appeared to have gone as quickly as it had come.
"Veil Kendry," Garth repeated slowly. "Do you know of him?"
"Somehow, the name seems familiar…" Holmes thought about it, finally shook his head. He looked immensely relieved. "No, sir, I can't say that I do."
The mercurial changes in Matthew Holmes's manner made me wonder who had come to mind when Garth had mentioned arson and murder. I wanted to ask, thought it better not to. Colletville, I was sure, had its own problems, and anything that didn't concern Veil Kendry was irrelevant to our needs.
"According to our information," Garth said, "Kendry went to school here. Your central district office confirmed that. He would have graduated-if he graduated-in nineteen-sixty-three or four. I'd like to look at his school records, if I may."
"Why, Lieutenant?"
"We're looking very hard for Mr. Kendry, not only because he's a material witness, but because he could be in considerable danger. It's a long shot, but those records just could reveal the name of a relative or friend we could contact who might know where he is. Actually, there could be other information in there that could be helpful, but I won't know until I look."
There was a prolonged silence, during which I had the distinct impression
that Holmes was thinking about more than Garth's rather straightforward request. "I don't see why not," he said at last. "Obviously, we're a very small district, and if this Veil Kendry did go here, his records could still be kept at this school building. Just a moment, please."
Holmes pressed a button on his intercom, instructed his secretary to search for any records on Veil Kendry, using the approximate dates Garth had given him. He also asked her to bring us coffee.
We sat for the next fifteen minutes sipping coffee and chatting. Holmes, a graduate of a good school, had accepted the post in Colletville because it had afforded him the opportunity of having his own school at a relatively young age. Now, he told us, he was interested in a "change of pace," and had applied for a principal's post in the South Bronx. He wanted to know all we could tell him about New York City, and we assured him that being the principal of a school in the South Bronx would be a change of pace indeed.
Finally Holmes's secretary, a cheerful, gray-haired woman in her fifties, came back into the office. She handed a faded, yellow file to the principal, smiled at us, then turned and left.
"I don't know what's in here," Holmes said to Garth. "Because of the legal implications, I think it might be more correct if I didn't allow you to actually read the file. I'll look at it now, and I'm sure I'll be able to answer any questions you might have."
"That will be fine," Garth said. "We're most interested in the name of a relative-or anyone at all-he might have stayed in contact with over the years, or even visited periodically."
Holmes nodded, opened the file folder, and began to scan the contents of the first page. I watched his eyes move back and forth across the page, saw him frown slightly. "There's an address here, but I know the people living there now, and their name isn't Kendry."
"No. The Kendrys moved away some time ago. I checked that."
"According to this record, he didn't even live with his parents during his high school years. There's another name listed here… an aunt by the name of Madeline Jamison. However, the houses in that block were torn down a couple of years ago. That's who he lived with while he went to high school, but that house isn't there anymore."
"May I use your phone book?" I asked, rising from my chair.
Holmes took a thin directory out of his top drawer, handed it to me. There weren't any Jamisons listed. I looked at Garth, shook my head, sat back down in my chair.
"It seems he only lived with his aunt off and on. Twice he was … oh, my." Holmes abruptly looked away from the file, once again appeared uncomfortable.
"Mr. Holmes?" Garth prodded gently. "What about the times when he wasn't living with his aunt? Did he go back to live with his parents, or did he live somewhere else?"
"Lieutenant," Holmes said tersely, "I'm afraid I never realized the extremely sensitive nature of some of the material in Mr. Kendry's file. The law says that it must be kept confidential, and I totally agree. I may have made a mistake in agreeing to share this. Frankly, I don't see how the information could help you find this man, and we could all be in legal difficulty if I share it with you. I think it will be in everyone's interests if you go ahead and obtain that court order you mentioned."
Garth bowed his head, sighed heavily, then leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. "Mr. Holmes," he said softly, "two nights ago three young people just past high school age were murdered in Seattle, along with their parents and grandmother. They were all blown to pieces."
Holmes frowned. "You suspect Veil Kendry?"
"No, sir. But he's definitely connected to it somehow, and more people-young people-may die unless we find him soon. The information you have in that file in front of you could be important."
"But I don't see how."
"That's why you're an educator and I'm a cop. Let me decide if it's important. I give you my word that the information won't be used if it's not necessary; if it is used, nobody will be told where we got it from. Please, Mr. Homes. Lives are at stake."
Holmes considered Garth's words, finally nodded. "According to these records, Veil Kendry was a very disturbed and violent young man, Lieutenant; the reason he was living with his aunt was because he was thrown out of his own home at the age of fourteen by his parents, who could no longer tolerate his bizarre behavior. He was twice committed to a mental hospital, once by his parents and once by the courts."
"What's the name of the facility?"
