Peters and I parked a block or so away on the street and walked. We located the principal’s office from the crowd milling around the door, both inside and out. A harried clerk stood behind a counter, attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Peters and I shoved our way through the mob, many of whom we recognized from the early morning press conference.
"We need to see the principal," Peters said brusquely to the clerk when we finally reached the counter.
"You and everybody else," she replied sarcastically.
He handed her the leather wallet containing his ID. She took off her glasses to examine it and then gave it back. She replaced her glasses, settling them firmly on her face. "All right. Let me check with Mr. Browning."
She disappeared into an inner office and returned moments later. "He’ll see you now," she announced.
The only thing big about Ned Browning was his voice, which rumbled from an incongruously diminutive chest. His elfin features smacked of Santa Claus. His handshake, however, was that of a born wrestler.
"You’re here about Mr. Ridley’s death?" We nodded. Obviously, Ned Browning wasn’t one to beat around the bush. "I’m sure you understand what an effect this terrible loss has had on our student body today." He spoke with the measured cadence of an old-time educator, one used to having his listeners’ undivided attention. Or else.
"I considered dismissing school entirely when we first were notified of the situation. It’s difficult to know what’s the best thing to do in a case like this."
He paused and rubbed his chin, staring fixedly at us.
"Not canceling school was probably a good idea," I said. "It’s best to keep things as close to normal as possible."
My comment was greeted with all the enthusiasm Ned Browning might have given an unfortunate truant’s overused alibi. He ignored it totally. He continued speaking as though I’d never opened my mouth.
"The trouble is, this team has faced a similar problem once before. Some of these boys were already playing varsity ball when their previous coach, Mr. Altman, died of a heart attack.
"Of course, that was last year. It happened during the summer. It wasn’t a situation like this where he was here one day and gone the next. We had the benefit of some adjustment time before school started in the fall. Not only that, Mr. Ridley had worked with the team for several years as the assistant coach. There was enough continuity so they were able to put together a winning team. They won the state championship last year. Were you aware of that?"
Peters and I nodded in unison. Browning went on. "I’ve sequestered the entire team as well as the squad of cheerleaders in Mr. Ridley’s classroom. Of all the students, they’re probably the ones who are most upset. They’re the ones who worked most closely with him.
"Our guidance counselor, Mrs. Wynn, is with them. I thought it best to keep them together and isolated for fear some of your friends out in the other room would get hold of them." Ned Browning nodded slightly in the direction of the outer office. All of his actions were understated, self-contained.
"Believe me, Mr. Browning, those jerks out there are anything but friends. If we could talk with each member of the team…"
Browning cut me off in mid-sentence. "They’re not there for your convenience, Mr…"
" Beaumont," I supplied. "Detective Beaumont."
"Thank you, Detective Beaumont. These are adolescents who have suffered a severe loss. I’ve assembled them for the purpose of enabling them to begin working through their grief. It’s the idea of peer group self-help. I won’t tolerate any manipulation by you or anyone else. Is that clear, Mr. Beaumont?"
There was no Santa Claus twinkle in Ned Browning’s eyes. They were sharp and hard. He meant what he said. I couldn’t help feeling some real respect for this little guy, doing the best he knew for the benefit of those kids. I wondered if they appreciated him.
"Mr. Browning," Peters broke in, "neither Detective Beaumont nor I have any intention of manipulating your students, but we do need to interview them, all of them. It’s the only way we’ll get some idea of what happened Friday night."
For a time Browning considered what Peters had said. Finally, making up his mind, he nodded. "Very well. I’ll take you there, but you must understand that the well-being of these young people is my first priority."
He rose. His full height wasn’t more than five foot seven. "This way," he said. He led us out through a back door, avoiding the crowd surrounding the front counter. What had been Darwin Ridley’s classroom was at the end of a long, polished corridor. Browning stopped before the closed door.
"What did you say your names are again?"
" Beaumont," I said. "Detectives Beaumont and Peters."
He ushered us inside. The room was hushed. There must have been twenty or so people in the room, standing or sitting in groups of two or three, some of them talking quietly, some weeping openly. The group was made up mostly of boys with five or six girls thrown into the mix. All of the faces reflected a combination of shock, grief, horror, and disbelief.
In the far corner of the room, a woman in her mid-thirties stood with one comforting hand on the heaving shoulders of a silently weeping girl. Browning gestured to the woman. She gave the girl a reassuring pat and walked toward us.
"This is Mrs. Wynn, one of our guidance counselors. She’s also the advisor to the cheerleading squad. Candace, these are Detectives Beaumont and Peters from Seattle P.D. They need to interview those students who were at the game Friday."
Candace Wynn had a boyish figure and a headful of softly curling auburn hair. An impudent cluster of freckles spattered across her nose. Those freckles were at odds with the hostile, blue-eyed gaze that she turned on us.
"That’s absolutely out of the question!"
"Candace, of course we will cooperate fully with the authorities in this matter."
"But Ned…" she began.
"That, however, does not mean we will allow any exploitation. My position on the media remains unchanged, but we have an obligation to teach these young people their civic responsibility."
The previous exchange had been conducted in such undertones that I doubt any of the kids had overheard a single sentence. Browning raised his hand for attention. His was a small but totally commanding presence. The students listened to his oddly stilted remarks with rapt concentration.
"My intention was that you should gather here and not be disturbed. However, I have brought with me two detectives from the Seattle Police Department. They are investigating Coach Ridley’s death. It’s important that we work with them. All of us. They have asked to spend time with you today, to discuss anything you may have seen or heard in the course of the game at the Coliseum Friday night."
He paused to clear his throat. A whisper rustled through the room. "We at this school have all suffered a severe loss. Those of you in this room, the ones who were most closely connected with Coach Ridley, are bound to suffer the most. Grief is natural. We all feel it, but it’s important that we put that grief to a constructive use.
"Mrs. Wynn will be here throughout the interview process. I urge you to cooperate as much as possible. Helping these men discover who perpetrated this terrible crime is perhaps the only practical outlet for what we’re feeling today. Detective Beaumont?"
I stepped forward, expecting to be introduced, but Browning continued. "Before you begin asking your questions, Detective Beaumont, I think it only fair that the students be allowed to ask some of you. All day long we’ve been subjected to a barrage of rumors. It would do us a tremendous service if we had some idea of what’s really going on."