“And when was this?” I asked. “Do you know when this all happened?”
“Not, like, the exact date,” he said. “But sure.”
“Sure what?” said the headmaster.
“Sure I know when it happened, sir,” Grant said. “It was the day before they found Carter.”
My memory was jogged, and I remembered talking with Damon about Carter.
“The security guard who was killed?” I asked.
Pelham nodded but wasn’t happy.
“And where was Carter’s body found?”
As if already seeing the facts a news reporter could string together into a lurid story about the school, Pelham said nothing.
But Grant replied, “Sort of in the woods out behind North Dorm, but like far away, right, Mr. Pelham?”
The headmaster, with an expression that said he would never be able to fathom the adolescent brain, angrily barked, “And not one of you thought to tell someone about this before now?”
“About what?” Porter asked, puzzled.
Sylvia rolled her eyes, said, “What Karla Mepps said about coming out of those woods on the same night Mr. Carter was killed in those woods, you boob-obsessed morons.”
“Oh,” Grant said. “I didn’t think about that.”
Porter shook his head. “Me neither. I just remembered she was going to come in the window and you know. Nothing about the woods.”
Sylvia looked like she wanted to slap them both, but she just sat there glaring at them when I said, “But you all got solid looks at Karla Mepps, correct?”
All three of Damon’s classmates nodded.
“You’d be willing to work with a police sketch artist to help us get a sense of what she looked like?” I asked.
Sylvia and Grant said, “Yes.”
Porter paused, then said, “Wouldn’t a picture be better?”
I wanted to hug him. “You have a picture of her?”
“No,” he said. “But they’ve got a security camera at Millie’s coffee shop. It’s how Clayton Monroe got bagged for stealing and got expelled last year. Unless they erase stuff that old, it’s got to be there.”
We tried to do it right then. Pelham got on the phone and tracked down Ward Brower, Millie Brower’s son. Brower was more than willing to help, but he was at the emergency room with his mother, who was complaining of chest pain.
“He said he may have erased it all,” Pelham said. “But maybe not. He opens at six a.m., but he said you could come by at five thirty tomorrow, when he gets there.”
Although I was desperate to see the woman who may have lured my son to his death, I nodded and thanked Damon’s classmates for their help.
“Are you going to do anything for him?” Sylvia asked. “Like a memorial?”
“Yes,” I said. “Once I’ve got the people who killed him.”
“Like, before the end of the year?” Porter asked.
“I’m sure hoping so,” I said.
Pelham said, “Do you need a room, Dr. Cross? I could call the motel and see if there are vacancies, or we have beds at the infirmary you’re free to use.”