Chapter 3

TUESDAY, AUGUST 30, 6:36 AM                    NON REGREDIOR

Swollen purple clouds kept the dawn at bay, muting the rectangular starkness of the Freedom Consolidated District Office. A crouching shadow took the steps in lithe strides then slipped through the glass entrance door and dissolved into the inky, tomb-like interior. Working toward the rear of the building, the intruder was swift and silent, a predatory cat—with each step, the outside edge of the foot touched the carpet then padded inward onto the ball and propelled the body forward.

Outside the Pupil Services Suite, the intruder surveyed the secretarial station, the buffer zone between the hallway and Kerry Wyatt’s office. At the far end, a lamp cast a small cone of illumination for Theresa Wagner, one of Wyatt’s two administrative assistants, who sat with earphones on, typing a recorded transcript. As usual, Wagner had been the first employee in the building. Soon, though, Kerry Wyatt and Lionda Knepp, the other assistant, would arrive.

Reaching Wagner’s throat unnoticed would be difficult. The path was a treacherous route through unkempt stacks and random files strewn like autumn leaves across a forest floor, leaving narrow estuaries of carpet that led to Wyatt’s office, the secretaries’ desks, and the vault. The vault. It held the records of every student who had undergone psychological testing. The intruder froze in reflection.

A late-afternoon breeze pushes lace curtains aside, ushering slanted sunlight into the bedroom. Shadows dance along the wall and flutter on the ceiling, but neither gentle breeze nor warm sunlight brings solace to the little boy cringing beside the low, marble-topped dresser as he stares through a sliver of doorway into the hall. He wishes he could shut the door like a stage curtain and end the scene. There is no ending this scene, though; nothing a ten-year-old can do. It has to play out, and it will end. It has to end.

An anguished howl pierces the air: “All right! All right!” The hall light clicks on, and then silence, except for a quivering sob and the drone of airplane propellers in the high distance.

The light switch clicks again, and the boy screws his eyes shut as the banshee scream pierces the air. “I get it! … You proved you could find me! … You always find me!” The light clicks on and off, on and off, accelerating to strobe-like speed until the boy can stand it no longer; he claps his hands over his ears and opens his mouth in a silent scream as the frantic voice rings out, “Leave me alone! Please leave me alone!” Footfalls trip down the steps. The front door opens and slams shut. Again, welcome silence. The boy opens his eyes and pivots to the window, parting the curtain so he can peek down onto the peaceful suburban scene. He looks up and down the street and holds his breath, hoping it is over.

Hope crashes down as his mother reappears in the middle of the street, arms aloft, face raised to the skies. Even the elms that line the street cannot muffle the piercing shrieks. “You win! … I give up! … You win!” She chants over and over, the supplicant falling to her knees and crossing herself. “God, make them stop!”

Neighbors peer through windows. Bolder ones step onto their porches to stare or exchange glances, repulsed yet transfixed by the horrid matinee.

The curtain dropped on the amber past, and wild eyes constricted to slits of grim determination. The intruder glanced up at the clock to see how long the reverie had lasted—seconds.

Bending at hips and knees, he snaked forward, a stare fixed upon his prey. One wrong move would incite a preemptive strike to cut off a scream. Reaching for Wagner’s throat, the attacker snarled, “Who killed Bob Samson?”

The assistant’s hands shot up, her chair flew back, and she let fly a haymaker. “I hate you, Randori!” she shrieked.

Leaning back as the telegraphed punch whizzed within inches of his nose, Doc Randori responded with a satisfied smirk, prompting a schizophrenic reaction as Wagner laughed despite herself while cocking her fist for another swing. Before she could launch it, the lights went on.

Kerry Wyatt, the Director of Pupil Services, entered and he surveyed the scene. His graying temples pulsed and bulldog jowls set, and he pointed an accusing finger at Wagner. “You!” he seethed. “The greatest educational philosopher since John Dewey has been lost to the world, and you try to decimate our ranks even further? What is wrong with you, woman?”

Riled and ready to rumble, Wagner shot back: “You call yourself a psychologist? Joking about Dr. Samson’s death; you’ll go to hell for that!”

Wyatt’s feigned fury melted into a broad Cheshire Cat grin, and his glistening, coal black eyes gleamed at the sudden opportunity to confront moral indignation. “Is that right, Mother Theresa? As I recall, no one harassed Bob Samson more than you did.”

Still struggling to regain her composure, the woman screeched, “He wasn’t dead then!” Glancing past Wyatt, Wagner spotted Meryl Morgan entering the office. “Boy, am I glad to see you. Help me out here.”

Most people were glad to see Morgan. The consummate administrator in demeanor and ability; at the same time, she was no one’s idea of the classic schoolmarm: a mane of wavy raven tresses framed her face; dark eyes and lush lips competed for attention with a perfect olive complexion—a masterpiece set atop a pedestal of tortuous Mediterranean curves. Realizing that, to many, her beauty defined her, Morgan rarely let down her guard; it was only around Wyatt and Randori that she came close to relaxing.