"At the time it was called Rockland State Hospital. It's downstate, and I'm familiar with it. Now there's a separate facility for kids, called Rockland Children's Psychiatric Center, but it still serves the same purpose. Children usually aren't committed there unless they're homicidal or suicidal-sometimes both. He did attend Colletville High otherwise, but there's no record of his having graduated. That's about it, Lieutenant."
Garth and I looked at each other, and I wondered if disappointment was as clearly etched on my face as it was on his. The trail in Colletville was more than two decades old, and there was nothing left here but the cries of a tormented young man still echoing in a musty, yellowing school file.
"Thanks, Mr. Holmes," Garth said, rising and shaking the other man's hand.
Holmes read my brother's voice and face. "I was right. It isn't any help, is it?"
Garth shrugged. "It sheds light on a few things, but it won't help us find him. We very much appreciate your cooperation."
"Wait," Holmes said as Garth and I headed for the door. We stopped, turned back. "Jan Garvey, one of our social studies teachers, graduated from Colletville High. I don't recall exactly when she graduated, but she's been teaching here for quite a few years. I think there's a good possibility she was a contemporary of this Veil Kendry, or at least may know something about him."
"We'd very much like to talk to her," Garth said quickly.
"I don't want to disturb her during class, but if you'll wait a moment I'll check her schedule and see when she has a preparation period."
"No. We'll wait until after school. I don't want her to feel rushed."
"That will be fine. Naturally, I have to get her permission. School is dismissed at three fifteen. If Ms. Garvey agrees, you can see her then."
Garth nodded. "Thanks, Holmes. When you get your school in New York City, you look me up. Having good contacts with the cops won't hurt you in trying to run a school in the South Bronx. Consider me a good contact."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Holmes said, smiling. "I appreciate that. I'll see you later. Come here to my office, and I'll introduce you to Jan Garvey."
14
Something had come up to prevent Holmes from meeting with us again after school, but his secretary told us that Jan Garvey was expecting us, and we should go up to her room on the second floor.
The social studies teacher turned out to be an extremely attractive woman, close to six feet tall in her heels. Her hair was auburn-colored, graying nicely at the temples to give her a ripe, sexy look. Her features were accented by dark, soulful eyes. She projected an aura of toughness with dignity, like someone who had known much suffering but come back from it a deeper and better person than she had been before. She was, I suspected, a survivor, and probably an outstanding teacher, one with the sensitivity and intelligence to comfort and counsel those students who needed it, yet at the same time be able to back the biggest bad-ass in class right up against the wall.
At the moment, the woman's dark eyes were shadowed with anxiety, and she looked shaken as she stood in the doorway of her brightly decorated classroom and greeted us. "Hello, Lieutenant," she said to Garth, then looked at me. "I've read a great deal about the colorful Dr. Robert Frederickson, also known as Mongo. It's a pleasure and honor to meet you."
"I'm flattered," I answered with a smile. "I've been called a lot of things, but this is the first time I've ever heard myself described as 'colorful.' I'm going to have to note that in my diary, Ms. Garvey."
"Call me Jan, please."
"I'm Mongo, as you mentioned, and the lieutenant's name is
Garth."
"I understand that you want to talk to me about Veil Kendry," the woman said as she ushered us into her room and closed the door behind her. The warmth in her voice had been replaced by wariness and tension.
"Yes," Garth replied.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Anything and everything you can tell us about him."
"How is he?"
"He's in a lot of trouble, Jan."
Again, shadows moved in Jan Garvey's eyes, and she shook her head sadly. "I'm very sorry to hear that. I thought he was doing so well. I've read articles about him and reviews of his work. Once, I made plans to go to New York to see one of his exhibits, but I backed off at the last moment. I… I'm not sure why. I guess I was afraid that being that close to Veil would remind me of too many things I don't want to be reminded of."
"Then you did know him well?" Garth said carefully.
The woman's thin laughter was laced with sadness. "Yes, Garth, I'd say so; I'd certainly say so. Can you tell me what he's done?"
"He hasn't done anything, Jan," I said, knowing that Garth would probably take strong exception. "Some other people are trying to do things to him-and us. For your own protection, we can't tell you much more than that. But it's very important that we find him, and soon. Lives could depend on it. We're asking you to trust us. You're the last person we know to speak to, the last hope we have of finding out things about Veil which we need to know."
The woman studied me for some time before speaking. "Then you're not looking for him because of some crime he's committed?"
"No. But he's disappeared, and something in his past is the key to why-and maybe where-he's gone. We're not exaggerating at all when we tell you lives are at stake. We're hoping that something you know might be of help."
Jan Garvey turned away quickly. "It all seems so long ago," she said in a small voice. "I haven't seen Veil in more than twenty years. How could anything I say be of any use to you?"
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