Chapter 8

Master Quentin’s office was plain. He had no computer, but he did have a phone. And a pencil.

He seemed agitated. He was a black man in his late 50s. A thinner, shorter version of Duke Ellington with heavy circles under his eyes and graying, thinning hair combed straight back. He was also dressed immaculately in a plain sort of way. “I was afraid you might bring that reporter in with you,” he sighed.

“Peaches is a piece of work,” the Chief agreed.

“This Quaker Killer label she’s come up with is offensive. She seems convinced that our pacifism is just a veneer covering sordid emotions and criminal behavior.”

—“She called me a dim bulb,” said the Chief. “I didn’t appreciate that either.”

“I don’t think she’s Jewish,” added Bruno.

Master Quentin burst out laughing. “You two are funny. Quite a pair.” Then he fell silent. The Chief started to ask another question, but Master Quentin gestured for him to wait. A full minute passed before he spoke. “Did you feel that?” he asked in a low voice.

Bruno and the Chief looked at each other and shook their heads. They hadn’t felt anything.

Master Quentin looked slightly disappointed. “That’s all right. You helped restore my composure. Anytime I can add a minute of quiet to my day … I’m sorry if it disconcerted you.”

“Don’t give it a second thought; glad you’re feeling better,” said Bruno. “Let’s get down to business. So you don’t know anything about the faceless girl?”

“You’re speaking of the poor creature who was found in our meeting house?”

“Correct.”

“As I’ve told Chief Black, she is not one of our students. I don’t know her. None of our teachers know who she is.”

“How do you think she ended up in the meeting house?”

“I have no idea. I’m sorry about what happened to her. And I’m sorry our meeting is involved. None of this is very pleasant.”

“The Chief tells me the meeting house dates from colonial times,” said Bruno, switching tacks.

“He did?” Quentin feigned surprise. “Maybe he is a bit ‘dim’ as our friend says. The original Friends Meeting in Gardenfield was built in the late 1680s, but on a different site. It was located where the Acme market is today—the brick one, which actually looks like a Quaker meeting house. Ever notice that? This was well after the Burlington Meeting, which was the first meeting house in the state. And New Jersey was earlier than Pennsylvania. A lot of people don’t know that. But the original meeting house burned down, unfortunately. The building you see here today was built to replace it, just prior to the Civil War.”

“It seems very solidly built. How could anybody get in without leaving signs of a break-in?”

“I’m afraid that’s not my area of expertise. Don’t criminals know how to pick locks?”

“Yeah, but it leaves marks,” said the Chief. “Bruno, we’ve already been through this with Master Quentin.”

“As I told the Chief, none of my staff are likely suspects. They are all gentle, non-violent people.”

“Quakers may be pacifists,” Bruno agreed, “but like Jews, they have the reputation of doing well in business. Competition can breed conflict. Any problems in your congregation?”

“We call it a meeting,” said Master Quentin. “We’re all equals. No one is in charge.”

“OK. Sorry. Any conflicts amongst the Friends?”

“Not that I know of.” He thought for a moment, then added, “I should mention that Dr. Fischer offered to provide security guards from his company … to help watch the school. Keep the children safe. I turned down his offer.” He seemed to grow agitated again at the thought.

“What kind of company does this Dr. Fischer run?”

“It’s a biotech. They do genetic engineering, I think. Located just north of Gardenfield in Maplewood.”

“What kind of security issues do they have?”

“I never discussed it with him. It’s not a very Friendly enterprise, tampering with the work of God. Because they grow genetically engineered crops, I would guess they have to control a perimeter to keep them isolated … and the protesters away. You’ll have to ask him for details.”

“That’s it exactly,” said the Chief. “We’ve helped them deal with political protests from time to time. More of a nuisance than anything else. But it’s very important that you let me know if you decide to accept their offer. If I’m going to have a professional security team running around in my backyard, I want to know about it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Quentin looked nervously at his watch. “I will be needing to return to my duties. Do you have any more questions?”

“Just one more thing,” said the Chief. “How’s the little girl doing? The one who found the body?”

“As you know,” said Quentin with increasing agitation, “her family is determined to protect her privacy. They gave me instructions not to discuss her with anyone.”

“Take it easy. I’m not asking as part of the investigation. Just as a concerned friend and neighbor.”

Master Quentin maintained his silence.

This time the Chief didn’t let it linger. “Quentin, please. Just two words: ‘She’s OK,’ or ‘Not OK …’”

Master Quentin bowed his head. “I am sick of all this. Sick at heart about the poor girl who was murdered. And sick of answering questions. Why don’t you just ask her father?”

“Two reasons,” said the Chief. “Kids can be very different when they’re away from home. And Bill McRae, as you might guess, is not exactly objective.”

Bruno blanched. “It was his daughter Mimi? Mimi Cohen-McRae?”

Master Quentin didn’t respond.

On the way back to the car, the Chief was in good spirits. “I liked the way you handled that. A lot of people would have backed off a guy like Quentin because of his religion. But you used that Jewish angle and it got him to talk about those security guards.”

Then he noticed that Bruno looked less than enthusiastic. “No, I mean it. That’s useful information.”

“Glad to be of help,” Bruno said. “But I’m very upset to hear that the daughter of Bill McRae is involved in this.”

“Friend of yours?” asked the Chief.

“No. Mishpokhe—a relative, and a close one. Mimi Cohen-McRae is my niece.”