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Poppy nods.
The sheriff hesitates, like he’s building up to something. “So, I understand you were at Fatheads last night…”
Now she understands the reason for the visit. The sheriff knows about her attempt to interview her predecessor on the Lane investigation, Daryll Buckman.
“The investigation file is so thin,” she says, “I thought Buckman might be able to—”
“I appreciate the gumption. I do. But when there’s been litigation, these things get complicated.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know about the litigation when I went there and—”
The sheriff holds up a hand. “You’re like your old man. He had gumption. It saved our asses in that desert more than once.” He smiles. “But like our CO used to say to your dad, you can’t always be a bull in the china shop. Particularly when we’re dealing with a bomb.”
Poppy swallows. She doesn’t know if the “bomb” he’s referring to is one of the explosive devices the sheriff and her father diffused in Iraq or Daryll Buckman.
“Understood,” she says.
The sheriff stands. “Well, I’ll let you get back to the fun.” He eyes her computer, then heads out.
Poppy curses at herself. It’s her third day and she’s already getting a lecture for violating protocol. And if the sheriff learns she’s talked to Agent Fincher—even if it wasn’t Poppy initiating the discussions—he might not be so nostalgic about Poppy’s father. She needs to keep her head down. She needs this job. At the same time, she can’t ignore what Buckman said, can she? Look in your own house. She can’t ignore that Fincher also suggested that Poppy’s office is hiding something. That her dad’s old friend Ken Walton is hiding something. She decides: She’s going to follow the clues wherever they take her, do her job. She’ll just need to be careful about it.
So, for the next few hours she works the new tips. Makes follow-up calls. Cross-checks the office’s crank file for repeat offenders. Researches the databases. And each and every one turns out to be a complete and utter waste of time. She finally reaches the last tip in the batch. She rubs her temples and reads the email.
My name is Ziggy de la Cruz and I run a true crime podcast called the Treehouse. I’ve uncovered some new evidence on the Alison Lane case. I’m going to run a segment on it tonight, so if you’d like to hear about the evidence before the public, please come by my studio located here.
The message is odd. Why ask for an in-person visit? Maybe the podcaster wants to lure someone working the case there for an interview. Poppy googles the podcast name and reads enough to discern that it’s the real deal. It’s ranked a top true crime podcast and has helped solve three cold cases. Everybody’s an investigator now.
The message says he’s doing the show tonight. If it’s something important, she’d like to know about it before the public. She’s caught up on the tip line, so what’s she have to lose? She clicks on the link to the address. It’s in Kansas City, forty minutes away. Yeah, she needs to do her job.
24
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary, please, take a seat.”
Gina grips O’Leary’s hand tight as they are shuttled into the headmaster’s office. There’s the requisite dark wood, old portraits of old white men, classical music floating in the background. Headmaster Pendleton walks with that slow, nothing-is-that-urgent gait of old money before sitting behind his antique desk. O’Leary remembers the first time he visited this space. Pendleton acted as though he’d have to have the office fumigated when O’Leary left. Not that it stopped him from taking the “donation.”
Gina says nothing. She hasn’t said much since her world ended.
“You have our deepest condolences. Although Anthony wasn’t with the Academy long, he’s part of our family. The outpouring from his classmates has been uplifting.”
O’Leary nods. What else is there to do? He could point out that not one of those classmates ever came over after school, invited Anthony to their houses. That the guidance counselor brushed off Gina when she called to raise concerns about their son. Lashing out won’t change anything. It will only upset Gina more.
Pendleton waits for them to say something, as if unclear why they’re at the school.
Finally, O’Leary says, “We’re still in a state of shock. We just can’t understand why Anthony would commit suicide and—”
“We don’t say ‘commit suicide,’” Pendleton interrupts. We say ‘died by suicide.’”
O’Leary feels his blood turning hot. “Excuse me.”
“At the Academy, I mean. We teach the children to not say ‘committed’ suicide since it evokes associations with a crime and fosters negative stereotypes about mental illness.”
Gina sobs lightly. O’Leary needs to get control of his emotions lest he commit a crime himself.
“We just want to know why. We hoped his classmates might know something.”
Pendleton lets out a loud sigh. “I know this is hard. But, from my experience with the mental health of our students, I can tell you there usually isn’t a clear answer. Did Anthony leave a note?”