“But it was more than that, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but not much more.” He paused, inhaled deeply, and continued. “Helen and I have been together a long time and, sadly, there hasn’t been much… ardor… in recent years. Ashleigh rekindled old feelings.” Warrington’s gaze wandered for a moment, then he looked back at Ray. “I never thought I’d be in love again. And for that brief moment—it was only a matter of weeks before I had to admit to myself how silly I was being—it was quite wonderful. But once that realization hit, I ended the affair immediately.”
“And Ashleigh was okay with that?”
“Yes, she agreed that it was the only possible decision.”
“And seeing her with other men, that didn’t engender some feelings of jealousy?”
“No, sheriff, I was over her very quickly. And over the next several years I think our relationship had matured nicely to one of admiration and mutual respect.”
Ray rose to leave. Warrington came to his feet and extended his hand. “Please forgive my earlier behavior, I don’t know what came over me. I thought I had my temper under control.”
Ray took his hand briefly.
“I hope we can continue to work cooperatively,” offered Warrington.
“That would be good,” Ray said.
As he waited for Rod Tessler, Leiston’s psychologist, he worked on sorting the papers that had accumulated in his inbox into four piles in order of importance. Ray had known Rod Tessler from the time he was in elementary school. Rod was ten years his senior and his sister, Amy, was in Ray’s class. Rod was a source of pride in the village. He was a handsome, affable kid, a brilliant student, and the first all-state Class D quarterback in the history of Pioneer Consolidated High.
Thirty-some years later, when Rod retired to Cedar Bay after spending his professional life as a psychologist in L.A., he moved into the family home, a century-old farmhouse that his greatgrandfather built. It had been standing vacant for some years. His younger brother, Todd, who still operated the farm and orchards, had built a new residence at the top of a nearby bluff, a view home overlooking Tessler Orchards and the bay.
“Thank you for coming by,” said Ray, feeling the muscular grip of Tessler’s hand.
“Happy to help, sheriff,” he responded.
Ray guided Tessler into the break room. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Too late in the day. I’ll try some of this herbal tea.”
Ray poured himself some black coffee and waited as Tesssler added several packages of sugar to his cup and squeezed a tea bag.
“How’s Amy doing?” Ray asked after they were settled in his office. “I haven’t seen her since our last class reunion.”
Tessler sat across from him. “Pretty well. You know she lost her husband last winter, cancer.”
“Yes, I heard that,” Ray responded.
“She was up here in August. Two kids are in college, the baby is a senior in high school. She’s busy with her law practice. And as you probably remember, she’s a real strong person, but it will take some time for her to accept Herb’s death.” He paused briefly, lifted a baseball cap with a maize block M on the front, and ran his hand over a completely bald-head, pulling the hat back into position by the bill. “On the phone you said you wanted to talk about Leiston.”
“Yes,” said Ray. “I understand you’re the school psychologist.”
“Well, I’ve been the school’s part-time psychologist for the past year or so. I’d really planned to retire, but this came along and I can use the extra cash. Normally I’m there about fifteen hours a week, more if needed. Since the murders, I’ve been working every day, even Saturdays.”
“I imagine this has been very difficult for some of the students,” Ray said.
“Yes, terribly difficult. This is the first time most of these kids have ever confronted death, especially the death of someone who is near them in age.” He held Ray in his gaze. “You know, it’s not like a great-grandmother dying, something natural and expected. And the fact that she was murdered makes it so much worse.”
Ray nodded his understanding.
“Many of them, especially the juniors and seniors, have a long history with Ms. Allen. They are just devastated. Some of the students are very open in their grief, some are not. I guess I worry more about the less verbal ones.
“And you know, the grief thing,” Tessler continued, “it’s not my specialty, I spent most of my career treating adolescent felons. So, I called a former colleague in California, a woman who works exclusively in this area. She gave me some sound advice on how to proceed and e-mailed a stack of articles.”
“I thought Warrington brought in some crisis counselors.”
“He did. Good people, but they were only here for a few days. Then I became the point man. I’ve been mostly doing individual sessions, but now I’m going to start doing some groups. Carolyn, my friend in California, walked me through how to do these sessions.”
“Ashleigh Allen, were you acquainted with her?” Ray probed.
“Not really; being a part-timer sort of keeps you an outsider. But I did get to know her a bit.”
“What did you think of her?” Ray asked.
“She was an impressive young woman. Real bright, you could just see it; you could hear it in her voice. And the way she carried herself, a kind of easy confidence. You just don’t find people her age who are so completely integrated. And she was real good with the kids, a role model. What a tragedy.”
“Any students ever complain about her?”
“Never. I observed that a few of the older faculty members didn’t seem to care for her, but I think they were just envious of her wonderful abilities.”
“The kids, the ones you work with,” Ray paused a long moment, searching for the right word, “any real… ”
“Wackos?” interrupted Tessler. “Sociopaths with homicidal tendencies, people pissed at Ashleigh for giving them a low grade?” Tessler chuckled. “No, we don’t have any kids like that. Nothing that interesting.”
“Tell me about problems you normally deal with at Leiston School.”
“It’s all pretty normal adolescent angst—difficulties with parents, or roommates, or love interests, or trying to figure out their sexuality. Occasionally there’s a complaint against a teacher.” Tessler paused and sipped his tea. “I’ve heard tell there was a time when Leiston had some unmanageable students. That was after Mrs. Howard died, when the enrollment fell off, and they were admitting anyone with tuition money. That all ended soon after Warrington took over. The question you want to ask is whether one of the students could have committed this crime?”
“I’m trying to look at every possibility,” Ray responded.
