“Sounds like a class we might ought to audit, huh?”
“Yeah. Wonder if they teach grave robbing, too?”
“Actually, we do have a class called Basic Forensic Science, which isn't much different from grave robbing, if you think about it.”
A tall man now stood in the doorway, a certain Dr. G. Richard Johnstone, if my hunch turned out. He was dressed in a pure white, expertly tailored wool suit, starched white shirt, and white tie. Forget about not wearing white after Labor Day; each to his own. I checked for white bucks like Elvis Presley used to wear and found bare feet in leather sandals instead. Jerusalem Cruisers? I momentarily felt sorry for his toes, but hey, if the boss man didn't mind snow in his sandals, who was I to object?
On the other hand, his tan rivaled that of Ernest Hemingway after a yearlong stint at Key West, and his eyes were a strange color, very pale gray, almost white. He had a real lion's mane of bushy blond hair that might've looked better pulled back with a snow-white scrunchy. There was a faint white scar that ran into his hairline, and just below, his right earlobe glinted with a showy diamond stud. Clean shaven and handsome in an angular, hard sort of way, he had crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes and lots of muscles that made me think he partook of lots of sports. Free weights, too, maybe.
I stood up, slightly embarrassed that he'd heard Bud's sarcastic remark, but not overly much. Name me a reputable school that taught Satanesque subject material. I never took that course at LSU.
“Hello. I'm Detective Claire Morgan from the Canton County Sheriff's Department and this is my partner, Detective Bud Davis.”
He walked forward with right hand extended. “How do you do. I'm Dr. Johnstone, director here at the academy.”
I shook his big, brown hand, a firm, dry handshake, then Bud took it. “Hope I didn't offend you, Dr. Johnstone. Just jokin' around a little.”
“No offense taken, detective. We do have some rather unorthodox classes taught here at the academy, but most are subjects requested by the students. Our students are young but they're extraordinarily bright. Nearly all of them have IQs close to the genius level. It's one of our requirements.”
Bud grinned. “And I thought the University of Georgia had a tough admission policy.”
I said, “Where do your recruiters find these geniuses, Dr. Johnstone?”
Dr. Johnstone turned those pale-as-crystal eyes upon me. I didn't blink under his stare because I knew he was trying to cow me. I don't cow easily, ask Black.
“The truth is that most of our students have been in trouble with the law but are so gifted intellectually or artistically that the juvenile authorities think they should be given a second chance. Thus, they end up here with us.”
Bud said, “So in essence you're running a school for evil geniuses.”
I thought that was pretty damn clever, so I smiled. Dr. Johnstone did not see the mirth. In fact, he bristled, and said, “That's not the least bit funny. These poor children are at risk and we are helping them become productive citizens.”
Obviously irked, Bud said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot. They can learn all that, plus how to devil worship in ten easy steps?”
I felt a certain degree of miff myself. Who did this guy think he was? “You suppose any of your troubled geniuses are capable of murdering your angelology professor?”
Again, those pale eyes found me and tacitly said: “You're quite the bitch, aren't you?” My scornful gaze replied in the affirmative.
“Perhaps you'd like to come in to my office and finish your interview there. I'm sure we'd all be much more comfortable.”
Right. And if I had to hazard a guess, we'd all be recorded there, too.
Dr. Johnstone led us across the hall, through Christie's office and into his own large domain. Christie pretended to type as we went by, as if she hadn't already spilled her guts about the detestable and dead Mr. Classon.
Johnstone had a large desk, a really large desk, all white, including the blotter, and about the size of Kansas City. He took the long way around. He also had a sitting area at the other end of the room with a long white couch facing two white wing chairs. The walls were stylishly all white, too, except the wall behind his desk, which was adorned with strange red masks that looked suspiciously like Beelzebub. Maybe he was the one who taught everybody about hell. I looked around at the white carpet and drapes, and white tables and chairs and white lilies in a white vase, and for a moment I was blinded and thought I was outside in a snowstorm.
“Please sit down,” he said, gesturing at the two white leather wingback chairs facing his meticulous desk. We obeyed, but a glance at Bud's deep scowl told me he was not as enamored with Jesus Johnstone as he was with the little Foxworthy pretending to type in yonder antechamber.
