MARTIN Chapter 52 | 2:00 PM, December 4, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia
MARTIN WALKED DOWN THE HALL of Tarson High School, two steps behind an armed school resource officer. Tangerine lockers lined both walls, and Martin wondered if everyone here felt like a hamster in one of those plastic tunnels, or if it was just him.
In the past six hours, he’d lost almost every piece of the puzzle, and he damn near lost the case, again. If not for the lead on Jonathon Walks and confirming the existence of the little footpath that led from the rest stop where Toni was found to the edge of Tarson Woods, Captain would have pulled the plug.
Ama had checked herself out of the hospital against medical advice and hadn’t yet shown back up at her apartment in Atlanta. No one they contacted admitted to knowing where she was, although Martin would’ve bet money Lindsey, who had yet to answer her phone, had a pretty good idea where she’d gone.
Martin also hadn’t been able to track down a single address listed for a Jonathon Walks that matched Eddie’s description of the teacher. He was almost glad Eddie was still semi-detained at the station. Otherwise he might vanish, too. Did a case exist if every person involved evaporated into thin air?
The officer stopped outside the door to the main office. Martin stepped past him and approached the desk.
“I’m Detective Martin Locklear. I called earlier,” he said to the receptionist.
The receptionist stared at Martin as if he ought to have a name tag on. “Mrs. Brownlow is in her office.” She pointed to the closed door behind her.
Martin rapped his knuckles against the wood and let himself in. Mrs. Brownlow sat at her desk, her face bathed in the light of a computer screen.
“Detective, take a seat.” She scooted herself closer to her desk and turned off her monitor. “I understand you want to ask some questions about Hazel Stevens. What would you like to know?”
“Hazel began working with a vocal coach she met through a career day here,” he started, straining all accusation from his tone. “Do you have records of the people who come to talk to the students during the event?”
“There’s a flyer that goes out about a month beforehand—we send it home with students and post it at all the businesses in town. The school counselor lists his email as the contact, and if a professional is interested in attending, they sign up via email. Then there is a sign-in sheet the day of.”
“Do you conduct any kind of checks on the people who come?”
“Mr. Locklear, I understand you’re new in town, but for the most part around here, I see a name, I know the background.”
“What can you tell me about Jonathon Walks?”
“He’s quiet, polite, all-business type. He moved here a couple years ago. He’s a vocal coach at a music shop in town, and he also volunteered as a teacher’s aide for our chorus teacher for almost a year. The teacher has been battling some health issues for quite some time. Mr. Walks was a godsend, really. Very dedicated, very good with the students.”
“So if he subbed, you have records for him.”
“He wasn’t technically a substitute. He was an aide; a volunteer.”
“But he had access to your students,” Martin stated.
“I’m sure he filled out the necessary paperwork, if that’s what you’re asking. He knows how to play every instrument we have, and he has ten years’ professional experience in a recording studio. He exceeded every job qualification and then some, and while he was in the classroom he was consistently monitored by a school employee.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Well, here, I imagine.”
Martin dropped his pencil on his pad of paper, exasperated. “Do you know his address?”
“I would need to look through last year’s archives. We haven’t used him this year.”
“I have time,” Martin offered, leaning back.
“I don’t, unfortunately. I’m actually running late for an important meeting. Now, on the phone I believe you said you wanted to speak to Hazel’s teachers. This isn’t really a good time, since students are present. Perhaps if you came back after school hours are over?”
“Perhaps I’ll find the teachers on my own,” Martin said, standing. “Thanks for all your help.” He strode for the door.
“Mr. Locklear, you can’t just wander school halls!”
“I have a badge and a gun. Looks like I have all the necessary qualifications to sub for your resource officer,” Martin replied. “I’ll stop back by on my way out. Do you think you can put your hands on that paperwork between now and then?”
Martin walked out of her office without waiting for a response, Mrs. Brownlow barking his name at his back.
Martin tucked his pad of paper, still blank, under his arm and walked down the main corridor, checking names on doors. Eddie had provided him a list of all of Hazel’s teachers he could remember. Classes were in session, and a distracted teacher wasn’t worth an interview, but he at least wanted to make initial contact. When he saw a name matched from the list, he waved to get the teacher’s attention and handed them his card. On the back of each he’d already written: Please call ASAP. Re: Hazel Stevens.
Before returning to the parking lot, Martin swung through the main office. All Mrs. Brownlow had left was a handwritten note with the name and address of the music shop where Mr. Walks once worked, which Eddie had already given him.
Martin glared at the note as he shouldered through the door. For a man who’d been in Tarson for roughly two years, people didn’t seem to know anything about him. The night-shift cashier at the grocery store already knew Martin on sight and knew to tell him when cashews were on sale if she saw he hadn’t put any on the belt. How could a man fly under the radar so successfully, and, more important, why?
He was halfway across the lot when a flash of movement caught his eye—a woman walking slowly and gingerly from the side door of the school to the drive-through pickup area. She stopped at the curb and wrapped one hand around her side, fingers pressed into her back. He stopped in his tracks. A black car pulled up in front of her. Lindsey Harold hustled around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. The other woman turned, as if feeling Martin staring. It was Ama.
“Ama! Wait!” He started for the car. “Ama Chaplin!”
She slammed the door shut. Her profile disappeared behind a tinted window. The car pulled off and turned onto the two-lane road. Martin stopped jogging, but his mind began to race. The only reason Ama Chaplin would appear at Tarson High School was Hazel Stevens.
Within minutes, Martin was once again standing in the main office, nearly out of breath.
The secretary stared at him, her face the definition of underwhelmed. “Mrs. Brownlow has left campus for the rest of the day,” she said.
“That’s fine. That’s not who I want to talk to. You just had another visitor. Name’s Ama Chaplin. Who did she ask to speak with?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“You can tell me, or I can get a warrant to search your records. I have questions about a lack of proper credentialing for your volunteers and substitutes, so that would actually help me out a lot.” He leaned over the counter. “Do you want to help me out a lot?”