The Third Brother. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
a change?”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. A difference in his mood, maybe. Something suggesting he was subject to, I don’t know, some kind of outside influence. Going down his brother’s path.”
“Not at all. His grades were fine. He wasn’t an ‘A’ student or anything like that, but he was no slouch. There were no signs of a senior slump.” She sighed. “Not like a lot of the kids in his class. He was upset after his brother left town, of course. I talked to him briefly a few times. Barbara would know more of the details, but I can’t really say I noticed a big change.”
“Barbara?”
“Barbara Mendoza. One of our counselors. She worked closely with Abdi. She helped him apply to Ohio State, and look for scholarships. She has—”
“Yes?”
“She has a different opinion, I guess. I believe she told the FBI it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Abdi could have, well, turned.”
“Sounds like you disagree.”
“I wouldn’t say that. She knew him much better. I’m not in a position to second-guess her. She’s a veteran counselor.”
“Is she around?”
“She’s off for the summer.”
“Is it possible to speak with her?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose I could ask. She was very upset when this happened. Still is. I think she—”
I waited while she gathered her thoughts. She said, “It’s almost as if she took it personally. After all the time she spent with him.”
“She feels betrayed?”
“Something like that.”
“I think she’d be good to talk to. If you could reach out to her, maybe, let her know my interest. That I’m trying to help. Maybe explain I’m an OK guy. That I read books from time to time.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Mr.”—she put her index finger on my card and raised a pair of readers onto her eyes—“Mr. Hayes.”
“My apologies. I was aiming for impertinent. And call me Andy.”
Her face reddened again, but not from embarrassment this time. “Maybe you’re accustomed to this kind of thing, Mr. Hayes. In your line of work.” Her tone implying septic tank cleaning might be a step up in the world. “But this has been utterly traumatic for us. Especially now, after Hassan, and happening right at the end of the school year.”
“I can imagine.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. So. The counselor?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
When I didn’t go on, she said, “Was there anything else?”
“Could you ask her now? The sooner I can get some answers, the better.”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
“And if I say no?”
“That’s your prerogative. I’ll probably find her anyway. But I was hoping we could, you know, collaborate.”
“Is that so?”
I realized I was folding my arms against my chest like a kid challenging detention. I unfolded them and put my hands in my lap instead. “It is, as a matter of fact.”
She looked at me for a long moment before standing up from her desk and marching into the outer office. I heard her conferring with the no-nonsense secretary. I looked around Paulus’s office. Where one might expect framed diplomas hung a couple of George Bellows prints I recognized from the art museum. A nice touch. Interspersed with the plants on the office bookshelves were plaques and photographs and several representations of people on rearing horses, from plastic statuettes to yellow-and-white pennants. It came to me after a second: I was sitting in the home of the Maple Ridge Riders. Some framed photos of grown-up looking kids I took to be hers sat next to the mascot displays—no husband in the pictures, I noticed. I’m observant that way.
“I left a voicemail,” Paulus said, reentering the office. “I explained it was important. I can let you know when she gets back to me.”
“Thank you. One other thing.”
A sigh. “Yes?”
“Did Abdi have a lot of friends?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. Was he popular?”
“Very, as a matter of fact. It was part of his charm. A joker, but not obnoxious. He had an easygoing way about him that naturally attracted people.”
Like Islamic State recruiters? I thought. “Any particular students I should talk to?”
“There might be a couple.” She sighed again. “I could get you some names.”
“And numbers?”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“I’m thinking you can do anything you want. You’re the principal, right? We’re not talking missed homework here, Helene. It’s life or death.”
“It’s Ms. Paulus, and thank you for that insight. It hadn’t occurred to me. Is there anything else you want from us, as long as you’ve barged in here like this? Or is that just how private detectives operate?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I corrected her. “And under normal circumstances I would have waited for you under a streetlamp while the mist curled around my iron jaw and the dark night fell like a blanket over a grave. I figured I’d mix it up a bit.”
“I think we’re done here,” she said, rising again. This time she waited for me to do the same. I walked into the main office and bided my time examining the other inspirational posters on the walls while she gave the secretary instructions in a curt voice to pull the files of a couple students. The secretary handed me the names on a piece of Maple Ridge stationery, glaring as if I was the one who’d personally talked Abdi into joining a terrorist front.
“Thank you,” I said, folding the paper in thirds and tucking it into my pocket. “You’ll get back to me about the counselor?”
“I said I would,” Ms. Paulus said.
As I headed for the front door I saw the custodian at the far end of the hall, eyes locked on my wax floor–defiling shoes. I tried another wave. This time, as if a tremor had gripped his arm, he waved once in return.
9
I DROVE DOWN MCCUTCHEON TO STELZER Road, glanced in my rearview mirror, and headed back toward the highway. I figured I’d give Ms. Paulus-not-Helene a few hours, no more, to persuade the counselor to talk to me before tracking her down myself. It probably wouldn’t earn me any extra credit points with the principal, whose Christmas card list I was assuredly off of after our encounter. Not that I blamed her for her reaction to my visit, or my insistent manner. The fact was, I could imagine how rattled the school community was. The thought of a homegrown extremist in my town was rattling me, too.
Right before the entrance to 270 I glanced in my mirror again and changed my mind and decided to take the scenic route home instead. I took Stelzer back to McCutcheon and turned right, heading west. A quarter mile down I put on my signal, braked, and turned into a newish-looking subdivision. I slowed to the residential street’s posted limit of twenty-five miles per hour and for the next several minutes drove up and down the lanes of the small suburban neighborhood, taking in the scenery and trying to guess the median age of the houses. Best guess was