Vulgar Boatman

by William G. Tapply

  “I figured it was. The answer is no. But then, I can’t think of anybody on earth who would kill anybody. But it happens, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Often.”

  She shook her head thoughtfully. “No,” she said. “Not Buddy. Unless…”

  “Unless he was back on drugs,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Not that I know much about that.”

  “Me neither. Okay, then. Who would kill her?”

  “What does this have to do with finding Buddy?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She frowned. “Yes,” she said. “I see what you’re getting at. Harry Cusick asked me that question, too.”

  “The chief was here?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “The same thing. I don’t know any killers. Alice is—was—a terrific student. A good school citizen. Honor Society her junior year. Tennis player. Student Council. All those things. A little wild, maybe. But not the sort of girl you’d expect to get involved with a boy like Buddy Baron.”

  “How so, wild?”

  Ingrid Larsen frowned again. “Boys. Parties. That’s all.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “Alice? I have no idea, really. I wouldn’t think so.”

  “But she was Buddy’s girl friend.”

  “Maybe he thought so. But she was very popular. I somehow doubt if she was committed to him, if you follow me.”

  “I think he was committed to her,” I said.

  “Well, there’s an issue for you right there.”

  “Jealousy.”

  “She was a vivacious, attractive girl.”

  Harry Cusick had told me that the coroner found evidence of cocaine in Alice Sylvester’s blood and semen in her vagina. I wondered if he’d told Ingrid Larsen that. “Can you think of any boys other than Buddy who were interested in her?”

  “Cusick asked me that, too.”

  “How did you answer him?”

  “I refused to speculate for him.”

  “You probably wouldn’t speculate for me, then.”

  “Definitely not,” she said.

  I was getting nowhere. I took out the note that Joanie Baron had given me. “I’d like to talk with Gil Speer,” I said.

  “This interrogation has ended, then?”

  I shrugged. “Unless you can think of something.”

  “You really need to sharpen your technique, Brady.” She smiled. “You don’t handle hostile witnesses that well, do you?”

  “Are you hostile?”

  “I’m trying to be.”

  It was my turn to smile. “I don’t do that much trial work.”

  “It shows.” She stood up. “Well, come on. Let’s find Gil Speer.”

  Ingrid Larsen and I followed several long corridors to the far end of the building before we arrived at the computer wing. Whereas the interior of the main part of the building featured gray cinder block and beige tile, the big computer room gleamed with chrome and glass and oak paneling. A perfect reflection of contemporary educational priorities.

  A computer-generated sign on the door curtly instructed all comers to “Keep the Door Shut.” When Ingrid and I went in, I knew why. The temperature was at least five degrees cooler and twenty points drier in that room than in the rest of the school. In New England public schools, only computer types enjoy the benefits of air-conditioning. For the comfort of the machines, not the people.

  The main room was about four times the size of an ordinary classroom. Glass walls partitioned off several smaller adjacent rooms. There was a row of carrels along one wall. An enormous mainframe computer dominated one end of the room. And everywhere there were chrome desks with terminals, monitors, disk drives, and printers. The air in the room seemed alive. I was aware of an almost inaudible electronic buzz, the energy of all that machinery crackling in my brain.

  Ingrid Larsen touched my elbow and pointed across the room to a young man who was bending over the shoulder of a girl working at one of the terminals.

  “That’s Gil Speer,” she said. “The one indispensable man in this school system. He put all this together. Wrote the grant proposals, handled the bids, and designed all the programs. He also created the computer curriculum. All the work of the school is done here. Records are stored here. Student grades, attendance, transcripts, payroll, budgets, the works. Gil can make all these machines jump through hoops. He’s also a brilliant teacher.”

  Speer was singularly unimpressive to look at: short and pear-shaped, with thin, sandy hair retreating from his pink forehead. I guessed he was still in his twenties. Steel-framed half-glasses were perched low on his nose. He was wearing blue jeans and a dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. Computer geniuses evidently dressed by their own code.

  Ingrid led me over to Speer. He glanced at us, said, “Oh, hi,” and bent back to the girl he was helping.

  “Okay, see, at line seventeen. Now, in BASIC it’s one thing, but you’re using FORTRAN, so—”

  The girl looked up at him. Her smile dazzled. “I get it. I do. Don’t tell me anything else.”

  Speer patted her shoulder. “I’ll make a first-rate hacker out of you yet, Christie.”

  “I’m getting there, huh?” she said.

  “You’re getting there, kid.”

  Speer straightened up and turned to us. “What’s up?”

  “This is Mr. Coyne,” said Ingrid. “He’s interested in talking with you about Buddy Baron.”

  Speer squinted at me. “How come?”

  “Can we go someplace private?” I said.

  Speer appealed to Ingrid. “Jeez, can’t this wait?” He waved his hand around the room at the flickering monitors and the students hunched over them. “Really, Ingrid,” he said. “We’ve got about fifty things going on here.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Gil. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He went over to a boy who was watching a printer clack out a long strip of paper and spoke to him. The boy listened intently, then nodded. Speer came back to us. “I put Allen in charge. He’s very advanced. Okay, Mr.—what was it?”