“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I was speaking to someone on our advisory board. He was in Paris so I really couldn't cut it short.”
Damn. That meant Black was butting in. “Had he heard about the murder?”
“It is deemed a murder, then?”
Bud said, “Oh, yeah, deemed a murder's putting it mildly.”
“I was told that he hanged himself.”
Bud said, “Not unless he zipped himself up in a sleeping bag with a bunch of brown recluse spiders first.”
I watched Johnstone closely, and he did look initially shocked, then revolted. But who wouldn't?
“Are you joking again, Detective, or is that true?”
That annoyed Bud, and he's as easygoing a guy as I ever worked with. “I don't joke about murder victims, sir. This man was tortured to death and that's not funny.”
“Did I understand you to say he was in a sleeping bag full of spiders? My God, that's. . .”
Words escaped him, so I provided some.
“. . . something a devil worshipper might do, maybe even a disciple of Satan. Maybe even somebody who liked to wear those red masks you've got up there on your wall. I guess none of your brilliant students requested a class on how to murder a teacher, did they?”
Johnstone studied me as if I were a nasty little roach that he wished to smash under his chilly bohemian sandals. “You know what, detectives? I believe we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here.”
Yeah. About a size-eighteen wrong foot. “Could be.”
“I'm sorry if I offended you. Truthfully I was a little insulted to hear the two of you making fun of my students.”
“We weren't making fun of your students. But it does interest me as to why you'd offer a class that discusses evil with troubled teenagers. Looks like that's just asking for more trouble, don't you think?”
“You misunderstand the purpose of the class, I think, Detective Morgan. It's not a class about the devil or evil. In fact, that subject is rarely discussed. It teaches about pagan religions and the evil influences within them, as well as the Inquisition and other periods where the church committed heinous acts in the name of God. It acts to balance our other classes in that area, angelology and comparative religions. We have independent studies on all the major religions of the world, as well, including Wicca.”
“Oh, yeah, Wicca. Ain't that a coincidence, my grandma was a practicing witch, too.” Bud, the laugh riot. The still pissed-off detective. Actually I was surprised he knew what Wicca was. I doubted if it was prevalent in Georgia.
I did not like this guy. Bud did not like this guy. And we both have good instincts. I tried to remember if Black had said he liked him, or not. Then again, Black was an important man, and Johnstone would be on his best groveling behavior around him. And Black was rich and made giant donations. I resumed my staring contest with Chief Pale Eyes. I noticed how a recessed spotlight in the ceiling beamed down on his leonine head and made a circular reflection around his chair. Yep, he was definitely going for the halo effect. He seemed less good-looking as the seconds ticked by.
Okay, Morgan, get hold of yourself. Time to be civil and ignore all those internal red warning lights blinking like a berserk railroad-crossing sign. The man did apologize. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, et cetera, et cetera. Pleasantries were called for.
“Tell me about those masks you've got hanging on the wall, Dr. Johnstone. They're very interesting. Where did they come from?”
Johnstone turned and admired his collection. He warmed up to the topic, even smiled at us. Honey did work. “I picked them up when I was last in Hong Kong. Actually, they're Indonesian devil masks, but that's not why I bought them. I thought the craftsmanship was extraordinary. Did you notice the one in Christie's office? It's a depiction of a female demon. I brought it back to her. She took it to her paganism class and showed it around to the other students.”
I nodded as if impressed and wondered what Christie thought of that kind of gift. Demon Secretary. Not exactly a subliminal message. But time to get back to it. “What other subjects are taught here at the academy, Dr. Johnstone?”
“Just about everything. We have art and music, lots of fine arts, because most of our students are very artistic in nature. We have a core curriculum, of course, English, literature, biology, algebra, social studies. It's the electives that are unorthodox, but we cater to our students' interests. They're interested in lots of things, Detective, and not just macrame and cake decorating.” His tone dripped with a degree of condescension that made me stiffen, and I knew right off where I'd like to stick a cake on his person. Or jerk up some serious macrame knots. He smiled, as if reading my thoughts. I smiled, as if vowing to put him on death row if he dared to jaywalk.
Bud must've sensed a certain degree of sizzling hatred between us because he took over in his tactful way.
