Gun Games (14 page)

u only play perfect.

c, that’s y i like u so much. can u make fri morning?

no, i have a math test.

so come sat, plzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

A long pause.
ok. i’ll come sat. i’ll think of something.

Thx,thx,thx.
Then he wrote,
u know i really m crazy 4 u.

She responded:
i feel the same way.

Gabe texted
: a thousand kisses.

a million kisses.

it’s l8. u have school. go to bed.

Yasmine wrote:
i will. it’s just that i’m soooooo happy when i talk 2 u.

i know. it’s so hard to let go. But it’s after 1. u need 2 go 2 bed, i’ll see u on sat.

okay.

gnite n sweet dreams.

they’ll b sweet if i dream of u.

Gabe wrote:
ur intoxicating. i can’t stop thinking about u. i can’t w8 4 sat., gnite, my luv, gnite, gnite.

Yasmine wrote:
gnite, my angel gabriel, gnite, gnite.

His phone went dead.

His heart was thumping in his chest. He closed his eyes and let his brain and other things take over, imagining the feel of her lips, the taste of her skin.

It didn’t take long.

The second time didn’t take long, either.

It seemed sacrilegious to do it after talking to her. She was so gorgeous, and pure and angelic. But he couldn’t help it.

He was a dude. He was fifteen. He was Chris Donatti’s son.

It was what it was.

Chapter Fifteen

W
ednesday morning—the day after Myra Gelb put a gun to her head—Bell and Wakefield had canceled all classes. The daily grind of AP calculus and advanced composition had been replaced with special programs on the hour every hour starting at eight in the morning. Scheduled were three all-school assemblies held in the massive auditorium as well as smaller class seminars. The topics ranged from bullying to establishing healthy peer relationships to teenage depression and suicide, all the information printed on packets embossed with the B and W lion logo in crimson. The cover page featured school photos of both Gregory Hesse and Myra Gelb with an
in memoriam
and the dates of their truncated lives printed underneath the photos.

Waiting in Dr. Martin Punsche’s office, Marge and Oliver sat on hard-back chairs and perused the pages of the paper packet. It was now ten in the morning and they had been there for fifteen minutes. Oliver was getting antsy. Today he wore a brown suede jacket over a black shirt and black pants. His penny loafers were shined to maximum reflection. Marge was dressed in one of her favorite cashmere sweaters. Good knitwear was like wearing a blanket—roomy and soft. These particular sweaters fell below the waistband of her pants, camouflaging the imperfections. She had bought the same garment in six colors. Today, it was baby blue day.

Oliver hit his hand on the papers. “You think any of this psych crap helps?”

“Who knows?” Marge said. “Teenagers are on another planet. Only fate and pain stop them from self-destruction, and sometimes even those are not enough.”

Oliver studied the pictures of the deceased teens. “So there was like a month between the two deaths.”

Marge nodded. “Six weeks. If they were two random suicides, that’s bad enough. But you can’t help but wonder if something weird is going on inside the school—like a suicide club or gun games.”

“Gun games are a white male thing. Maybe Gregory Hesse. Not Myra Gelb. Do the two victims have
anything
in common besides going to the same school?”

Marge thought a moment. “They’re not exactly outcasts, but they certainly weren’t part of the ‘in’ crowd like the B and W Mafia, nothing more than a bunch of stupid rich kids playing criminal idiots. But that doesn’t mean that the boys can’t do damage.”

“Yeah, teenagers with guns aren’t good news for anyone,” Oliver said. “So Myra was suffering from depression?”

“According to her brother, yes. We have no indication that Gregory was also afflicted. The two of them don’t seem to have friends in common. Also, with fifteen hundred kids in the school, it’s likely that the two of them didn’t know each other, especially since she was a grade older.”

“What about teachers in common?”

“Don’t know,” Marge said. “To tell you the truth, after Wendy Hesse stonewalled our mini-investigation, we stopped with the psychological autopsy on Gregory Hesse. But now with
two
suicides, and Kevin Stanger’s bullying and reports about mini Mafia gangs, it may be worth dissecting. There are always cliques, but this may go beyond.”

