Zeb headed to the school, parked his vehicle in the visitors’ lot, ignored curious looks and entered the building.
It was a busy school, one of the largest in the city, and he dodged students and teachers and after a few inquiries, headed to the principal’s office.
The principal, Gary Busman, stopped in his tracks when he mentioned he was from the FBI.
He presented his credentials that Burke had provided them.
‘We have had several visits from you folks. We have had state cops, the FBI, newspaper reporters, TV crews… just about everyone, visit us and interview us. I don’t have anything new to tell you.’
He wasn’t rude, though his tone was short.
A teacher bobbed her head in, he waved at her, and she went away.
Zeb looked at him and then at the wall behind him. Numerous awards and certificates adorned the principal’s office. He had won best teacher, best principal, at state level, for several years.
There were photographs of him with students, with parents. There didn’t seem to be any photographs of him with any politicians.
Time to take a leap of faith.
He rose, shut the door and returned. Busman put a file down and looked down at him questioningly.
‘Our investigation is going nowhere,’ Zeb told him bluntly. ‘We are no closer to finding the boys than we were on the first day.’
‘I follow the news,’ Busman responded with a small smile. ‘You might say, we have a vested interest in making sure the boys are found.’
Progress.
‘How did Nathan Cowart die?’
Busman blinked. ‘Cowart? What has he got to do with the investigation? He died two years before Fairman transferred from here. An accident.’
‘It was investigated thoroughly?’
Busman frowned, puzzled. ‘I am sure it was. The police will know more about the case, if you want to know. Is there a connection?’
Zeb shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I am looking at coincidences, inconsistencies, abnormalities, and the accident jumped out at me. Can you describe Cowart?’
Busman had a skeptical look on his face; however, he rose, went to a filing cabinet, and returned with a folder.
‘His dad owned a convenience store in town.’
‘Owned?’
Busman corrected himself hastily. ‘Still runs it. Cowart had an older sister. She too studied in this school. He was bright. Good grades. Good reports. His teacher will know more about him.’
‘Arlene Slayton,’ he answered Zeb’s look.
He smiled suddenly. ‘You are looking for coincidences, aren’t you? Here’s one for you. Arlene Slayton taught Fairman too. She taught the brightest students in school.’
‘What does she teach?’
‘English. She’s an English teacher.’
Storms stopped just once to fuel and grab a burger. He set off immediately, eating the burger while driving. The road was empty, his tools were beside him, he had an easy job.
Life was good.
He entered the outskirts of Amherst just as it was nearing noon, went to a remote parking lot and stopped.
He moved to the rear seat and changed into dark blue overalls.
Uniforms open doors.
He punched Slayton’s house coordinates in his GPS and commenced his drive.
‘Can I talk to Arlene Slayton?’ Zeb asked the principal. He had asked more questions, but the principal didn’t know anything relevant. The teachers were closer to the students.
He kept repeating that Fairman and Cowart were smart. He showed Zeb their report cards.
‘We call her Arlene. She will be in class now. She lives nearby, heads home during her lunch hour, and returns for the afternoon classes.’
Busman rose and led Zeb out of his office and to Slayton’s class.
‘You met the Fairmans?’
Busman bobbed his head. ‘Often, when they lived here. Mrs. Fairman came to school events, parents’ events, and was very involved in Shawn’s education. Mr. Fairman came less frequently. He worked in Columbus. However, he too took a keen interest in Shawn’s schooling.’
They walked past brightly lit corridors which were never empty. Several students greeted the principal. He greeted them back with a smile or a wave. He seemed to be popular.
‘Shawn won quiz championships at state level. That boy had a memory like a sponge. He could remember anything.’
Zeb nodded absently and tried to hurry the principal along. It was nearing lunch time. He wanted to speak to Slayton.
Arlene Slayton wasn’t in her class. She had a migraine, so she gave her class work to keep them occupied and had excused herself.
She had gone to inform Busman, but he seemed to have a visitor. She told a few coworkers; that she was going to lie down for a while and would be back after lunch hour.
