CHAPTER 10

Lyceé Français, 35 Cromwell Rd, London, 8:59am

"I just want you to know the school will fully cooperate with your investigation."

Jules Colbert took off his reading glasses and clasped his hands over the list of names before him. He had the evident decorum of a headmaster with the deep voice to boot, and a pencil moustache matching his greying temples that gave his face a certain aristocratic air. The bowtie adorning his neck, far from looking ridiculous, heightened his classic appeal of enduring elegance. It was evident he had a lot on his plate between December midterms, end of the year evaluations, and the school about to go on Christmas holiday the following day. Still, his heart and focus appeared to be a hundred percent on the investigation. There was undeniable concern in his expression as he regarded Dempsey and Makepeace across the oversized mahogany desk.

"In your opinion, Mr. Colbert, has anyone been acting strange since the boy went missing?" Dempsey asked, sitting forward on one of the guest chairs.

"It's 'Colbear'," the headmaster corrected casually, "and no, not as far as I've noticed. Everyone has been coming to work and performing their duties as usual. Of course, we've all been quite distraught since we learned of Anthony's disappearance, particularly his teachers."

Dempsey pointed his chin at the report on the desk. "How many people on that list are in fact Anthony's teachers?"

"Pupils on the sixth grade follow an English syllabus with a single teacher. Anthony's group has Madame Bouchard. Besides that, we introduce seven hours a week of subjects which are taught strictly in French." Colbert leaned back, causing the large leather chair to squeak in protest. "That's not counting the extracurricular activities, in which pupils are required to speak in French at all times."

"Extracurricular… you mean, like soccer?"

The headmaster raised his eyebrows in silent question. "I beg your pardon… soccer?"

"Football," both Harry and Dempsey clarified at the same time.

"Oh, yes," Colbert nodded. "We're quite proud of The Bonapartes. They have made it to finals three times in the last five years."

Dempsey looked at the older man with narrowed eyes. "And was Anthony a member of The Bonapartes?"

"He was a midfielder."

"Mr. Colbert, I need you to highlight the names of each and every one of Anthony's teachers on that list," Dempsey requested, mispronouncing the headmaster's name again.

It turned out to be a fairly short list, relatively speaking. Just as they were walking down to the first floor, the bell rang promptly at 9:30, and a swarm of uniformed kids carrying backpacks invaded the hallways, loudly talking over one another, some of them shy, others boisterous, most obviously possessed by overactive hormones. A small group of teenage girls, in skirts that were clearly several inches shorter than regulation allowed, glanced over at Dempsey as they crossed paths coming off the stairway, giggled quietly amongst themselves, and disappeared into one of the classrooms with one last sidelong glance in his direction. If Dempsey noticed the innocent flirting, he didn't acknowledge it.

Thankfully, he looked a lot better than he had after Harry dropped him off at his flat the day before. Still, he'd been unusually grim and quiet all morning. They had picked up the Ford Escort from the forensics lab shortly before stopping by the factory to hand in their progress report and heading over to the school. Most likely, the only organic fibres taken from the car would belong to either Harry herself, Dempsey, or perhaps her friends Nigel and Angela, whom she had given the occasional ride after a night out. She doubted the lab would find any other matches.

On their end of the investigation, it was back to business as usual, but without the typical playfulness between partners, which made working with Dempsey a whole new experience, and not one Harry particularly enjoyed. More than indifference, it was a mutual avoidance game that was quite disconcerting and brought about a world of regrets—every time their eyes met and quickly shifted elsewhere, every innocent brush against each other that was heedlessly ignored, every deafening silence broken only by tired remarks about the current case… All of it made Harry wish they had never crossed that forbidden line. Now, they had to deal with the consequences.

Be professional, Harry! Stick to the case and focus on the job!

That was easier said than done. Dempsey used their day apart to reclaim some of his usual drive and focus. He looked a bit leaner, noticeably less bulky. His lack of appetite was beginning to show on the way his clothes fit. They had stopped for a quick breakfast at the canteen before making their way to the office, where he had forced himself to eat the plain toast he'd ordered, washing it down with a gulp of coffee after every bite. At least, Harry noticed, his face had regained some of its natural colour. She'd even been impressed by the detailed report he had turned in that morning, for which he had received a grumble of approval from Spikings—high praise by their boss' standards. And, though he still sported noticeable circles under his eyes, he managed to look considerably more human than he had the day before.

