Self indulgent note: Terribly sorry for the lapse in posting. School calls. Like a fool, I answer.
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Furious
by
Fashionably Stupid
Chapter Three: Perfunctory Measures
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Goren had the idea to check the roster from a computer, maybe request some records from the school. It was clear to him that this school, The Mount Glory School, an expensive, critically acclaimed private school a little ways outside the city, had done Clare Bergen a hideous wrong. He didn't want to meet the people who ran it, nor did he want to face the students who had rejected Clare.
Goren was of the belief that murders like Clare's didn't just happen. Someone missed something, probably something glaring, but he was tired of being the man who saw the things that everyone else should have. For a fleeting moment, less than a split second, he wished that he really could be everywhere at once, preventing every murder. He was sick of having to deal in Clare Bergens, in scraps of lives, in blood and vomit and sick, sick people. Sick people.
Eames wanted to go to the school.
"What, Bobby, haven't you ever wanted know everything about someone?"
"Ha ha, Alex."
"I thought you'd like that. Here we are."
They parked in the visitors' lot and, to be honest, ambled to the building. The weather was astonishing clement. It was a terrible shame, thought Goren, that Clare should miss such a beautiful day.
When they reached the front of the building, they both took it in: it was quite an architectural wonder, with looming Corinthian columns and a gabled roof.
"Detectives?"
The headmaster (Eames had said she couldn't believe there were still "headmasters" anywhere outside the movies), Dr. William Guffey, was ushering them inside. He was a smaller man, thin, with a pinched face and glasses that wouldn't stay on his nose properly. He led them to his plush office.
"This tragedy is the worst the school's ever known." His voice was small, clearly attempting to convey the gravity of the situation while simultaneously preserving the school's good name.
"Dr. Guffey, we're going to have to ask you some -"
"Did she tell...anyone she was trying to kill herself?" Goren was in no spirit for solicitudes.
"She may have told a school counselor, but -"
"Did she...have a connection to anyone named Samuel or...or Sam?"
"There are many, many boys named Samuel here, detective."
Goren let out a short, almost imperceptible growl. His patience had been short to begin with and this supercilious little man was only making the fuse burn faster. He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. She was staring directly at Dr. Guffey, but Goren sensed her asking him to step back and breathe.
"Well," Goren began again, more slowly, in a measured tone, "Do you think you could...cross reference her schedule and the rosters for the classes she took? See...if there was a Samuel in a class?"
He heard Eames exhale.
"Yes," said Dr. Guffey, looking suspiciously at his questioners. He picked up the phone and called the office of administration to request Clare's records. When he looked up after hanging up the phone, he found both detectives smiling at him.
"Thank you, Doctor Guffey," Eames' tone was friendly. She ran a hand through her hair and leaned back in the chair, as if she could lounge in that office all day, just waiting for that one record. They hadn't even established that Samuel was a real person yet, much less connected him to Clare's murder, but Eames' expression would suggest that the case was already in the bag. Goren chuckled deep inside himself. It came out as a small hum.
An older woman entered the office silently, handed Dr. Guffey a manila folder thick with paper, and departed as suddenly and silently as she had arrived. Dr. Guffey rose, holding the folder under one arm.
"If you'll follow me, detectives."
He led them through the noisy halls toward the library. Both detectives looked very out of place in the crowd of students: Goren was at least a foot taller than most of them, Eames, although of indeterminate age, had a very mature manner that clearly set her apart, plus both of them were wearing suits. Some of the students stopped talking to stare at them for a minute. Everyone seemed to know who they were and why they were there.
They wended their way through the sizeable library, and Eames had to occasionally push her partner along to keep him from stopping to examine a certain book. Dr. Guffey guided them to a practically soundproof glass-front reading room in the very back of the library.
"If you need anything, I'll be in my office." Unsmilingly, he handed the folder to Eames.
"Dr Guffey..." Goren had lowered his voice to adjust to the newfound silence, "If you can think of...anything else, anything that might...help us out..."
"Yes, detective."
"The sooner we get the facts," Eames interjected, "the sooner we'll be out of your hair."
"And...out of your school." Goren gestured briefly at the small group of students who were staring through the glass.
"Yes, detectives." With that, Dr. Guffey walked briskly from the room.
As alone as they were going to get, Goren and Eames exchanged giddy, solemn grins. This was deep, powerful, thrilling. The folder was dense with admonitions, yellow and pink slips of paper, confiscated notes and papers. The top paper was Clare's schedule of classes. Eames looked at her watch.
"Bobby -"
Goren snapped his head up.
"Classes are about to let up. How about I take this," she rustled the schedule, "and interview her teachers, get their rosters, things like that. You can have some quality time with Clare."
"Sure. Sure."
Goren was relieved. He smiled at his partner.
"Cool." Eames ran her hand through her hair again. "I'll be back in a bit."
"I'll be here."
