Braving the Boneyard

Chapter 7-1

7

There was a small green space outside the courthouse—nothing more than a live oak tree in a patch of grass—but it was enclosed by a wall high enough for sitting upon. The uneven concrete surface would probably shred the ass of my slacks, but I sat down anyway. The midday sun assaulted my eyes, and I fumbled in my bag with trembling fingers for my sunglasses. Behind me, the ground was nearly even with the retaining wall, and the grass still mostly green. I folded forward at the waist until my face was just a few inches from my knees and stretched my arms back, burying my hands in the grass behind me. It had only just emerged from the shade, so the blades were still cool and damp between my fingers. I gave them a little tug, as if they were hair on a great earthen head.

I pushed all thoughts and images out of my mind, until my pulse had slowed and I could blame the overhead sun for any perspiration. Then I told myself it was time to suck it up and get back to work. I grabbed a hot dog with mustard from a sidewalk vendor on the way back to the sheriff’s department. Bad idea—I was burping before I reached the front door. Fortunately, I have an iron stomach (one of the prerequisites for being a private investigator), so I’d just spend the rest of the day dodging embarrassment instead of hugging a toilet. Deputy Matisek had left a message at the front desk to come back tomorrow for the report. It probably wouldn’t tell me anything new, so I tried to put it out of my mind (along with all of my non-case-related twitchiness). In the meantime, I pursued another avenue with Trevor Rose.

Trevor was over a decade younger than Jerome, so in the absence of anything else (other than Kevin, Jerome couldn’t name a single common acquaintance), I tried to track down where Trevor had attended school. Hendersenville was by no means a big city, but it was large enough to have several high schools. I changed into jeans and sneakers (changing clothes in cars being another requisite PI skill), pulled my curly hair into a ponytail, and grabbed my innocuous purse instead of my work bag. I look younger than my chronological age, but there’s no way I’d pass for a student. On the other hand, I no longer looked like someone doing a Department of Education audit or gathering information for a lawsuit.

Without an appointment, no administrator would grant me time with personnel on a school day. Instead, I hit the libraries and their yearbooks. It was a long shot, but at this point, I’d take a new long shot over the same old tried and true failure. Several hours later, I’d located a single picture of Trevor Rose, staring back at me from a senior class made up of mostly black faces. He wasn’t smiling, but the boys generally weren’t. Trying to look tough, I guess. I’d also spoken with a student who’d lived next to Trevor briefly years ago. Her mother had once called the cops because of a screaming man at Trevor’s house, but she had no names. It wasn’t much to show for a full afternoon of work, with a trial less than a month away.