Eve stepped out again. Arnette Mosebly paced the hallway with a PPC in her hand. “Principal Mosebly? I’m going to have to ask you not to contact anyone, speak with anyone just yet.”
“Oh…I-actually, I was just-” She turned the PPC around so Eve could see the miniscreen. “Word game. Something to occupy my mind for a bit. Lieutenant, I’m worried about Lissette. Craig’s wife. She needs to be told.”
“She will be. Right now I’d like to speak with you, in private. And I need to interview the students who found the body.”
“Rayleen Straffo and Melodie Branch. The officer who responded said they couldn’t leave the building, and had to be separated.” Her lips thinned now in obvious disapproval. “Those girls were traumatized, Lieutenant. They were hysterical, as one would expect under these kinds of circumstances. I have Rayleen with the grief counselor, and Melodie with our nurse practitioner. Their parents should be with them by now.”
“You notified their parents.”
“You have your procedure, Lieutenant. I have mine.” She gave one of those regal nods Eve imagined were required in Principal Training 101. “My first priority is the health and safety of my students. These girls are ten years old, and they walk intothat.” She nodded toward the door. “God knows what damage it’s done to them, emotionally.”
“Craig Foster isn’t feeling so well himself.”
“I have to do what needs to be done to protect my students. My school-”
“Right now, it’s not your school. It’s my crime scene.”
“Crime scene?” Color drained from Arnette’s face. “What do you mean? What crime?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. I want the witnesses brought in, one at a time. Your office is probably the best place for the interviews. One parent or guardian per child during the interview.”
“Very well, then. Come with me.”
“Officer?” Eve looked over her shoulder. “Tell Detective Peabody I’m going to the principal’s office.”
His mouth twitched, very slightly. “Yes, sir.”
It was a different kettle altogether, Eve discovered, when you were the honcho instead of the one in the hot seat. Not that she’d particularly been a discipline problem in her day, she remembered. Mostly, she’d tried to be invisible, just get by, just get through and get out of the whole educational prison the day it was legal to do so.
But she hadn’t always managed it. A smart mouth and a bad attitude had surfaced often enough to earn her a few trips down to that hot seat.
She was supposed to be grateful the state was providing her, a ward thereof, with an education, with a home, with enough food to sustain life. She was supposed to be grateful to have clothes on her back, even if someone else had worn them first. She was supposed to want to better herself, which had been tough when she hadn’t remembered, not clearly, where she’d come from in the first place.
What she remembered most were the smug-toned lectures, the disappointed frowns that didn’t quite hide the superiority.
And the endless, the terminal, the all-pervasive boredom.
Of course, it hadn’t been smart and spiffy private schools for her, with state-of-the-art educational equipment, sparkling clean classrooms, stylish uniforms, and a one-teacher-per-six-students ratio.
She’d be willing to bet her next paycheck that the Sarah Child Academy didn’t run to fist fights in the hallways, or homemade boomers in the lockers.
But today, at least, it ran to murder.
While she waited in Mosebly’s office with its homey touches of live plants and stylish teapots, she did a quick run on the victim.
Foster, Craig, age twenty-six. No criminal. Both parents still living, she noted, and still married to each other. They lived in New Jersey, where Craig himself had been born and raised. He’d attended Columbia on a partial scholarship, earned his teaching certificate, and was working on a master’s degree in history.
He’d married Bolviar, Lissette, in July of the previous year.
He looked fresh and eager in his ID photo, Eve mused. A handsome young man with a clear complexion the color of roasted chestnuts. Deep, dark eyes, and dark hair worn in what Eve thought they were calling a high-top. Shaved close on the sides and back, brushed high on the crown.
His shoes had been trendy, too, she recalled. Black and silver gels, with ankle wraps. Pricey. But his sports jacket had been dirt brown, worn at the cuffs. Decent wrist unit, which had struck her as a knockoff. And a shiny gold band on the third finger of his left hand.
She imagined, when Peabody completed the scene, there would be under fifty credits in Craig’s pockets.
She made a few quick notes.
Where did the hot chocolate come from?
Who had access to the insulated cup?
Shared classroom?
Time line. Last to see vic alive, first to find body.
Insurance policies, death benefits? Beneficiaries?
She glanced up as the door opened.
“Lieutenant?” Mosebly stepped in, one hand on the shoulder of a young girl with milky skin dotted with freckles that went with her carrot-red hair. The hair was long and brushed back into a sleek tail.
She looked slight and shaky in her navy blazer and spotless khakis.
“Melodie, this is Lieutenant Dallas, with the police. She needs to speak with you. Lieutenant Dallas, this is Melodie’s mother, Angela Miles-Branch.”
The kid had gotten the hair and skin from Mom, Eve noted. And Mom looked just as shaky.
“Lieutenant, I wonder if this could possibly wait until tomorrow. I’d prefer taking Melodie home now.” Angela had Melodie’s hand in a death grip. “My daughter isn’t feeling well. Understandably.”
“It’ll be easier all around if we do this now. It shouldn’t take long. Principal Mosebly, if you’ll excuse us.”
“I feel I should stay, as a representative of the school and as Melodie’s advocate.”
“A representative isn’t required at this time, and the minor child’s mother is present as her advocate. You’ll need to step out.”
There was an argument in Mosebly’s eyes, but she tightened her jaw, stepped out of the room.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Melodie?”
Two fat tears, one for each big blue eye, spilled out. “Yes, ma’am. Mom?”
“I’m going to be right here.” Keeping hands joined, Angela took the seat beside her daughter. “This has been terrible for her.”
“Understood. Melodie, I’m going to record this.”
With the nod came two more silent tears. At the moment, Eve wondered why the hell she hadn’t taken the scene and sicced Peabody on the kids. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
“We went into Mr. Foster’s class-um, Rayleen and I. We knocked first, because the door was closed. But Mr. Foster doesn’t mind if you need to talk to him.”
“And you needed to talk to Mr. Foster.”
“About the project. Ray and I are project partners. We’re doing a multimedia report on the Bill of Rights. It’s due in three weeks, and it’s our big second-term project. It counts for twenty-five percent of our grade. We wanted him to see the outline. He doesn’t mind if you ask him questions before class, or after.”
“Okay. Where were you before you went to Mr. Foster’s classroom?”
“I had lunch period, and my study group. Ray and I got permission from Ms. Hallywell to leave study group a few minutes early to speak with Mr. Foster. I have the pass.”
She started to reach into her pocket.
“That’s okay. You went inside the classroom.”
“We started to. We were talking, and we opened the door. It smelled awful. That’s what I said, I said: ‘Holy jeez, it really stinks in here.’” Tears rained again. “I’m sorry I said that, but-”
“It’s okay. What happened then?”
“I saw him. I saw him on the floor, and there was like, oh, gosh, there was all this vomit and everything. And Ray screamed. Or I did. I guess we both did. And we ran out and Mr. Dawson came running down the hall and asked us what was the matter. He told us to stay there and he went back. He went inside. I watched him go inside. And he came out really fast, with his hand like this.”