toward their next classes, Connor waited outside in a covered
area. Shoulder propped against a post, he watched thirteen- and
fourteen-year-olds flirt, gossip with friends, struggle to open ancient metal
lockers and act cool.
On the whole, they hadn't changed since his day. Haircuts
and clothing styles were a little different, but not the basic insecurity that
was the hallmark of these young teenagers.
He didn't see a girl hurrying by who would have been as calm
as Tracy Mitchell, talking about the first time her computer teacher exposed
himself to her.
The crowd was thinning out, the next bell about to ring.
Connor shoved away from the post and through the double doors into the tall A
building with its Carnegie-style granite foundation and broad front entrance
steps. Stragglers on their way to class cast him startled looks. He was an
alien in their midst, an adult who wasn't a teacher or a known parent. He
smiled and nodded when they met his eyes.
Tracy could
be lying, all right. She wouldn't be the first teenager who'd decided an
allegation of sexual molestation was the way to bring down an adult she hated.
But Gerald Tanner was also the classic nerd who had probably
been hunched over his computer when his contemporaries were developing social
skills. Not to mention fashion sense. Even Connor, who didn't give a damn about
clothes, had shuddered at his polyester slacks, belted a little too tight and a
little too high on his waist, and the short-sleeved white dress shirt and tie.
Okay, Tanner didn't have a plastic pocket protector, but the black-framed
glasses made him slightly owl-eyed. Who wore a getup like that these days? Hadn't
he ever heard of contact lenses?
The point was, Gerald Tanner fit the profile of a guy who
felt inadequate with women his own age. Here were all these teenagers, as
awkward as he was with the opposite sex, the girls developing breasts,
experimenting with makeup, learning to flirt and to flaunt what they had. What
could be more natural than the realization that he was
more powerful than they were? That he could fulfill his fantasies without
having to bare himself, literally or figuratively, with a real woman?
Connor reached the top floor and paused briefly outside a
classroom with its door ajar. The teacher was talking, but damned if any of the
kids seemed to be paying attention. Some of them were studying, one girl was
French-braiding a friend's hair, a couple of guys were playing a handheld
electronic game, while others drifted around the room. Connor shook his head in
faint incredulity. In his day, you were in deep you-know-what if you were
caught passing a note, never mind openly playing a hand of poker in the back.
The teacher raised her voice. "Everybody got that
assignment on their calendar? Remember, the rough draft is due Tuesday."
One or two students appeared to make notations in open
binders.
Still shaking his head, Connor moved on.
What kind of teacher was Gerald Tanner? Did he wear any
mantle of authority? Or did the kids see him as a computer geek, too?
Connor's stride checked as it occurred to him that maybe
times had changed. This was Microsoft country, after all, and Bill Gates was
the Puget Sound area's biggest celebrity. Hell, maybe jocks weren't the only
object of teenage girls' lust these days. Maybe visions of the next computer
billionaire danced in the heads of thirteen-year-old girls.
He'd have to ask Mariah.
Her door stood ajar, too. She sat behind her desk, papers
spread across the surface, a red pen in her hand. Her concentration seemed
complete. Connor wondered if she'd forgotten he was coming back.
But, although he didn't make a sound, he was no sooner
framed in the doorway than her head shot up. For a moment she stared at him
with the wide-eyed look of a doe frozen in car headlights. Was she afraid of
him?
But then she blinked, her face cleared, and he told himself
he'd imagined the fear.
"Detective. I thought maybe you'd gotten lost."
"Just avoiding
area. Shoulder propped against a post, he watched thirteen- and
fourteen-year-olds flirt, gossip with friends, struggle to open ancient metal
lockers and act cool.
On the whole, they hadn't changed since his day. Haircuts
and clothing styles were a little different, but not the basic insecurity that
was the hallmark of these young teenagers.
He didn't see a girl hurrying by who would have been as calm
as Tracy Mitchell, talking about the first time her computer teacher exposed
himself to her.
The crowd was thinning out, the next bell about to ring.
Connor shoved away from the post and through the double doors into the tall A
building with its Carnegie-style granite foundation and broad front entrance
steps. Stragglers on their way to class cast him startled looks. He was an
alien in their midst, an adult who wasn't a teacher or a known parent. He
smiled and nodded when they met his eyes.
Tracy could
be lying, all right. She wouldn't be the first teenager who'd decided an
allegation of sexual molestation was the way to bring down an adult she hated.
But Gerald Tanner was also the classic nerd who had probably
been hunched over his computer when his contemporaries were developing social
skills. Not to mention fashion sense. Even Connor, who didn't give a damn about
clothes, had shuddered at his polyester slacks, belted a little too tight and a
little too high on his waist, and the short-sleeved white dress shirt and tie.
Okay, Tanner didn't have a plastic pocket protector, but the black-framed
glasses made him slightly owl-eyed. Who wore a getup like that these days? Hadn't
he ever heard of contact lenses?
The point was, Gerald Tanner fit the profile of a guy who
felt inadequate with women his own age. Here were all these teenagers, as
awkward as he was with the opposite sex, the girls developing breasts,
experimenting with makeup, learning to flirt and to flaunt what they had. What
could be more natural than the realization that he was
more powerful than they were? That he could fulfill his fantasies without
having to bare himself, literally or figuratively, with a real woman?
Connor reached the top floor and paused briefly outside a
classroom with its door ajar. The teacher was talking, but damned if any of the
kids seemed to be paying attention. Some of them were studying, one girl was
French-braiding a friend's hair, a couple of guys were playing a handheld
electronic game, while others drifted around the room. Connor shook his head in
faint incredulity. In his day, you were in deep you-know-what if you were
caught passing a note, never mind openly playing a hand of poker in the back.
The teacher raised her voice. "Everybody got that
assignment on their calendar? Remember, the rough draft is due Tuesday."
One or two students appeared to make notations in open
binders.
Still shaking his head, Connor moved on.
What kind of teacher was Gerald Tanner? Did he wear any
mantle of authority? Or did the kids see him as a computer geek, too?
Connor's stride checked as it occurred to him that maybe
times had changed. This was Microsoft country, after all, and Bill Gates was
the Puget Sound area's biggest celebrity. Hell, maybe jocks weren't the only
object of teenage girls' lust these days. Maybe visions of the next computer
billionaire danced in the heads of thirteen-year-old girls.
He'd have to ask Mariah.
Her door stood ajar, too. She sat behind her desk, papers
spread across the surface, a red pen in her hand. Her concentration seemed
complete. Connor wondered if she'd forgotten he was coming back.
But, although he didn't make a sound, he was no sooner
framed in the doorway than her head shot up. For a moment she stared at him
with the wide-eyed look of a doe frozen in car headlights. Was she afraid of
him?
But then she blinked, her face cleared, and he told himself
he'd imagined the fear.
"Detective. I thought maybe you'd gotten lost."
"Just avoiding
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