her long chin.
“He and Pearl have been to college,” Fedderman said.
Quinn described the visit at Waycliffe to Helen.
She seemed to become more interested as the account unfolded.
“You think the college president—”
“Calls himself the chancellor,” Quinn interrupted.
“Okay. Whatever. You feel he was being evasive?”
“Yes,” Pearl answered.
Quinn nodded, not as sure. He didn’t want to go off in a wrong direction here. “It was only a feeling,” he said. “We have no reason to believe he was lying about anything.”
“The college itself looks too good to believe,” Pearl said. “So picturesque, and isolated from the town. Snooty as hell, too. They play lacrosse and only lacrosse.”
“I lettered in lacrosse,” Helen said.
“I bet you played field hockey, too.”
Quinn shot Pearl a warning look. If a spark was struck, the two women sometimes deliberately tried to get on each others’ nerves. Go easy, Pearl.
“Good game, lacrosse, if you’re up to it,” Helen said, apparently primed for an argument this morning.
“We’re not concerned about their athletic program,” Quinn said, heading off trouble. “Anyway, it isn’t the kind of place you’d think would have a bowl contender.”
“Football,” Pearl said. “Beats the hell out of lacrosse.”
“Maybe we oughta go back up there,” Fedderman said, coming to Quinn’s rescue before Helen could reply.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “Schueller might just have been nervous, like a lot of people when they come face-to-face with the law. Especially if it concerns a murder investigation. That sort of thing would be foreign to the Waycliffe campus.”
“We would hope,” Helen said. “What about Macy Collins’s friends there?”
“She didn’t seem to have any close friends. She was in something called the Vanguard program, for gifted students. Sounded to me like everybody in the program had to work too hard to have time for friends.”
“Not like the jocks,” Pearl said. Jab, jab ...
“They must have a basketball team,” Helen said, as if every institution with more than five people did.
“No,” Quinn said. “Only lacrosse. I didn’t see any obvious jocks. The women we saw looked like college types. Trendy, studious. The men were Ivy League types, or nerds. Everybody looked like they spent too much time on Facebook and Twitter.”
“Of course,” Pearl said, “we didn’t see many students. Summer classes were in session. But Quinn’s right; the few students we did see looked like nerds or future bond salesmen. The geeky kids who did all their homework in high school.”
“Sounds like you need a perfect SAT score to get near the place,” Fedderman said.
“Or perfect bank account,” Pearl said.
“They should have a basketball team,” Helen said.
“Only lacrosse,” Quinn said, before Pearl could.
“Macy Collins have a roommate in her dorm?”
“No,” Quinn said. “Vanguard students room alone.”
“And die alone,” Harold said. He’d been silent on the other side of the office, listening.
Quinn sat wondering if this conversation was getting them anywhere. It seemed to emphasize the paucity of hard facts in the investigation. A serial killer (if he was one) like Daniel Danielle who butchered his victims (if there was more than one) didn’t seem to have much to do with an exclusive and secluded college, even though the dead woman had been a student there. Quinn was beginning to think they’d taken a wrong turn.
“I were you,” Helen said, “I’d drive back up there.”
“Why?” Quinn asked.
“No basketball team.”
17
S omething was wrong with Ann Spellman’s laptop computer. Her wallpaper that formed the background of her desktop on her screen when she turned on the computer had somehow changed from blue sky to a news photo of victims lying under blankets on the side of a highway after a horrible head-on collision between a car and truck.
Her computer had been
“He and Pearl have been to college,” Fedderman said.
Quinn described the visit at Waycliffe to Helen.
She seemed to become more interested as the account unfolded.
“You think the college president—”
“Calls himself the chancellor,” Quinn interrupted.
“Okay. Whatever. You feel he was being evasive?”
“Yes,” Pearl answered.
Quinn nodded, not as sure. He didn’t want to go off in a wrong direction here. “It was only a feeling,” he said. “We have no reason to believe he was lying about anything.”
“The college itself looks too good to believe,” Pearl said. “So picturesque, and isolated from the town. Snooty as hell, too. They play lacrosse and only lacrosse.”
“I lettered in lacrosse,” Helen said.
“I bet you played field hockey, too.”
Quinn shot Pearl a warning look. If a spark was struck, the two women sometimes deliberately tried to get on each others’ nerves. Go easy, Pearl.
“Good game, lacrosse, if you’re up to it,” Helen said, apparently primed for an argument this morning.
“We’re not concerned about their athletic program,” Quinn said, heading off trouble. “Anyway, it isn’t the kind of place you’d think would have a bowl contender.”
“Football,” Pearl said. “Beats the hell out of lacrosse.”
“Maybe we oughta go back up there,” Fedderman said, coming to Quinn’s rescue before Helen could reply.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “Schueller might just have been nervous, like a lot of people when they come face-to-face with the law. Especially if it concerns a murder investigation. That sort of thing would be foreign to the Waycliffe campus.”
“We would hope,” Helen said. “What about Macy Collins’s friends there?”
“She didn’t seem to have any close friends. She was in something called the Vanguard program, for gifted students. Sounded to me like everybody in the program had to work too hard to have time for friends.”
“Not like the jocks,” Pearl said. Jab, jab ...
“They must have a basketball team,” Helen said, as if every institution with more than five people did.
“No,” Quinn said. “Only lacrosse. I didn’t see any obvious jocks. The women we saw looked like college types. Trendy, studious. The men were Ivy League types, or nerds. Everybody looked like they spent too much time on Facebook and Twitter.”
“Of course,” Pearl said, “we didn’t see many students. Summer classes were in session. But Quinn’s right; the few students we did see looked like nerds or future bond salesmen. The geeky kids who did all their homework in high school.”
“Sounds like you need a perfect SAT score to get near the place,” Fedderman said.
“Or perfect bank account,” Pearl said.
“They should have a basketball team,” Helen said.
“Only lacrosse,” Quinn said, before Pearl could.
“Macy Collins have a roommate in her dorm?”
“No,” Quinn said. “Vanguard students room alone.”
“And die alone,” Harold said. He’d been silent on the other side of the office, listening.
Quinn sat wondering if this conversation was getting them anywhere. It seemed to emphasize the paucity of hard facts in the investigation. A serial killer (if he was one) like Daniel Danielle who butchered his victims (if there was more than one) didn’t seem to have much to do with an exclusive and secluded college, even though the dead woman had been a student there. Quinn was beginning to think they’d taken a wrong turn.
“I were you,” Helen said, “I’d drive back up there.”
“Why?” Quinn asked.
“No basketball team.”
17
S omething was wrong with Ann Spellman’s laptop computer. Her wallpaper that formed the background of her desktop on her screen when she turned on the computer had somehow changed from blue sky to a news photo of victims lying under blankets on the side of a highway after a horrible head-on collision between a car and truck.
Her computer had been
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