Page 20

CHAPTER 20

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

—Rudyard Kipling, “If”

WHITNEY

My phone sprang to life at half past seven Friday morning, as I was cleaning out the litter boxes. As always, the cats immediately stepped into the fresh boxes to defile them again.

I tapped the icon to take the call and stepped into the hall. Collin was on his way to the kitchen for his first cup of morning coffee, and paused to give me a peck on the forehead as he passed.

“Good morning, Detective Macedo,” I said into my phone.

After a cursory greeting, Macedo said, “The lab confirmed it. The shell in the jacket pocket matched Irving Finster’s gun.”

I wasn’t at all surprised, but I was thoroughly thrilled. I’d just helped solve a decades-old cold case! I pumped my free hand in the air. Yay me! Woot-woot!

The shell wasn’t the only evidence, either. “They’re pretty sure the stains on the dish towel are blood, but they were too contaminated to get a good test sample.”

In other words, we couldn’t be sure the blood belonged to the Finsters. But the fact that the stains appeared to be blood was potentially incriminating nonetheless.

“What’s your address?” Macedo asked. “I’ll pick you up.”

After giving him my street name and number, I said, “We’re going to see Elijah Clemson? Does he live in Missouri?” I recalled that his home address at the time he’d attended Ridgetop Prep had been in Poplar Bluff, a four-hour drive west.

“No. We’re heading down to Huntsville. I’ll fill you in on the way. Bring his student discipline file with you.”

Huntsville, Alabama, was a two-hour drive down Interstate 65, heading due south. By the time we drove down there, Macedo questioned Clemson, and we drove back, most of the day would be gone. But I was okay with that. I was happy that justice would finally be done, that I hadn’t been off base all this time.

When I ended the call, I looked up to see Collin leaning on the doorframe to the kitchen, steaming mugs of coffee in both hands, eavesdropping on me. “Clemson’s your guy?”

“Looks that way.” I stepped over and took the mug he offered. “We’re going down to Huntsville to talk to him.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“A chance to interrogate a suspect I helped nail? Heck, yeah!”

“I’m proud of you,” he said. But then his grin melted away. “I’m worried about you, too. If you keep this up, you might get yourself into a sticky situation one day and not be able to get yourself out.” He gave me a pointed look.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m smart and resourceful.” Who else could say they’d made a raft out of paint buckets and plywood?

After coffee and oatmeal with Collin, I dressed in a blue long-sleeved shirt, black pants, and loafers, a business casual look. I applied a little bit of makeup and curled the ends of my hair, too. Ready now, I stood at the front window with Elijah Clemson’s records tucked under my arm, keeping an eye out for the detective. Sawdust hopped up onto his cat tree beside me and climbed to the top to help me watch the street. I ran my hand over his back. “Not to brag on myself, but your mommy is one smart lady.”

He purred and leaned into my arm as if to say I know .

In a few minutes, a Robertson County Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulled to the curb. The fact that Detective Macedo had driven over in a patrol car rather than the unmarked cars usually assigned to investigators told me he expected to be bringing Clemson back to Tennessee in the rear seat. My guess was there might be some sort of legal process Macedo would have to go through to have Clemson remanded from Alabama to Tennessee, but I had no idea how all of that worked.

I gave Sawdust and Collin each a goodbye kiss, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door. I slid into the passenger seat and handed the file folder over to Macedo. He took a cursory glance at the paperwork inside before tucking the file between the center console and his seat.

Macedo and I made small talk as we drove down to Huntsville: the weather, my plans for the old headmaster’s house, how the Tennessee Titans football team was playing this year, that new Tex-Mex restaurant in the gulch that made the best salsa this side of Mexico.

When we arrived in Huntsville, I’d expected for Macedo to pull up in front of a residence. Instead, he pulled up to the guardhouse at the front gate of a marine reserve training base.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“Clemson works as an instructor here.”

“Is he expecting us?”

“No.” A sly smile claimed the detective’s lips. “I find the element of surprise often works to my advantage.”

The guard slid his window open. Macedo explained who he was and that he was there to interview a marine who worked on the base. He didn’t give Clemson’s name yet, evidently not wanting word to get out any sooner than necessary. As this was not a common situation, the marine had to make a few phone calls to ascertain the proper protocols. Meanwhile, my knee bounced with nervous energy. I could hardly wait to confront Eli Clemson, to see how shocked he’d be to have been found out after all these years.

