She shook her head. “And no one ever said anything.”
“Maybe some of the children did, but I doubt anyone believed them.
These were problem kids. Their credibility was low and their parents were angry. In some cases de Bosch was probably the court of last resort. This woman came back to her family traumatized but perfectly compliant. They never suspected the summer at the school was anything but successful.”
“Some success.”
“We’re talking ultrahigh levels of parental frustration, Rob. Even if what de Bosch did had come to light and some parents had pulled their kids out, I’ll bet you others would have rushed to enroll theirs. De Bosch’s victims never had any legal recourse. Now, one of them’s evening the score his own way.”
“The same old chain,” she said. “Victims and victimizers.”
“The thing that bothers me, though, is why the killer didn’t strike out against de Bosch, only the disciples. Unless de Bosch died before the killer was old enough–or assertive enough–to put together a revenge plot.”
“Or crazy enough.”
“That, too. If I’m right about the killer being directly traumatized by Delmar Parker’s accident, we’re talking about someone who was a student at the school in 1973. De Bosch died seven years later, so the killer may still have been a kid. Felons that young rarely commit carefully planned crimes. They’re more into impulsive stuff. Another thing that could have stopped him from getting de Bosch was being locked up. Jail or a mental institution. That fits with our Mr. Gritz–the ten years unaccounted for between his leaving Georgia and getting arrested here.”
“More frustration,” she said.
“Exactly. Not being able to punish de Bosch directly could have heated him up even further. The first murder occurred five years ago. Myra Paprock. Maybe that was the year he was released. Myra would have been a good target for him.
A trusted disciple, dictatorial.”
“Makes sense,” she said, looking down at her workbench and arranging some files, “if de Bosch really killed himself. But what if he was murdered and made to look like a suicide?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “His death was too peaceful–overdose of medication. Why would the killer butcher subordinates and allow the boss to get off so easy? And a ritual approach–one that fulfilled a psychological need–would have meant leaving the best for last, not starting with de Bosch first and working backwards.”
“Best for last,” she said, in a tremulous voice. “So where do you fit in?”
“The only thing I can think of is that damned symposium.”
She started to switch off her tools. The dog tagged after her, stopping each time she did, looking up, as if seeking approval.
“Alex,” she said, removing her apron, “if de Bosch did commit suicide, do you think it could have been due to remorse? It doesn’t mean much, but it would be nice to think of him having some self-doubts.”
“The woman asked me the same thing. I’d have liked to say yes–she’d have loved to hear it, but she wouldn’t have bought it. The man she described didn’t sound very conscience laden. My guess is his motivation was just what the papers printed: despondence over ill health. The slides his daughter flashed at the symposium showed a physical wreck.”
“A wrecker,” she said.
“Yeah. Who knows how many kids he messed up over the years?”
The dog heard the tension in my voice and cocked his head. I petted him and said, “So who’s the higher life-form, anyway, bub?”
Robin picked up a broom and began to sweep wood shavings.
“Any other calls?” I said, holding the dustpan for her.
“Uh-uh.” She finished and wiped her hands. We stepped out of the garage and she pulled down the door. The mountains across the canyon were clear and greening. Drought-starved shoots, trying for another season.
All at once the big, low house seemed more foreign than ever. We went inside.
The furniture looked strange.
In the bedroom, Robin unbuttoned her work shirt and I unsnapped her bra and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in my palms and as I touched her, she arched her back. Then she stepped away from me and crossed her arms over her chest.