Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [48]
“According to her brother, yes. We have no indication that Gregory was also afflicted. The two of them don’t seem to have friends in common. Also, with fifteen hundred kids in the school, it’s likely that the two of them didn’t know each other, especially since she was a grade older.”
“What about teachers in common?”
“Don’t know,” Marge said. “To tell you the truth, after Wendy Hesse stonewalled our mini-investigation, we stopped with the psychological autopsy on Gregory Hesse. But now with two suicides, and Kevin Stanger’s bullying and reports about mini Mafia gangs, it may be worth dissecting. There are always cliques, but this may go beyond.”
At that moment, Martin Punsche flew in like a tornado, attired in a white shirt and dark pants. His face had gathered a heavy etching of lines since the detectives had last seen him. The VP checked his watch. “I know that I’m late. Couldn’t be helped. It’s been . . . hellish. There’s no other word for it. Hellish. This is totally unprecedented.”
“You’ve never had suicides at B and W before?” Oliver asked.
“Two in the past eight years, and we thought that was extraordinary. We screen for the psychologically robust. Of course, you can’t predict things like death and illness that crop up during the four years that the kids are here, but we try to deal with those things right away. We knew that Myra had some issues. We require all parents to report what medications their children are on for legal reasons. Her mother told us that Myra had gone on antidepressants. But she seemed to be doing fine.”
“What is your definition of doing fine?” Oliver asked.
“Her grades were excellent and she had friends. Her teachers didn’t report anything odd.”
Marge said, “Would you like to sit down, sir?”
Punsche realized he was pacing in a tiny space. He collapsed into his cushioned desk chair. “I’ve only got a minute before the next seminar. What can I do you for?”
“Last time we spoke, you said that you didn’t know Gregory Hesse very well,” Oliver reminded him.
“Yes, that was true. Since that time I did speak to a couple of his teachers. Gregory didn’t seem to have any problems, either. He was an excellent student, no behavioral and social issues. He actually did some tutoring that I wasn’t aware of. I’m completely in the dark.” Punsche stared at the detectives. “I’m not even sure why you two are here. It’s great to have the police interested in the welfare of our young people, but I’m not sure this is really a police matter.”
Oliver said, “We want to make sure that these deaths aren’t part of a larger issue at the school . . . that the two cases aren’t related.”
Punsche ran his hand over his bald head. “I don’t see how. Myra and Gregory weren’t even in the same grade.”
“That doesn’t mean they didn’t know each other.”
Marge said, “Maybe the two of them were in some common class.”
“Usually eleventh grade and tenth grade are pretty separate, but there are some electives that can be taken in any year in any grade. Let me see . . .” He booted up his computer. “I’ll pull up Myra’s class list and Gregory’s class list . . .”
“We still have that list of Gregory’s classes.” Marge pulled out a piece of paper. “We understand that he was particularly interested in investigative journalism.”
Dr. Punsche shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
Oliver said, “Was Gregory working on the school paper?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Myra?” Marge asked. “She was a very good artist and cartoonist.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, either. The journalism teacher and newspaper adviser is Saul Hinton. Feel free to talk to him. He’s in room . . .” He clicked a few keys on the computer and pressed the print button. “What was I saying?”
“Saul Hinton’s room number.”
“Twenty-six or twenty-seven.” Punsche pulled the list from the printer and handed it to Marge. “Here you go—Myra Gelb’s classes.”
She briefly compared it to Gregory Hesse’s class schedule. The lists didn’t appear to intersect, and neither was currently taking any journalism class.
“Anything else?” Punsche made a