  “Coyne,” I said.

  “Well, okay. Come on in here.”

  I turned to Ingrid. “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’ve got to get back to my office,” she said. “Why don’t you drop in on your way out?”

  “I will if I can find my way back,” I said.

  She smiled, waved her hand, and left. Speer led me into a small glass-partitioned area that was devoted to storage. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. A table and a few chairs stood in the center. We sat down.

  “Okay, Mr. Coyne. What do you want to know about Buddy Baron? I hardly know the boy, actually.”

  “Exactly how well do you know him?”

  He held his hand over the table, palm down, and rocked it back and forth. “I know him the way I’ve known lots of kids. Every year I know a hundred or more kids. They add up after a few years. Why? What’s up with Buddy? He in trouble again?”

  “I don’t know. He’s been missing since night before last.”

  “Missing?” Speer arched his brows and lowered his head to peer at me over the tops of his glasses. Then he made a long, exaggerated up-and-down motion of his head. “Ah. I get it. Alice Sylvester. Right? You think he had something to do with that, right?”

  I shrugged. “He’s missing. I’m trying to track him down. That’s all.”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “No. I’m Tom Baron’s attorney. He’s worried about his son.”

  “With good cause, I should think.”

  “You think—?”

  “Hey. I’m just a computer freak. No shrink. You don’t care what I think.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Well, I don’t have any interesting theories, Mr. Coyne.”

  “You don’t know where Buddy is, do you?”r />
  “How should I know that?”

  “I don’t know. Any ideas?”

  He shrugged. “Buddy Baron took a few courses from me. From what I understand, computer was the only thing he liked or did very well at. But I’ve had lots of better students than he ever was. We weren’t what you’d call close. He came in, worked on problems, I helped him, and when the bell rang he left. There was a while, back before his trouble, when he was coming in quite a lot after school. But even then, he was a dilettante. He fooled around with a lot of things, but he never really dug in. No, I don’t have any thoughts on where he might be. I’m sorry if he’s got problems, but I don’t see how I can help.”

  “He did get a job at a computer store.”

  Speer grinned and squinted myopically at me. “It’s a selling job. Perform little demonstrations for the customers. Requires no expertise. Surprised he held the job.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Not the salesman type, ask me. Shy kind. Not aggressive at all. Never spoke unless spoken to. Not that self-confident. Easy to understand, I guess, with an old man like Tom Baron.”

  “What about Alice Sylvester?”

  He cocked his head. “What about her?”

  “She and Buddy were going together.”

  “I wouldn’t know about things like that.”

  “Did you know the girl?”

  He nodded. “Sure. She was taking an intermediate programming course. Took the introductory course last year. Did very well. Not what you’d call gifted, but very competent. A good student. Not necessarily brilliant, but she knew how to study, quick learner, could psych out the teachers. An achiever. Hard to picture her with Buddy.”

  “What are the chances of looking at those kids’ records? Buddy’s and Alice Sylvester’s?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the authority.”

  “Does Ingrid Larsen?”

  He shrugged. “She’s my boss.”

  “Will you ask her?”

  “Sure. Why not. You want that now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang on, then.”

  He got up and went back into the big room. Through the glass wall I watched him pick up a phone and talk into it. In a couple of minutes he was back. “Come on with me,” he said.

  I followed him out into the big main room. He found an unoccupied desk with a computer and sat down at it. Then he began pecking rapidly at the keyboard. In a moment the printer began clattering. In about ten seconds it stopped, and Speer ripped off two sheets of paper. He handed them to me.

  “I think Ingrid is bending the rules a little, letting you have these,” he said.

  They were copies of the two kids’ high school grades. I scanned them quickly. Buddy Baron’s record was comprised mostly of C’s and D’s, although I noticed that he earned B in his computer courses. Alice Sylvester had nothing but A’s and B’s—and very few B’s.

  Beside each course appeared the name of the teacher. I thought I might find that helpful. I folded the two transcripts and tucked them into my jacket pocket.

  I thanked Gil Speer for his help, gave him my business card in case he should think of anything, and left the computer room. Out in the dreary school corridor, the air felt hot and damp, reminding me of the storm that still raged outdoors.

  I found my way back to Ingrid Larsen’s office. Emma seemed confused by my reappearance, but I persuaded her to allow me passage to Ingrid’s sanctuary. She was on the phone when I walked in, but she smiled and waved me to a seat. After a moment she hung up and looked at me. “So?”

  “So I didn’t learn much. But I suppose I didn’t expect to. I appreciate your letting me have these.” I showed her the transcripts.

  “Oh, you can’t have those,” she said. “I told Gil you could look at them. Figured he’d pop them up on a screen. I didn’t think he was going to make hard copies. You can’t keep them. Heavens, those are confidential as hell.”

  I smiled at her mixture of mild expletives. “Okay. I can’t see how they’d help anyway. If I need to talk to teachers or something, you could help me, right?”

  “Sure.” She held out her hand and I put the transcripts into it.

  I stood up. “I don’t want to keep you. Just to say thanks for your cooperation.”

