She found Wesley Mores seated behind a desk in the middle school, sunk in a snowbank of papers. He jumped a mile when she rapped on his door.
“Clark,” he said. “I apologize. I’m a little on edge today.”
“We all are.”
A banner of the solar system hung above Wesley’s head, though she noticed the school’s budget was so tight that poor diminutive Pluto had been X’d over with a Sharpie. Looking at this plain man in front of her who had once been noteworthy, Clark realized that a similar demotion had been visited on Wesley: Bentley Bison, the moment they graduated, stepped down into being nothing more than men.
“Is the investigation going well, Officer?”
“It’s proceeding.” At the sight of the cross around Wesley’s neck an idea occurred to her. “Have any of the boys in your youth group given any indication that something dirty might be going on around town? It could just be something small, something gossipy. They do talk to you, yes?”
Wesley gave a little laugh. Unless Clark was much mistaken, he sounded relieved. “They do talk to me, yes, but never about anything serious.”
“No trouble they want to keep quiet? Any rumors of infidelity?”
“‘Infidelity’?” Wesley laughed again. “They talk about football and more football. But it’s funny—I think Joel Whitley was curious about the same sort of thing.”
“Is that right?”
Mores shrugged. “If I had to guess I’d say that gossip’s the only reason he came over for dinner on Sunday. He’s a funny guy. Troubled, you know.”
Clark made a hmm. She studied Wesley—stubble on his cheek, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Something odd about him. Something off. “And what did you tell Joel?”
“What I just told you.” Mores laughed again. “Those boys only talk about the game. Some might talk about some porn they’ve googled, you know. Garden variety stuff.”
“The porn is garden variety?”
Wesley blushed. “I can’t say much.”
“You can’t say much about the things they tell you? So they do tell you things?”
A silence. “I’m not sure what to tell you.” Wesley held up his hands and said pointedly, “While you’re here, can I ask you if there’s been any progress with the fire?”
“You mean at First Baptist?” Clark rose to go. “Electrical miswiring in the steeple, last I heard.”
“Funny. That cross had been burning fine for twenty years.”
Clark thought of Mayfield, wondered how many details had been left out of how many files. She shrugged to Wesley and headed for the door.
“So Joel Whitley was at your house on Sunday night?” she said before stepping into the hall.
“He was.”
“And what were you up to Friday?”
Wesley blinked at her before turning his attention to his desk. He sighed.
“I went home to get out of the storm. And grade papers. If you’ll excuse me, Officer—they laid off all the teacher’s aides to buy the boys new uniforms and I’m already a week behind.”