But those ups and downs were beginning to be a pattern with him, and Harry feared the bungee cord attached to his sanity might just snap when they least expected it.

Don't let him drag you down with him. Focus on the job. Just focus on the job…

They followed Colbert's secretary's directions to the teacher's lounge where, according to the headmaster, Mr. Renaud, the French history teacher, and Miss Roche, the French lit teacher, were expecting them.

"Shall we talk to Miss Roche first?" Harry asked before entering the room.

"Sure," Dempsey shrugged.

For a brief moment their eyes met, and one more time they both rushed to focus their attention elsewhere. The tall Christmas tree at the end of the hallway next to the life-sized Nativity scene appeared to do the trick. Harry would've laughed if it weren't so sad. They were worse than the rowdy kids wandering the corridors!

"But let's pull'er aside, find a private room to talk to her," Dempsey suggested lowering his head to stare at his shoes.

"Why?"

"I wanna focus on each individual's reaction to the news of the boy's death."

Harry nodded in understanding. "You don't think the grapevine has already reached them?"

"You mean Bouchard?" he sighed deeply. "Let's hope she's been discreet about it."

They opened the door to the teacher's lounge and found three people inside, two of them most likely Roche and Renaud, and another woman in cleaning attire emptying a dustbin into a larger rubbish container on wheels. She offered them a tight smile and left the room as they walked in.

Miss Roche sat at the table across from Mr. Renaud, both with a cup of tea in their hands. Roche was a lovely young woman, obviously fresh out of university. She could easily get away with the pixie haircut she sported given her delicate features, although she might have been mistaken for a young boy had she not been wearing shiny pink gloss over her pouty lips, and a pleated skirt that would've made her look just like another student, had it been the right blend of colours. Renaud was an attractive man in his late thirties. His light brown hair was already turning gray, which instead of detracting from his good looks, made him appear even more interesting in an academic sort of way. He wore rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses over deep green eyes. He stood up the moment he saw the two detectives, stretching his hand out to shake Dempsey's and offering Makepeace a courteous nod.

"Mr. Renaud, Miss Roche, I'm Lieutenant Dempsey, this is my partner Sergeant Makepeace. We'd like to ask you some questions."

The two teachers glanced at the badge Dempsey was showing them and then turned to each other, eyes wide, before quickly mumbling a polite word of compliance. They had been advised by Colbert that the police would be carrying out an investigation in the school, and that everyone was to cooperate fully. It wasn't surprising, given the circumstances surrounding one of its student's disappearance. The experience, however, was a hell of a lot more intimidating after identifying the distinct outline of a gun under the cop's jacket.

It was Makepeace who politely asked Miss Roche to walk with her across the hallway, escorting the nervous young woman into a smaller room used by teachers and staff to conduct private interviews with parents and students. Dempsey walked in behind them and closed the door, leaning against it arms folded as he usually did at the beginning of an interrogation—not that the chat with the teachers ought to go beyond a simple questioning.

"This shouldn't take long," Harry assured her. "We just want to ask you some questions about Anthony."

"Of course," Roche said, visibly anxious. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Makepeace gave her a silent "go ahead" and watched as she pulled a cigarette out of an almost empty pack with trembling fingers. She dug into her tiny handbag clearly searching for a lighter, but after several long seconds it was Dempsey who produced his Zippo out of his jeans' pocket and offered her a light. Roche inhaled deeply, letting out a long breath that filled the room with bluish smoke.

"They've found him, haven't they?" She had a soft voice, like that of a little girl's, and spoke in a perfect British accent.

"Three days ago," Makepeace stated.

"Is he… is he dead?"

"His body was found by a young man in the outskirts of London."

The fact that the boy's death had been a murder was implied by the detectives' presence, and the young woman was smart enough to pick up on that.

"Ohmygod…" Roche whispered closing her eyes, her face white as a sheet.