“Where were you last night when the body was found, Dr. Johnstone? As far as that goes, I hope you can account for yourself during the time since Mr. Classon disappeared.”
“Oh, I assure you that I can. Actually, I haven't stepped foot off the campus for at least a week. Just been too busy with the holiday break coming up, not to mention the big New Year's Eve gala. That's our biggest fund-raiser of the year. My quarters are here on the grounds at Director House, actually, so I suspect lots of people can verify my whereabouts any time of day you ask about.”
“Maybe you'd be good enough to allow us to tour the campus and interview the employees, sir? Do you have any objection to that?”
“None whatsoever. Please feel free to go anywhere and speak to anyone you think might be helpful. We all thought the world of Simon and certainly want his killer apprehended as soon as possible.”
Bud and I stared at him. Mr. Friendly, all of a sudden, gushing niceties about the so-called angelologist from hell. I didn't believe a word he said.
NINE
“Did you get a load of that guy? The son of a bitch thinks he's God.”
Bud was right on target with that evaluation. “Yeah. Or Jesus, if you consider his footwear.”
We were standing right outside the aforementioned Jesus's office, and then there she was, the academy's public information officer summoned by His Greatness to escort us around the place. Her nameplate read June Green, and she had to be the dowdiest woman I'd ever laid eyes on. Auburn hair, lots of it, past-the-shoulders long and coarse and flyaway but held back in a black barrette, a pretty face but the same kind of flowery, 1950s dress that Mamie Eisenhower might've worn to Ike's inauguration.
Her first words: “Poor old Simon. He's been a legend here at the academy for many, many years, you know.”
Not the kind of legend he was going to be in the future
, I thought. I noticed that she didn't mention she was sorry the guy was dead. I wondered if Simon had used up some cell phone minutes yelling at her, too. I'd interview her last.
“Dr. Johnstone said I was to take you over to Simon's office. It's in Blue Building, I'm afraid.”
“Blue Building?”
“Yes. All our buildings are known by the color the interior corridors are painted. It helps the students identify them.”
Bud said, “That's a little elementary for the geniuses that go here, isn't it?”
“Oh, believe me, they're very bright.”
I looked at the white walls and white tile floors. The nearest office had white walls, too, not to mention Jesus's arctic office. “So this is White Building, huh?” I catch on quick, you see. Yep, sharp as a tack I am.
Bud said, “Hey, Morgan, maybe we oughta paint our cells down at the station. Thieves go in yellow. Murderers go in blue, rapists in red, get my drift?”
I laughed. June didn't. She glared at Bud. He stared back. Man, something about this place was bringing out the worst in Bud and me. But, hey, maybe that's what we needed. Maybe that's why Simon had been such a bastard. The school poisoned people's psyches.
June finally pried herself out of her scathing eye lock with Bud. “Dr. Johnstone ordered all interviews done in the Blue boardroom. That's in Blue Building, too.”
Made sense. A lot more than June Green did.
Bud said, “Hmmm. Interesting. I guess they make you work in Green Building, huh? Considerin' your name's Green, and all.”
“There is no Green Building, Detective.”
“Well, that explains that,” said Bud.
I said, “Actually, I'd like to interview the staff members in their own offices, if that's all right.”
June's mouth fell slightly open. She looked like I'd jerked a rug out from under her. Her olive-colored eyes grew round and troubled and for one mere instant I thought she would throw herself bodily to the floor and weep inconsolably. “Oh my, Detective, I just don't know about that. Dr. Johnstone specifically said I was to take you to the Blue boardroom. . . .”
“Don't worry about Dr. Johnstone, Ms. Green. We'll explain to him that we insisted.”
“I don't know, you see, I'm really not at a level yet where I can arbitrarily make these kind of decisions.”
Bud said, “What's he gonna do? Fire you?”
June looked like she wanted to say “Yes, you big smarty pants, that's exactly what he's gonna do,” but instead she said, “Who would you like to interview first?”
I glanced down at the rosters and faculty list that Christie Foxworthy had printed out for us, but I already knew who I wanted to get my hands on first.
“I'd like to speak with Mr. Classon's secretary.”
“Actually, we call them personal assistants here. I'll call down to her, but I warn you, she's awfully distraught.”
