she would be the one the students hated and likened to Hitler, as all students did in all high schools to any vice principal in charge of discipline.
One difference.
She couldn’t have been prettier.
Mrs. Williams stood from behind her desk and shook my hand vigorously. She gestured for me to sit and I did. She was young, perhaps the same age as me. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and I had the impression she had recently set it free from a tight bun. Of course, the three bobby pins sitting next to her computer mouse were a dead giveaway.
I am, of course, a detective.
Mrs. Williams wore a white blouse with a wide collar that fanned across her collar bones. Her face was thin and pleasantly narrow. Of course, the intelligence behind her emerald eyes were the dead giveaway that she was something more than just a pretty face. A lot more. The eyes were arresting and disarming, true. But, good Christ, they were penetratingly cold. Chips of ice. She leveled them at me now and I squirmed in my seat.
“You seem a bit preoccupied, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Mrs. Williams. “You must have a lot on your mind.”
Her voice was a little husky, and a lot of sexy. The chest beneath her blouse seemed full, and heaved slightly with each breath.
“I was just wishing I had had you as my vice principal in high school.”
She did not blush, and her gaze did not flick away from mine. “What are you implying?”
“You are a looker, Mrs. Williams.”
She cracked a smile, and placed one hand carefully on top of the other. I could see her wedding band clearly. A plain gold band.
“A looker?”
“Means I think you’re swell.”
“Lord. Is this some sort of come-on line?”
“You’re married, and I’m happily dating the love of my life. I am simply warming you up to get what I need.”
“At least you’re honest about your intentions.”
“That, and I think you’re a looker.”
“What do you need, Knighthorse?”
“What happened to the mister?”
“Anyone who calls me a looker loses that formal courtesy.”
“Is that a fancy way of saying I’m warming up to you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I need access to your school.”
“What sort of access?”
Behind her the blinds were open, and I had a shot of an open quad. From here, Mrs. Williams could see much of the school. It was a good view for the vice principal of discipline to have.
“I’m here to investigate the murder of Amanda Peterson,” I said. Her eyes did not waiver. I forged on. “To do so I will need to speak to witnesses.”
“There are no witnesses to Amanda’s murder here.”
“But there are those here who could provide me some assistance, including yourself.”
She leaned forward and looked down at her ring. Her smooth face had the beginnings of crow’s feet. She used her thumb to toy with the ring, spinning it around her narrow finger. I wondered if perhaps she was regretting the ring was on, and thus losing an opportunity to be with yours truly. Or perhaps not.
“I’ll give you access, but not during school hours, and no speaking with students.”
“Agreed.”
“Now what do you need from me?”
“Was Derrick the only African-American in school?”
“No. There are three others. The papers were incorrect.”
“Was he a good student?”
“Exceptional. He carried a 4.0 GPA. Was on his way to USC for a full football scholarship. The world was his oyster.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call USC an oyster, Mrs. Williams. Maybe a parasitic tiger mussel that’s currently infesting the Great Lakes.”
“Nice imagery. UCLA fan?”
“And their best fullback.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that. You are a big boy.”
“Was Derrick capable of killing?” I asked.
She spread her hands flat on the desk and smiled at me. “Derrick was strong and excelled at a violent sport. Physically he could have done it. If you are inquiring about his psyche, you are barking up the wrong tree. Derrick and I rarely crossed paths. He kept his nose clean, as my father would say.”
“And being in charge of discipline, you would know.”
“I would.”
“Can you tell me anything about Amanda?”
“She was more trouble. But petty stuff, really. Nothing serious.”
“Like what?”
“Skipping class, smoking on school grounds.”
“She and Derrick an item?”
“Yes. The whole school knew that. He was our star athlete.”
“And black in a nearly all-white school. Did he ever have any problems with racism?”
“As far as I knew, he was wildly popular among his fellow class mates.”
“Amanda was in the school band?”
She paused, then shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe.”
“I was told she quit. Any reason why?”
“Refer to my prior comment.”
I didn’t like the answer. Mrs. Williams probably had access to Amanda’s file, and certainly would have read it since the murder. Band membership would have been in the official records.
“And Knighthorse,” she said, “I am definitely not the kind of principal you wish you had in high school. Students are never, ever pleased to be sitting where you are now.”
I smiled. “I’m not a student. And it’s not a bad view from here, Mrs. Williams.”
Most women would have blushed. She did not.
I left her office.
10.
The campus was sprawling and clean. The hallways were lined with yellow lockers. Most sported combination locks, although a few were padded with locks of considerable fortitude. These were blocks of titanium padlock perfection that were engineered to protect far more important things than school books and pencils.
My footsteps echoed along the now-empty hallway. Just a half hour earlier it had been filled to overflowing with students. Within these hallowed lockered halls, plans for parties had been made, drug deals had gone down, students had been harassed, asses pinched and thoughts of teenage suicide pondered.
In the police report, Derrick claimed to have been working out at the school gym at the time of the murder. He had no alibi. His football coach often left him alone with the keys, trusting Derrick. It was against school rules, but Derrick had proven himself to be reliable, and after all he was the star athlete. The coach probably loved him like a son.
The coach was the last to see Derrick. That had been at 5:45 p.m. on the evening of the murder. The
