Page 6

CHAPTER 6

I died for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?

“For beauty,” I replied.

“And I for truth—themself are one;

We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,

We talked between the rooms.

Until the moss had reached our lips,

And covered up our names.

—Emily Dickinson, “I Died for Beauty”

WHITNEY

First thing Wednesday morning, I headed up the road to Springfield, the county seat for Robertson County. I parked in the lot of the Robertson County Sheriff’s Department headquarters and walked inside.

A fiftyish female receptionist greeted me. “Mornin’. What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing construction work at the old Ridgetop Preparatory Academy, and I found this in a porch post at what used to be the headmaster’s house.” I pulled the bullet from my pocket and placed it on the counter in front of her. “The headmaster—”

“Murdered his wife, then killed himself.” She shuddered. “I remember when it happened. I was just twelve or thirteen at the time. It was a big deal to have a shooting at a school back then. Nowadays, it’s practically an everyday occurrence.” She shook her head sadly before picking up the bullet and looking it over. She set it back down and eyed me expectantly.

“It’s my understanding that the case was never officially solved,” I said. “I thought your investigators might be interested to know I’d found the bullet.”

Though her expression was doubtful, she turned to her computer and worked her keyboard. Her fingers stilled as she read over the screen she’d pulled up. “The detective who handled that case retired about twenty years ago and has since passed on. I attended the funeral. Big turnout. They even had a guy playing bagpipes.” She picked up her phone, punched two digits, and put the receiver to her ear. She waited a beat before someone answered. “Hey, Detective. You got a minute? There’s a woman here who found a bullet at an old crime scene. Thought you might want to take a look.” She listened to a response, said, “Okey doke,” and returned the receiver to the cradle. “Detective Macedo is on his way.”

Shortly thereafter, a Latino in his early forties came up the hall. He wore a gray suit and white dress shirt complemented by a stylish, teal-colored tie and pocket square. After I told him who I was and why I was there, he picked up the bullet and looked at it closely, just as the receptionist had done.

“I also found this.” I retrieved my phone from my pocket and pulled up the images of the hole through the window frame. “There were heavy curtains on the window, and the glass was intact, but it looks to me like the bullet was fired from inside the study.”

“That case was way before my time,” Macedo said, “so I’m not familiar with it, but it’s unlikely a bullet would be overlooked at a crime scene. Our investigators are very thorough. My guess is this bullet might have come along later.”

I hated to argue with the guy, but I wanted to be taken seriously. “There’s ivy all over the house now, and the porch post was probably covered with ivy when the Finsters’ deaths occurred. A bullet hole could have easily gone unnoticed.”

He shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s impossible the bullet was overlooked, I’m just saying it’s unlikely.”

“But if the investigator noticed the bullet hole, wouldn’t they have taken the bullet into evidence?”

“Not necessarily,” said the detective. “A bullet that missed its target might not have seemed critical to the case. The investigator might not have had a good tool for digging the bullet out of the post. They may have decided it made more sense to leave things in place and simply take photographs to document the damage instead.” But while Detective Macedo didn’t make any promises, he did at least humor me. “Look. My caseload is heavy right now, but when I can find a spare moment I’ll take a look at the records, see if there’s any reason to think this bullet might alter the outcome.”

The receptionist again picked up her phone. “I’ll have archives pull the case file,” she said to Macedo. Turning to me, she added, “It generally takes a week or so.”

Macedo reached inside his suit jacket and pulled a business card from the breast pocket of his dress shirt. He held it out to me. “My direct number is on there, as well as my cell, in case you need to get in touch.”

I took the card, thanked them, and left, feeling a little foolish. Am I making a mountain out of a molehill?

When I arrived home, I found Collin lounging on the couch with the cats beside him and a celebratory beer in his hand.

He raised the bottle in toast. “We nailed him! The next-door neighbor’s security camera caught footage of the suspect glancing around suspiciously and opening the mailbox to verify the name on an envelope inside before approaching the victim’s house. The camera caught him running away from the house ten minutes later.”

The video proved the suspect had been lying when he claimed that all he’d done was place a business card in the mailbox. “Congrats!” I held up a hand for a high five.

The sad truth was that only about half of the murder cases in the United States were ever solved. Random killings were the most difficult cases to crack, but even when the police had a good suspect, amassing enough evidence for an arrest and conviction could still be difficult. Physical evidence such as fingerprints or hair was rarely found; when it was discovered, it could often be explained away. Same for eyewitnesses and video footage. Collin worked hard trying to get violent people off the streets. I was glad he’d gotten this win.

I gave him an update on my investigation, as well. “The detective agreed to review the case and see if the bullet might be relevant. The file has been archived, though. It could take some time before I hear anything.”

While the sheriff’s department had more pressing priorities, I, on the other hand, did not. I also had little patience. I wanted to figure things out right now! Even so, without leads from the investigator’s file, I had limited avenues to pursue at the moment. But I did have two names, Adam Joule and Carole Tiller, the former teachers from Ridgetop Preparatory Academy who’d been quoted in the articles I’d found online. Of course, I had no idea whether they’d even still be alive. After all, the deaths had happened so long ago. If Joule and Tiller had been the same age or older than the Finsters when the tragedy took place, they might not be around any longer. I’d see what I could find out tomorrow. This evening, I wanted to spend some quality time with Collin.

After Collin left for work Thursday morning, I sat down on the couch with my laptop. The first thing I did was put in the names Carole Tiller and Adam Joule and search for obituaries. I found none for people with those names that included any reference to Nashville, Ridgetop Preparatory Academy, or teaching in general. Maybe I’m in luck.

