Runnion drove through the center of town, past expensive inns, designer retail shops, and the only Ferrari car dealership I’d ever set eyes on, and continued into a vast, intricate, mazelike preserve of trees, lawns, and mind-numbingly gigantic houses.
Neither one of us spoke, our thoughts dulled by the massiveness of the wealth all around us, and it was in silence that Runnion finally parked the car under the protective shade of an ancient gnarled tree by the side of the road. Ahead of us was an ivy-swathed, slate-roofed series of red-brick buildings, surrounded by the playing fields of an exclusive private school.
“She teaches here?” I asked.
Runnion opened his door and swung his legs out. “So I’m told.”
We asked for Penny Nivens at the reception desk. A teenage girl, prim in a navy uniform and white blouse, her hair pulled back in a flawless ponytail, nodded gravely and used the phone by her side to summon a similarly dressed but slightly more disheveled schoolmate, who merely stood by the entrance to the inner hallway and waited.
There was a moment’s awkwardness before an unsmiling portly man in a three-piece suit stepped into the lobby from a side office. Obviously, this was not a place where one just ambled around at will.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
Runnion moved so the two girls couldn’t see his hand as he showed the man his badge. “Yes. We’re here to see Penny Nivens.”
Our challenger’s smile became strained, but he kept his poise. “Why don’t you come into my office and I’ll find out where Miss Nivens is.” He looked over to the girl at the hallway entrance. “Mary, why don’t you just wait there for a few moments?”
He led us through the door he’d appeared from and shut it behind us, his voice gaining a worried edge. “Is there some trouble?”
Runnion was his affable best. “We just have a couple of questions for Miss Nivens.”
“She hasn’t done anything wrong?” The question was asked skeptically.
“Not a thing. We’re just like any other visitors,” Norm suggested.
“Right.” He opened the door and smiled rigidly at Mary. “Okay-could you escort these gentlemen to Miss Nivens’s classroom, please? Thank you.”
He retreated behind his door with a slam, no doubt to swallow something for his stomach. I wondered how long it would take word of our visit to spread throughout the school, based on the fat man’s performance alone.
The girl named Mary led us down carpeted, quiet hallways, taking me back to my own high school-a drafty barnlike building with wood stoves, art-covered walls, and the restless hurly-burly of too many cooped-up children. This place was like being in a bank building, where any juvenile excess would be met with baleful glares.
Our guide stopped at a heavy wooden door, knocked quickly, and opened it without waiting for a response. She ushered us in and closed the door behind us.
We were left standing in an enormous, well-lit rectangular room, empty, with a highly polished wooden floor. The wall opposite us was lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, so that the first people we saw were ourselves, looking slightly startled.
“Over here.”
We both turned toward the clear female voice. In a corner at the far end of the room was a wooden desk, behind which was seated a slim dark-haired woman wearing a black tank-top jersey. She rose as we crossed to greet her, our shoes clattering noisily on the gleaming floorboards. She was dressed in leotards and was shaped like a young woman in her twenties, muscular and athletic. It made me wonder if we hadn’t come up with the wrong name somehow.
“Penny Nivens?” Runnion asked as we approached.
“Yes.” She came out from behind the desk to greet us. I studied her face, which was friendly and open but gently lined and tugged at by at least forty-odd years of living. My doubts evaporated.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I think so,” I started. “I’m Joe Gunther; this is Norm Runnion. We’re police officers, and we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”
The smile didn’t vanish; there was no sudden watchfulness in the eyes. Instead, she motioned to the single guest chair next to the desk and brought her own out to the front. “I only have two chairs, I’m afraid. I’ll sit here.” She lithely perched on the desk and drew her legs up underneath her.
I sat, but Runnion wandered off a few paces and leaned against the wall, putting me in the position of authority.
“Are you here about one of the kids?” she asked.
“It’s about Bob Shattuck,” I said, watching for a reaction.
Her brows furrowed and she frowned quizzically. “Bob Shattuck? I haven’t seen him in years-decades even.”
“When was the last time?”
“God.” She rubbed her forehead. “It must have been 1970 or something like that, right after the trial of the Chicago Seven, at some rally. Is he in trouble?”
“Why do you ask?”
Penny Nivens laughed. “Because you’re here. I didn’t even know he was still alive.”
“He was doing things back then that could have gotten him killed.”
She stared at me, her smile fading. “Those were violent times.”
“I had a conversation with Bob a couple of nights ago, asking him about the old days. The next morning, one of the people we discussed was found dead in Bob’s apartment. He’d been tortured and we’re pretty sure Bob did the honors.”
Penny Nivens passed her hand across her mouth, visibly confused. “I don’t understand. What would I know about this?”
“You and Shattuck were together for several years in the late sixties, but then you seem to have disappeared. What happened? Was he becoming too radical?”
Anger began to creep into her face.
“Miss Nivens, I’ve got no bone to pick with you. I’m investigating a twenty-year-old case that started when you and Bob Shattuck and Abraham Fuller were in the revolutionary front lines.”
“Abraham Fuller?” I pulled Fuller’s photo out and handed it over.
She stared at it for a long time. “He’s dead?”
“Yes.” Hope flickered inside me, but only briefly.
She shuddered and returned the picture. “I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”
“Did you split up with Shattuck?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her face now downcast, she let out a long sigh. “Bobby and I were lovers for a while, not that that was anything special back then. He really believed in what we were doing, not like some of them who just wanted to say they got tear-gassed. Bobby was a teacher-a group leader-committed to changing all that shit we were against…”
She suddenly looked up, her eyes passing over my head at the large room behind me, a bitter half-smile on her face. “And now I’m teaching rich brats to dance so they can grow up and act superior when they visit the ballet… Christ.”
“So what happened with Bobby?” I kept my voice gentle.
“I thought he’d lost his way, that after years of fighting violence, he’d finally been corrupted by it and had ended up embracing it. But now I don’t think so; now I think maybe he was more honest than the rest of us. He saw it wasn’t working. He knew that Tom Hayden would end up marrying a movie star and selling out. He knew the only real revolution had to be a violent one, that by shunning violence, we were shunning reality-getting ready to go back to our middle-class comforts… Or to this.” She waved her hand toward the mirrored wall.
Her anguish seemed to be feeding on itself, expanding now that it had been allowed the space. “Who did he hook up with?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t tell us-we’d all sold out, in his eyes. He didn’t trust us anymore, and we weren’t too comfortable around him, either. He was so angry toward the end he scared me. I wondered sometimes if he wouldn’t just take us all out-us and the pigs-one and the same.”