After a wait of what felt like ten eternities, a military police officer in a cruiser escorted us to a parking lot in front of the base headquarters. Detective Macedo retrieved the file I’d given him and removed a duffel bag containing the evidence from the trunk of his car. The MP then led us inside to the office of the commanding officer for the base, and took his leave.

The commander wore fatigues in a pixelated camouflage print. He had battleship gray hair, steely eyes, and the warmth of a glacier. He looked none too happy to have one of his men in hot water. He shook our hands and directed us to take a seat in front of his desk, which was approximately the size of a tank, but tidy.

The room was ornate, with the Marine Corps emblem painted on both side walls, and two flags, the old Stars and Stripes and the Marine Corps flag, on poles in the corner. A built-in bookcase behind the commander’s desk held photographs of him with troops in various locations, as well as one of him as a much younger soldier standing next to Bob Hope on one of the entertainer’s USO tours.

The commander sat down ramrod straight in his high-backed faux-leather desk chair, his nostrils twitching. “What is that terrible smell?”

“Evidence.” Macedo pointed down to the duffel bag on his lap.

“Smells like you’ve got a dead body in there.” The commander’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t, do you?”

Macedo chuckled, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether the commander had been joking. “I can assure you there are no remains in this bag.”

“All right.” The commander turned to the business at hand. “Which of my men are you here to see?”

Macedo identified our quarry. “Elijah Clemson.”

On hearing the name, the man stiffened and a thick vein throbbed in his neck. “I thought you might be here for one of the young reservists. They get themselves in trouble now and then. Master Gunnery Sergeant Clemson is a fine man who’s served his country well.” He jabbed his index finger on his desk for emphasis. “He’s a decorated war veteran, one of the finest marines I’ve had the pleasure of commanding.”

In other words, he thought Detective Macedo was barking up the wrong tree if he thought Clemson was involved in anything shady. But people were multifaceted and complicated. The fact that Clemson had been a good soldier didn’t mean he hadn’t also committed murder as a teenaged student at Ridgetop.

My role was to keep my mouth shut unless and until Macedo asked me a direct question, so I said nothing in response to the commander. There wasn’t much Macedo could say that wouldn’t sound argumentative or accusatory, so he just gave the commander a nod.

The commander picked up his desk phone and punched a series of four buttons before putting the receiver to his ear. When someone picked up on the other end, he said, “Tell Master Gunnery Sergeant Clemson I need to see him in my office, please.” He returned the receiver to the cradle.

After a few minutes’ wait, a middle-aged marine appeared in the doorway, completely filling the space. The top of his head cleared the frame by a quarter inch at most, and his broad, muscular physique rivaled that of Jason Momoa. His once-auburn hair had faded to a pale ivory at the temples, but the scar arching across his left cheekbone told me he was indeed the grown-up manifestation of the glowering boy in Ridgetop’s 1982 yearbook.

The commanding officer stood, made introductions, and led us down the hall to a room with a rectangular table surrounded by six chairs. He stood at the door and held out a hand, inviting us into the space. Once the detective, Clemson, and I entered, he said, “I’ll leave y’all to it.” He turned his attention to his subordinate. “Come see me when you’re done here.”

Clemson dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Yes sir.”

The commander closed the door behind him. Macedo and I took seats on one side of the table, Clemson on the other. Clemson appeared genuinely confused. “What’s this all about?”

Rather than answering the question, Macedo asked one of his own. “What can you tell me about this?” He unzipped his duffel and removed a clear plastic evidence bag, placing it on the table between them.

Clemson’s face lit up when he recognized his Walkman. “Is that what I think it is?” He pulled the bag toward him and turned it over to check the back. On seeing his name written there, he said, “I can’t believe you found my Walkman! I’ve wondered what happened to it.”

“You don’t know?” Macedo asked.

Clemson raised a shoulder and let it drop. “Last I saw of it, I was a high school kid with a lousy attitude who didn’t care about anything and was angry at the world.” He snorted. “Puberty hormones, am I right?”

Macedo chuckled in response, probably hoping to build a rapport. “Tell me about it. That’s a difficult time in a boy’s life. Voice changing. Hair growing in all sorts of places. Embarrassing physical responses you can’t control.”