"Did you see Anthony on Monday?"

The young teacher licked her lips and took another drag of her cigarette, eyes haunted. "Y—yes. We started discussing a new book in class, Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. He… he really liked it…" she broke into silent sobs, causing her shoulders to shake violently while she covered her mouth behind her cigarette free hand.

"Did you notice any strange behaviour on his part that day?" Harry asked softly once Roche's crying subsided to a series of faint, intermittent whimpers. Dempsey simply watched from the corner of the room, as expressionless as a robot.

"No. He participated in class, wrote an essay about… about Edmond Dantès, like I asked…"

"Did he seem anxious or distracted?"

"Distracted? No…" Roche said weakly, then paused for a second. "He mentioned something about a… secret hideout, or a secret fort… something like that. I mentioned it to the police when he went missing, but I couldn't be more specific as to what he meant. It was probably just child's play. Anthony had a vivid imagination. He was prone to daydreaming. He was an only child. Only children tend to do that…"

Makepeace listened to her nervous rambling attentively, picking up on every nuance in hopes to come up with a possible lead.

"Had he mentioned that 'secret place' before?"

"Not that I remember. He seemed excited about it last Monday."

"Was he going to go there alone?"

"Anthony was kind of a loner," Roche shrugged. "He didn't have many friends. Kids in class can sometimes be cruel… I suppose he'd have gone alone."

"I see," Harry said quietly. So, Dempsey's assessment about the boy's popularity was spot on. She felt indescribably sad for the little boy, as for the woman who was sitting across from her. "Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Anthony for any reason?"

"No," the young woman answered, eyes overflowing with tears. "He was such a sweet boy. Who could do such a thing?"

That seemed to be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

They were unable to get anything else out of Miss Roche, or at least, worth helping their investigation, so they thanked her for her cooperation and dismissed her after a couple of additional questions pertaining to her schedule, in case they needed to talk to her in the future. Harry went briefly over her notes, scribbling last minute thoughts into the margins and underlining certain key points.

"I don't remember reading about a secret hideout in the initial police report," she mused. "Do you think the killer knew about it?"

Dempsey pondered about it for a second. "What if he was the one who sent Anthony there in the first place?"

"That makes sense," she agreed. "It would've been less risky if he had sent the boy to a place nobody would think to look for him. But where?"

"Probably somewhere within walkin' distance from here. We should have a unit combin' the area around the school again."

"They were quite thorough a week ago," she countered. "Besides, we're in the middle of a metropolitan area. He could've walked anywhere, taken a bus, even. It'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack!"

"It's worth a try, Makepeace!" he huffed with exasperation. "Okay, what do you suggest? Sit on this piece of information and do nothin'?"

"I didn't say that!" she snapped, annoyed by his accusation. "But there has got to be a more efficient way to go about this! We just suppose the secret hideout has something to do with his disappearance, but as of right now that is just a wild assumption at best!"

"Yeah, well, you're great at makin' wild assumptions, why quit now!?"

Harry blinked a couple of times, taken aback by the sharp turn the conversation had taken. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dempsey set his jaw, obviously regretting his latest remark.

"Never mind," he mumbled under his breath. "Let's go. We gotta practically talk to the entire school. Better get a move on that."

Harry followed him into the hallway, half upset half disconcerted by his reaction, but refusing to dwell on the subject. The corridor was deserted except for a small group of students near the bathroom, where three boys were surrounding a fourth one, much shorter and scrawnier than they were, and who was cowering against the wall with a frightened expression on his face.

"Yo! What the hell you think you're doin'?!"

Dempsey's voice thundered down the hallway, making the three bullies, who couldn't have been older than twelve years old, turn around in shock. Seeing the large frame of the cop walking towards them, they quickly took a step away from their prey and stood, paralyzed, looking up at Dempsey as if he were the bogeyman.

"Shouldn't you be in class?"

The three boys exchanged a guilty glance, and then one of them stuttered, "Yes, w—we were just…"

"You were just gettin' your asses back to class!" Dempsey ordered sternly.