She serpentined along the same route Randori had taken earlier. “You know, if a person got off on bureaucratic effluence, this place would be positively orgasmic.” Morgan’s words came curt and pointed. “Let me guess; Doc has been harassing Theresa again, and Kerry, in a weak attempt to add humor, has confirmed that even the most intelligent man will prove himself an imbecile if given half a chance.”

“Meryl, I’m appalled,” Randori said. “You, of all people, jumping to unwarranted conclusions. I was testing Theresa’s reflexes. Then, when Kerry came in, we started discussing Bob’s place in history.”

“Better history than current events,” Morgan said. “Hate to say it, but there it is.”

“You too, Ms. Morgan?” Wagner said, gaping. “I thought if anyone had compassion it would be you.”

Morgan trained a stern gaze on Wagner. “Bob Samson was no friend to the kids in this district, at least not the needy ones.”

“Why help the great unwashed?” Randori said. “Their parents don’t pull our strings. Freedom Con takes care of the country club set and the jocks.”

Lionda Knepp, Wyatt’s second administrative assistant, arrived in time to hear Randori’s sardonic declaration. She tossed her purse on her desk and, without greeting or introduction, launched into a creditable imitation of Samson’s booming basso: “We got to get rid of Randori. Who needs a counselor when we could hire another cheerleading coach for me to bang.”

Morgan arched an eyebrow. “How counterintuitive is that?”

Wyatt and Randori smiled at Morgan’s words. The previous year, Randori had begun using “counterintuitive” as a euphemism, synonymous with the World War II military acronyms SNAFU and FUBAR, but more covert. Whenever Samson and his administrative cronies arrived at one of their many faulty conclusions or unethical decisions, Morgan, Wyatt, or Randori would respond with something like, “Sorry, but that seems counterintuitive,” and bring sub rosa relief to an otherwise frustrating experience.

Wyatt moved to the entrance of his conference room. “Now that Meryl is here, let’s meet before things start hopping.” As he closed the door, he said to no one and everyone, “And now that Lionda is here, she can accompany Theresa in a game of ring around the rosary over Bob’s soul.”

Inside, Wyatt pulled a chair away from the table as a gesture for Morgan to sit beside him, but she was already moving to a seat alongside Randori. “That headline in the Chronicle,” she said: “ ‘A Legend in His Own Time.’ Can you believe that? Then, the article—”

“Yeah, well I’m a rumor in my own time,” Randori cut in. “What garbonia. And I’ll pass on paying respects at the funeral if you don’t mind.”

Morgan laughed and gave a backhand slap at Randori’s arm. “God, Doc, you wouldn’t respect anyone who acted like a boss. You’re lucky; you don’t have to be political. Kerry and I are on the Cabinet; if we didn’t show, people would notice.” Her brows rose with a sudden new interest. “I wonder if Virgil will go to the funeral.” She referred to Virgil Davis, an assistant principal/athletic director who was their main ally at the high school.

“Virgil will go,” Wyatt said. “He and Bob were ex-servicemen and they coached football together. Virgil once told me that he always attends funerals of colleagues, even those he didn’t like. It’s a matter of respect for a comrade who fought a common foe. He sees him to the grave, and, as a symbolic send-off, tosses dirt on the casket. It’s a custom the men in his unit started, and he’s continued it ever since.”

“Speaking of dirt,” Morgan said, “Bob dealt him so much that I would think some tiny part of Virgil would be glad to be rid of him.”

Wyatt shook his head. “To Virgil, it’s a matter of honor. He told us there was only one exception to their custom, a soldier they were so prejudiced against that they ended their relationship with the man altogether.”

“Virgil?” Morgan said, incredulous. “Prejudiced?”

“Hard to believe, I know. But you heard it, too, Doc; isn’t that what he said?”

“Something like that, but I don’t think he meant it the way it sounded; he just had too much to drink. I will be anxious to hear if Virge keeps up his custom, though.” Randori pushed himself erect. “Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to waste any more time on Bob Samson.”

Wyatt nodded and heaved a deep sigh. “Well, now there’s an opening at the top. Are you going to apply, Meryl? I’ll support you.”

“Me too,” Randori said, grinning, “but that would probably hurt more than help. Besides, I’m worried that Phil Olson has his political ducks in a row.” Olson, one of Bob Samson’s protégés and the Director of Elementary Education, was Morgan’s counterpart and equal on the organizational chart. “Phil knows what’s near and dear to each board member, and he’s kissed it passionately, proving once again that, at Freedom Con, platitudes trump philosophy.”