“You know, I spent a lot of years working with criminal types, males mostly. After a while you can spot them—the way they look, the way they carry themselves, the way they don’t quite make eye contact. Before they open their mouths, you know the story they’re going to give you.” He looked directly at Ray, “The killer isn’t at Leiston School, isn’t in the student body.”
“How about the faculty or staff?”
“You know, there are a few folks a couple of standard deviations out from the norm, but I’d be surprised if you had any killers. They’re just run-of-the-mill crackpots.”
“Helen Warrington, she preceded you as the school psychologist?”
“Yes, she’s a clinical psychologist.”
“Did she ever mention any especially disturbed students?”
“She gave me a briefing on the kids that she had seen in the past several years who were still enrolled and would probably need some continued therapy. We’re talking about just a handful of students, none of whom are anything more than runny-nose neurotics. For lots of these kids it’s sort of fashionable to be in therapy.”
“But,” said Ray, pursuing his question, “she never talked about working with any… ”
“No. She did what was necessary to fill me in on the students I would probably be seeing and shared her notes, nothing more.” He paused briefly, “I was surprised at her notes. They weren’t very professional for someone who reminds you of her credentials in every conversation. And she’s not, shall we say, excessively effusive.” He chuckled. “Cuddly as a cactus.”
“Tell me about the notes, what bothered you?”
“They were sparse and rather naïve, underwritten, like she wasn’t giving it enough time. For someone who seems to be so obsessed with having everything perfect; I was surprised by the shoddy nature of her notes and observations.”
“Did you ever encounter a student by the name of Denton Freeler?” Ray asked looking at a small notebook.
“No,” Tessler responded.
“How about Jay Hanson?”
“No. Might’ve been before my time, on Helen’s watch.”
“Alan Quertermous, the math teacher?”
“He’s kinda wild, isn’t he?”
“How do you mean?”
“I haven’t spent a lot of time in his company, but there’s one angry little man.”
“Angry enough to commit murder?” Ray probed.
“No, I don’t think so. Just someone who bitches about everything. It’s probably therapeutic; he doesn’t hold anything back. He just makes everyone around him crazy. But,” he added, changing the tone of his voice, a smile forming over his leathery face, “let me put in a disclaimer. Psychology is an inexact discipline; I’ve been scammed by bright psychopaths.”
Ray walked Tessler out of the office and toward the parking lot, chatting about the latest flap in local politics. Tessler stopped near the rear of a vintage Volvo, deep blue, the top and hood faded from years of sun, tattered stickers for political and environmental causes covering the tailgate.
“Your car?” Ray asked.
“Yes, had it since new. Women come and go, but this Volvo seems to hang on.”
“If you’re becoming a permanent resident,” offered Ray with a grin, “you might consider getting Michigan plates, perhaps even for the current year.”
Tessler looked mildly abashed. “You know, I’ve been meaning to do that. I just really hate to give up my California tags.”
Ray walked alone to the far end of the parking lot and peered into the low valley below and the hillside beyond. Patches of scarlet still remained in protected stands of maple. Fall’s special musky perfume hung in the air. He was lost in the beauty of the moment, a brief respite from pressures of the murder investigation.
“Central, sheriff,” came a familiar voice. “We’ve had two 911s from the Last Chance Tavern. The first one was at 5:14, help needed to break up a fight, the second at 5:21, a shooting in the parking lot.”
“Anyone on scene?”
“Jamison has just arrived, and Sergeant Reilly is en route. I’ve got backup coming from the state police. The Lake Township EMT unit is en route.”
“I’m on my way,” Ray said as he headed toward his car.
Sergeant Reilly had the scene under control when Ray arrived. EMTs were working on the victim and several officers had set up flares on the open field behind the Last Chance to aid the pilot of the incoming helicopter.
Ray looked across the parking lot, a worn perimeter of blacktop with weeds growing in cracks, the sagging tavern at its center. A group of EMTs encircled the victim. Sue Lawrence, peering over the top of the EMTs, noticed Ray standing with Reilly and came across the lot to meet him.
“It’s Jason Zelke, Ray. He’s been hit at least three times.”
“The wounds, serious?”
“Shoulder and leg don’t look bad, but the one in the gut probably is. He’s conscious and in a lot of pain.”
“And the shooter?” Ray asked.
“He had left the scene by the time Jamison arrived,” Sergeant Reilly responded.
Jack Grochoski, the bartender, joined the group.
“What happened, Jack?” Ray asked.
“Jason came in a little after five like he does most days. He usually has a shell or two and takes a six-pack with him. I was at the other end of the bar talking to a customer when I heard it getting started.”
“What started?”
“There was this guy yelling at Jason, must of come in while I wasn’t looking. From what I could hear it was something about his wife. As I walked down there, the guy took a swing at him. Well, you know how big Jason is, he just took the guy’s arm and twisted it behind him. I told them to take it outside, and Jason pushed him out the door. Just to be on the safe side I called 911. I looked out of the window and they were just standing by Jason’s truck talking, so I thought they were working it out. I went back to the bar, and a couple of minutes later I heard lots of shooting.”
“This person who Jason was with, do you know him?” Sue asked.
“Last name’s Reesma or something like that. Dutchman I guess. He and his wife moved here from Grand Rapids, built a big house in that new sub above the village last winter.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much, hardly ever seen him. Heard tell he was a ship’s engineer; he’s gone most of the season. Comes home for a few days every now and then.”
“So, what’s this all about?” asked Ray
Jack looked pained, like he was betraying a professional trust. “Reesma, his wife comes in here quite often. Real pretty woman, name’s Sherry. She’s a nurse, works in town. I think she and Jason sorta struck up a friendship.”
“What sort of a friendship, Jack?”
“Well, Ray, that I wouldn’t know.” Jack lowered his voice and moved closer to Ray. “But I’ve noticed that they seemed to be leaving together lately.”