Chapter Three
“She wouldn’t talk with me,” Marsha Russo said. “Claims the doctor put her on some kind of sedative that made her gaga. They’d been married for less than a year. All she would say is she can’t imagine who would want to kill him. I told her we needed to speak with her.”
“And?”
“She hung up.”
“Try again later.”
Marsha nodded.
We were seated in my office at the Freedom Town Hall where the Sheriff’s Department was housed. Marsha had been joined by Johnny Kennerly and Sheriff’s Deputy Al Striar. All three were longtime department veterans, appointed by my father in his first term. Each wore a Sheriff’s uniform, smartly tailored and pressed.
I, on the other hand, wore my outfit of choice: jeans, an L.L. Bean light-blue work shirt, a brown Ralph Lauren corduroy jacket, and Filson work boots.
I rarely if ever wear a uniform—for reasons stemming back to the days when my old man was a street cop. He had purchased a boy’s size police uniform, a junior version of his own, and had decorated it with medals and awards. He frequently forced me to wear it.
He was forever dragging me to all kinds of police-sponsored events where I was shoved forward as a kind of gussied up Mini-Me version of himself, the uniformed scion of a steadfast police officer whose sights were already set on bigger things.
As I grew, my mother repeatedly tailored the uniform until finally there wasn’t enough fabric left to take out. The uniform became smaller and fit more tightly. Until the night I grabbed a pair of scissors and decimated the fucking thing. Which was the official end of my uniform-wearing.
I did manage to suffer through a uniform phase when I was an LAPD beat cop, but as soon as I made detective, it was over.
When I joined the San Remo County Sheriff’s Department, I defied convention and remained a plainclothes guy, thereby producing yet another bone of contention between my father and me.
“What do we know?” I asked Marsha.
“About Henry Carson?”
“Yes. Him.”
Marsha opened her laptop and read aloud. “Henry Carson. Born, 1987. Montclair, New Jersey. Graduated Montclair High School, 2004. Earned a degree in Education at Fairleigh Dickinson University, 2008. Stayed on for one more year of graduate work. Taught American History at Columbia High School, Maplewood, New Jersey, for eight years. Became the Assistant Principal at Freedom High last year, where he’s also on the coaching staffs of the baseball and swim teams.”
“Personal?”
“Married Kimber Collins, Montclair, New Jersey, December 2017. No children. Both parents still living.”
“Here?”
“Montclair.”
“Any strangeness?”
Marsha looked up from her laptop. “Strangeness?”
“Anything weird?”
“Nothing apparent.”
“The principal?”
“Julia Peterson,” Kennerly said. “Who, by the way, eagerly awaits her audience with you.”
“What do I need to know?”
“She’s a cool customer. Claims to have had a good working relationship with the deceased. When pressed, she made mention of the fact they did little or no socializing. She’s a no-nonsense type. Deadly serious.”
“My kind of person. Forensics?”
“Nothing yet,” Striar said. “I’m hoping for something by end of day.”
“Shall we, Marsha?”
“No time like the present.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
We were ushered into Julia Peterson’s office by her assistant, a nerdy-looking young man wearing an off-the-rack blue suit, the ill-fitting kind, likely part of a “buy one, get one free” promotion.
Ms. Peterson appeared to be in her mid-to-late thirties, a handsome woman, also in a blue suit, hers far better tailored than her assistant’s. Her shoulder-length brown hair was streaked with red. Her wide brown eyes were lined with black. She wore a light dusting of blush and muted pink lipstick. She exuded the faint scent of Chanel Chance. Hers was a turned-up nose that wrinkled when she smiled.
Marsha and I wrestled ourselves into the not-so-comfortable hardwood armchairs that fronted her desk.
Her office was located just inside the main entrance of the school. It was painted light beige, boasting a pair of wood-framed picture windows that faced the street. A small conference table occupied one side of the room, across from her oversized desk. A large bookcase filled the wall behind her along with two wooden filing cabinets.
A framed picture adorned the wall behind the conference table, a copy of Edward Hopper’s painting, Nighthawks.
I stared at it for a while, then murmured, “His most memorable work.”
“Certainly his most popular,” Ms. Peterson said. “The students cotton to it right away. A number of them comment on its inherent sense of loneliness. They identify with the feeling of isolation the picture engenders. It’s an ice-breaker.”
She briefly flashed a kind of “Aren’t I erudite?” smile that lacked warmth.
“What can you tell us about Henry Carson?” Marsha asked.
Ms. Peterson shifted slightly in her upholstered armchair. “I was just now re-reading his performance reports. Everything points to his having done his job well. He’s been here for two semesters. No complaints have been registered.”
“And your personal connection with him?”
“Cordial. He was open and friendly. He seemed earnest and he performed his administrative duties successfully. From what I can glean, his extracurricular activities with the sports department also earned him kudos. The students seemed to like him. There’s nothing in any of the files that leads me to believe he was a problem case.”
“So, no apparent motives for his murder.”
“None that I could discern.”
“And you had no issues with him?”
“Issues?”
“There was nothing out of line that came to your attention regarding his performance here?”
“As I said, he was a well-regarded professional. In my experience, he was always courteous and considerate. He had charm and a kind of charisma. Everyone seemed to like him. I know I certainly did.”
I stood. Marsha followed my lead.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Peterson. We’ve just begun our investigation. It’s possible we’ll need to speak with you again.”
“I understand. I’ll be happy to assist in any way I can.”
On our way out, we nodded to Julia Peterson’s nerdy assistant, who flashed us a forlorn grin.
Once back at the station, we were joined by Al Striar.
“Forensics,” he said. “Inconclusive. Especially as they relate to the knife. It appears to have been wiped. Lots of trace evidence around the office, but nothing fresh. Nothing to suggest any kind of scuffle.”
“Opinion?”
“The killer was known to Mr. Carson. He or she gained easy access. I’m guessing the knife was a big surprise to him and that the killer acted swiftly and decisively before Carson had the chance or the inclination to defend himself. Killer knew the right place to plant the knife. Sliced the windpipe and ruptured the carotid artery. Death was pretty quick.”
I sat quietly for several moments imagining the horrific manner in which Henry Carson died, which gave me the shivers. Then I said to Marsha Russo, “Let’s ramp this thing up. Something’s not jiving here.”
“Meaning?”
“Somebody took this guy out. In his office. Someone known to him. Premeditated violence like that doesn’t just happen. Somebody had a serious grievance. Let’s find out what it was and who it affected deeply enough to warrant murder.”