Huh?

When Clemson cut me a look to see if my female sensitivities had been offended, I realized what the detective meant. My face warmed with a blush. Odd that Clemson could be both chivalrous and a killer, but people are full of contradictions.

Rather than ask a direct question, Macedo said, “Tell me about your time at Ridgetop.”

Clemson took a deep breath and sat back. “For starters, it was short. I only lasted until halfway through my sophomore year. Then I was expelled.”

“Why?”

“For selling beer to my classmates,” he said matter-of-factly. “A six-pack cost less than four bucks back then, but I’d sell them for twelve dollars, or three dollars for a single can. I was making money hand over fist, even after splitting the profits with my source.”

“You were quite an entrepreneur.”

Clemson shrugged. “It’s not hard to sell alcohol to teenagers. Can’t say I’m proud of it, though.”

“An adult must have bought the beer for you.” Macedo cocked his head. “Who was it?” He already knew the answer, of course, so I surmised he was asking the question to see how forthcoming Clemson would be.

“Sorry,” Clemson said. “I didn’t snitch then, and I won’t snitch now. I made a promise and I’m a man of my word.”

“No need to snitch,” Macedo said. “Dwight Nabors already told us you two worked together. He said he bought the beer, hid it under the dock at the pond on the boarding school property, and you’d round it up from there.”

Clemson neither confirmed nor denied the assertion. Could that once-naughty boy be a man of honor now?

Macedo placed Clemson’s disciplinary file atop the table. He didn’t open it though. “What else did you get in trouble for?”

Clemson glanced at the file. “Darn near anything you can think of, as you surely already know. Backtalk. Skipping class. Scratching up a teacher’s car after I flunked a test in his class. Smoking.” A grin tugged at his lips. “Don’t ask me where I got the cigarettes, because I won’t rat on my source for smokes, either.”

Macedo dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Understood.”

“They caught me swimming in the pond, too,” Clemson added. “Lots of times. I loved the water. It was an escape for me.”

“Where’d you go after Dr. Finster kicked you out of Ridgetop?”

“My parents sent me to a military academy in Camp Hill, down near Auburn. Southern Preparatory Academy.”

“How’d that go?” Macedo asked.

“Much better than Ridgetop,” Clemson said. “Southern Prep gave me all kinds of aptitude tests when I arrived. The tests made it clear I’d never be a whiz at academics, but they indicated I had some leadership traits and an interest in physical activities. The place had an indoor pool. Before I knew it, I was swimming a mile every morning before breakfast. A mile every night before bed, too. I enjoyed the drills and marching, the challenge of the obstacle course. They got me there. I finally felt understood. I wasn’t angry anymore and had no need to act up. I entered competitions and won awards. For the first time in my life, I felt like a success.”

“The change in schools worked out for you, then,” Macedo said. “Where’d you go after the military academy?”

“I enlisted in the Marines immediately after graduation. Because I was a strong swimmer, they sent me to Panama City, Florida, to train as a combat diver. I served for years in that capacity until age caught up to me and they transitioned me into training.”

The story rang true. But while it was good that Clemson had turned himself around, it didn’t negate the fact that we’d found evidence suggesting he’d killed the Finsters before his transformation took place.

Macedo reached down into the open duffel and pulled out another clear bag, the large one that contained the backpack.

Clemson’s nose wriggled. “Smells like you pulled that out of a sewer.”

“Close,” Macedo said, without elaborating. He slid the bag across the table. “This backpack belonged to you, correct?”

Clemson leaned in and manipulated the plastic bag, checking out the pack without violating the evidence by opening the bag. “It looks like the one I remember, but mine wasn’t so dirty. Smelled a lot better, too.”

“Your Walkman was in it.” Macedo gestured to the backpack. “Go ahead and look inside. You’ll see your name written in it.”

Clemson opened the evidence bag, pulled the backpack from it, and looked inside to find his name. “That’s my mother’s handwriting. I was always losing things so Mom wrote my name on everything I owned, even my underwear and socks.” He looked back up at Macedo. “Where’d you get this?”

“From the bottom of the pond at Ridgetop. The one you just mentioned swimming in.”

“Really?” Clemson’s brows drew inward. “How did it get there?”

