Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I parked in the lot in a space marked VISITOR. I locked the car and trotted across the flattened grass to the entrance, pushing through the double glass doors and into the main corridor. It was dead quiet, though there must have been students somewhere on the premises. The portable classrooms outside weren’t large enough to house the auditorium or the gym. I was guessing that a goodly number of classes were held in this building as well. I could smell sweat and hair spray, hormones and hot gym shoes—the scents of teen misery. Bad skin, no power, too few choices, too much sexual pressure, and not enough wisdom to see you through until you reached eighteen. How many lives were out of whack by then? Girls pregnant, guys dead in cars before the beer cans had quit rolling across the floorboards.

Ahead of me, down the hall, I spotted a sign indicating the principal’s office. I could feel my anxiety mount as it had every day of my life during my high school years. I’d been so out of it, such a dork. I’d survived by rebelling—smoking dope and hanging out with other misfits like me. Here I was again, only all grown up (allegedly), crossing the threshold voluntarily, looking for answers to questions I’d never even dreamed of when I was young.

The school secretary was in her early thirties with brown eyes and short silky hair the color of pecan shells. A gossamer array of freckles lay across her nose and upper cheeks. She was casually dressed: beige slacks, short-sleeve brown sweater, and flat-heeled shoes. Her laminated name tag read ADRIANNE RICHARDS, and under that, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. She got up when she saw me and came to the counter. “May I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa. I’m working with a couple of police detectives trying to identify a homicide victim, who died in August of ’69.”

“You mean here?”

“We’re not sure.” I took a brief time-out, giving her a verbal sketch of the girl we were trying to identify. “We’ve been down here talking to local dentists, hoping to locate her through her old dental records. I just talked to Dr. Nettleton. He thinks she was a patient, but he can’t remember her name. I thought if I could talk to a couple of teachers, my description might ring a bell. Do you have any idea who was on the faculty back then?”

She stared at me blankly. I could almost see her compute the possibilities. I thought she might speak, but her expression shut down and she dropped her gaze. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Eichenberger. He’s the principal. All our student records are confidential.”

“I don’t want her records. I just want to know her name.”

“Mr. Eichenberger doesn’t allow us to give out information like that.”

“You mean you know her?”

Her cheeks had begun to color. “Of course not. I’m talking about school policy.”

I stared at her, annoyed. Maybe as administrative assistant she was unaccustomed to people talking back. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up in detention myself. “I don’t understand the problem.”

“Mr. Eichenberger’s the only one authorized to discuss the students’ files.”

“Fine. Is he available?”

“I’ll check, but I’d have to see proper identification first.”

I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and opened the flap to show the photocopy of my license. I passed it across the counter.

“May I take this?”

“As long as I get it back.”

“Just a moment.”

She crossed the office, approaching a closed door that bore the nameplate, LAWRENCE EICHENBERGER, PRINCIPAL. She knocked once and went in. After perhaps a minute, the door opened and Mr. Eichenberger emerged with Adrianne Richards right behind him. She handed me my wallet and then returned to her desk, where she busied herself with paperwork so she could eavesdrop without appearing interested.

Mr. Eichenberger was a man in his early sixties with sparse, soft-looking white hair, glasses, and a bulbous nose. His complexion looked sunburned, and I picked up the scent of his aftershave, which smelled like incense. He wore a vivid blue dress shirt, a dark sweater vest, and a hand-tied bow tie. His manner was officious, his expression suggesting he was hell-bent on thwarting me. “I understand you have a problem with one of our students.”

“Not quite,” I said. Mentally, I could feel my eyes cross. No wonder I’d hated high school, where I’d been wholly at the mercy of guys just like him. I went through my entire explanation again, feigning a patience I didn’t really feel.