AS IT HAPPENED, the police and attendant support staff swarmed the front entrance of the school just as Bryn Derwyn's victorious boys' basketball team began to jump and jostle out of their bus. The juxtaposition of realities made me sorry I was an adult.
The kids wore short wool coats or ski jackets over their baggy sweat pants, sloppy socks, and white high tops. One or two wore baseball caps. The sight of the four official vehicles silenced their carefree camaraderie, although one six-footer exclaimed, "Whoa, check this out."
"This doesn't concern you, son," a uniformed policeman responded, herding the tall boy backward toward the front door. The rest of the team sidled inside with wary over-the-shoulder glances.
Meanwhile the JVs trickled out of the bus. Win or lose, the younger players always came home elated. Now their chameleon faces were wide with the TV-show display of drama. "Wow," was the most common response.
An officer accompanied both teams to the locker room, possibly to control the gossip, probably to insure that nobody broke loose and contaminated the crime scene. "Disturbance," was the only explanation I heard anyone give the kids, and the youngsters didn't believe it any more than they were meant to.
One uniformed cop canvassed the lobby taking names and addresses while another few searched the building for stragglers. The most authoritative person, a Lt. John Newkirk, nodded to Rip and me before leading his small army down the hall to view the remains. After determining that my call was indeed legitimate, he relayed a request for the coroner, set the forensics people and the photographer to work, then returned to the lobby.
He shook Rip's hand. "You're head of the school?"
“Yes,” with a trace of regret.
"Any more kids around?"
Rip eyed his watch. "Girls’ basketball won big yesterday, so the coach gave them today off. Might be a few students working individually with teachers, but four-thirty is late for a Friday. Probably this is it." He pointed his chin at the cluster of teachers and staff. The roundup had gathered two more teachers and three more students; Kevin Seitz, the business manager; the lower school administrative assistant, and a computer repairman; Patrice and the two boys who had been serving detention by helping her clean.
The lieutenant turned to me. "You placed the call, Mrs. Barnes?" He was imposing in a bulky way, about six-two with thinning dark hair and a broad reddish mustache, black eyes, pasty cheeks that made you think of a poor diet or the British complexion; but maybe it was his London Fog overcoat that suggested the comparison. His bored, seen-everything demeanor made me want to clap my hands to get his attention, or maybe keep talking until he actually looked at me.
"Yes, I..." I hesitated to mention that I found the body; it sounded so canned.
Fortunately, Newkirk filled in the blank, nodded to cut me off and said, "Can we speak in private?"
"Of course," I answered.
"My office," Rip offered with a wave of his hand. Then he squeezed mine, lowered himself to the bench, and rested his chin on his fist. He looked miserable, and it occurred to me to wonder what I looked like myself.
Newkirk quietly closed the door behind us and directed me into Rip's chair, a big swivel thing covered in a durable tweed. Rip had chosen it to fit his leggy height, and in it I felt more like a little girl in the principal's office than I would have in one of the visitor's chairs.
"Where do you want to start?" the lieutenant asked.
Avoiding the question, my eyes skimmed over the paraphernalia of Rip's office as if I'd never seen it before: the family photographs huddled in the corner of his credenza, the tasteful wallpaper, the shelves full of favorite authors from his teaching days ready to impart wisdom as needed. What would Pat Conroy or F. Scott Fitzgerald say about the death of an attorney?
Newkirk tapped his pen.
"I guess I should start with when I first saw Richard Wharton in the room.”
"Okay." He leaned forward to encourage me.
I explained about the Mop Squad and how I planned to clean the Community Room closet looking for things to sell the night of the holiday program. I told him I went out for a minute and when I got back, Kevin Seitz and Richard were speaking to a couple I knew to be late with their tuition.
"Their names?"
I told him, even spelling the last name; but then I added, "You won't embarrass them, will you? I'm not certain that's what they were talking about."
"But that was your assumption."
"Well, yes."
"No guarantees, Mrs. Barnes, but we'll be as tactful as possible. Go on."
I swiveled, unable to stop fidgeting. "I thought about going home for an hour—we live just beside the school—but my coat was still in the Community Room so I decided to watch the music rehearsal." I continued to explain how I went home without a coat anyway because Rip asked me to phone Didi. "Then I spent a few minutes talking to our son, Garry, and finally came back here. When I got to the Community room, Richard Wharton was dead."
"Did you touch anything in the room?"
"Not that time. Not even the inside doorknob." I explained how I covered my hand with my sleeve before I left.
"Anything look odd to you, aside from the victim and the murder weapon?"
"No." I thought about that again. "No."
"Why did you leave the room the first time?"
"To get something to clean the shelves."
"Did you pass anyone in the hall?"
"No."
"Who else was in the building that you remember?"
I told him about the rehearsal and the music director quitting.
"When you left, your husband was alone in the auditorium?"
My pulse picked up. Was he? "No. No, we walked toward the office together. By the time I came back he was meeting with three teachers. Joanne Henry was also there taking notes or getting instructions or something. It looked as if they'd been there a while."
Newkirk nodded noncommittally. "Know any reasons why someone might want the victim dead?"
"First hand reasons? Provable reasons?" I asked.
"Any reasons."
I considered that. What I knew or thought I knew was all of a damagingly personal nature. Furthermore, the so-called information had been obtained through gossip. If the police couldn't do better than that, we were all in trouble.
"He wasn't well liked," I remarked vaguely, wondering whether I should add, "except by some women."
"Why not?" Newkirk asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I guess because he didn't care who liked him and who didn't."
"Arrogant?"
"Self-assured."
"Antagonistic?"
I shrugged. "He was a lawyer. That was his job."
Newkirk flipped his notebook closed. "Getting cold in here," he remarked.
Outside the day's light had faded into our early winter dusk. Down on the road car headlights streaked by—the last rush hour of the week. I could sense relief in their efficient speed, or perhaps I was simply happy that Newkirk seemed to be finished with me.
"Let's see who's still out there," he suggested.
It was Rip, Joanne, Kevin Seitz, and only three teachers. Newkirk's assistants had weeded out the groups who vouched for each other, Patrice and the detention boys, another teacher and her two student appointments, leaving a sad collection of potential information sources hugging themselves warm and waiting to be interviewed. All the adjoining halls except the one to the Community Room were dimly illuminated by safety lights. Even the lobby was shadowed and unwelcoming.
"Cold in here," Newkirk repeated to Rip. It seemed to be a question.
"The thermostat automatically goes down for the weekend."
Newkirk nodded as if it was an answer he expected, but not one he liked. "Can you turn it up?"
Rip made a little grimace. "Wouldn't it be easier to talk to these people over at our house?"
"Maybe. Yeah, probably." He called over a nearby officer and said, "Harv, help these people find their coats then take them over to the Barnes' house. Back over there?" Newkirk asked, indicating the proper direction with a jerk of his head.
"I'll show them," I remarked cooperatively.
"Coffee?" he asked with a pathetic expression that passed for "please." "This might take awhile."
To the nearest officer he added, "Meet you there."
Then he guided Rip toward his office with a widespread paw. "A word with you first," he informed my husband, which threw my thoughts back to the uncomfortable place where they left off.