"I haven't ever heard anything like that," Mark said. "And if there was even a shred of truth to it, Sutro would have kicked him out. I'm sure of that."
"That's why I've never believed them, either," June said. Although Hardy was not sure this was the truth.
He turned to the young man. "What about you, Lanny? Were there rumors? Did students think Mr. Mooney slept around?"
"I'd never heard that," Lanny said. But, of course, Hardy reasoned, Lanny had come to understand the damage he'd done to Andrew. Now he wanted to protect his best friend if he could, and that's what he'd have to say.
Hardy knew that if he were going to introduce any plausible alternative theory of the murders for either a jury or a judge to consider, he had to get more of a handle on the lives and circumstances of the two victims. If he could somehow establish that someone else had a strong motive to kill either or both of them, Hardy might be able to create some doubt about Andrew. At this stage, he'd take almost anything. But Laura's parents had already shut him out.
That left Mike Mooney. He'd thought that Lanny Ropke might give him some insight into the teacher beyond what he'd already gleaned from Andrew and his damned short story, but if anything, Lanny had only strengthened Andrew's apparent motive- this was doubly damning because clearly that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Any thought of spending time this weekend with Frannie or the kids had to be banished to the exigencies of the case, and they'd opted to get in one last ski weekend before the slopes closed. Now, full dark on this warm Friday night- Hardy pulled up to an address on Poplar Avenue in Burlingame, fifteen miles or so south of the city. He found he could park in an empty driveway- what a concept!- and then walked on stones placed in the lawn to a craftsman-style bungalow's porch, where a light burned and where he pressed the bell, which echoed within.
The door opened. "Mr. Hardy?" A practiced, formal smile. "Please, come in." He offered a hand. "I'm Ned Mooney."
Mooney's father lived on the property of the Baptist church which he served as minister, although he wasn't wearing a clerical collar tonight at home, but a black V-neck pullover and black slacks. Hardy followed him into a dim, well-furnished semi-sunken living room with a baby grand piano in one corner and a lifetime of books and magazines on the dark wood built-in bookshelves. He took the deep red leather chair- one of a pair of them- that Mooney indicated. The reverend took the other one, sat back, smiled his professional smile again, threw one leg over the other and clasped his hands on his lap.
There were deep bags under his eyes, a sallowness to the skin which wasn't just the poor lighting. A few strands of gray hair covered his scalp. Reverend Mooney looked to be at least seventy years old. Though his handshake had been firm and his walk to this room steady, Hardy sensed a deep fatigue, as though he were drawing upon his last reserves of strength. "You said you're defending the boy accused of shooting Michael," he began in a very quiet voice, "so I'm not sure what I'll be able to do to help you."
"I'm not, either, Reverend, though it might help you to know that what I'm most interested in is no different from the police. I want to identify your son's killer. I don't believe that's my client."
"You don't? Why not? From what I understand, the case against him is very strong."
"Actually, there are any number of problems with it, not the least of which is that there's no physical evidence tying him to the murder weapon, no evidence that he fired a gun at all that night. And they have to prove he did. Andrew doesn't have to prove he didn't."
Mooney rubbed his weary eyes. "And they don't have that?"
"No, sir."
"What about all the yelling? Didn't the man upstairs say they'd been fighting all night?"
Hardy leaned in closer. "I talked about this with Andrew just this morning. Do you know what play they were practicing?"
"Yes. I think it was Who's Afraid of…" He stopped. "Where the characters are yelling at each other for half the play, aren't they?"
"Yes, sir." He paused. "They weren't fighting. They were rehearsing."
Mooney eased himself all the way back into his chair, slumped low. Eyes closed, he templed his hands over his mouth and blew into them. Finally, he opened his eyes again. "It doesn't really matter," he said. "It won't bring him back."
"No. But the wrong man shouldn't be punished. Would your son have wanted that? Would you?"
He sat low in the chair, nearly horizontal. "I've spent all of my life in the service of God, Mr. Hardy. I don't understand how He could have done this to me. After He took Margaret, Michael was all I had left." The man's sincerity was heartrending. "He was my pride and joy." He pointed with an unsteady hand. "You see that piano over there? You should have heard Michael on it, playing like an angel and singing along, ever since he was child. He just had an immense and God-given talent. He was such a wonderful boy. Then those tapes. Do you see them? That whole second shelf? Those are the acting jobs, the television, even parts in some movies. I tell myself that someone born with that much, God only lets us keep them a short while before He wants them back. I tell myself…"
Hardy understood what he was saying. He'd lost an infant son over thirty years before- also named Michael, he suddenly realized, but he wasn't going to let himself get sidetracked down that path now. He was here for his client.
"Reverend Mooney." His voice barely intruded on the room's stillness. "Aside from his performing, what was his life like? I'm trying to get a sense of if there might have been someone who would have a reason to want to hurt him."
The old man shook his head. "He didn't have any enemies. Everybody loved him."
"Do you know if he'd had a run-in with one of his students? Maybe gave somebody a poor grade?"
"You really didn't know him, did you? He was the softest grader in the school. I'd ask him sometimes if he shouldn't be harder on the kids, if he wasn't doing them some kind of disservice, being so easy. He wasn't preparing them for real life. But he always said I didn't understand the importance of grades nowadays. You get one 'B,' half your college options disappear. He wasn't going to do that."
"So you saw him a lot, still?"
"Once a week, at least. He'd come for Sunday service and stay for lunch. Every week. We were very, very close."
"So you'd know about his social life. Did he talk about that? I know he lived alone…"
Mooney dragged himself back to upright, eager to talk about Michael in spite of himself. "He'd pretty much given up on dating. He was married twice, you know, and neither one worked out. I think this was the biggest disappointment in his life, especially after the wonderful life we all had while he was growing up. Me and Margaret, our marriage, was his model I'm sure. When he didn't succeed in either of his, I think… This sounds a little strange, but I think it broke him in some way. Anyway, after the second marriage ended, he just kind of gave up on the idea of having his own family. Said if it was meant to happen, God would take care of it."
"How long ago were these marriages?"
"Both when he was in his twenties. Both lasted a couple of years. And two fine women, too. Terri and Catherine. It seems they all just wanted different things. And of course, the artist's life is never easy. He wasn't making much money…" He sighed. "I think those failures, and the constant worrying about money, that's a big part of what made him turn to teaching, which finally made him happy. I know he loved his work- the kids, the plays, all of it. It was his life now, maybe not the one he'd chosen when he was young, but the one God had chosen for him. It was good."