Chapter One

The late summer sun was making its steady ascent into a cloudless morning sky when my cell phone rang.

I broke stride, mopping the sweat from my forehead with my t-shirt. Still fighting for breath, I grabbed the phone from the pocket of my running shorts, and flipped it open. “Buddy Steel.”

I had been jogging along a barren stretch of Freedom Beach, all the while sidestepping mounds of dried and drying seaweed that disfigured the grainy white sand. A pair of gulls eyed me suspiciously. The smell of burnt wood rose from the remains of a beach fire.

“Sorry, Buddy,” Sheriff’s Deputy Johnny Kennerly’s disembodied voice crackled into the phone. “But we’ve got one.”

“One what?”

“One that requires your presence.”

“Perhaps you might want to be a little less obtuse, John.”

“Henry Carson.”

“Who’s Henry Carson?”

“Assistant Principal.”

“Where?”

“Freedom High.”

“What about him?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s dead.”

“And for another?”

“It appears he was murdered.”

Still in my running shorts, but having added a green Boston Celtic hoodie, I pulled my Sheriff’s cruiser to a stop in front of Freedom High School.

A phalanx of news personnel and their equipment, along with a handful of gawkers, had already gathered and several began shouting questions at me as I strode past them and into the building. I was met at the door by Sheriff’s Deputy Marsha Russo.

“Nice legs,” she commented as I approached her.

“Witty. Where’s Carson?”

“In his office. Fourth floor.”

We stepped into the closest elevator and Marsha pressed four.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“Not pretty. Killer used a steak knife.”

At the fourth floor, the doors opened onto a chaotic scene. The narrow hallway was filled with small groupings of students, most of them simply standing around watching the goings on in silence. One young woman was crying.

“What are they doing here?”

“Classes have been suspended for the day.”

“Can we disperse them? Get them out of here.”

“Be my pleasure,” Marsha said as she led me to Henry Carson’s office, a small room, sparsely furnished, with a single window that overlooked an air shaft.

Johnny Kennerly stood in front of the office door, in conversation with Coroner Norma Richard. A team of State forensic officers huddled together, awaiting the green-light to begin their investigation.

I nodded to each of them, then followed Johnny into Henry Carson’s office.

“You’re the first one in,” Kennerly said.

“After how many school personnel?”

“The building maintenance supervisor. The principal. A security officer. No one else.”

“They disturb anything?”

“Not that any of them will admit. Maintenance man found him when he was making his morning rounds.”

I stepped carefully around several pools of blood and approached the body. The late Mr. Carson was seated on a wooden armchair in front of his desk, facedown, a stainless-steel steak knife protruding from his neck.

Large quantities of blood had flooded the desk en route to the unpolished wood floor where it had congealed.

I stepped away and looked around the office, a cramped affair boasting a desk, the armchair on which the body now rested, a pair of straight-backed chairs facing the desk, and two wall-sized bookcases, each filled to overflowing.

I turned to Johnny. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s dead.”

“That’s very helpful, John.”

“Should we admit the hordes?”

“I don’t see why not.”

I stepped to the door and motioned for Marsha Russo to join us. “You know the drill?”

Marsha nodded.

“Is there a Mrs. Carson?”

“There is,” Kennerly said.

“Does she know?”

“Principal phoned her.”

“I’ll want to talk with her. And the principal. Would you please make appointments for me with both of them? I’m going home to change clothes. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You’ll inform the Sheriff,” John said.

I nodded.

“And Her Honor?”

I nodded again.

“Some fine way to start the week,” Marsha said.

I shook my head in agreement. “It’s always something.”