  We shook hands formally, and I left. Outside the rain was coming down in angled sheets, driven by an insistent wind, and I sprinted to my BMW. I had a serious dilemma: It was noon, and Gert’s was a fifteen-minute drive from the school. I could pay my respects to Harry Cusick before or after I replenished the inner man.

  I decided I’d do better with the chief on a full stomach.

  Five

  PAPER-THIN FLOUNDER FILLETS DEEP-FRIED in an egg-and-beer batter. Tossed salad of mixed greens with a little oil, vinegar, and lemon juice. A cup of rich, spicy espresso. Gert had not lost her touch.

  I virtuously passed up the Indian pudding with vanilla ice cream for dessert.

  Outside, the rain continued to slant down from a slate-colored autumn sky. I lingered at my table by the window, mourning the end of summer and trying to decide if I really owed Harry Cusick another visit. He’d suggested I drop in. It hadn’t sounded like a command appearance. I decided to call him.

  The cop who answered put me through to the police chief. When he came on, he said, “Well, Mr. Coyne, what’d you find?”

  “Nothing. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Busy, busy, busy. No line on Buddy Baron, huh?”

  “Uh uh. How about you?”

  “No, nothing on the boy. Interesting developments on the girl’s murder, though. Curious?”

  “Hell yes, I’m curious. Most of the time policemen don’t want to share stuff like this with laymen like me.”

  “Well, I figure we’re on the same team.”

  “I have a feeling there’s more to it than that,” I said.

  I heard him chuckle. “Maybe there is. Why don’t you come on over. We can chat for a few minutes.”

  “If we can do it right now. I’ve got to get back to the office this afternoon.”

  “Tell you what,” said Cusick. “I’ll be here waiting for you.”

  “It’s important, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in Harry Cusick’s office. The chief kept a neat desk, which set him apart from all the other cops I knew. A single manila folder rested on top of the blotter. Cusick was fingering the edges of it.

  He squinted at me through his steel-rimmed glasses. “I have issued a warrant for the arrest of Buddy Baron,” he told me.

  “You’ve learned more than I have, then.”

  He nodded. “Alice Sylvester’s parents told me that she was supposed to meet Buddy the night she died.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “He wasn’t in the habit of picking her up at the house. Something about his not wanting to confront her parents, who, I gather, did not entirely approve of him.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Mm,” he said. “So Alice would walk out and Buddy would meet her somewhere. She always told her folks what she was doing. And that’s what happened the other night.”

  “So say her parents.”

  Cusick nodded. “So they say. Anyway, as you are about to point out, that by itself would be considered hearsay. Good reason to talk to the boy. Not a good enough reason to arrest him.”

  “But,” I said.

  “But, there’s a waitress at Brigham’s who saw them together.”

  “Aha.”

  “They had hot fudge sundaes. Each of them paid for their own. They left the girl a fifty-cent tip. Alice Sylvester was wearing blue jeans, a pink blouse, denim jacket. She had a white bow in her hair. Like that singer.”

  “Madonna,” I said. “She’s got a new look now. The new Marilyn.”

  Cusick arched his eyebrows at me. “If you say so. Buddy Baron was wearing gray corduroy pants and a blue sweatshirt. Got the picture?”

  “Your
witness seems reliable.”

  “She knew both kids. Talked with them a little. Said they seemed depressed, or grouchy, as if they were arguing.”

  “Sounds bad.”

  “There are compelling conclusions to jump to,” said Cusick. “I am always reluctant to jump. On the other hand, everything points in one direction.”

  “If I find Buddy, I know what to do,” I said. “But I don’t intend to keep looking. It’s not in my job description. I talked to a few people today. You got there before I did, and you probably learned more.”

  “Well, if you’re the family lawyer…”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily be defending Buddy.”

  He nodded and picked up the folder. He extracted a sheet of paper, pushed his glasses up onto his nose with his forefinger, and frowned at what he was reading. “Some things about the case do bother me,” he said slowly. “I’ve got this final report from the medical examiner.” He ran his finger down the page. “This, for example. I think I may have mentioned to you that the girl had had sexual intercourse shortly before she died. But I didn’t know this when I spoke to you.” He peered up at me over the tops of his glasses. “It would appear that Alice Sylvester had had sexual intercourse with two different men.”

  “At the same time?”

  He peered at me to see if I was joking. He evidently decided I wasn’t. “More or less. Within an hour or two of each other, at most. See, they can type semen. Like blood. Same process exactly. Antigens, whatnot. Type A positive, Type B, and so forth. This girl had two different types in her.”

  “Everybody says this was a real nice girl,” I said.

  “According to the M.E. this was not rape.”

  I nodded. “So what do you make of it?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’d like to know who the second one was, since he’d be the last one to have been with her.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He stared at me for a moment. “Of course. We’re just developing hypotheses here. Anyway, some other things. Whoever killed her did it with his hands. Crushed her larynx and trachea with his thumbs. There were bruises on her face and throat. And he repeatedly banged the back of her head against something hard while he was doing it. There was significant damage to her cervical vertebrae and major trauma to the back of her head. Fracture of the skull.” He glanced up at me from the paper he was holding. “I’m summarizing what it says here.”