One of them walked with her to her car. Arlene was a popular teacher. She was in her late fifties and her white hair curled around her face gave her a haloed look.
Her migraines were well known in school. They didn’t come often, but when they did, she had to lie down.
Storms drove up the street once and looked at Slayton’s house. It looked neat and inviting. It had a concrete drive, a neat lawn, a single garage, and had dark tiles.
A three bedroom house, Storms recalled, from the package he had received.
The street was quiet. The nearest neighbor was hundred feet away and shared the lawn.
Not many cars on the street. A few on the driveway.
Slayton’s car was a red Ford Fusion. It wasn’t in the driveway.
He drove on. He would circle the neighborhood and return.
Arlene Slayton wasn’t in her class. Busman asked her students, they said she had gone home early.
‘The usual problem, sir,’ one girl grinned.
‘Migraine,’ Busman explained. ‘She has them occasionally.’
He paused uncertainly. ‘Maybe you should wait in my office till she returns. She isn’t very conversational when she has these attacks.’
Arlene Slayton mopped the perspiration on her forehead with an arm and peered ahead.
Her home was barely a ten-minute drive, but on such days, felt like it was hours away.
Thankfully, this time of the day, the roads were empty.
She sighed gratefully when her home appeared in view, and turned on her flasher even though there wasn’t any vehicle behind her.
She turned in her driveway, exited, and leaned against her car for a moment for the blackness to recede.
She opened the door and hurried inside to the bathroom
She ran the tap and bathed her face in cold water, held her fingers to her temple, wiped her face with a towel and headed out.
A bite and a brief rest in a dark room and I will be good as new.
She walked slowly to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, started to drink it, stopping when the doorbell rang.
Storms gripped his bag in his left hand, and rang the doorbell with a knuckle.
He put on a smile when an eye appeared in the peephole.
Arlene Slayton opened the door.
‘Ms. Arlene Slayton?’ Storms smiled wider. ‘I am from the water company, ma’am. There are some reports of a leakage on this street. I need to run a few tests.’
The teacher looked him up and down, and behind him. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Not more than fifteen minutes, ma’am.’
He shifted his feet to convey his impatience. The longer he stood outside, the greater the risk of being spotted by someone.
‘Where’s your van?’
Storms bit back an oath. ‘Don’t need one for such tests, ma’am.’ He drew out a card and gave it to her.
‘You can call my office and verify, ma’am, but it’ll be quicker if I run these tests. I will be out of here in no time.’
The teacher stood uncertainly and then opened the door wider.
Jackpot.
He stepped in behind her, slipped on thin gloves and shut the door behind him.
One arm went around her throat, one hand cupped her mouth.
‘This really won’t take much time, ma’am.’
Zeb sat in a chair in a corner and detached his mind. He ignored the occasional glances from the principal.
Cowart and Fairman were smart. Barlow was also smart. All three had good grades, good report cards.
What of it? Millions of kids are smart.
He chased the thoughts around and after a while, rose. ‘I’ll drive around the neighborhood. I’ll be back just before she returns.’
The principal, who was with a teacher, lifted a hand in acknowledgement.
Clean, wide, streets. Large playgrounds. Good community. Most of the residents worked locally or within an hour’s commute.
A random thought struck Zeb. How did Fairman and Barlow become close? They go to the same school, but live in different social circles.
He made a note to get the twins to investigate.
He circled the neighborhood and drove down Arlene Slayton’s street.
Her car was in the driveway. There was another car on the street driving slowly, approaching him.
He caught a glimpse of the driver, a man in something blue. The driver waved. Zeb nodded in return.
He went down other streets, killing time, and when the lunch hour was ending, he headed back to the school.
The parking lot was crowded.
Didn’t see that many vehicles, earlier.
He entered the school and immediately felt the tension.
Something’s up?
He headed to Busman’s office, crossed groups of teachers and students who were whispering. Gone was the noise. Gone was the laughter.
Busman was with several teachers.
He looked at Zeb, over their heads.
‘Arlene Slayton is dead.’