NOTHING COULD HAVE deterred the crowd that collected at Bryn Derwyn Monday night. Overhead clouds clamped us under a dome of black relieved only by cones of misty light dropped by the school's spotlights. Vehicles of all sorts overflowed the lots and littered the gloomy practice field like a junkyard on Halloween. Because of the planned memorial service, television crews were barred from entering the building, so the two opposing networks who chose to come huddled in separate dispirited clumps, occasionally stepping forward to pester the most accessible parents.
Inside, the gently sloped auditorium contained few empty seats. Lighting was kept respectfully moderate except for the podium centered in front of the stage, which was little more than a platform. The speakers would be eye level with most of the gathering.
Soon after eight, Rip tapped the microphone and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we should get started. If you'll be seated, please?" A small flurry of activity ensued as people complied.
Around the periphery I noticed a few print reporters poised over their notebooks. Also, Lt. Newkirk stood off by himself smoking a cigarette until one of the teachers scolded him and he briefly stepped outside to dispose of it.
"Can we sit down there?" Garry asked, gesturing to a couple of empty seats halfway down the right side.
I shrugged. "Sure, but I think I'll stay back here. Okay?" I was too nervous to sit still.
Bringing our children had been a risky choice, one no other parents had elected that night. But then no other parents were quite in our situation. Since we lived on campus, Garry and Chelsea had the option to stay home and wonder what was going on virtually in front of their noses; or they could come over and hear for themselves. True, they might have to endure some heavy, worrisome information, but the evening was meant to promote rational thinking. On balance, I thought our kids could tolerate reality better than they could their imaginations.
Also, it wouldn't hurt for them to see firsthand how their father handled a sensitive situation, something I knew Rip would accomplish with self-control and tact. Of course, the kids might have to dismiss the bad examples to learn from the good.
A man twelve rows back rose and began without preamble. Around him people hastily settled down and faced forward. "Mr. Barnes," he said, "how can you assure us that this school is safe for our children?"
The thin blond hair on the back of the man's head made him look vulnerable. Suddenly I realized I was looking at the backs of three hundred heads, so I eased slightly down the right wall nearer my children where my view was of profiles.
Rip spoke into a microphone. His unbuttoned brown tweed jacket revealed a blue oxford shirt and a crooked brown tie. The hand holding a folded page of notes appeared steady.
"There is no indication that what happened had anything to do with Bryn Derwyn Academy, John, or with any of its students. The police agree that the only reason the crime occurred here is because Richard Wharton happened to be here. It's extremely unfortunate, but there is no reason to think the school is any less safe than it ever was.
"Nevertheless, all of us who work at Bryn Derwyn have become acutely sensitized to the safety of your children. Two teachers, rather than one, will supervise any outdoor activities. We've begun issuing visitors' passes"–he held up a large white card in a clip-on plastic envelope–"and anyone from the outside will first sign in with the receptionist before doing business inside the building. The badge must be worn until the visitor is ready to leave the premises."
"I heard that someone who works here did it," a woman called from her seat. Murmurs of agreement erupted from around the room.
"I'm glad you mentioned that, Carolyn. I've heard the rumors, too. But surely you realize that if there were any truth to those speculations, the police would have made an arrest and all of us would be informed by now. The news media, who are well represented here tonight, will see to that."
"I don't hear you saying it wasn't a Bryn Derwyn employee who did it."
"In my heart I don't believe any of our staff would do such a thing, but what I feel has no substantive bearing on the investigation. It's best if people like you and me leave the burden of proving who committed the crime to the professionals."
"What are the police doing?"
Rip scanned the back of the room until his eyes found Newkirk. "Lieutenant, perhaps you would be kind enough to enlighten these folks."
Newkirk filled his lungs, rocked on his heels and blushed. Obviously, he thought of himself as an observer protected by anonymity, but that role was no longer possible. He cleared his throat, hung his thumbs on his overcoat pockets, the better to nervously flap his hands, then mumbled beneath his moustache, "We're pursuing several leads. Nothing I can discuss just now." Judging by the finality injected into his last words, he thought he had said enough.
Yet more heads had swiveled to skewer him, not fewer. He tucked his chin like a tortoise trying to hide. Rip crooked his finger to draw the man forward.
"Not everyone can hear you, Lieutenant. Perhaps you'd be good enough to use the microphone."
So Newkirk plodded toward the low stage, chin down, eyebrows pinched, and hands flapping. To speak into the microphone, he simply leaned forward.
"I said we're pursuing several leads. I can't tell you more."
"What can you tell us about the crime itself?" someone shouted from the far side.
"Oh yes. Alright. White male caucasian, subsequently identified as Richard J. Wharton, a local attorney with the firm of Dodsworth, Evans, Pinckney and Wharton, was dealt a fatal blow to the head in the Community Room of Bryn Derwyn Academy sometime between three and four PM last Friday, December third."
"Was the weapon really a shovel?"
"Yessir."
"Is there some significance to the shovel?"
"No significance that we're aware of."
"What was Richard Wharton doing here?"
"He was working with the business manager, but he and the people they were talking to left early, and their whereabouts between three and four were accounted for."
"So you're saying it could have been anybody?"
"Not quite anybody. We're pursuing several leads..."
"Okay, Lieutenant." Rip clapped Newkirk on the shoulder to dismiss him. "Thank you for your help." It was difficult to guess which man was more relieved to have the policeman headed back toward his inconspicuous corner. However, a father I knew to be a bulldog of an attorney had left his seat in order to ambush him. Too bad for Newkirk.
