Page 17 of Return of the Spider

“I’m afraid I have some tough news to share. These men are homicide detectives with Metro PD,” she said, indicating me and John. “Conrad Talbot was murdered last night.”

The gasps and groans were deep and real.

“No!” a man in his thirties said. He looked like he’d been kneed in the groin and began to cry. “Jesus, this is awful.”

“Abby Howard was also gravely injured, and is currently in the ICU,” Wolcott continued.

“That poor girl,” said an older woman. “Those two were joined at the hip.”

I said, “Abby was hit by the same bullet that killed Conrad, but surgeons are telling her family that she will recover.”

Sampson held up his hands. “I know you all had Conrad and Abby in your classes. We need to know if there was any friction between them and their classmates. Or their teammates.”

“No one on the lacrosse team,” said the sobbing man.

The other teachers all shook their heads. The guy with the round glasses shrugged.

“Sir?” I said. “Was there something you noticed?”

“Not at all,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “I’m just a short-term substitute. I barely know who Abby and Conrad are, so I can’t comment on their social situations.”

“Gary’s been here for only a few days,” the headmistress explained. “Lucy Porter, the regular instructor, has been out with a nasty flu, but I’ll call her and see if she saw anything before her illness.”

Sampson said, “That would help.”

“On another note,” I said, “you might want to call in grief counselors for the student body. When do you want to share the news?”

Wolcott thought, looked at her watch, then said, “The sooner the better, I think. I don’t want rumors of this to trickle out. Schoolwide assembly in the gymnasium at one p.m., followed by early dismissal. After-school meetings and athletic practices are canceled. The entire staff is expected to be here, and I will call in counselors as soon as I can.”

I had to hand it to the headmistress—she was an organizationaldynamo. Within minutes she had the entire event arranged. At a quarter to one, she made an announcement about the assembly over the PA system.

Teachers stood outside classroom buildings and directed students returning from lunch to the gymnasium. Sampson and I went in and stayed off to the side as the students funneled in and took seats on the risers.

A kid wearing a Charles School lacrosse hoodie gestured at the man who’d cried in the meeting and asked, “What’s with Coach Eric?”

“What do you mean?” asked the kid in line behind him.

“Looks like he lost his best friend. Eyes are all puffy and red, man.”

“Who the hell knows, turd-head? Keep moving.”

Sampson and I shared a glance, then turned our attention to the headmistress. She picked up a microphone, marched out to the middle of the gym, and, in a soft voice, told the six hundred students gathered there about Conrad Talbot’s death and Abby Howard’s injuries.

There were shouts of disbelief, shocked faces, students and faculty crying; the entire school banded together in collective mourning. Eventually someone shouted, “How did it happen?”

Wolcott nodded to us. We came out onto the hardwood floor, and John took the microphone. “I’m Detective Sampson. This is Detective Cross. We’re sad to tell you that Conrad and Abby were both shot.”

That news set off another eruption of disbelief and shock.

“We need your help,” Sampson said after the reaction had died down, although several girls were still crying. “We’reestablishing an anonymous tip line, a phone number that will be given to you all by tomorrow morning. If you think of anything you believe we should know, do not hesitate to call and leave us a message. Please. Any one of you might have the information we need to find Conrad’s killer.”

CHAPTER

11

At half past onewe left the school and started driving to Metro PD’s downtown Washington, DC, headquarters.

“How do we set up a tip line?” I asked.