"Our guidance counselor, Mrs. Wynn, is with them. I thought it best to keep them together and isolated for fear some of your friends out in the other room would get hold of them." Ned Browning nodded slightly in the direction of the outer office. All of his actions were understated, self-contained.
"Believe me, Mr. Browning, those jerks out there are anything but friends. If we could talk with each member of the team…"
Browning cut me off in mid-sentence. "They’re not there for your convenience, Mr…"
" Beaumont," I supplied. "Detective Beaumont."
"Thank you, Detective Beaumont. These are adolescents who have suffered a severe loss. I’ve assembled them for the purpose of enabling them to begin working through their grief. It’s the idea of peer group self-help. I won’t tolerate any manipulation by you or anyone else. Is that clear, Mr. Beaumont?"
There was no Santa Claus twinkle in Ned Browning’s eyes. They were sharp and hard. He meant what he said. I couldn’t help feeling some real respect for this little guy, doing the best he knew for the benefit of those kids. I wondered if they appreciated him.
"Mr. Browning," Peters broke in, "neither Detective Beaumont nor I have any intention of manipulating your students, but we do need to interview them, all of them. It’s the only way we’ll get some idea of what happened Friday night."
For a time Browning considered what Peters had said. Finally, making up his mind, he nodded. "Very well. I’ll take you there, but you must understand that the well-being of these young people is my first priority."
He rose. His full height wasn’t more than five foot seven. "This way," he said. He led us out through a back door, avoiding the crowd surrounding the front counter. What had been Darwin Ridley’s classroom was at the end of a long, polished corridor. Browning stopped before the closed door.
"What did you say your names are again?"
" Beaumont," I said. "Detectives Beaumont and Peters."
He ushered us inside. The room was hushed. There must have been twenty or so people in the room, standing or sitting in groups of two or three, some of them talking quietly, some weeping openly. The group was made up mostly of boys with five or six girls thrown into the mix. All of the faces reflected a combination of shock, grief, horror, and disbelief.
In the far corner of the room, a woman in her mid-thirties stood with one comforting hand on the heaving shoulders of a silently weeping girl. Browning gestured to the woman. She gave the girl a reassuring pat and walked toward us.
"This is Mrs. Wynn, one of our guidance counselors. She’s also the advisor to the cheerleading squad. Candace, these are Detectives Beaumont and Peters from Seattle P.D. They need to interview those students who were at the game Friday."
Candace Wynn had a boyish figure and a headful of softly curling auburn hair. An impudent cluster of freckles spattered across her nose. Those freckles were at odds with the hostile, blue-eyed gaze that she turned on us.
"That’s absolutely out of the question!"
"Candace, of course we will cooperate fully with the authorities in this matter."
"But Ned…" she began.
"That, however, does not mean we will allow any exploitation. My position on the media remains unchanged, but we have an obligation to teach these young people their civic responsibility."
The previous exchange had been conducted in such undertones that I doubt any of the kids had overheard a single sentence. Browning raised his hand for attention. His was a small but totally commanding presence. The students listened to his oddly stilted remarks with rapt concentration.
"My intention was that you should gather here and not be disturbed. However, I have brought with me two detectives from the Seattle Police Department. They are investigating Coach Ridley’s death. It’s important that we work with them. All of us. They have asked to spend time with you today, to discuss anything you may have seen or heard in the course of the game at the Coliseum Friday night."
He paused to clear his throat. A whisper rustled through the room. "We at this school have all suffered a severe loss. Those of you in this room, the ones who were most closely connected with Coach Ridley, are bound to suffer the most. Grief is natural. We all feel it, but it’s important that we put that grief to a constructive use.
"Mrs. Wynn will be here throughout the interview process. I urge you to cooperate as much as possible. Helping these men discover who perpetrated this terrible crime is perhaps the only practical outlet for what we’re feeling today. Detective Beaumont?"
I stepped forward, expecting to be introduced, but Browning continued. "Before you begin asking your questions, Detective Beaumont, I think it only fair that the students be allowed to ask some of you. All day long we’ve been subjected to a barrage of rumors. It would do us a tremendous service if we had some idea of what’s really going on."
I’d been snookered before, but let me tell you, Ned Browning did it up brown.
Where, oh where, was Arlo Hamilton when I needed him?
CHAPTER 8
I've never faced a tougher audience. Browning was right. Those kids were hurting and needed answers. As a group they had taken a closer look at death than most kids their age. Adolescents aren't accustomed to encountering human mortality on a regular basis. Two times in as many years is pretty damn regular.
They needed to know when Darwin Ridley had died, and how. Evidently, some helpful soul had spread the word that Ridley was despondent over the loss of the game and had committed suicide on account of it. The asshole who laid that ugly trip on those poor kids should have been strangled.
I answered their questions as best I could, fudging a little when necessary. I knew what would happen as soon as they stepped out of Ned Browning's artificial cocoon and the me dia started chewing them to bits. The principal stayed long enough to hear my introductory remarks, then left when Peters and I started our routine questioning process.
It took all afternoon to work our way through the group, one at a time. It was a case of patient prodding. The kids were understandably hesitant to talk to us. Candace Wynn, the guidance counselor, hovered anxiously on the sidelines.
Peters was a lot more understanding about that than I was. I had no patience with what I viewed as a direct impediment to our conducting a thorough investigation. As a consequence, we split the room by sex. I talked to the boys, the team members, and Peters dealt with the girls, the cheerleaders-helpless chicks to Mrs. Wynn's clucking mother hen. At least it kept her out of my hair.
Surprisingly, in spite of all that, we did get a few answers fairly early on. One of the first team members I interviewed was a gangly kid named Bob Payson, captain of the basketball team. I asked him if he had noticed anything unusual about Darwin Ridley's behavior the night of the game.
Payson didn't hesitate for a moment. "It was like he was real worried or upset or something."
"He was preoccupied?" I asked.
Payson nodded.
"Before the game? After it? During?"
"The whole time," Payson answered. "He was waiting at the gate when the team bus got there."
"The gate?"
"To Seattle Center. The team buses all stop at that gate there on Republican."
"Across from Bailey's Foods?"
Payson nodded. "That's right."
"He didn't ride on the bus with the team?"
"That was weird, too. Always before he rode the bus, but not this time."
My ears pricked up at that. Something out of the ordinary. Something different in the victim's way of doing things the night of the murder. Most human beings are creatures of habit. They don't like change, they actively resist it wherever possible. A change in Darwin Ridley's behavior the night he died might well be connected to his murder.
"So he didn't ride the bus, and he seemed worried when you saw him?"