It was enough to get the youngsters scurrying along, pale faced and without further argument. The little boy hunched down and began to pick up a bunch of ice lolly sticks from the floor with his left hand, daintily setting them on a tray he shakily held with his right one. Both, Dempsey and Makepeace, knelt down beside him to help.

"You okay, kid?"

The boy shrugged and then nodded weakly, his trembling hands making the objects on the plastic tray shudder. He looked at Dempsey with open curiosity.

"I'm James, and this is Harry. What's your name?"

"Rèmy," he answered shyly. "Rèmy Deschamps."

"Nice ta meet ya, Rèmy Deschamps," Dempsey smiled. "What's that you got on the tray?"

"It was La Tour d'Eiffel," he replied regarding the pathetic pile of sticks on the tray.

"Oh, don't worry love," Harry said gently. "I'm sure you can fix it."

"Yeah," Dempsey agreed with a wink. "Nothin' a little glue can't handle."

But little Rèmy seemed more fascinated with Dempsey than upset by the ill fate of his project.

"You talk like Joe Coffey on Hill Street Blues!"

Harry was unable to hold back a chuckle. Dempsey offered him a crooked smile and ruffled the blond mass of curly hair on the kid's head. It crossed both their minds that, if this incident had happened a week ago, Anthony Midgley could very well have been the one being harassed in the lonely hallway.

Fate, as it turned out, was quite the bitch.

Central Park, NYC, 1961

It had been almost a year since the "Alphabet Killer", as the media had baptized the ruthless psychopath that had petrified an entire neighborhood, had claimed his last victim. The trail had turned cold, and the police, overburdened by hundreds of pressing matters in a city where crime never ceased, had put the case on the backburner.

"It ain't like we've given up on the search, Jimmy," Uncle Johnny had tried to explain. But James was too upset to hear any reason on the subject. He knew enough to understand that if the three dead children had been from the right side of the tracks, the killer most likely would already be behind bars. That very thought enraged him, made him hate the people at the top with their decision-making power and their unmerited authority to pull strings as they saw fit.

"I heard on the radio this mornin' that Kennedy wants to put a man on the moon," Gino said throwing a flat stone at the pond, going for the triple leap. "How groovy is that?!"

"Hmmm," came James' unimpressed reply.

"The Russians have sent a bunch of animals into space already, so I guess it's 'bout time we show them! Hey! You think they're Martians up there?" Gino asked, looking up at the blue, midday sky. When he didn't get as much as a grunt in response, he turned to his friend. "Hey, what's eatin' you?"

"Nuthin'" James answered sullenly.

They were hunched over Gapstow Bridge, observing the constant flow of tourists with expensive cameras and posing smiles to be preserved for posterity. Gino Frapelli was a stocky boy with a crew cut that made the chunky roll on the back of his head even more pronounced. He was olive skinned, and a couple of inches taller than James, with shoulders twice as broad and a broken front tooth that made him look more dangerous than he really was. His eyes, almost as dark as his bushy eyebrows, had an intensity that was rare in a young teenager. He and James had been best friends ever since they had fought over the last of Lisa Gorman's birthday cupcakes in kindergarten, incident that had left them both with a bloody face and sulking through their punishment in Miss Reynolds' classroom.

They'd certainly faced more than enough trouble to solidify that bond throughout the years. Gang activity alone had them running for their lives almost on a weekly basis. And though they could hold their own in a fair fist fight, they were smart enough to know they stood no chance against their opponents once they heard the familiar swoosh of a switchblade. James had been lucky to escape the deathly sharpness of the knife so far, but Gino had a couple of close calls with matching scars as a reminder. Together they had licked their wounds, cursed, laughed, and faced the toughest of times with youthful bravado. And through it all, their friendship had certainly survived the test of time.

"This escapade reminds me of the time we got busted for puttin' sugar into the gas tanks of all those expensive cars, remember?" Gino chuckled. "Connie Island was more fun, though."

"A lot of good it did, runnin' off there," James replied morosely. "The moment we got back they dragged us down to the station."

"Better to be at the station than at home, man! My stepdad gave me such a beatin' I couldn't sit down for a week!"

