The Headsman (18 page)

“Nobody.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I am. If there was, I would’ve known it. She had to really care about somebody, you know? And with Ron and Buddy, she did.”

So Buddy had it right. Marcy’s lovers had been only two young men. But then again—“She ever talk about anybody else she might be interested in?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Oh, there’s a guy who’s a sophomore now, at Brown. His name’s Bob Waltham. Marcy always thought he was pretty cute. But he goes with Tracy Adams.”

“Yeah, I know him. Who else?”

“Nobody. Except I knew she was …” Her voice trailed off and she looked away.

“Yes? You knew she was what?”

“I knew she was interested in Jeff.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. I mean, she never talked about it, but I could tell. The way she looked at him, the way she acted around him.”

“Did he know it?”

“I’m not sure. Probably.”

“You never discussed it with him?”

“No, never. I didn’t want him to think I was jealous. And besides, she was my best friend.”

“In your opinion, how heavily was she into drugs?”

A change came over her. The blue eyes hardened, and her chin came up. “I don’t know anything about that. As far as I could tell, she never touched anything.”

“Not even a little pot, now and then?”

“I told you, I don’t know anything about that. So the answer’s no.”

There are some people you get farther with by not pushing too hard. He sensed she was one of them. Even though she was just a kid, there was a streak of intransigence not far beneath that pink and blond surface. And anyway, he’d already learned a number of things from talking to her.

He stood up. “Thanks, Pat. I’ll be talking to you again. I’m sure you want to get back to your classes.”

She smiled. “Nope. They’re over for the day.”

6

The air in the gym was warm, maybe close to eighty degrees. With only a handful of onlookers in the stands the place seemed cavernous, much larger than on a game night, when the fans would pack every inch of space and the noise would be like rolling thunder. Now the shouts of the practicing players and the thump of balls bouncing off the lacquered floor and the fiberglass backboards echoed hollowly. Jud took off his jacket and draped it over his arm, leaning against a wall as he watched.

Peterson was easy to spot. He was a good-looking kid, even-featured and with short black hair. He wasn’t the tallest member of the team, but he was easily the most graceful. He took a rebound and passed, then moved downcourt, running with long strides that were deceptive; he was moving faster than he seemed to be. The ball came back to him and when he cut and accelerated he blew past the defenders for an easy lay-up.

Watching him, Jud could see why there was talk of Jeff going to one of the Big East teams on a scholarship—Syracuse or Georgetown or maybe Seton Hall. He and Billy Swanson were probably the best athletes in the school.

Braddock’s basketball coach was Fred Walsh. He’d been at BHS forever, or at least for years before Jud had joined the police department as a rookie. A lanky man with thinning red hair fringed with gray, Walsh was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with WILDCATS printed on it. A whistle hung from a lanyard around his neck, and every few minutes he’d blow the whistle and run the team through another play.

At one point he caught sight of Jud and walked over to where he was standing. “Hey, Chief—want to shoot a few?”

Jud smiled. “Not today. Wouldn’t want to make your kids look bad.”

“We’ll take a chance.”

“Some other time, Fred.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

“I want to talk to the Peterson boy for a bit.”

“Sure.” Walsh didn’t ask why; he didn’t have to.

“You got a place that might be a little private, where we could be alone?”

“How about my cubbyhole?” the coach offered. “Go through the locker room and shut the door. After the kids are out of the shower I’ll send Jeff in there. Shouldn’t be long, practice is over for today.”

Jud thanked him and walked through the door under the stands that led to the locker room. It was even warmer in there than in the gym, the benches strewn with pieces of clothing and equipment and more of it hanging in the open lockers. The shower room was at one end of the area and apparently some of the kids were already inside. Clouds of steam were rolling out the door and Jud could hear shouts and laughter over the sound of water pounding onto the tile floor. He walked to the opposite end of the room to a door bearing a sign that said COACH and went into the tiny office, closing the door behind him.