At that moment, Martin Punsche flew in like a tornado, attired in a white shirt and dark pants. His face had gathered a heavy etching of lines since the detectives had last seen him. The VP checked his watch. “I know that I’m late. Couldn’t be helped. It’s been . . . hellish. There’s no other word for it. Hellish. This is totally unprecedented.”

“You’ve never had suicides at B and W before?” Oliver asked.

“Two in the past eight years, and we thought that was extraordinary. We screen for the psychologically robust. Of course, you can’t predict things like death and illness that crop up during the four years that the kids are here, but we try to deal with those things right away. We knew that Myra had some issues. We require all parents to report what medications their children are on for legal reasons. Her mother told us that Myra had gone on antidepressants. But she seemed to be doing fine.”

“What is your definition of doing fine?” Oliver asked.

“Her grades were excellent and she had friends. Her teachers didn’t report anything odd.”

Marge said, “Would you like to sit down, sir?”

Punsche realized he was pacing in a tiny space. He collapsed into his cushioned desk chair. “I’ve only got a minute before the next seminar. What can I do you for?”

“Last time we spoke, you said that you didn’t know Gregory Hesse very well,” Oliver reminded him.

“Yes, that was true. Since that time I did speak to a couple of his teachers. Gregory didn’t seem to have any problems, either. He was an excellent student, no behavioral and social issues. He actually did some tutoring that I wasn’t aware of. I’m completely in the dark.” Punsche stared at the detectives. “I’m not even sure why you two are here. It’s great to have the police interested in the welfare of our young people, but I’m not sure this is really a police matter.”

Oliver said, “We want to make sure that these deaths aren’t part of a larger issue at the school . . . that the two cases aren’t related.”

Punsche ran his hand over his bald head. “I don’t see how. Myra and Gregory weren’t even in the same grade.”

“That doesn’t mean they didn’t know each other.”

Marge said, “Maybe the two of them were in some common class.”

“Usually eleventh grade and tenth grade are pretty separate, but there are some electives that can be taken in any year in any grade. Let me see . . .” He booted up his computer. “I’ll pull up Myra’s class list and Gregory’s class list . . .”

“We still have that list of Gregory’s classes.” Marge pulled out a piece of paper. “We understand that he was particularly interested in investigative journalism.”

Dr. Punsche shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

Oliver said, “Was Gregory working on the school paper?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Myra?” Marge asked. “She was a very good artist and cartoonist.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, either. The journalism teacher and newspaper adviser is Saul Hinton. Feel free to talk to him. He’s in room . . .” He clicked a few keys on the computer and pressed the print button. “What was I saying?”

“Saul Hinton’s room number.”

“Twenty-six or twenty-seven.” Punsche pulled the list from the printer and handed it to Marge. “Here you go—Myra Gelb’s classes.”

She briefly compared it to Gregory Hesse’s class schedule. The lists didn’t appear to intersect, and neither was currently taking any journalism class.

“Anything else?” Punsche made a show of looking at his watch. “I do need to go.”

Oliver said, “A few more little things. What do you know about Dylan Lashay?”

Punsche was taken aback. “What does Dylan have to do with any of this?”

Marge said, “We understand that he’s the leader of a group of boys who . . . well, they fashion themselves after the Mafia, complete with Dylan being the don and having a bunch of capos.”

“What?”
Punsche made a disbelieving face. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. Dylan is one of our star students—academic, athletic, and a terrific actor. He was accepted early decision to Yale.”

“Okay,” Marge said. “And that contradicts what we just told you because . . .”

“Well, that’s just preposterous! Dylan doesn’t have to play games to be a leader. He
is
a leader.”

Oliver said, “We’ve heard he has an unhealthy passion for guns.”

“I don’t know
what
you’re talking about!” Punsche said. “And furthermore, it is not my habit to talk about specific students to the police.”

“Except to say that he got into Yale,” Marge said.

“I think our business is done here.” Punsche got up from his chair. “Even though you’ve crossed some boundaries, I still invite you to talk to Mr. Hinton or any one of our staff here at B and W. We have nothing hidden here although I don’t know what Mr. Hinton or anyone on our staff could offer you.”

“I appreciate your openness,” Marge said. She could mentally hear Oliver snickering. “You never know what will turn up, so thanks for giving us free range with your teachers.”