Or, if Christie was correct about Classon's secretary's secret feelings about her boss, she was off throwing a keg party for all her friends at the nearest Holiday Inn.
Bud said, “We'll be gentle.”
June and Bud now exchanged their best “nuh-uh, I hate you the most” looks. I don't think they like each other. Maybe I think that because of the slight snurl of June's little bow mouth. And the slight growling coming from deep inside Bud's throat. Oh, well. That's why we have partners.
“You know what, Ms. Green? I think we can find our way there on our own. I know you're very busy.” Yeah, crawling around on your hands and knees worshipping your superiors. I was getting major bad vibes from this place, yessiree. I decided I better shake that off, and now.
“Oh, no. Dr. Johnstone asked me to take you there personally so I really must.”
“Don't want to spend time in the village stocks, huh?” said Bud.
Stare down, big time. Dueling eye sockets. I burned a couple of warning holes in Bud's face. He wasn't helping things here. We were off to a bad start, to say the least. It wasn't often during an investigation that we hated everybody we interviewed. Maybe the nice people were employed at the lower-level positions, like in most big companies.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Dr. Johnstone asked me to present you with his book. He always provides complimentary copies to visitors of the academy.”
Even irksome detectives investigating him? But I took a book. Hey, it was free. Maybe I could add it to Black's other stocking stuffer. Bud and I took the books and thumbed through them.
Bud said, “There's nothin' but pictures in here.”
June said, “That's right. It's a photographic history of the academy.”
Bud said, “Wow, now I'm really impressed.”
June bristled up for a couple of seconds then finally came out verbally with what her expression had been saying all along. “You're really quite rude, aren't you, Detective Davis?”
“Who, me?” Bud threw her his most disarming grin. June's eyes grabbed him by the throat and squeezed with all her might.
“Thank you for the books. I'm sure we'll enjoy them. I do like the cover,” I added, trying to make up. It was a great big picture of the director in his white suit, his chest swelled out with pride, fluffy lion's mane groomed to perfection and sprayed with a gallon of Pantene for fine hair. I looked to see if he was wearing Jesus sandals but the picture was cropped just below his knees.
“You're welcome,” June said, admirably refraining from calling us jerks, or worse.
Yep, this investigation was getting off to an ultrarocky start. Bud and I were going to have to cool it down a bit, yeah, become the more pleasant, sweet-natured detectives we usually were, or Charlie would ream us out and jerk us off the case. I wondered if our replacements would fall prey to the same negative energy inundating these hallowed, color-coordinated halls.
“Please follow me,” said June. Clipped. Cold. June hated our collective guts. Oh yeah, big-time.
We followed her at a fast pace down a long white hall, then down an equally white stairwell that led to the snowy, pristine basement. We left the building at a door where a student was shoveling enough snow to fill a dump truck. Bud and I slung on our coats in tandem. Coatless, June wrapped her arms around herself and trudged angrily across a concrete sidewalk that led to the next building.
Halfway there, Bud politely offered June his jacket. He was trying to make up, too. June responded with a snippy, “No thank you, detective.”
Bud raised his brows at me, as if he considered her a challenge.
A right turn in the sidewalk led us into Blue Building. It was nice inside, but blue, really blue, cobalt maybe, and the blue emotion was reflected in the faces of most of the employees we met. Happy was not a good word to describe the Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted. I wondered what the suicide rate was among the faculty and staff.
We walked down a long hallway to the far end where we discovered an equally blue office that said
SIMON CLASSON, ANGELOLOGY
on a brass plate the size of a computer screen. Inside we found his secretary, a.k.a. personal assistant. She was dry eyed until she saw the badges hanging around our necks. Suspicious behavior? Hell, yes.
The instant waterworks were impressive, however, and continued when June Green introduced us and fled back to Jerusalem and her white-clad savior. I sniffed the air for raw onions stashed in the Kleenex Simon's secretary was swabbing her eyes with but smelled nothing except the faint scent of the roses sitting on the table beside the door. Uh-oh, they were red. And in the Blue Building, too. Should've been violets. Somebody was in deep doo-doo.
