to say the word killed or murdered. Marianna certainly didn’t want to either read the words on peoples’ lips or hear them with the help of her hearing aids. No, she’d rather avoid both words.
She shook her head. “No, nothing. I’m hoping to hear something soon.”
“Are you going to be okay? Do you think you can concentrate today?”
Leave it to Jean to cut to the heart of the matter. “No, probably not, but I’m going to give it my best shot.”
A pat on her arm pulled her attention to the boy standing next to her. Actually, the word boy wasn’t exactly accurate for this student, Josh Luck, who was six feet four inches tall and would normally be called a man if it weren’t for the fact that he had the mental capacity of about a five-year-old. At twenty-one years old, he would “age out” and graduate in five months. His handicapping label also read “autistic,” but he had a mild form of it, because he enjoyed hugs and physical touch.
And he loved to bring her gifts. Specific gifts.
Just about every day Josh would bring her some new computer piece from his seemingly endless supply. She’d talked to his father about it and the man just laughed it off, told her to throw them out or whatever. Josh had so many computers and parts at home that there was no way to keep up with it all. If the boy wanted to give her something, he obviously didn’t think he’d need it. But each week she would send the parts home…just in case.
Josh was also known as a savant. He knew how to take apart a computer down to the last screw and put it back together almost with his eyes closed.
He was going to have a great career in computer repair…with a little help from the school-to-work transition team.
Marianna said, “See you later, Jean. I need to see what Josh’s brought me today.”
She led Josh down the hall to the third classroom on the right. He followed her and tapped her shoulder again. Marianna shook off her coat and hung it in the closet. Josh waited patiently.
Then she turned and held out her hand, palm up.
Josh placed a computer piece in the center of it, then clomped off to sit in his specially designed desk. His lumbering, bulky frame had decimated several regular student desks before the maintenance department workers finally took it upon themselves to build him an indestructible one. So far, so good.
Several more students made their way into the classroom, stopping for their morning hug and encouraging word.
The single wooden door to her classroom suddenly seemed to morph into a revolving one. One by one, other teachers and staff stopped by to express concern and condolences. Marianna kept a smile on her face and the tears at bay by sheer willpower.
It wasn’t until she placed her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk that she realized something seemed…off. She turned to her assistant, Dawn Price, and said, “Did you move things around on my desk?”
Forty-five years old and a veteran assistant, Dawn looked up from where she’d been asking a student about his morning. “No, why?”
Marianna looked at the small potted plant that normally sat on the back corner of her desk. It had been moved up closer to the edge above the drawer. Her stapler was on the left side instead of the right. Several papers she’d stacked neatly looked as if they’d been rifled through.
She shook her head. “Things just aren’t where I left them.” She shrugged. “Maybe the cleaning crew had to move my desk and things got shifted.”
Soon, a student had her attention and she focused on getting through the morning.
Praying the day would end soon, she did her best to concentrate on the students, pouring as much as she could into their eager minds.
Ethan threw the pen down on the report and rested his head in his hands.
“What’s wrong, partner?” Catelyn asked as she found a perch on the side of his desk.
“This case,” he mumbled into his palm.
“Yeah.” Confusion colored her voice. “I don’t understand the complete lack of evidence.”
He snorted and looked up. “We’ve got evidence, such as the shoe print, it just isn’t leading us anywhere. The fact that there were no viable fingerprints leaves us cold. Not even a stray hair. I don’t get it. Suzanne put up a struggle—didn’t she? The room was torn apart.”
“There’s no indication she fought back.” Catelyn dropped a sheaf of papers on his desk. “The M.E.’s report. Nothing under her fingernails, nothing on her clothing.”
“Then she surprised him. The room’s not trashed, because she fought him, he trashed it before she got there.” Tapping his chin, he looked at the papers but didn’t pick them up. “He wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.”
“Okay, so he broke in, started gathering his loot in the bedroom, was there maybe a couple of minutes when Suzanne walked in on him.”
Nodding, Ethan said, “She startled him and he grabbed her, she probably would have pulled back, maybe stumbled and fell, hitting her head? Or maybe he pushed her trying to get out of the room. I don’t know, just speculation, but…” he said, shrugging.
“But where was her car? The one in the driveway was registered to Marianna. And it was clean. No sign of a search or tampering.”
His gaze snapped up to hers. “You’re right. There was only Marianna’s car. The garage was empty.”
“Suzanne may not have owned one.”
“One way to find out.” A few taps onto the computer keyboard brought up a number of Suzanne Millers in the Spartanburg area. He scrolled down to the right one listing her address and clicked. Suzanne’s pretty features as shown on her driver’s license filled the top right corner of the screen. Finding the area of the screen he wanted, he clicked again.
She owned a black Honda Accord. Glancing up at Catelyn, he pointed to the monitor. “Look.”
Catelyn looked at him. “So, what are you waiting for?” She glanced at the clock on the wall opposite his desk. “It’s twelve forty. I’ve got another appointment, but it’s plenty of time for you to be waiting on Marianna when she walks out of class. Actually, she’s probably at lunch. It’s Friday, so the buses start picking up the kids at one.” The residential school dismissed the students early on Friday because some of the kids had a four-to five-hour trip home. The drivers and attendants who staffed the buses stayed the weekend in whichever city was at the end of their route, then brought the students back on Sunday night.
“Yeah, I know the schedule.” Without another word, Ethan grabbed his coat and headed out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d flashed his badge to the guard at the entrance and refused the offer of directions to the building called Governor’s Hall, the cafeteria where the students gathered each day to eat, then stand outside to wait for the buses. He knew the way.
Ethan now sat outside the building watching the end-of-day activity. Two high school boys tossed a football with one hand and signed back