“I didn’t say
that
!” Punsche shook his head as if he were dealing with two errant students. “Look, Detectives, I won’t presume to tell you how to run your investigation, but I will offer you a word or two of friendly advice. The school has undergone two terrible tragedies, two self-inflicted deaths. It makes no sense for you to go poking into other people’s affairs.”

“By other people do you mean Dylan Lashay?” Oliver said.

Punsche said. “The Lashays are wonderful people, and Dylan is no exception. They are very involved in the local community and charity, which includes support for the local police.”

Oliver grinned. “Good to know whose feet we’ll be stepping on.”

Marge nudged her partner. “We all have a job to do, sir. And I’m sure you respect the fact that we take our work seriously. Thank you for your help.”

Oliver wasn’t done. “I’m not quite sure I’d call your advice friendly, Dr. Punsche.”

Marge pinched him hard as Oliver threw her a dirty look. Punsche didn’t notice the interaction. “I’m just laying it out for you. What you do with it is your business.”

S
aul Hinton was in his forties, tall and lanky with a sloping nose and a bad comb-over of gray unruly hair. With his spindly arms and elongated torso, he moved like one of those inflatable balloon tube men placed as come-ons in front of car lots.

The classroom was empty. The front wall had a blackboard, a whiteboard, and a mounted forty-inch flatscreen. Pinned up on the cork board was the most recent edition of the school newspaper—
B and W Tattler
—again emblazoned with the lion mascot. Hinton offered them a seat at any of the twenty built-in desktops, each one containing several Ethernet ports for laptops.

“Actually those are already out of date,” Hinton told the detectives. “The whole school went wireless six years ago. The ports are used only for backup.”

“What happens if the kid doesn’t have his own laptop?” Oliver asked.

“The school provides it for him or her,” Hinton replied.

“What’s the tuition?” Marge asked.

“Forty thousand a year. About twenty percent of our student body is on scholarship,” Hinton said. “The administration does what it needs to do to keep the quality up and balance the budget. Unfortunately we have to turn down a lot of otherwise great students to do so.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “What can I do you for? I wouldn’t think these deaths, as tragic as they are, are police business.”

Oliver said, “Technically, suicides are crimes.”

“And that’s ridiculous.”

Marge said, “Mainly, sir, we’ve here because we want to be sure that the suicides aren’t some part of a larger problem at Bell and Wakefield.”

Hinton looked at her with focused brown eyes. “What larger problem?”

“Do you remember a student named Kevin Stanger?”

“Of course. He transferred out at the start of tenth grade.”

Oliver said, “Do you know why?”

“Do you?”

“He was having some social issues,” Marge told him. “Is that what you heard?”

“Something like that.”

Oliver said, “Then you’re one step ahead of the VP. Dr. Punsche claimed he had no idea why Stanger transferred.”

Hinton was quiet.

“Or maybe he lied.”

Again, Hinton didn’t talk—a tactic of police interrogation as well as journalism. Marge said, “What do you know about crowding?”

“Was that what Kevin talked about?” Hinton asked.

Answering a question with a question. Oliver changed the subject. “Kevin told us that he and Greg Hesse kept up contact even after Kevin left. He also mentioned that Hesse had taken an interest in investigative journalism when he took your ninth-grade course.”

“Yes, that’s true. Greg was intrigued by Watergate.”

“Did Watergate inspire Greg to do some kind of investigation on his own?”

“Not that I know of and certainly nothing under my auspices.”

Marge said, “Kevin Stanger seemed to think that Gregory was involved in something secretive. Hesse was attached to his camcorder. Furthermore, he claimed he was onto something that would turn Bell and Wakefield upside down.”

“Would you know what Stanger is talking about?” Oliver said.

Slowly Hinton shook his head. “No, I really don’t.” Another pause. “Anything else you can tell me . . . maybe something will strike a chord.”

Marge said. “That’s all Stanger knows. We were just wondering if this had something to do with the school paper.”

“Gregory wasn’t on staff for the paper.”

“Did he ever write a guest column maybe?”

Hinton bit his bottom lip, stood up, and went to his desk, booting up his computer. “Hold on a moment.” It took him around five minutes of searching. “He actually did write a column . . . just one and at the beginning of the year.” His eyes scanned over the screen and then he pressed the printer button. “I remember this now. It was advice on how to survive ninth grade. Humorous but informative.”