The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) A.J. Flynn (ebook reader play store TXT) 📖

live in a rooming house, so quite a few people can bear witness.”

They both stood up and walked to the door.

“I hope you’re able to catch whoever’s responsible. The thought of a person capable of such savagery running around free is frightening.”

“Our department is working twenty-four hours a day and I can promise you he won’t have very much chance against us,” McPherson said. The words weren’t exactly true, but they came off as reassuring.

After Miss Preacher left, McPherson thought back over everything she’d said. At least Charlie had been a person to her, which was more than he’d been to his neighbors. It would be interesting to see what the others thought of him.

She didn’t have to wait long before the door flew open and two women entered the room. The older of the two spoke first.

“Are you Lieutenant McPherson?” she asked briskly, giving her just enough time to nod before continuing, “I’m Mrs. Helen, Charlie’s history teacher, and this is Miss Powell. She teaches literature.”

This was the sort of teacher McPherson had been used to. She doubted very much whether this woman gave any real thought to child psychology while presenting her lessons, or in punishing them for having not completed them.

Mrs. Helen looked to be in her late thirties, and her hair was sprinkled with grey, but her face remained unlined. From her composure, McPherson decided it must be because she never worried about whether she was right or wrong, because she knew she wasn’t.

Miss Powell was an entirely different species. She had light-blonde hair, and her small coquettish face wore a remote, almost etherial, expression. So far she hadn’t said anything and didn’t seem like she was going to.

“Should we sit down?” McPherson said when Mrs. Helen paused for breath.

“Yes, let’s. You sit over there, Miss Powell. Mr. Lewis said you wanted to question us separately, but both Miss Powell and I have classes beginning soon, so I told her I was certain you wouldn’t mind us coming together.”

McPherson didn’t try to interrupt. She had a feeling she might have just about as much success opposing Mrs. Helen as a king who orders the tide to stop coming in.

“There isn’t much to say about Charlie that will help you in finding his murderer,” Mrs. Helen continued with egregious reassurance. It didn’t seem to occur to her that a trained officer of the law may be a better judge of what was of value, but McPherson let it pass.

“I’d like your opinion of Charlie, both as a student and as a boy. I’m trying to figure out just what sort of person he was.”

Mrs. Helen scoffed with disdain at such foolishness, but Miss Powell remained still and in silence. Apparently she had figured out that it was the better part of valor to let Mrs. Helen have her say first.

“He was an average student in history. I couldn’t seem to hold his interest. He only did what he had to do, and nothing more, not that he wasn’t capable of better performance. He was an obstinate child.”

“How do you mean?” McPherson asked.

“He had a decent mind,” she explained, “but history was far too abstract to interest him and he refused to make any effort to improve his grades. From speaking to his other teachers I found that any subject where there was something he was able to get his hands on, like art or music, he was always quite interested. I’m sure he could have been interested in history just the same, but he didn’t care enough to try.”

It was obvious the woman thought the boy was going to hell in a handbasket because he didn’t care about history.

“Did he ever refuse to complete assignments? I mean, was he ever rebellious?”

McPherson waited for her to carry on, but Mrs. Helen seemed to have already said what she wished, so she turned towards the more amiable-looking Miss Powell.

“How was your relationship with him, Miss Powell?”

Miss Powell shifted in her seat and crossed her legs carefully. “I had some of the same trouble Mrs. Helen spoke of, but not to the same extent. Charlie struggled his way through the required reading list, but his book reports showed me that he had missed a lot of what he read. However, in his essays it was different. We ask the students to write two essays throughout the semester, and they’re allowed to choose their own subjects. In both of his, Charlie showed a level of alertness and feeling that surprised me. He was the last student I would have expected to make that kind of impact on me. Sure, his composition left something to be desired, but he both knew and understood his subjects very well.”

“What subjects did he choose to write about?” McPherson asked.

“Both of them were written about the lives of the famous composers Haydn and Schubert. It was obvious that the men were heroes to him.”

“Then would you agree to say that he did excellent work so long as the subject interested him, but otherwise was an average student?”

“That would be my assessment,” Miss Powell answered.

“Now, just as a matter of routine, could you tell me where you both were on the evening of Tuesday?”

Mrs. Helen looked irritated by the question, which she’d already expected.

“I spent my evening at home. With two children to raise and care for, I don’t have time for running around.”

“Thank you. And you, Miss Powell?”

“I went out to the movies with a friend. His name is Clyde Reynolds.”

Mrs. Helen scoffed again. Apparently she must have gotten her two children without going to the movies as a warm-up.

McPherson rose to her feet. “I would like to thank you again. I appreciate you both giving me your time. You’ve been a huge help.”

Miss Powell paused at the door and asked, “It had to have been a drifter, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. That Charlie would climb out his window, only to meet a passing drifter, was a bit too far fetched for her own imagination,