Milo said, “We deal with facts, Hannah, not theory. There’d be no reason to get you involved. But a lead, even one that doesn’t pan out, would sure be helpful.”
“You can’t even call it a lead,” she said. “It’s just a possibility. Theoretical... oh, crap... fine. Let me preface this by saying that Manny was a great teacher, devoted, fair, but he had standards and he could be firm. You need to be firm with kids, especially the smart ones. They must understand that the real world isn’t perpetual daycare where everyone coddles — oh, crap, I’m blathering.”
She picked up the bottle, drank long enough to empty it. Let loose a soft burp and said, “Great, like you needed to hear that.”
Scooting forward, she said, “Okay, let me get this out. Around a year ago, right before Manny retired — I’m sure it played a role in his retiring — a terrible thing happened. Not Manny’s fault, not remotely his fault, but I suppose if someone thought so... it’s far-fetched, but with what you’ve told me about how someone was out for him specifically... okay. Here’s what happened. One of his students committed suicide. Manny was devastated, he had no idea it would get that far.”
Milo said, “There was a problem with that student?”
“Nothing earth-shattering,” said Hannah Gardener. “Not in a normal world but nowadays... the kid was a great student except for physics. He got consistently bad grades on the AP physics tests and Manny wasn’t one to grade-inflate. He was compassionate, he was understanding, but in the end you got what you earned.”
I said, “He failed the student?”
“No, no, nothing like that, he gave him a B minus, which according to Manny was more than what was merited, it should’ve been a C. But the kid went ballistic. Until then, he’d had straight A’s and was convinced it would ruin his future forever. He begged Manny to change it. Manny tried to explain that he’d already been generous and couldn’t go further. The kid went home and hung himself. Disgusting. Tragic.” She shuddered. “Over a stupid grade!”
I said, “Did the family blame Manny?”
“They blamed everyone. The school, the entire magnet program, and yes, Manny. He told me they even made noises about suing but of course that went nowhere, what would be the grounds? In any event, Manny retired. Refused to talk about it but it’s pretty obvious why.”
She pointed a finger. “I’m sure the family is devastated forever so I certainly don’t want to get anyone in trouble. But if anyone had a bone to pick with Manny, it would be them. And let’s face it, they probably created the situation in the first place.”
I said, “Putting pressure on the boy.”
“That’s what Manny said. It’s like that with most of the smart kids. Crazy parents giving them an either/or view of the world: get into the Ivy League or end up homeless. That’s where the problem lies, not with teachers doing our job. We are not paid to delude.”
Milo said, “What was the student’s name?”
“All I know is his first name. Errol. That’s all Manny told me and I resisted the temptation to find out more. Because frankly, I was horrified, and after what I’d gone through with my husband I’d developed a severe allergy to horror.”
She played with an earring. “Not going to get into detail but David had some sort of neuromuscular disease. Not ALS, nothing they could even put a name on.”
“So sorry you had to go through that.”
“So am I,” said Hannah Gardener. “That’s why I’ve changed my life. I’m also allergic to bullshit and so I concentrate on what’s important. That’s why I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Now or in the future.”
She got up, walked to the door and opened it. “Sorry if this seems rude, but end of discussion. I appreciate what you’re doing and hope you succeed but I want nothing to do with it and I trust you’ll respect my wishes.”
Milo said, “We appreciate your talking to us.”
“Sure,” said Hannah Gardener. “But I hope it turns out to be useless and you solve it some other way.”
Walking through the lobby, Milo said, “A kid gets a bad grade. Go Buck, out of the mouths of babes and old cops.”
In the car, he said, “Errol. That shouldn’t be hard to find.”
It wasn’t.
A call to the Coroner’s pulled up the death certificate, filed fourteen months ago.
Errol Morgan Moffett, seventeen. Cause of death: asphyxiation due to hanging. Manner of death: suicide.
Home address in Woodland Hills.
Milo said, “That’s an hour’s drive from Hamilton each way, minimum.”
I said, “It was probably the only magnet he got into.”
“Dedicated parents.”
“Like she said, devastated parents. It’s easy to see them blaming Rosales. The question is, how far did they take it.”
“Let’s try to find out. Starting with who are these people.”
“Facts, not theory,” I said. “Unlike the maps on her walls.”
“Huh?”
“She collects antique reproductions from when cartographers just made stuff up. The largest one had the world shaped like a cloverleaf. Another had an octopus—”
“You notice stuff like that? And could still concentrate on the main topic?”
“It’s not that hard.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t tell me about your physics tests.”
Chapter 34
Back in his office, he printed Errol Moffett’s death certificate, studied it in detail, and passed it to me.
Found hanging in the family garage by his parents, Scott and Lindsay Moffett.
Both had sparse Facebook pages, Scott a computer engineer, bald with a bristly gray beard, Lindsay a dance instructor with a lean face and spiky black hair.
Minimal self-promotion because their online attention had been concentrated on a memorial site for their son?
Those pages were heralded by a photo of a nice-looking, tentatively smiling boy with long brown hair and a fledgling mustache. Strong resemblance to Mom. The portrait was bordered by black roses. From the looks of it, taken not long before his death.
Both parents offered heart-wrenching memories of their son. Next came tributes from Errol’s older sister, Brynne, and his younger brother, Shelton. Then more of the same from friends and acquaintances, many of whom added their headshots to mini-essays, doggerel, and lyrics from popular songs.
Errol had been “brilliant,” “intense,” “passionate about science,” “a great human being,” and a “mind warrior,” whatever that meant.
No hobbies or outside interests cited. As far as I could see, Errol Moffett’s priority had been limited to “wanting to be a great neurosurgeon.”
I scrolled a bit more. Sad stuff, well meaning, repetitive. I stopped reading and returned the printout to Milo.
He rubbed his face. “A seventeen-year-old feeling the need to do that over a B minus.”
I said, “Probably not that simple.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cases like his typically get blamed on situational factors — bullying, video games, some sort of failure, including grades. Those can be triggers but there’s usually a serious underlying depression.”
“Start off in a gray world, doesn’t take much to turn it black?”
“Well put.”
He returned to Scott’s and Lindsay’s pages. “Not much here about them. Maybe ’cause they lived for their kids.”
I said, “Two hours of commuting a day says they were highly invested.”
I used my phone to look up Brynne’s and Shelton Moffett’s social platforms. She was a freshman at Pierce junior college, he a sophomore at Woodland Hills High School. Both into sports, music, friends. Perfectly normal, conventional kids, but no evidence of exceptional academic achievement.