There was a battered gray metal desk in the room, and shelves along two of the walls held a variety of junk—old basketballs and team photos from years past and sweatbands and an alarm clock. On another wall was a bulletin board with team rosters and newspaper clippings tacked to it. Jud sat down at the desk and waited, dropping his jacket and cap onto the floor and wishing it weren’t so damned hot in here.

Peterson came in a few minutes later, his face still flushed from the workout and the shower, his wet black hair combed back. He had on an open-necked white polo shirt and jeans and he seemed at ease.

Jud shook hands with him and told him to take a seat. “How’s it going, Jeff—think you’ll make the finals?”

The kid smiled. It was apparent that he was used to being asked about basketball and how the team was doing. “We’ve got as good a chance as anybody. The other night against Warren Falls we just blew it. We’re a better team than that. I hope we get to play them again.”

He wasn’t cocky, Jud realized, just confident. And much more self-assured than most kids his age. “You were with Marcy Dickens after the game, right? You and Pat?”

The boy’s face clouded. “Yeah, we sat at the same table with her and Buddy.”

“Terrible thing, what happened to Marcy,” Jud said. His manner was relaxed, but he was watching Jeff closely.

“Sure was. I hope you catch whoever did it.”

“Oh, we will. Sooner or later we’ll get him.” That sounded good, but Jud wondered just how much truth there was in it. Thus far the police, including Pearson’s team, hadn’t come up with a single lead. “You seen Buddy since then?”

“Yeah, I was with him for a while Saturday night. He’s plenty shook up.”

“Sure. He tell you I talked with him?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“How’d he and Marcy seem to you when you were with them at the dance?”

“Okay, I guess. Nothing unusual.”

“Anybody else with you?”

“Joe Boggs and Tina Ferrell part of the time.”

“How about Marcy—how was she?”

“Fine, I guess. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except—”

“Yes?”

“Except maybe she wasn’t as, like, happy as she usually is.”

“Why would that be, do you know?”

“No idea.”

“What did you talk about, do you remember?”

For the first time in the conversation, Jeff seemed uncomfortable. “Yeah. And it was kind of strange. We were talking about the headsman. It came up in English class that morning, and at the dance we were joking about it.”

“So Buddy told me. Odd coincidence, huh? When you think about how Marcy died.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“I understand your teacher brought it up that morning.”

“Hathaway.” Jeff shook his head. “What a spook.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. The guy’s just—peculiar. And you know something? This morning he never said one word about Marcy. Nothing. Everybody in the school was talking about it, all the kids and the teachers. They’re really upset, you know? Mr. Baxter announced school’s closed tomorrow so anybody who wants can go to the funeral. But Hathaway never said a word. It was like it never happened.”

The English teacher’s part in all this had struck Jud as more than a little strange as well. It’d be interesting to learn more about Hathaway’s apparent preoccupation with the legend of the headsman—whether the reason for it was as simple as his drawing an analogy to what the class had been studying.
The power of suggestion
.

“Where’d you go after the dance, Jeff?”

“Greasy Pete’s.”

“Lot of other kids there?”

“Oh, yeah. Billy Swanson and Alice Boggs, Joe Lombardi, Betty Melcher, quite a few.”

Lombardi was one of Jeff’s teammates. “How long were you there?”

“Maybe an hour or so.”

“You drive your car?”

“Yes.”

Jeff had an old Ford convertible, Jud knew. He’d seen him driving it around Braddock. “What time did you take Pat home?”

“Pretty late. Around two.”

“You go in the house?”

He shifted in his chair. “Yeah, for a while.”

That figured. The senior Campbells would likely have been in bed by then, which would have given Jeff and Pat a chance to be by themselves. “What time did you leave?”

“Uh, three, three-thirty.”

“And then?”

“And then I went home.”

According to Dr. Reinholtz, Marcy had died between midnight and 2:00
A.M.
Unlike Buddy Harper, Jeff could prove where he’d been until much later than that on Sunday morning. “Let me ask you, Jeff. Anything happen that night, anything you might have thought about later you think I ought to know?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything. If there is, tell me. It’ll be confidential, just between you and me.”

