16
'LEGS,' SAID DANNY.
They were sitting in the conference room next to the headmaster's office. Marvin Brightman, the headmaster, was at one end of the table, hands folded, wondering if he would be updating his rйsumй in the next week.
Danny sat at the other end of the table. Bill Hexton was across from him. They were waiting for a lawyer. It might be a long wait. John Rothwell, the lawyer who represented the Wallen School, had been called, but his firm backed off. Said it would be a possible conflict of interest if the police were planning to arrest one of the Wallen School students in connection with the investigation. They had recommended another firm. The return of the throbbing downpour would definitely delay the arrival of the attorney.
'Legs,' Danny repeated. 'Havel kept a journal. Said he was involved with a student he called 'Legs.''
Hexton looked at him, impassive, resigned, determined.
'You said you did it on your own,' said Danny. 'That wasn't true.'
The headmaster shifted uncomfortably but didn't speak. Hexton didn't answer.
'We know whose dress that was in your locker,' said Danny. 'Size fits only one of the girls in that chem class and the video confirms which one. My partner's talking to her right now.'
Nothing from Hexton.
'You hid in the chem closet before class,' said Danny. 'Plan was to come out when the students left. Plan was to warn Havel to leave her alone, maybe even push him around a little, maybe push him around a lot, but you heard noise. When you came out Havel was facedown on the desk, pencil in his neck. She was standing over him covered in blood. She had her uniform on under her dress. She took the dress off. You got her cleaned up and then you took another pencil and drove it into his eye. He was already dead. You wanted to take responsibility for killing him if you got caught. One big problem. You want to know what it was?'
'No,' said Hexton.
'I do,' said Brightman.
'Blood splatter,' said Danny. 'The blood on the dress shows that whoever wore it struck the first, the fatal blow. You going to claim you were wearing the dress?'
No answer.
'Okay,' Danny went on. 'No blood splatter from the second blow, the one to the eye. No splatter on your uniform. The blood had stopped pulsing in Havel's body. He was dead. No splatter. You drove a pencil into the eye of a dead man to make it look as if you had struck both blows. Angle's wrong. Splatter's wrong. And we believe there was glass in your palm from using the jar. You tried to use green clay to get the glass out, but you had to dig the glass out yourself. And your palm is still slightly green.'
Hexton looked as if he were going to speak, but Danny stopped him.
'You'd better wait for your lawyer. There'll be an assistant DA here soon. The two lawyers can talk to each other. I'm finished,' said Danny.
'Detective, I've advised Miss Reynolds not to say anything,' said John Rothwell, the Wallen School lawyer.
'I want to tell her,' said Karen Reynolds of the golden hair and long legs.
'This won't be admissible,' said Rothwell.
'She's eighteen,' said Lindsay, turning on the small tape recorder.
They were in the headmaster's office. Beyond the door Karen Reynolds kept glancing toward where Danny was sitting with Bill Hexton and Marvin Brightman.
'I didn't mean to kill him,' Karen said to Lindsay. 'I knew Bill was in the closet, yes. The plan was for him to come out, face Mr. Havel, warn him. I went back into the lab when the others left. I told him to stop bothering me, calling me, touching me. We'd only done it once, two months ago. I was seventeen then. I told him I'd tell, that his wife would find out, the school would find out. He didn't care. Said no one would believe me. He grabbed me. I picked up the pencil and…I panicked. I didn't plan to kill him. I didn't. I wouldn't have stabbed him if he hadn't grabbed me.'
'That's it,' said Rothwell. 'Not another word.'
Lindsay reached over and turned off the tape recorder. She had enough.
Charles Roland Cheswith was a resourceful man and, if he had to say so himself, which he did, a very good actor. He never had the looks, the charisma of a leading man, but that was fine with him. Leading men get old, hang on, give up and start to compete, usually unsuccessfully, for character roles with Charles Cheswith, who already fit comfortably into the roles of father, priest, lawyer, pharmacist and cop. He could go back to the stage, although it would have to be far away and under a different name.
He still harbored a glimmer of hope that he could claim the substantial insurance on his brother, Malcom. It was not a great hope, but there were still possibilities to explore.
First things first, however.
He had a checklist. Not one he had written. He didn't need to write it. Charles had an outstanding memory cultivated by exercises and tricks collected from years of learning roles. He had once, not too long ago, played Murray the Cop in a production of
Now Charles sat in a wheelchair at JFK Airport, passport and e-ticket in hand, waiting to board his flight to Vancouver. He knew places to get lost in Vancouver, places where he could heal and hide. He had the money from Doohan. It would carry him while he figured out a way to claim the insurance money.
He wasn't quite home free, but he was getting closer.
With the help of the crutches he had made it to the front of the hospital and into a cab, which had just pulled up. There were people ahead of him in line, but with crutches and bloody blue surgical garb he had pushed his way past them filled with apologies as he uttered, 'Emergency. Sorry.'
And they believed him, believed he was a doctor. It was one of his better performances. It had to be.
They would be able to track him to the cab he had taken. Of this Charles had no doubt. The pretty woman detective wouldn't give up or slow down. She had been relentless in rescuing him and her partner and figuring out what Charles had done. She would be relentless in tracking him.
But he had made it back to the hotel where he had a room. The front desk clerk glanced at the bloody blues, the crutches, the bandaged leg and said nothing. He got Charles's passport and cash from the hotel safe. Charles paid his bill, went to his room, changed his clothes in agonizing pain, and made his way back to the front of the hotel where he caught another cab.
All he had was a carry-on. No checking of luggage. In a washroom, Charles put on a pair of glasses, combed his hair forward and let his lower lip puff in a pout that announced that this character was not of high intellect.
A lean black man with a trim beard and a blue blazer and tie hurried him through security in a wheelchair. Charles had checked the departure board briefly, saw that the Vancouver flight was leaving in thirty-five minutes. He had purchased a one-way ticket. Charles knew Vancouver, had been in three episodes of
He got the man who was pushing the wheelchair to stop at a mall shop where he bought a Mets cap, a pair of sunglasses and a magazine. He was ready, at the front of the line, early boarding for the man who needed