Next, I typed in Carole Tiller and Nashville . The search produced links that referenced a Carole Tiller Brown. The unusual spelling of the first name with the e at the end told me I’d likely found the right person. I checked social media and found a Facebook profile for Carole Tiller Brown. I was in luck. She’d made her profile public. Her profile pic showed a pretty woman with her head turned slightly to the right. Her golden blond hair was cut in a classic chin-length bob. She teased the camera with a coquettish smile, as if she were keeping a juicy secret.

Given her change in surname, she must have gotten married since her days at Ridgetop Preparatory Academy. It was no surprise. The fact that she had yet to retire meant she’d been young when she taught at Ridgetop Prep in the early 1980s, maybe even fresh out of college. She’d gone by her maiden name then.

Per her “About” information, she was still teaching theater, though at a public high school in west Nashville now rather than a boarding school. Though her relationship status confirmed she was married, she hadn’t input her spouse’s name.

I wasn’t about to put Collin on the spot by asking him to use his police resources to get her home address for me. Such use wasn’t authorized and could get him in trouble. Besides, I enjoyed poking around, seeing what information I could come up with on my own. To that end, I consulted the online real property records for Davidson County, but found no house in Carole Tiller Brown’s name. It was possible the house was in her spouse’s name only, but unless and until I could determine that person’s first name, it would be impossible for me to know which of the seemingly endless listings in the last name of Brown belonged to them.

I returned to Carole’s Facebook page to see what I might glean from her posts. She’d recently posted a funny meme about a spoof Survivor series in which sixteen politicians had to teach at a Title 1 school and live on a teacher’s salary. Ha! I’d watch that. She’d also posted a photo of herself frolicking in the surf at a beach in Florida, with Photoshopped sharks lurking in the water behind her, ready to move in for the kill. Though regular classes were out for the summer, she’d posted about a children’s theater performance of Fiddler on the Roof that would be taking place at a community center in the city. She noted that she was leading a summer theater camp for teens while school was on break. Aha! Now I know where to find her.

As for Adam Joule, getting his address was much easier. It came right up. He lived in a retirement community not unlike the one Troy Loflin intended to make out of the former boarding school property, though the development where Joule lived was located in the city and was on a smaller scale. I decided to drop in on Joule first, see what he might be able to tell me. I could find no phone number online to arrange a time, but I figured if I stopped by in the early evening, after dinnertime but before bedtime, there was a good chance he’d be home. I searched social media in the hopes of finding some current information about him that would give me an icebreaker topic or two, but I found no social media accounts in his name. Looked like I’d have to wing it.

After ensuring the cats had plenty of food and water, and assuring Sawdust that Mommy would miss him all day, I drove out to the boarding school property. Until the refuse dumpster arrived and we’d had a chance to purchase materials and supplies, there wasn’t much else to be done at the Victorian. Rather than spend time there, Buck and I planned to assist my uncle today.

As I entered the academic building, one of Loflin’s demolition crew rolled the wooden four-drawer filing cabinet out of the headmaster’s office on a dolly. As I drew near, I saw paper labels slipped into brass holders on the front of each drawer. The labels indicated the subject to which the contents of each drawer pertained: STUDENTS. STAFF. BOARD OF TRUSTEES. FACILITIES.

On impulse, I stopped the crew member. Although the cabinet likely contained important information, maybe even confidential information, it was unlikely that any of it had anything to do with what happened years ago at the headmaster’s house. Or, if it did, the detective who’d worked the case had probably already made a copy of the relevant documentation. Even so, I’d rather be safe than sorry. Once that filing cabinet was disposed of, any evidence it might contain could be lost. Besides, I was simply curious what I might find in the drawers. “Can I have that filing cabinet? It would come in handy for my paperwork at home.”

The guy glanced down at the cabinet before looking back up at me. “I guess it’s okay. It was just going on the junk heap. It’s locked, though. I couldn’t find a key anywhere.”

“No problem.”

As a former property manager, I’d handled lockouts more times than I cared to remember, some in the wee hours of the night. Other times, the locks on rental units were changed by disgruntled tenants or renters who were doing something they shouldn’t and didn’t want the landlord to discover, such as subleasing without prior authorization or farming marijuana under grow lights in a bedroom. As a result, I owned a full set of lockpicking devices. I’d also learned that many locks could be opened with simple, everyday tools.

I poked around in my tool belt and pulled out the small nail clippers I kept on hand for when I snagged a fingernail doing my work. I swung the nail file attachment outward and inserted the short, thin blade into the lock on the filing cabinet. A few upward jerks as I pulled the nail file back toward me, and the locking mechanism was disabled. I pulled the top drawer open and raised a palm. “Voil à .”

The guy lifted his chin, impressed. “Cool.”

I tucked the nail clippers back into my belt. “I can take it from here. I’ve got a dolly in my SUV.”

He lowered the dolly to the ground, and I wrangled the cabinet off the nose plate. Like the piano, it was much heavier than I’d expected. I decided to empty it before moving it to the cargo bay of my SUV.

Lest it become top-heavy and fall over, I pulled files out of the top drawer first. At quick glance, they appeared to include disciplinary records, records of academic performance, and copies of recommendation letters submitted to colleges on students’ behalf. I carried them out to my SUV and returned to claim the staff files. They were similar to the student records. Employment applications. Funding requests. Performance reviews. Agenda and minutes from monthly staff meetings. These files went out to my car as well. The drawer labeled BOARD OF TRUSTEES likewise held agendas and minutes from board meetings, as well as information about donors who’d supported the school with financial gifts. The FACILITIES drawer included a folder of long-since-expired warranties on things like the coffee maker in the teacher’s lounge, along with contact information for various specialized service providers.

After loading the files in my car, I used my dolly to wheel the filing cabinet out to the parking lot. Empty, the cabinet was fairly easy to slide into my cargo bay. I closed and locked my car, then went in search of my uncle to see how I could help with today’s renovations.