physical evidence and little else.'
'The Albany cops did talk to Greg's neighbors, Janie Insinger and Virgil Jackman, who told them that Greg had been anxious and depressed for many weeks. Did Greg ever mention Insinger and Jackman to you?'
'Not that I recall.'
'Those two also told me that Greg was romantically involved with a political figure he met when this man visited one of Greg's classes at SUNY. Do you know who they might have been referring to?'
More beard tugging. 'None comes to mind. Political figure?
On rare occasions members of the State Legislature are on campus for one reason or another. Or the governor. Who was governor five years ago? George Pataki, I guess. Or-I have to ask-do you actually know who the politician was that Greg was getting it on with and you're just being coy with me?'
'I'm trying to be discreet. Call it coy if you want to.'
'Then I suppose I could figure it out. I could ask around the department. But why don't you just tell me who it was and save me a lot time?'
'Kenyon Louderbush.'
'The Tea Party guy running for governor?'
'Yes.'
'Yuck.'
'Republicans can be sexy. I've read that one reason Laura Bush has stuck with her doofus of a husband for so many years is, she considers him a hot number.'
'That's enough about Laura and W behind closed doors. As my students sometimes say, TMI.'
'Couldn't Louderbush have visited a class without your knowledge?'
'Possible but not likely. I'm vice chair of the department, and faculty always give me or Doris Carpenter, who's the chair, a heads-up as to any visiting royalty. Legislators have to be wined and dined, at least figuratively speaking. And 80
Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson
Louderbush is one of those budget-committee characters whose presence in the department-or on campus at all would be taken very, very seriously by the powers that be around here. No, I would have known about Louderbush showing up on campus. I really doubt that that's where the two of them met.'
This was getting confusing. I said, 'I keep getting different stories from different people as to who Greg Stiver was and how he led his life and what his state of mind was in the months before he died. He was depressed, he wasn't depressed. He was an isolated economics wonk in an abusive relationship, or he was an eager young man looking forward to launching a career in academia who let off steam regularly by charging around and getting banged up on a rugby field.
Greg's story gets more Rashomon like by the hour.'
Podolski seemed to be gazing at my bandaged ear. 'It looks like you're into rugby pretty heavily yourself, Donald. Or is your own story also more complicated than you're letting on?'
'You could say so, yeah.'
'Anyway, I love your bag.'
Chapter Nine
Loitering in a car outside an elementary school is a good way to draw unwanted attention if you're not the parent of one or more of the pupils inside. So I parked in what appeared to be the staff lot, locked the shoulder bag in the trunk of the Corolla, and strode up to the uniformed security guard outside the main entrance. The stout, seventyish, Caucasian man was shifting this way and that, looking as if he was about ready to finish his shift and get the heck off school property and go somewhere and have a smoke-I could smell it on him-and a brew. The curb fifty feet away was lined with idling school buses, their drivers poised, awaiting the onslaught.
'Sir, I'm looking for Jennifer Stiver. Is she likely to come out this way?'
'Prob'ly.'
'So, school's out in three minutes?'
'Yeah, about that. But the teachers won't be out yet. They mostly stay late.'
'Will Jenny be in her classroom?'
'Prob'ly.'
'I'm her cousin Donald from Minneapolis. She doesn't even know I'm in town. Aunt Elva thought I should surprise Jenny and she'd get a kick out of that.'
'That's nice. She's in room twenty-six. Just tell the office first.'
'Thank you, sir.'
I stood aside when a bell went off, the entire building seemed to tremble on its foundations, and the doors burst open and unleashed a hopping and skipping swarm of small people jabbering and hollering. The loading of the buses by the drivers and cadres of aides was carried out as efficiently as any UPS overnight sorting operation. None of the hundreds of first-to-sixth graders wandered off or fell under a bus or sneaked behind a bush to smoke pot. Within a fast five minutes, the buses shut their doors and roared down the street in a mighty convoy behind which lesser traffic would soon creep along, in Buddhist-monk-like synchronicity with a universe that was orderly and moral twice a day.
I nodded at the security guy and ambled inside the building, a one-story concrete slab and glass structure with classroom wings extending out from the administrative core and, presumably, a cafeteria and gym in the rear. I waltzed past the office-a sign said OFFICE-and turned down a corridor, hoping this was the wing with room
It was. The door was open, and I peered inside. My idea was, if I approached Jennifer Stiver in any number of other situations, she would likely tell me to buzz off, or even run away. If I approached her in her workplace, she might possibly do either of those, but she might also be such a slave to professional decorum that she'd be willing to talk to me.
'Ms. Stiver?'
'Yes?' She looked uncertain. Was I a parent or stepparent or other family member of a student who she wasn't quite remembering?
'I'm sorry to bother you in your classroom. I'm sure you're up to here with end-of-the-school-year responsibilities. But I know how close you were to your brother Greg, and I'm sure you were devastated by his suicide. I'm Donald Strachey, a private investigator, and I've been hired by other people who cared about Greg to look into the circumstances of Greg's death, and I'm hoping you'll be able to clear up some inconsistencies I've run into about Greg's state of mind in the weeks prior to his death.'
She stood next to her desk glaring at me. She was taller than she looked in her Facebook photo, her amber hair was even more meticulously unruly, and her big china-blue eyes were bright with anger.
'You're working for people who cared about Greg? And who exactly would those people be who supposedly cared about Greg? I think you're a fucking liar is what I think you are. Did you by chance call me last night at home?'
'I did. You hung up on me. Can you say fucking in an elementary school? I'm surprised.'
'Well, your shock would disappear in a hurry if you spent a day with today's sixth graders.'
'Do you wash their mouths out with soap, or how do you handle present-day potty mouthery?'
'No, I do not wash their mouths out with soap, nor do I touch the children in any way whatsoever that could be construed as corporal punishment. What I do is, I explain, without actually saying it, that fuck is a rude word, and life is nicer for everybody if we refrain from using rude words in the same way we should all try to refrain from using rude 84
Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson behavior. Sometimes this argument makes an impression, although often it doesn't. Back when I was a naive beginning teacher I once asked a boy if he used language like that in front of his parents. He said yeah, he did, and if they didn't like the way he talked, they could go fuck themselves.'
'Gee. And you're not allowed to Taser the children?'
'No. Even though electronic zapping would not involve touching a child, it's not permitted. But I am allowed
