Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [49]
Oliver said, “A few more little things. What do you know about Dylan Lashay?”
Punsche was taken aback. “What does Dylan have to do with any of this?”
Marge said, “We understand that he’s the leader of a group of boys who . . . well, they fashion themselves after the Mafia, complete with Dylan being the don and having a bunch of capos.”
“What?” Punsche made a disbelieving face. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. Dylan is one of our star students—academic, athletic, and a terrific actor. He was accepted early decision to Yale.”
“Okay,” Marge said. “And that contradicts what we just told you because . . .”
“Well, that’s just preposterous! Dylan doesn’t have to play games to be a leader. He is a leader.”
Oliver said, “We’ve heard he has an unhealthy passion for guns.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Punsche said. “And furthermore, it is not my habit to talk about specific students to the police.”
“Except to say that he got into Yale,” Marge said.
“I think our business is done here.” Punsche got up from his chair. “Even though you’ve crossed some boundaries, I still invite you to talk to Mr. Hinton or any one of our staff here at B and W. We have nothing hidden here although I don’t know what Mr. Hinton or anyone on our staff could offer you.”
“I appreciate your openness,” Marge said. She could mentally hear Oliver snickering. “You never know what will turn up, so thanks for giving us free range with your teachers.”
“I didn’t say that!” Punsche shook his head as if he were dealing with two errant students. “Look, Detectives, I won’t presume to tell you how to run your investigation, but I will offer you a word or two of friendly advice. The school has undergone two terrible tragedies, two self-inflicted deaths. It makes no sense for you to go poking into other people’s affairs.”
“By other people do you mean Dylan Lashay?” Oliver said.
Punsche said. “The Lashays are wonderful people, and Dylan is no exception. They are very involved in the local community and charity, which includes support for the local police.”
Oliver grinned. “Good to know whose feet we’ll be stepping on.”
Marge nudged her partner. “We all have a job to do, sir. And I’m sure you respect the fact that we take our work seriously. Thank you for your help.”
Oliver wasn’t done. “I’m not quite sure I’d call your advice friendly, Dr. Punsche.”
Marge pinched him hard as Oliver threw her a dirty look. Punsche didn’t notice the interaction. “I’m just laying it out for you. What you do with it is your business.”
Saul Hinton was in his forties, tall and lanky with a sloping nose and a bad comb-over of gray unruly hair. With his spindly arms and elongated torso, he moved like one of those inflatable balloon tube men placed as come-ons in front of car lots.
The classroom was empty. The front wall had a blackboard, a whiteboard, and a mounted forty-inch flatscreen. Pinned up on the cork board was the most recent edition of the school newspaper—B and W Tattler—again emblazoned with the lion mascot. Hinton offered them a seat at any of the twenty built-in desktops, each one containing several Ethernet ports for laptops.
“Actually those are already out of date,” Hinton told the detectives. “The whole school went wireless six years ago. The ports are used only for backup.”
“What happens if the kid doesn’t have his own laptop?” Oliver asked.
“The school provides it for him or her,” Hinton replied.
“What’s the tuition?” Marge asked.
“Forty thousand a year. About twenty percent of our student body is on scholarship,” Hinton said. “The administration does what it needs to do to keep the quality up and balance the budget. Unfortunately we have to turn down a lot of otherwise great students to do so.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “What can I do you for? I wouldn’t think these deaths, as tragic as they are, are police business.”
Oliver said, “Technically, suicides are crimes.”
“And that’s ridiculous.”
Marge said, “Mainly, sir, we’ve here because we want to be sure that the suicides aren