The boy was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Honest, I can’t think of anything.”

“All right, Jeff, thanks. Anything you happen to think of that could interest me, anything at all, you let me know.”

Jeff said he’d do that. He left the office, obviously glad the interview was over.

After he’d gone Jud sat there for a few minutes, thinking back over their conversation. It was the damnedest thing, but he had the distinct feeling he was close to something. The trouble was, he didn’t know what. He wondered if it were true, that he’d learned something but hadn’t recognized it, or if police work was doing to him what it did to so many cops: getting him so nutty he saw hidden motives everywhere, shadows behind the shadows.

He looked at his watch. Classes had been over for some time, but he still might catch Hathaway. He picked up his things and left the coach’s office, aware that his uniform shirt had become damp with sweat.

7

Jud asked directions to Hathaway’s classroom, but when he got there the English teacher had left for the day. There was a phone booth in the hallway near the front doors of the school, and he went to it. Hathaway was in the book; Jeff called the number and said he’d like to have a talk with him.

Hathaway’s manner was coolly distant, but he told the chief to come to his apartment. It was in the Keeler building, he said, at the south end of Main Street. Jud drove the cruiser, arriving less than ten minutes after he left the high school.

The building was one of the newer ones in Braddock, a project developed by Sam Melcher’s real estate company. There were stores on the street level and a suite of dentists’ offices at the rear, and the upper two floors contained apartments. Hathaway’s place was on the top floor. Jud rang the bell and a moment later the door opened and he was looking down at the teacher.

The man’s face was broad, and his clipped black goatee and his mustache made his jaw seem even wider. Hathaway extended a hand. Jud shook it, then followed the motorized wheelchair as it whirred and turned, leading him from the small foyer into the living room.

The decor was pleasant enough, but Jud quickly perceived that everything had been arranged so it could be reached from a sitting position. The bookcases and shelves, the pictures on the walls, everything was at a lower level than normal. From a point about five feet from the floor on up to the ceiling, the walls were bare. The furniture in here was modern, and not to Jud’s taste. Everything seemed as if it had been designed to look at and not to sit on. He took off his jacket and cap and dropped them onto a chair.

Hathaway gestured toward a sofa and swung the wheelchair around to face his visitor as Jud sat down. He smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes. “Like some coffee, Chief, or a drink?”

“No thanks,” Jud said. “I just want to ask a few questions.”

“About Marcy Dickens, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“What a tragedy. Somehow you just don’t associate that kind of violence with a sleepy little town like Braddock.”

“No, you don’t. I understand she was a student of yours.”

“That’s correct.”

“A good student?”

“Average. Nothing outstanding. She did her work most of the time. But that was about it. Like a lot of kids nowadays, school didn’t seem very important to her.”

He had big hands, Jud noted. Broad shoulders, a deep chest. Probably worked out with weights in order to keep his upper body in shape, stuck in that wheelchair all the time.

“Her death must have given you quite a shock.”

Hathaway’s eyes were so dark you couldn’t tell what color they might be. It seemed to Jud they sat back in the teacher’s head and looked out at you. “It certainly did.”

“She was in class Friday morning?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did she participate in the classroom discussion?”

“I think so. I seem to remember her answering a question.”

“What kind of material have you been covering?”

There was hint of condescension in Hathaway’s reply. As if a cop wouldn’t know one book from another. “American authors, at the moment. Melville, Twain, Washington Irving.”

“I see. How many classes do you teach?”

“Five, altogether. But just one in senior English. That one is supposed to be for our better students, which is laughable.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we don’t have any better students. They range from ordinary to dull.”

Jud smiled. “Must be tough, trying to get pupils to respond when there isn’t much interest.”

“It can be frustrating, yes.”

“You’ve been at Braddock High a long time, right?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“In the Vietnam War, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I was in the infantry.”

“What outfit?”

“Three Hundred Sixty-fourth Regiment.”