Yes, James remembered perfectly well the wrath of his own father's belt after that particular instance of misguided shenanigans.

"Well, I 'preciate you draggin' me all the way to this very romantic spot," Gino teased softening his voice and giving it a phony feminine intonation. When it failed to draw even a chuckle from his friend, he added in a normal voice, "I'm really flattered an' all but, erm… can you please tell me what the hell we're doin' here?"

"I just needed to get away from that hellhole and hang out here," James shrugged.

"To get away and hang out… C'mon, Jim. I wasn't born yesterday. What's really goin' on with you? Did you get another beatin' from your dad?"

"It ain't that… I haven't seen my old man in days," James replied. His voice was changing again, and his throat bothered him, so he wasn't feeling overly chatty. "Look, forget 'bout it. It ain't important."

"Holy crap! It's like pullin' teeth with you, man!" Gino protested.

Realizing he was talking to a brick wall, he decided to pull a Cuban cigar out of his back pocket and change the subject altogether.

"I snatched these from grandpa's secret stash," he smiled wickedly. "Want one?"

James accepted, allowing Gino to light it up for him and pass it on. He placed it between his lips and took a short drag, inhaling the bitter substance into his lungs which prompted a violent coughing attack. The taller boy doubled over with laughter at his inexperience, the fact that his friend was turning a sick shade of green didn't seem to thwart his amusement one bit.

"This shit's disgusting," James choked, taking another shaky draw between coughs.

"Don't worry, Jimmy. Stick with me. I'll toughen you up!"

Gino let out another deep laugh straight from the belly and gave James a friendly pat on the back.

"So… Are you seein' Mary tonight?"

James held the cigar between his index and middle finger and watched the red fish in the pond glide under the murky water. Gino's voice had been casual enough when asking the question, but James knew him better than most. That was why he didn't particularly want to discuss Mary O'Malley with him. He knew his friend was infatuated with her, and would've never gone out with the chick in the first place had he realized the extent of Gino's feelings for her. But life had a way of complicating the simplest of things, and the puppy love he and Mary had shared for almost a year began to gradually increase in intensity. As it turned out, he found himself incapable of reciprocating the deeper feelings she clearly had for him.

One day after Sunday school, while Mary's parents took her younger sister to a fitting for her First Communion dress, they found themselves alone in her bedroom. Caught in a whirlwind of raging hormones, James had convinced Mary to venture into a world their minds were still a bit too young to comprehend. And although his proposition was met with some initial reluctance, his lips had worked their magic on her Catholic restraint. Their first time felt awkward and clumsy, despite their bodies' undeniable readiness. So, while little Martha twirled around in her pretty white dress, her older sister clutched the same colored sheets dampened by the sweat and blood of lost innocence.

"I dunno," James mumbled. "Maybe."

"You better treat'er right, Jimmy," Gino warned. "I swear, if you hurt her…"

"Get off my back, man!"

The harshness in James' voice took them both by surprise. Gino rubbed the back of his thick neck and squinted against the sun without saying a word. He took another expert drag out of the cigar, knowing it was best not to antagonize him when he was in "one of those" moods.

"I'm sorry," James apologized. "I just… I need to figure some things out."

"You know, ever since your brother's death you've been this… loner who'd rather spend time by himself than confide in his best friend," Gino sighed. "I miss you, man! I can't even imagine what you must be goin' through. But… Look, I'm here for you, 'kay? I cared about Sean too. I helped you change his diapers once, remember?"

"This ain't 'bout Sean," James whispered almost inaudibly.

"It ain't?" Gino waited for his friend to elaborate.

James kept twirling the cigar in between his fingers, but, much as he tried, he couldn't get the words out. He felt scared and alone and trapped. The burden felt too heavy to be carried all alone, and she had left it very clear she didn't want to speak to him anymore,so there was no one else to turn to. He hated himself for constantly letting people down, especially people he really cared about. He didn't just want to escape the 'hood', he wanted to escape his life altogether. Suffocating under a world of regret, he wondered if Kennedy might be looking for volunteers to take that trip to the moon.

"Mary's late," he heard himself say.

[To Be Continued…]