During second period, the entire eighth grade was called into an assembly in the auditorium. Five sections of girls, five of boys, along with all the teachers. The middle school was in its third year of an experiment which separated the genders during classroom instruction, but not during the rest of the day’s activities. So far, the experiment was getting favorable reviews. But, because they were separated for most of the day, when they came together at lunch, morning break, physical education, or assembly, there was a bit more electricity in the air and it took a few minutes to calm things. Not today, though. They were subdued. There was none of the usual posturing, flirting, gazing, or nervous chatter. They took their seats quietly, somberly.
The principal, Mrs. Gladwell, spent some time trying to convince them that April was probably all right, that the police were confident she would be found soon and returned to school. Her voice was comforting, her words were reassuring, and the eighth graders were ready to believe any good news. Then a noise-the unmistakable thumping of a low-flying helicopter-passed over the school, and all thoughts immediately returned to the frantic search for their classmate. A few of the girls could be seen rubbing their eyes.
Later, after lunch, as Theo and his friends were in the middle of a halfhearted game of Frisbee football, another helicopter buzzed over the school, obviously going somewhere in a hurry. From its markings, it appeared to be from some branch of law enforcement. The game stopped; the boys stared upward until the chopper was gone. The bell rang, ending lunch, and the boys quietly returned to class.
Throughout the school day, there were times when Theo and his friends were almost able to forget about April, if only for a moment. And whenever these moments occurred, and they were indeed rare, another helicopter could be heard somewhere over Strattenburg-buzzing, thumping, watching-like some giant insect ready to attack.
The entire city was on edge, as if waiting for horrible news. In the cafes and shops and offices downtown, the employees and customers chatted in hushed tones and repeated whatever rumors they’d heard in the past thirty minutes. In the courthouse, always a rich source of gossip, the clerks and lawyers huddled around coffeepots and watercoolers and exchanged the latest. The local television stations offered live reports on the half hour. These breathless updates usually offered nothing new, just a reporter somewhere near the river saying pretty much what he or she had said earlier.
At Strattenburg Middle School, the eighth graders quietly went through their daily schedules, most of them anxious to get home.
Jack Leeper, now wearing an orange jumpsuit with CITY JAIL stenciled in black letters across the front and back, was led to an interrogation room in the basement of the Strattenburg Police Department. In the center of the room, there was a small table, and a folding chair for the suspect. Across the table sat two detectives, Slater and Capshaw. The uniformed officers escorting Leeper removed the handcuffs and ankle chains, then retreated to their positions by the door. They remained in the room for protection, though they were not really needed. Detectives Slater and Capshaw could certainly take care of themselves.
“Have a seat, Mr. Leeper,” Detective Slater said, waving at the empty folding chair. Leeper slowly sat down. He had showered but not shaved, and still looked like some deranged cult leader who’d just spent a month or so in the woods.
“I’m Detective Slater, and this is my partner Detective Capshaw.”
“A real pleasure to meet you boys,” Leeper said with a snarl.
“Oh, the pleasure is ours,” Slater said, with equal sarcasm.
“A real honor,” Capshaw said, one of the few times he would speak.
Slater was a veteran detective, the highest ranking, and the best in Strattenburg. He was wiry with a slick, shaved head, and he wore nothing but black suits with black ties. The city saw very little in the way of violent crime, but when they did Detective Slater was there to solve it and bring the felon to justice. His sidekick, Capshaw, was the observer, the note taker, the nicer of the two when they found it necessary to play good cop/bad cop.
“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Slater said. “You wanna talk?”
“Maybe.”
Capshaw whipped out a sheet of paper and handed it to Slater, who said, “Well, Mr. Leeper, as you well know from your long career as a professional thug, you must first be advised of your rights. You do remember this, don’t you?”
Leeper glared at Slater as if he might reach across the table and grab his throat, but Slater was not the least bit worried.
“You’ve heard of the Miranda rights, haven’t you, Mr. Leeper?” Slater continued.
“Yep.”
“Of course you have. I’m sure you’ve been in many of these rooms over the years,” Slater said with a nasty grin. Leeper was not grinning. Capshaw was already taking notes.
Slater continued: “First of all, you’re not required to talk to us. Period. Understand?”
Leeper shook his head, yes.
“But if you do talk to us, then anything you say can be used against you in court. Got it?”
“Yep.”
“You have the right to a lawyer, to legal advice. Understand?”
“Yep.”
“And if you can’t afford one, which I’m sure you cannot, then the State will provide one for you. Are you with me?”
“Yep.”
Slater slid the sheet of paper close to Leeper and said, “If you sign here, then you agree that I’ve explained your rights and that you are voluntarily waiving them.” He placed a pen on top of the paper. Leeper took his time, read the words, fiddled with the pen, then finally signed his name. “Can I have some coffee?” he asked.
“Cream and sugar?” Slater asked.
“No, just black.”
Slater nodded at one of the uniformed officers, who left the room.
“Now, we have some questions for you,” Slater said. “Are you ready to talk?”
“Maybe.”
“Two weeks ago, you were in prison in California, serving a life sentence for kidnapping. You escaped through a tunnel with six others, and now you’re here in Strattenburg.”
“You got a question?”
“Yes, Mr. Leeper, I have a question. Why did you come to Strattenburg?”
“I had to go somewhere. Couldn’t just hang around outside the prison, know what I mean?”
“I suppose. You lived here once, correct?”
“When I was a kid, sixth grade, I think. Went to the middle school for a year, then we moved off.”
“And you have relatives in the area?”
“Some distant kin.”
“One of those distant relatives is Imelda May Underwood, whose mother had a third cousin named Ruby Dell Butts, whose father was Franklin Butts, better known out in Massey’s Mill as ‘Logchain’ Butts, and ‘Logchain’ had a half-brother named Winstead Leeper, ‘Winky’ for short, and I believe he was your father. Died about ten years ago.”
Leeper absorbed all this and finally said, “Winky Leeper was my father, yes.”
“So somewhere in the midst of all this divorcing and remarrying, you came to be a tenth or eleventh cousin of Imelda May Underwood, who married a man named Thomas Finnemore and now goes by the name of May Finnemore, mother of young April. This sound right to you, Mr. Leeper?”
“I never had any use for my family.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re real proud of you, too.”
The door opened and the officer placed a paper cup of steaming black coffee on the table in front of Leeper. It appeared to be too hot to drink, so Leeper just stared at it. Slater paused for a second, then pressed on. “We have copies of five letters April wrote to you in prison. Sweet, kid stuff-she felt sorry for you and wanted to be pen pals. Did you write her back?”
“Yep.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know. Several times, I guess.”