I shook my head.
When I didn’t offer an explanation, Jenkins leaned back, his expression unchanged. “Mr. Sinderling said that he would be sending a private investigator.”
“Maybe you misunderstood,” I suggested mildly.
The scowl deepened further.I wondered if the students ever called him Sphincter-Face.“I don’t think so,” he said with a hint of a sneer.
I shrugged.“Mr. Sinderling is worried about his daughter.Maybe he misspoke.It doesn’t matter.Either way, he gave you my name, right?”
Jenkins gave a short, abrupt nod.
“Then there’s no problem.”
He didn’t nod, but instead stared at me.I imagined it was the same fierce gaze he leveled at Freshmen boys caught scrawling dirty words on bathroom stalls.I was sure that he was used to people wilting under that stare, whether it were a student, staff member or even a parent.In his world, it was probably an extremely effective tactic, one that rarely, if ever, failed him.
But I wasn’t from his world.
Our little stare contest lasted another thirty seconds.I reflected impassivity back to him.I didn’t want to up the stakes, because it was starting to look like he was going to deny me access to conducting interviews at the school.I wasn’t sure if he had the authority or not, but it didn’t matter.He could deny me today and what was I going to do?Call the police?Sue him?
“The problem, Mr. Kopriva,” he said in a low voice, “is that I am not comfortable letting an imposter private detective have free reign at my school.All for a runaway child.”
“Principal Jenkins,” I responded formally, in a low tone that matched his, “I am not an imposter.I have not represented myself as a private investigator.I am a private party, designated by Mr. Sinderling to investigate the circumstances surrounding his missing daughter.And he has specifically authorized me to speak to his daughter’s teachers on his behalf.”
“It’s not a matter of-” he began.
“Let’s just end this little pissing contest right here,” I interrupted.
Jenkins eyes widened briefly, then narrowed again.“All right.How?”
“It’s simple,” I said.“You don’t want me here.I understand that.But I’m not going to bother anyone except Kris’s teachers and only for a few minutes.You can come along or send someone along if you want to.”
“Or,” he said, “I can ask you to leave before I call security.”
I nodded.“Yes, you can.In fact, go ahead and do it right now.”I motioned toward his telephone.“Pick up the phone and call them.”
“Actually,” Jenkins said, removing a digital phone from his belt and holding it up, “we use these.”
“Well, welcome to the new Millennium,” I said.
“You’re very rude, Mr. Kopriva,” Jenkins said dryly.
“You’re very arrogant,” I shot back and leaned forward in my chair.“You go ahead and call security.Have me escorted off the property.Enjoy your power trip.Then get back to checking hall passes.”
Jenkins’s scowl had never really left his face, but it tightened again. I almost laughed at my earlier thought about his pinched face.
“Think about this, though,” I said.“You said Kris was just a runaway.You may be right.I’m sure in your line of work, you hear about runaways all the time, so it’s probably no big thing.But to Matt Sinderling, it is a big deal.It’s a very big deal.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said dryly.
“I’ll tell you something else, Principal Jenkins.I’ve seen a ton of runaways, too.I used to be a cop until I got hurt.I’ll bet you’ve seen a happy ending in most cases, with little Billy or little Susie returning home after a day or two, or moving in with Grandma or some friends.”
His scowl slackened and I could see I was right.I pressed on.
“I saw some of the same things happen, but I also saw a lot of runaways that didn’t have happy endings.Those stories ended in drugs, prostitution, even death.Stuff you probably read about in the newspaper but have never had to deal with.”
Jenkins shrugged slightly.“I’m certain that those horror stories are extremely rare.”
“No,” I said.“Not rare at all.Just dirty little stories that no one ever hears about because they don’t want to listen.And because it never happens to someone we know.But what if it happened to someone like Kris Sinderling?A beautiful, young, middle-class white girl?Do you think that story would play in the media, Principal Jenkins?”
He considered my words, then shrugged.“It might.The public has an insatiable appetite for tragedy.Particularly of the salacious kind.”
“Yes, they do,” I said.“And the headlines would be all about what happened to this beautiful young girl.But after that, secondary stories would spring up.Like how somebody tried to investigate early on. Someone tried to find her, but when he went to her school, the principal turned him aside and wouldn’t allow him to ask a few teachers a question or two.”I fanned my hands in front of me, simulating a headline.“Principal Says Slain Girl ‘Only A Runaway.’”
Jenkins’s brow furrowed.
I dropped my hands to my lap.“Your choice,” I told him.
He fixed me with the same stare he had used earlier.I reflected nothing back.After a few moments, he raised the small telephone to his mouth.There was a sharp transmission beep.
“Security,” he said.
14
I hobbled down the empty school hallway, my knee stiff after sitting in Jenkins’s office.Battered orange lockers stood like silent sentries along the walls.Posters announcing fundraisers and school dances were taped above the lockers.I smiled slightly at the inanity of high school.
“What’s so funny?” asked the man to my right.He gave me what he probably thought was a hard stare.His large belly strained the tan polo shirt he wore.The words District 17 and Bill were embroidered on the left breast.He carried a digital telephone and wore black slacks and black boots to round out the ensemble.I wondered briefly if the school district had given any thought to how much this outfit resembled the uniform Nazis wore.
“Nothing,” I said.“Just happy to be alive.”
Bill grunted disapprovingly.He came to a stop and pointed to a door.“Teacher’s lounge,” he said.
I nodded my thanks, but he didn’t leave.It was apparent that Jenkins was going to take me up on my offer of having an escort.We went in together.
When I was a kid, the Teacher’s Lounge held some mythical quality.It was a forbidden zone for students.Not even the teacher’s aides or those with most-favored status were allowed in.When I got a little older, I imagined it to be a den of iniquity where my English teacher quickly gave his last four papers a ‘B’ grade in order to turn his attentions to the supple prize that was my French teacher.In spite of the historical irony of the French and English getting along, I figured it had to be true.There was no other explanation for how I passed English in high school.Mr. Henderson was too busy trying to bang Miss Couture.It had to be.
In reality, the lounge looked like any other break room in the country.It could have been lifted whole and dropped in any office building in River City and it would’ve fit right in.Coffee pot, sink, a lunch table and a couple of easy chairs, along with a TV in the corner.
Another image of childhood crushed, I thought sarcastically.
A woman in her fifties sat at the lunch table with a cup of tea and a newspaper.She wore a shawl made of light blue yarn and half a dozen bracelets on each wrist.She didn’t look up as we entered.
“Mrs. Byrnes?”Bill said.
The woman lifted her head, adjusted her glasses and took us both in.Her eyes quickly registered recognition of Bill and turned to me.“Yes?”
“This is-“
“Stefan Kopriva,” I interrupted him and stepped forward.I offered my hand and she shook it lightly.Her touch was warm and her face open.We exchanged pleasantries.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kopriva?”