sorrow—with the exception of Alan Quertermous, of course. But I couldn’t help wondering about what was really going on.”
Lisa refilled wine glasses, her glass and Marc’s. She looked over at Ray, holding the neck of the bottle toward his glass. He nodded his assent, making a gesture with his thumb and forefinger to suggest half a glass.
8
Exhausted, but still not ready for bed, Ray stood at his writing desk, a piece of white oak furniture with simple, clean lines that he had constructed by a local cabinetmaker several years before. At that time he had been struggling with back problems and standing to write had been more comfortable than sitting. Although the back pain had abated, standing at the desk had become part of his journal ritual, a routine that he tried to follow each evening before retiring.
Ray took a sip from a cup of mint tea that he had placed in easy reach on the right side of the desk. He flipped through his journal, a worn leather binder filled with lined white paper, which Ray had used for years.
He read his previous entry, a personal piece about autumn and his feelings of loss since his romantic interest had decided to move.
Our relationship was not one of great passion, but there was comfort and companionship. However, when her daughter divorced and needed help with three young children, it was clear to both of us that she was needed there. It gave her life a purpose again; something that I felt had been missing for a long time.
Ray started to write with his favorite fountain pen, an ancient Pelican with a soft nib, gliding over the lined paper, his impressions of the day unwinding in a graceful stream of blue ink. He had word-processed the official account of the murders before he left the office, and though the basic facts in the journal entry would be the same, he was now free to drop the official tone and guarded empiricism of a police report. In this penned account there was no precise chronology, just impressions and his horror and rage. And then there was speculation, theories about motives, questions about the victims.
When we first reached the scene, Sue and I stood a long while and looked at the bodies. In the gray light of the dense overcast, the victims’ skin had an unnatural, wax-like appearance. Even several yards away their wounds were apparent, but the heavy rains had washed away the blood, giving them a manikin look and somehow lessening the horror of the crime. The female looked vaguely familiar. Have I seen her before? Or perhaps it was something else. The colors and textures and melancholy nature of the place reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
He wrote about the people whom he had encountered, their actions, words, facial expressions, and body language. Was the murderer in the group? How much was theater? How much was real? He wondered about the reasons for Alan Quertermous’ rage and his outburst at the meeting. He noted Ian Warrington’s agitation, both at the beach and in their later conversations. What are Warrington’s priorities? Ray wrote. Is he trying to protect his position, the students, or both in some sort of complex ratio?
Ray then moved on to Sarah James:
I arrived at the school and was met by one of the administrators, an assistant to Ian Warrington. Her sadness and grief, expressed in body language and tone, seemed sincere. She seemed to be working very hard to keep her emotions in check so that she could meet her professional responsibilities. She had such an air of sadness; I wonder if that is her normal demeanor or just a response to the unfolding tragedy?
Ray thought again about the appearance of the victims. He could see the dead woman’s features again—the delicate blue eyes open to the sky, the thick auburn hair fanned out around the head. The face had a dreamlike quality that belied the violence of the scene. Ray lifted his pen from the paper for several long moments as he thought about the woman’s physiognomy. The face seemed
Lisa refilled wine glasses, her glass and Marc’s. She looked over at Ray, holding the neck of the bottle toward his glass. He nodded his assent, making a gesture with his thumb and forefinger to suggest half a glass.
8
Exhausted, but still not ready for bed, Ray stood at his writing desk, a piece of white oak furniture with simple, clean lines that he had constructed by a local cabinetmaker several years before. At that time he had been struggling with back problems and standing to write had been more comfortable than sitting. Although the back pain had abated, standing at the desk had become part of his journal ritual, a routine that he tried to follow each evening before retiring.
Ray took a sip from a cup of mint tea that he had placed in easy reach on the right side of the desk. He flipped through his journal, a worn leather binder filled with lined white paper, which Ray had used for years.
He read his previous entry, a personal piece about autumn and his feelings of loss since his romantic interest had decided to move.
Our relationship was not one of great passion, but there was comfort and companionship. However, when her daughter divorced and needed help with three young children, it was clear to both of us that she was needed there. It gave her life a purpose again; something that I felt had been missing for a long time.
Ray started to write with his favorite fountain pen, an ancient Pelican with a soft nib, gliding over the lined paper, his impressions of the day unwinding in a graceful stream of blue ink. He had word-processed the official account of the murders before he left the office, and though the basic facts in the journal entry would be the same, he was now free to drop the official tone and guarded empiricism of a police report. In this penned account there was no precise chronology, just impressions and his horror and rage. And then there was speculation, theories about motives, questions about the victims.
When we first reached the scene, Sue and I stood a long while and looked at the bodies. In the gray light of the dense overcast, the victims’ skin had an unnatural, wax-like appearance. Even several yards away their wounds were apparent, but the heavy rains had washed away the blood, giving them a manikin look and somehow lessening the horror of the crime. The female looked vaguely familiar. Have I seen her before? Or perhaps it was something else. The colors and textures and melancholy nature of the place reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
He wrote about the people whom he had encountered, their actions, words, facial expressions, and body language. Was the murderer in the group? How much was theater? How much was real? He wondered about the reasons for Alan Quertermous’ rage and his outburst at the meeting. He noted Ian Warrington’s agitation, both at the beach and in their later conversations. What are Warrington’s priorities? Ray wrote. Is he trying to protect his position, the students, or both in some sort of complex ratio?
Ray then moved on to Sarah James:
I arrived at the school and was met by one of the administrators, an assistant to Ian Warrington. Her sadness and grief, expressed in body language and tone, seemed sincere. She seemed to be working very hard to keep her emotions in check so that she could meet her professional responsibilities. She had such an air of sadness; I wonder if that is her normal demeanor or just a response to the unfolding tragedy?
Ray thought again about the appearance of the victims. He could see the dead woman’s features again—the delicate blue eyes open to the sky, the thick auburn hair fanned out around the head. The face had a dreamlike quality that belied the violence of the scene. Ray lifted his pen from the paper for several long moments as he thought about the woman’s physiognomy. The face seemed
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