"I understand," said Hawkes.
He found a jutting twist of metal coils embedded in a concrete block. The hose fit between the metal coils. Hawkes managed to bend one of the coils so that the hose stayed in place, its head in the water.
"The scars on your body," Hawkes said to Custus.
"And on my arms and one right here on my neck," said Custus. His eyes were closed against the pain in his legs.
"They're not from Australian football games."
"No, they are not."
"Mind if I ask where they're from?"
"Yes," said Custus. "I don't want to be rude, but I do mind. Now, if you can do without me for a few minutes, I've got a thing I can do to ease the pain. Learned it in China. My ankle is numb, my body cold, my brow feverish and that mysterious bullet hole in my side is beginning to throb."
"China?"
"Lovely place to visit but I wouldn't recommend eating the cats and dogs. Too sinewy."
"You changed the subject," said Hawkes.
"I thought I did it rather skillfully," Custus said with a sigh. "All right. The scars. I don't like to talk about them. War wounds."
"Which war?"
"I'll keep that one to myself," Custus said with a smile.
"Burns," said Hawkes. "From explosions. Different explosions. The scars are from different times. Traces of the explosive material can be found in those scars, and judging from the color and healing rate, there were at least three different explosive materials."
"I've never had good luck," said Custus. "No, take that back. I'm still alive. I'd call that good luck, wouldn't you? I think I'll do my meditation thing now."
He was shutting down, or pretending to shut down.
"Is Detective Bonasera up there?" Hawkes yelled.
"I'll get her," called Devlin.
"I need to send something up to her."
"I don't think we should- " Devlin began.
"It's light, a digital photo clip. A string will be good enough."
Hawkes wiped the rain from his eyes. His legs were beginning to feel numb.
"Hawkes?" Stella called.
"I'm sending you pictures. Get them back to the lab and find someone who can check out the scars on the body of the man down here. His name is Connor Custus."
"You got it," Stella said.
Something moved behind him. Hawkes turned and saw Custus fling something into the darkness. Whatever it was made a splash and was gone.
"Dr. Hawkes," Custus said. "You are disturbing my meditation."
Custus was turned slightly and painfully on his side. Hawkes could see the blood-soaked gauze just above the water level. Hawkes reached into his kit and came up with a small black plastic object about the size of a hand-held flashlight. He flicked it on and placed it against Custus's stomach.
"I swear to you I am not pregnant."
Hawkes didn't answer. He pinpointed the metal detector and slowly ran it across Custus's stomach and side. It let out a beep. Hawkes kept moving it around, getting more beeps till the beeping was almost furious. A flick and the metal detector went quiet.
"I think the bullet may be in or near your gall bladder or liver."
"But I shall survive?" he asked.
"If the bullet doesn't move. So far the flow of blood doesn't indicate a sudden rupture."
"But it could happen," said Custus.
"Yes."
"And you're considering going in there and getting the bullet out of my side."
"Yes," said Hawkes. "It can't stay where it is."
"You've removed bullets from organs in the past?"
"Yes," said Hawkes.
"Many?"
"Many."
What he didn't tell the pale Custus was that almost all the people from whose bodies he had retrieved bullets had been dead.
The last of the four students who had been in Alvin Havel's class that morning was Cynthia Parrish.
She walked across the floor of the dining hall, her shoes clacking in time to the beating of the rain on the windows. Danny had set the scene so that each student would have to take a long walk to the table. You could learn a lot by the way someone walked. This girl walked with bouncing confidence.
Cynthia Parrish was red haired, freckle faced and cute. Her teeth were white and her grin was simply perfect. She wore no makeup. Her navy blue skirt ended below her knees and her Wallen white sweatshirt was a size too large. She had pushed the sleeves up past her elbows.
Danny knew that Cynthia Parrish, a sophomore, was taking senior level and college credit courses and was easily the smartest student in the school. The file in front of him made that clear.
She sat with hands folded on her lap, waiting.
"Can I look at your hands?" he asked.
"You mean 'May I look at your hands,' right? I don't doubt that you have the ability to look at my hands."
"May I look at your hands?" Danny asked.
"Sure," she said, holding out her palms. "You'll find traces of chemicals, the same chemicals you'll find on the hands of the other students in Mr. Havel's class."
Danny examined her hands, took a scraping of residue from her palms and deposited it in a clear plastic bag.
"Any idea who killed Mr. Havel?" he asked.
"Sure," she said. "But I don't think I'll share it. I'm probably wrong and you asked if I had 'any idea.' 'Any idea' can get someone in trouble."
"You liked Mr. Havel?"
"Everyone liked Mr. Havel," she said. "He worked at being liked. He could have run for Congress and gotten the teen vote if teens could vote."
"But not your vote," Danny said, meeting the girl's eyes.
"Not my vote," she agreed, making a popping sound with her lips.
"Why's that?"
"You want me to speak ill of the dead."
"Just the truth will be fine."
"He made me uncomfortable. Like he was one of those pod people in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. You know, big smile and a kind word, but something was missing or lurking."
"Lurking?"
"I have a vivid imagination," she said with a shrug.
"Who was the last person to leave Mr. Havel's class?" asked Danny.
"Me," she said. "But anyone could have turned around and gone back. Want a suggestion?"
"Go ahead," Danny said.
"Check the clothes of everyone in that class for blood," she said.
"You too?"
"Why not?"
"Thanks for the suggestion."
"You're already doing that, aren't you, checking for blood I mean?"
He reached down into his kit on the floor and came up with a flashlight with a blue light. It was dark in the cafeteria, dark enough for the light to work. He turned it on and aimed it at her. Nothing.
"You change your clothes today?"
"No," she said.
"I can ask the other students," said Danny.
"You think they'd remember what I was wearing this morning? You've got the wrong girl."
"Okay, what about the others. Did they change clothes?"
"Don't remember," she said. "I think they're wearing the same things they had on in class, but then again, I haven't really been looking."
"You don't like them, do you? You're the smart kid. The others say things- "
"Detective," she said with a smile. "You've got the wrong school. This isn't inner city anti-nerd. I'm fine with the other kids, have lots of friends. My boyfriend is on the track team and I'm on the cross-country. Our school won the history, math and literature New York private school competition. I was captain, the youngest ever. Every one of the students were behind us. Strange as it may seem to you, I'm a popular girl."
"Every one of the students was behind us," said Danny, adjusting his glasses. "Every one is singular."
Cynthia Parrish smiled.
"Mr. Havel's dead," said Danny.
Cynthia Parrish's smile faded. "I know."
"What do you know?"
"He had trouble remembering his table of elements," she said. "He's been distracted for a while."
"How long?"
"A few months," she said.
"You know why?"
"No," she said. "But something changed. Something happened. He had trouble keeping his mind on the class. Seven times he asked me to take over the class. That was fine with me and the other students. He tried to make it look as if he wanted to give me the chance to teach. But that wasn't it. He just wasn't up to doing it."