The sobbing lady's name was Maxine Knight. She had very short black hair, almost G.I. Jane, with a couple of white streaks around the face that could be natural gray. Fortyish, G.I. Janeâgaunt, too. She wore a velour running outfit, magenta with a yellow stripe down the leg. Not exactly mourning black. I guess people in Blue Building didn't have to wear blue, after all. She wound down her deluge of false tears with lots of snuffling, then ended it abruptly by blowing her nose in a bunch of tissues and dropping the whole wad into a wastebasket under her desk. Nonetheless, we were impressed with the quantity of water she produced in the three minutes we'd been in her office. Be nice, be professional, I told myself and looked pointedly at Bud to reinforce my new motto. He knows the look from our previous investigations.
“I realize this is awfully soon to have to talk about Mr. Classon, Ms. Knight, but we really need to ask you a few questions.”
“I understand. Christie called down and warned me you were coming. I guess you'd like to look around his office.”
“Yes, ma'am. That would be helpful.”
“Could I get you something to drink? Coffee, hot chocolate, maybe? There's a faculty lounge with vending machines right down the hall.”
“Sure. Hot chocolate sounds great.”
Maxine asked Bud if he wanted some, too, and he said yes, ma'am. He was in civil mode. He followed me into Classon's adjoining office.
I said, “Well, this's intensely blue, isn't it?”
“Yep. The academy is good at color schemes. Other kind of schemes, too, if my guess's correct.”
“You getting a bad vibe around here?”
“Uh-huh. I keep looking behind me to see if I got a knife in my back.”
“You and everybody else who works here, I bet. Okay, let's take a look-see.”
The office was very nice, nicer, in fact, than the arctic wasteland of Directorville. The furniture was black, desk, too, oriental in design but looked more like a knockoff from Pier One than the real kind Black would have sitting around in his mansions. There were lots of angels, of course, everywhere, even more so than in his house, some hanging from the ceiling on fishing line. They bobbed around every time the heat kicked on. I wondered where he hid his drugs.
Bud said, “I'll check out his computer and see what he was up to.”
“Here you go. It's still really hot.”
Maxine was back, carrying blue ceramic mugs, certainly in better spirits, with a bright smile and everything. Tears had their uses, I guess.
“Thank you, Ms. Knight.”
“Call me Maxine, please.”
“Okay.” I took the mug. There were a measly three miniature marshmallows floating on top. Price must've gone up when it started snowing. “Do you know Simon's password so we can get into his computer? Otherwise, we'll have to confiscate the whole system and cart it downtown.”
“I know the password. Actually, it's easy to remember. It's archangel. His user name is sclass.domecave.org.”
Bud was already pecking on the keyboard. “Archangel's got an
h
, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Maxine was polite.
I said, “Maxine, could we sit down somewhere and have a little chat?”
“Sure. We've got a private conference room down the hall that we could use.”
“How about us sitting down in your office?”
“Okay.”
We left Bud to his hacking fun, and I sat down in a comfortable blue-and-yellow flame-stitched armchair positioned across the desk from her. I dug my pad and pencil out of my leather bag and flipped open the cover. Armed and ready.
“How long have you worked for Simon Classon, Maxine?”
Maxine sat behind her desk with her hands folded on top of her calendar blotter. I noticed her fingers were squeezing so hard that her knuckles turned white. Her fingernails were unpolished and bitten to the quick. Maxine was the jittery sort. I made a suggestion.
“No need to be nervous. This is just procedure. We'll be interviewing everybody who had contact with the victim. You spent the most time with Mr. Classon, so we chose to interview you first.”
“I know, really, I do. But I've never been shaken down by the police before. I'm a law-abiding citizen. No rap sheet at all. Isn't that what you call them? That's what they call them on
CSI.
”
“We're not shaking you down, ma'am. Now, how long have you worked with Simon Classon?”
“About three years now. Will be on June first.”
“How long was Simon Classon employed here at the academy?”
“He's worked here for years and years, sixteen, maybe? He attended classes here before that, too, I think.”
“Really. How did you happen to become his secretary? Did you apply for the job?”
Maxine nodded, and her long, dangling Christmas earrings, three silver jingle bells on each ear, swung against her neck and made sleigh-ride sounds. “Yes, you know, he had lots of trouble keeping personal assistants. He is, I mean, was, hard on the people working for him.”
“Hard? How do you mean?”