“Are you claiming you don’t know?”

“I don’t. I didn’t take it with me when I left Ridgetop.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I was always forgetting it somewhere or another, probably because my classwork didn’t mean much to me. If I’d remembered my Walkman was in it, I would’ve gone looking for it. But I know for a fact I didn’t bring the backpack home from Ridgetop. My parents had bought it for me a few months earlier at the start of the school year. My sister was still at Ridgetop, and she checked the lost and found after I was kicked out, but my backpack was never turned in. My father was so angry about me losing it that he made me buy a replacement with my own money when I switched schools. At the time, I thought that was horribly unfair, especially since he’d confiscated all my beer money. When I matured, I realized he’d only been trying to teach me a lesson.”

Macedo pulled the jacket and shell casing from the duffel now, and lay their separate bags on the table. “What can you tell me about these items?”

Ignoring the jacket for now, Clemson manipulated the bag with the shell casing. “I teach firearms training to reservists here, so I know my weapons. This shell came from a nine millimeter.”

“That’s correct,” Macedo said. “Dr. Finster’s Smith & Wesson Model 59.”

Clemson issued an elongated hmph that was difficult to read. “I remember when I first heard that Dr. Finster had shot himself and his wife. I was surprised. He was such a nerdy guy. I couldn’t picture him with a gun.”

“What do you know about the Finsters’ deaths?” Macedo asked.

“Not a lot,” Clemson replied. “I know that people thought Dr. Finster did it because his most recent book had been a flop and he was having a hard time managing the school. Budget problems and stuff like that. The students had been largely unaware. You know how it is. The adults kept things from us kids, and we teenagers lived in our own worlds, oblivious to things that didn’t directly affect us.”

I’d been much the same back in my teen years, more concerned with a pesky pimple on my nose than the more important goings-on in the larger world.

Clemson continued. “From what my sister Susanna told me, the detective interviewed damn near everyone who’d ever set foot on the Ridgetop campus.”

“Except you,” Macedo said, his stare as direct as his words.

“I wasn’t there anymore.” Clemson’s tone was emphatic. Clearly, the interrogation was getting to him. “Like I said earlier, I’d been expelled and started school down south.”

Circling back to the physical evidence, Macedo said, “That shell casing was found in the pocket of this jacket.” He pushed the bag containing the jacket toward Clemson. “The jacket was found inside the backpack you just identified as yours.”

Clemson turned his head slightly to one side. “That can’t be right. I never put a shell casing in my pocket at Ridgetop. I never even held a gun until I transferred to military school.”

Macedo stared at Clemson for a moment, as if assessing the man, before continuing. “What if I told you that shell casing had been removed from the crime scene to make it appear that the only shots fired were the two that killed the Finsters?”

Clemson sat back, looking flummoxed. “I-I don’t know what to say to that.” He sat quietly for a moment, anxiety producing thick furrows between his eyebrows. “Are you saying someone else killed the Finsters? That Dr. Finster wasn’t the shooter?” The furrow disappeared as both his brows and the timbre of his voice rose. “You think I was the shooter?”

“Were you?” Macedo asked.

“No!” Clemson’s fists clenched in rage or offense, but the look in his eyes appeared to be something more akin to hurt. As a decorated marine who’d sacrificed to serve his country, I could understand him feeling wounded by the accusation—if he were innocent.

Macedo didn’t take his response at face value. “You might not have been on campus when the detective interviewed the faculty and students, but you were at Ridgetop the night the Finsters died. We’ve spoken to a witness who put you there. In fact, she mentioned you seemed extremely distraught when you learned the news.”

“Of course I was distraught!” Clemson snapped. “Everyone was. My parents and I had gone there to see my kid sister sing and dance in a play, and suddenly the place is swarming with ambulances and cops.”

Macedo pointed out the obvious. “For a person who claims to be innocent, this conversation sure seems to be making you uncomfortable.”

Clemson’s mouth fell open like a ventriloquist dummy’s and hung agape for a few seconds. “I’m uncomfortable now for the same reason I was upset that night.” He paused for a beat before looking directly at Macedo and saying, “I feel guilty.”

“Of what?”