Rip hastily continued. "We will now hear from Mindy Cosnosky, our full-time psychologist. Mindy will explain what steps have been taken to help your children cope with this situation. Mindy?"
Mindy was slender, just short of bony, a mere four-foot-eleven with kind hazel eyes, fluffy brown hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wore a knit, two-piece combination of rust and black that would have blended into a boardroom, a funeral, or one of those cocktail parties where you don't expect to have fun.
"What we did today was a sort of emotional triage," she began with a soft, clear voice. "By teacher referral, we interviewed any students who, who didn't seem to be themselves. If a child was despondent, refused to do work, became quite obstinate or hard to reach, we tried to talk to them to gauge how affected they were by, by Richard Wharton's death. And I urge you parents if you notice this sort of behavior in your son or daughter, don't get angry—get help!"
A mother shouted from the back, "My daughter said she was put into some sort of play group. What was that all about?"
"When children from kindergarten through third grade seemed to warrant further observation, we organized some informal play therapy, in which they were given an opportunity to express their fears by playing with dolls. What they did with them helped us to determine if they were perhaps fantasizing about death."
While I watched Mindy's somber professional face, I tried to envision how the fear of death would manifest itself in play. All in all, it sounded like a tough day for the therapy dolls.
"So then what do you do?" another mother asked.
"We try to normalize the situation, to take their fears apart and put things back into perspective."
A father spoke without standing. "My son's in seventh grade. Surely you didn't have him playing with dolls."
"No, we didn't. At that age they're usually embarrassed about expressing their fears, so the therapist does the pretending. It's called modeling, and it's a way to teach the students coping techniques.
"For the oldest students, we set up some role-playing scenarios that allowed them to express themselves comfortably. All these techniques are designed to alleviate their tension and also indicate to us any children who might need further evaluation. As yet, no one appears to be seriously traumatized, but it's a little early to say that with complete certainty. That's why I'd like you as parents to keep an eye on your children. With the younger ones there may be some regression—thumb-sucking, wetting their pants. You should also watch for bed-wetting, nightmares, and something we call night terrors, which are different. With night terrors a child sits up screaming then a second later falls right back to sleep.
"But I hasten to repeat that I haven't seen any students who appear upset enough to require private counseling. Neither have my colleagues. So far, your children appear to be reacting as we might expect them to react to a very distressing situation. If you parents keep your perspective, your children should return to normal very quickly."
"How can you say that? A man was murdered...!"
Which, I realized, was a perfect example of what Mindy meant. Scarcely a student at Bryn Derwyn had any idea who Richard Wharton was and, therefore, responded to his death only as far as their imaginations took them—unless they were reflecting their parents' paranoia. And that was probably the real agenda for the evening, to teach the parents how to behave in front of their kids. I wondered if anybody ever did a study of that success rate!
Rip nodded to Mindy and took her place at the microphone. "It's getting late, folks, and you'll all be wanting to get home soon. For those of you with specific questions, I'll be available for a short while after the memorial service. If anyone cares to leave now, please go right ahead. For those of you who wish to remain for our brief service, we'll get started in about five minutes." He stepped back while most of the gathering dispersed, leaving perhaps thirty interested in mourning the deceased attorney, Bryn Derwyn people who knew him plus a few strangers I assumed were from his law firm but had not made the trip to Pittsburgh.
After the interval, Rip told the remaining group, "We're conducting this service using a Quaker format. Some of Richard's family were Quaker, and for those of us who may be of another religious persuasion, I think you'll find their approach accommodates us all. The idea is, if the spirit moves you and you have something you'd like to share, a special memory perhaps, please stand up and express it. If no one is moved to speak, then we will all simply meditate in silence. When it comes time to dismiss, I'll just stand up. Okay?"
He took a chair beside Mindy, and the silence lasted scarcely a minute.
Quivering with nervousness, Susan Kelly, soon to be ex-wife of abusive George Kelly, stood and addressed Rip.
"Richard Wharton...was...very nice to me. And to my son, Chris. Is that what you meant, Mr. Barnes?" Rip smiled and nodded. Susan Kelly fluttered back into her seat, and I had my first uncharitable thought. It was the same thought I had right after Richard intimidated George Kelly in the school driveway and subsequently sped away with Susan in the passenger seat of his Jaguar.
My thought was that Susan Kelly was a very beautiful woman.
A rear door opened and shut via its compressor. Unaware that Jeremy Philbin was stumbling down the left side of the room, one of the attorneys who had worked with Richard began a reminiscence about fishing. The story seemed to be headed toward a warm and clever punch line, but Jeremy Philbin interrupted before we got to hear it.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Philbin said, leaning against the wall, hand on chest, booming with his hear-me-in-the-last-row voice. "Very heartwarming, I'm sure. But now it's my turn, thank you very much, and I'm here to tell you that Richard J. Wharton was a horse's ass. Would anyone care to know why?"
Rip had begun moving the minute Philbin opened his mouth, arriving beside the embittered algebra teacher just in time. Before Philbin could impart any embarrassing details, Rip grabbed him by the lapel and shoved him up the aisle toward the exit. Lt. Newkirk joined Rip on Philbin's far side and together they effectively ejected the man.
"Is Mr. Philbin drunk?" Garry asked.
"As a skunk," Chelsea confirmed.
An awkward minute later Rip returned to the podium, slightly breathless and disheveled. "Thank you all for coming," he said. "This concludes our evening."
Thus ended the lesson.