“This is good, right?”
I hugged my friend. “This is very, very good. I need to call the cops.”
Ariana was elated that she’d given me the key to deciphering a major piece of evidence at the Franklin Hall crime scene. She cleared her desk for me-no small task since neither neatness nor doing paperwork received a lot of her attention on a regular basis. She put piles of folders on top of other piles of folders and left me alone with my cell, a pad of paper, and a pen. I intended to take my handwritten notes immediately out of her presence as soon as I was finished.
I mentally rolled up the imaginary sleeves of my sleeveless knit top. Not a problem; I’d taught a whole course in imaginary numbers last year.
I called Virgil. He, and not Archie, answered on the second ring. So far, so good.
“I don’t want to disturb you if you’re still talking to Rachel,” I said.
Virgil chuckled. “Your friend is doing fine. We just needed to get a few more things straight.”
“She’s still there?” I wondered if anyone but a lawyer or blood relative was entitled to that information.
“She’ll be here for a while.”
“Like, all night?” I heard my voice rise and my language lapse into studentese.
“Hard to say.”
“Did you pick up-?”
“Invite in for questioning, you mean?”
“Did you invite the other three girls I mentioned, too?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you arrest Rachel?”
“Not yet.”
I gulped, unable to ask about Woody. Surely there was an age limit for this kind of thing. “Do you have new evidence?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Other than Ms. Wheeler’s and three other students of yours lying to the police? No.”
“This is my fault,” I said, not meaning to.
“They’re the ones who lied to us, Sophie. That’s the crime. You did your part, encouraging them to come forward. And then coming in yourself was a nice, cooperative gesture.”
“So I couldn’t have been charged if I hadn’t come in?”
“Nope. More’s the pity. Anything you heard from Rachel or the other girls was essentially hearsay. You had no way of knowing if they were telling you the truth. It’s not as if you witnessed a crime.”
“Archie led me to believe-”
“That’s Archie. And, for better or worse, police are allowed to lie to suspects or persons of interest or… just about anyone as long as they’re not under oath.”
It didn’t seem fair.
“Well, I have something that I think will convince you that Rachel is innocent.”
“That’s exciting. You’ve got my attention.”
I didn’t want to disappoint him. “It’s not a hair or a fiber or anything.”
“You’d be surprised how seldom a hair or a fiber cracks the case.”
“Not like what we see on CSI?”
A loud guffaw. “Like where you take a piece of carpet thread from a body and a few minutes later you have the name of the only manufacturer who makes that particular color rug and they give you a list of the four stores in New England that they sell it to, which you then put into your computer and presto a mug shot pops up?”
I’d clearly hit a sore spot. “Yeah, like that. Not the way it is, huh?” My goal now was to strike sympathetic notes no matter what Virgil said.
“Remember I served ten years in Boston, so I’ve seen my share of homicide crime scenes. Let me tell you, it’s sheer brute force ninety-nine percent of the time. Interviewing, walking around meeting people who knew the deceased, talking to everyone in as much of an area as you can cover. A lot of times it’s what’s not at the crime scene that will solve your case for you.”
“Hard work will do it every time,” I said.
“And even if you have something as simple as fingerprints, do you know how long it takes to get that processed? Forever. There’s no money, no staff. And DNA? Don’t get me started.”
Too late. “Most people don’t understand how underfunded and overworked our police departments are.”
“You got that right. So what’s this theory you have?”
My turn at last. I laid out my logic to Virgil, explaining the Rules of the Yellow Sheets, according to the scientist residents of Franklin Hall. Then I summed it all up.
“Ergo, the killer wrote the nasty comments and sprinkled the pages around, so there’d be one more thing that pointed to Rachel.”
A long pause followed. I pictured Virgil, in all his bulk, scratching his head above his widow’s peak, thinking, not about to commit without a lot of thought.
I blinked first. “What do you think, Virgil?”
“Worth looking at.”
Yes! “Can I look at the sheets of paper?” Might as well keep on this roll.
“You can look at the photos of the sheets of paper.”
Good enough. “When?”
“Tell you what. Let us take a look on this end.” I wanted to rush in and offer Ariana Volens, my own handwriting expert, but I resisted. “Maybe I’ll swing by tonight and see my man Bruce, too, if you think he’ll be there.”
I was elated. “Bruce will be at my house. He’s sort of camping there until all this is sorted out.”
“It’s a good thing, because you certainly can’t count on the Henley PD to keep you safe.”
I hoped that was a chuckle I heard in Virgil’s voice.
I knew it was premature, but I couldn’t help rejoicing. All we-I was back, aligned with the police-had to do was determine whose handwriting was on the pages of Rachel’s thesis, probably rescued from the trash, and we’d have the identity of the killer.
Giddiness set in.
I briefed Ariana on Virgil’s response and thanked her over and over for jarring my brain into gear. I felt bad that I had to quash her idea that she come along to look at the handwriting and do her own analysis. I didn’t want to overwhelm Virgil. I promised I’d scan the photos and take copies to her if Virgil permitted.
I left a message on Bruce’s cell, which he wouldn’t have left on if he were sleeping, that we were having company this evening and that he should restock the fridge.
To add to my well-deserved state of euphoria, when I clicked on the “missed message” notice on my cell, I found that there’d been a call from Lucy. I was almost afraid to call her back, lest I break the spell. Following quickly on that thought was the brainstorm that I should find a way to get her to write a sentence for me.
CHAPTER 20
Bruce called me when I was about ten minutes away from home, caught in traffic from the late end of rush hour.
“I had my cell off,” he explained. “I needed to sleep if I’m going to take the late security shift here tonight. I hope there’s overtime pay in your budget.”
Cute. “Where are you?”
“Supermarket. Any special requests?”
“A couple of six-packs.” Bruce laughed, knowing my average consumption was one beer a year at the Franklin Hall summer picnic. “I’m serious,” I said.
“Virge is coming over?”
Smart guy. I replayed the last hours of my day for him, emphasizing the pluses. “Pick up some snacks, too,” I said. “And one of those cook-it-at-home pizzas. With pepperoni. And olives. Lots of both. Thanks.”
“Buttering up, are we?”
“To the nth,” I said. “Did you leave through my garage?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Just wondering if the boxes were back.”
Another great laugh. “See you soon.”
Halfway through his first slice of extra pepperoni, extra olives pizza, Virgil asked, “I hope you don’t mind if we eat first, then get to the other matter. No lunch today. And breakfast wasn’t so hot. Only four doughnuts.” Bruce and I raised our eyebrows. “Kidding.”
“Take your time,” I said. “Have some more chips.” As long as the “other matter” was on the agenda for the evening, I was fine.