“Of helping push Dr. Finster over the edge.” Clemson released a shaky breath and ran a hand over his closely shorn hair. “Rumors were flying before the bodies were even taken away that night. Word got around that the house had been locked, so people immediately speculated that Dr. Finster had killed his wife. The last conversation I had with Dr. Finster was when he expelled me. Before my parents arrived to take me away that day, I had to sit alone with him in his office and wait. I used that time to rip into him.” Clemson raised his palms. “What did I have to lose at that point? I called him all kinds of names I won’t repeat in mixed company, but they ran the gamut. He didn’t rise to the bait. He just sat there, calm, which pissed me off even more. I thought I’d get him if I repeated something I’d read on the wall in the boys’ bathroom. That his wife was having sex with Mr. Noy, one of the music teachers. I laid it on thick, describing what Mr. Noy was probably doing to Mrs. Finster. I really wanted to turn the knife.”

“How did he react?” Macedo asked.

“He smiled and said, ‘One day, son, when you’re no longer a virgin, you’ll realize that most of what you just said is absolutely preposterous.’” Clemson issued a mirthless snort. “Dr. Finster always had a formal way of speaking, but he was right. I had no idea what I was talking about back then. I just wanted to make him suffer.” He looked down as if in shame, before returning his gaze to Macedo. “The night of my sister’s show, when I heard he’d killed himself and his wife, I was beside myself. I thought maybe he’d put on a brave face when I’d been in his office, but that he might have killed his wife because of what I’d told him. I thought it might be my fault.” He closed his eyes for a beat before opening them again. “I hope it wasn’t.”

If Clemson had killed the Finsters, he sure was laying it on thick.

Macedo eyed Clemson intently for a moment before asking, “Why should I believe you?”

Clemson took a deep, calming breath and spoke softly on the exhale. “Because it’s the truth.”

A long, silent impasse ensued, broken only when Clemson’s eyes went to the unopened evidence bag that contained the school blazer. “May I take a look at that jacket?”

Macedo pulled the bag containing the jacket toward himself and unsealed it. He removed the odorous garment, cringed from the stench, and handed it across the table to Clemson. Clemson unfolded the jacket, laid it flat on the table, and looked at the once-white tag inside. “This isn’t mine,” he said. “My name’s not on it. Besides, this jacket is only a medium.” He stood and held the jacket up in front of him. It looked tiny in comparison.

Macedo said, “It wouldn’t fit you now, but haven’t you grown since high school?”

“Some,” Clemson admitted, “but I went through a major growth spurt in junior high, before I started at Ridgetop. I was already six feet two inches tall and beefy when I was a sophomore. My school blazer was a size XL.”

In other words, the smelly jacket belonged to someone else, and that someone had put the shell casing in the pocket. That someone had come across Clemson’s misplaced backpack, shoved the evidence inside to conceal it, then hurled the backpack into the pond.

It was a plausible story. I glanced over at Macedo just as he glanced at me. Our eyes spoke for us. We may have been wrong about Clemson. He doesn’t seem to be our guy.

Even so, the drive down here could be fruitful. I turned to Clemson. “Do you have any idea where you might have left your backpack on your final day at Ridgetop?”

“I can’t say for sure,” he said. “I was called to the headmaster’s office during lunch. I remember because it was pizza day and I was mad that my slice would be cold when I got back. I didn’t know yet that I wouldn’t be returning to the dining hall. A housekeeper had found an empty beer can in the trash in a student’s room that morning and reported it. That student had been called to the headmaster’s office, fingered me, and then it was my turn in the hot seat. I probably left my backpack in whatever class I had right before lunch. I don’t remember what class it was, though.”

I turned to Macedo. “The student schedules are in the files I got from the headmaster’s office if you want to take a look.”

“I do.”

Macedo stood and held out a hand. “Thank you for your time.”

Clemson shook his hand. “I hope you figure out who killed the Finsters. It’s been on my conscience all these years. I’m glad to know I didn’t have anything to do with their deaths, but the thought that they were murdered is disturbing, too. My sister finished high school there. I hate to think there might have been a killer going about campus scot-free.”

We left the room, and Clemson escorted us to the exit. He then turned to retrace his steps, no doubt going to his commander’s office to clear the air.

Macedo and I climbed into the cruiser and drove off the base, turning north to head back to Nashville. The road would take us home, but would it bring us any closer to the truth?