Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel by Arlette Lees Page A

both upper and lower lips.
    “He was suffocated.”
    “Yes,” says Homer. “Something was held with force over his face, a hand, a pillow, something of that nature. He was too fragile to put up much of a fight.”
    “Now the abrasion on his nose makes sense. Do you know his identity yet?”
    “Not a clue. I looked for a name in his book but it was too waterlogged. Whoever he is, he probably goes to the one room schoolhouse, but there won’t be anyone there until tomorrow.”
    “If he was murdered elsewhere and dumped, it would likely be from a car,” I say. “That suggests adult involvement either in the crime, after the fact or both.”
    “I agree. Schoolyard bullies would have taken his nickel. Could have been his parents. Wouldn’t be the first time we came across a throw-away kid.”
    A full minute passes while I mull things over and Homer makes a few notes in the chart. “His parents don’t know he’s missing,” I say.
    “How do you figure?”
    “He died on Friday. I don’t think he was going home after school, maybe to a friends or relatives. That’s why we haven’t heard anything.”
    “Who’d want to kill a kid? Where’s the motive?”
    “Was he molested?”
    “There’s no indication of that.”
    “What’s the other boy’s name, the one back in September?”
    “Danny Battle. Eight years old. Third grade. Found on the same stretch of road under similar circumstances.”
    “Homer, I’d like to review everything you have on both boys, including post mortem photos.”
    “Okay, but I’ll need the records back in a day or two.” The phone rings and Platt answers. He listens, shakes his head and hangs up.
    “Looks like they’ve found your Chevy, Jack. A rancher discovered it a hundred feet down a ravine about seven miles outside town. A tow truck is on the way to pull it out.”
    “And Mrs. Barker?”
    “I’m sorry, Jack. Her body’s in the car. You want to follow me out?”
    I give it a moment’s consideration.
    “I think I’d like to focus on the boy right now. I’m going to have a look around the schoolhouse. I’ll call you later.”
    “Okay, let me get those records.”

CHAPTER 14
    The empty schoolhouse with its peeling paint sits in the center of a soggy, weed-choked lot. To the right of the building is a teeter-totter, a tire swing and a sandbox filled with water and dead leaves. Beyond the playground an apple orchard rolls toward the horizon. I drive over a short bridge on the left and park on Schoolhouse Road, an unpaved one lane that runs back to a cluster of wood frame houses at the dead end. Behind a row of collapsing sunflowers at the back of the lot stands an outhouse, its door sagging on rusty hinges.
    I walk up the steps to the locked door, unfold a blade from my pocket knife and slide it between the door and the frame. The metal tongue moves, the door squeaks open and I step inside. The room would be cozy on school days, the potbellied stove snapping with kindling and fluttering with flames. Today it’s colder than a meat locker. Behind the teacher’s desk is a blackboard where she’s written her name in the upper left hand corner: Miss Hanover. Below, is a list of spelling words… the word ‘misspell,’ misspelled with a single s… a common enough mistake, but not one made by a parochial school graduate like myself, who can spell excommunication, purgatory and fornication with scholastic ease.
    There’s a draft as the door opens and closes behind me, admitting a girl with long brown braids, wide hazel eyes and a Band-Aid on one knee.
    “Who are you?” she says.
    “Jack Dunning. And you?”
    “Rebecca Smallwood. I get in the same way you do.”
    “Whatever works, right?” Her bare arms are covered with goose bumps. “You look cold.”
    “I know. My parents make me go outside when they fight. I didn’t have time to grab my coat.”
    “Sounds like they’re the ones who need the cooling off.” That gets a smile. “You go to school