“Coincidence.”
“It will not be coincidence if the New York police find a match between the paper they found on the floor of the theater and the sample register tape I mailed them yesterday,” said Carol Scott.
Eldridge Lane said he was leaving early in the morning for Philadelphia and wanted this interview over.
“You had eight students in New York over the Thanksgiving holiday,” said Carol Scott. “Here are their names.” She handed Lane a list. “However, all of them were with their families throughout their visit. I think we can rule them out.”
“You certainly can,” said Lane. “These are some of the most prominent families in the Southeast.”
Carol Scott was taping this conversation with a small portable recorder. She had told Lane that it was easier than taking notes. The truth was that she wanted to play it back to Stuart, the sheriff, to show him what an asshole Lane was. She pulled out another slip of paper.
“You also had three members of the faculty in the city over the break,” she said. “Carella, Farnham, and Warden.”
“Benjamin Warden is a nationally prominent poet,” said Lane. “He was there for a reading.”
“He has no alibi for Sunday afternoon,” she said. “He says he went to the theater alone.”
“He has been here as long as I have, and I trust him completely,” said Lane.
“And the other two?”
She noticed that Lane was less positive about Carella and Farnham.
“They’re fine men,” he said. “Relatively new to the faculty, but first-rate, solid people. Came to us with flawless recommendations. We don’t just hire anybody here, you know.”
She knew. Montpelier School dominated the community. It was the largest employer in Montpelier County. Back in 1968, for its centennial celebration, The Washington Post had done a feature article.
“Carella says he was visiting a friend, and that he and his friend walked around the city all weekend, barhopped, that sort of thing. The New York police are checking with the friend. Farnham says he was in the Metropolitan Museum on Sunday. He went on Sunday and paid nothing, so he doesn’t have any ticket as evidence of a visit there.”
Lane said he hoped she was not browbeating his faculty.
She explained that she was asking questions about Russell Phillips, was he depressed, how well did they know him. The information about people’s whereabouts at Thanksgiving was emerging from casual conversation. That’s why it had taken her so long to interview everybody.
“After meeting these people, are you not satisfied that they are reliable?” said Lane.
“I liked them,” said Carol Scott. “But most people get very charming when they find out they’re being interviewed by a cop.”
She wished he would take the hint.
“So where are we?” said Lane.
“I would like for you to cancel your mixer scheduled for the weekend,” she said.
“Not this again,” said Lane. “To do so would raise too many questions.”
“You can do it out of respect for the dead,” said Carol Scott. “You just had a boy die on your campus.”
“We have acknowledged the death of Russell Phillips. Now we are returning to life as usual. You simply do not understand the dynamics of boarding school life. These boys have forgotten all about Russell Phillips, those few who knew him. Adolescents need something cheerful to look forward to. They don’t need to be reminded of how depressed they’re supposed to be.”
She had to grant him that. She had a son and a daughter, ages six and four.
“Then please,” she said, “promise me that your gymnasium will be secure.”
“The gym will be locked,” said Lane. “And I will see to it that a faculty chaperone patrols there as well.”
It was awfully late.
“All right,” said Carol Scott. “Then everything should be fine.”
But she hoped, just for the sake of this jerk, that it wouldn’t be.
SCENE 14
The next two days passed quickly. On Thursday morning the student grapevine reported that Richard Blackburn had set off the fire alarm in the gym the night before. He had propped the back door open with a little pebble so that it had looked closed, and then he had waited until the building was clear, sneaked in, pulled the alarm, and exited the way he’d come in. On the way out he had kicked the pebble into the grass.
“I was outside in the dark by myself,” Richard told Thomas at the 10:15 morning recess. “And you know what? I never once felt the least bit depressed.” He said Lane’s rule about being alone after dark was unenforceable and ridiculous.
The most amazing quality about Richard was that he had no conscience at all.
Thursday after class Thomas told Mr. Carella what had really transpired in Staines’s room.
Carella was understanding about it. “I thought you acted guilty that day,” he said. “Good for you. It’s only the truly corrupt who can look clean and innocent all the time.” He promised that he wouldn’t confront Robert Staines about the incident until after the honor council had held its hearing on Sunday night.
On Friday they had an abbreviated basketball practice because of the game the next day. They could start practicing at 2:00 because classes ended at noon every Friday (but resumed on Saturday morning), and athletic practices were supposed to be done by 3:30. Thomas, however, screwed up his free throws and had to stay after.
“You’re not following a set routine,” Coach McPhee said. “Sometimes you dribble the ball once, sometimes twice, sometimes not at all. Do the exact same thing every time you step up to that foul line. I don’t care what it is. Make it comfortable for you. But make it the same routine.”
Thomas shot fifty free throws and made thirty-two of them.
“You’re going to be making forty-five out of fifty before the season is over,” said Coach McPhee. He took the ball from Thomas and stood at the line. He took two bounces, looked at the basket, bent his knees, shot, followed through. Swish. Ten in a row.
“That was great,” said