“Meryl is best qualified,” Wyatt said. He reached to touch Morgan’s forearm, but her eyes shot a glare that made his hand recoil. “At the emergency Board Meeting last night they promised a fair and balanced selection process. Meryl will far outshine Phil.”

When concentrating on a person, Randori resembled a predatory bird: piercing, close-set eyes; Roman nose; set jaw; hair brushed back into a tight ponytail—all elements that intensified the impression. As he examined the slight tumescence of the veins in Wyatt’s neck, the counselor forced a disarming smile. “ ‘Fair and balanced,’ I can’t wait. Phil’s the kind of guy that rises in this system. He says the right things to the right people, never makes waves. And, above all, he always chants the District mantra, ‘We have to do what’s right for kids,’ even while he makes decisions that contradict it.”

“Meryl got her position on merit,” Wyatt said. “And I’d like to think I was qualified when they created this job for me.”

Randori shook his head. “You guys are too close to the situation. Sure, you’re the best qualified to do what you do, and, believe me, you make us all look good. But, neither of you is appreciated. Kerry, you run Pupil Services because no one else can or cares to, and it’s your head on the block when things go wrong, which is inevitable. Meryl, you’re like the first lady. You look good in the position—and Bob would’ve liked to see you in a few other positions, too.”

“That’s inappropriate,” Wyatt snapped, “even by your standards!”

Morgan held a hand up to stave off Wyatt’s defense of her honor. “It’s all right, Kerry.” She shot a hard sidelong glare at Randori. “This is why we keep Doc around: he’s like a pet ape that throws shit at our rose-colored glasses.”

Randori searched Morgan’s eyes and saw the wounds his words made. “Look Meryl, if you wanted to be superintendent, you should’ve pandered to the country club setor picked up some board member’s pet project. Instead, you focused on helping the neediest kids, which everyone thought was cute, but it wasn’t politically savvy.”

“Don’t you think you’re being just a little cynical?”

“Cynical, Meryl? Bob wanted you on the Cabinet so he could say, ‘Look how enlightened I am, having a woman on board.’ The way he set things up, though, the principals run the buildings and he ran the District, which leaves you and Kerry in a purgatory where you have all of the responsibility to make things work but none of the power to—”

“Stop,” Morgan said. First anger, and then a fleeting sadness swept across her face.

“I’m sorry, Meryl,” Randori said. “I didn’t mean to—”

Morgan gripped the counselor’s hand and rose to leave. “Shut up.” Turning her back to the men, her voice softened. “Don’t worry about it, Doc. It’s one of the caustic realities of befriending a person who holds the human race in disdain.”

Her verbal parting shot delayed her long enough to avoid a literal parting shot by way of a door to the face as Lionda Knepp burst in, eyes wide. “God, Meryl, I’m so sorry! I hate to barge in but, but—”

From the far reaches of the office came Theresa’s disembodied voice. “Oh, for heaven’s sake Lionda, spit it out.”

“Bob Samson was killed!”

“I hear Harry Truman isn’t doing too well, either,” Randori said, grasping the opportunity to lighten the pall he had cast over Wyatt and Morgan.

“No, wiseass, I mean his death wasn’t an accident. Ed just called. But please don’t say anything to anyone. It’s confidential.”

“Not for long, I’d wager,” Wyatt said. His dig at the Knepps’ lack of discretion would have passed unappreciated except for Randori’s quick glance.

“But he died in a car accident,” Morgan said.

“Ed said some of the injuries were inconsistent with a car crash.”

Randori smiled, but without humor. “Bob’s car took a header a hundred feet into a quarry. Seems like a pretty wide array of hurts could occur.”

Wyatt pressed for details. “What kind of injuries?”

“Ed didn’t say.”

“There goes my theory,” Wyatt said with a resigned shake of the head. “I thought he was trying to see if his ego would fill the gorge.”

Morgan frowned at Wyatt and prodded: “Did your brother-in-law say anything else?”

“Well, you know how the paper said he might’ve hit an unexpected curve? Dr. Samson grew up out there; he knew that road like the back of his hand. Then they thought, what with all the deer in those woods one might’ve run in front of him and he swerved. But there were no skid marks. Seems like he just drove real slow right into the quarry. Anyway, my source on the police force,” Lionda said, almost giddy at having the opportunity to use the phrase, “thinks things are going to get interesting. The State Police are in on it now.”

Wyatt checked his watch as a signal for adjournment and flashed his Cheshire Cat smile. “Well, at least we won’t lack for something to talk about at the wake.”

Lionda rushed her boss. Wyatt backpedaled into his office, slamming the door in her face, but the buzz-saw shrillness of her voice cut through to reach his ears. “Don’t you dare! Everything I told you is confidential police business.” Her last words, “Do you hear me?” rose near the range of canine-only reception.

Randori patted the secretary’s arm and smiled with reassurance. “Don’t worry, Lionda, we won’t let them take Ed’s bullets away again.”