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“I didn’t think so,” she said and rapped her fingers on the laminate top. “Who are we talking about?”
“Felton Cunningham.”
“I see.” The thrumming continued. “I’ll make an exception. Follow me.”
Gibson swung the flimsy gate. It struck the side of the counter with a wallop.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize my strength.”
“Don’t worry. That’s not the first time that has happened. It needs to be adjusted,” she replied.
The inner sanctuary was a maze of corridors. After turning several corners, the receptionist halted in front of a paneled door with brass fittings. She sifted through a jumble of keys and unlocked the storage room. The space was larger than he thought it would be. It was more of a study room. A long table monopolized the area, its luminous polish showing off the whorls of the wood. Six chairs shoved in the corner looked antique.
“Have a seat. This will barely take me a moment.”
Gibson and Eckhart pulled up chairs and sat. The receptionist opened several drawers before locating the correct carton. “We’re scanning everything into digital files. But we haven’t made it to the ‘Cs’ yet. It’s a slow process.” She dumped the binder on the tabletop. “If you need his spouse’s register, we’ll have to move to the dungeon. It was so long ago.”
“Pardon me.” Gibson’s chin shot up. “Margaret?”
“Yes. His wife was a substitute teacher way back when. That’s how they met. She gave up the job when they got married.”
“I see,” Gibson said.
“Do you need it?” she asked.
“I suppose we do.” Gibson locked eyes with Eckhart.
“Well, have a gander at that. I won’t be long.” She jiggled the keys. “Have to pick up the ancient ones.” She sauntered out the room laughing, a delightful chuckle.
The detectives pushed their chairs close together, knees touching, and huddled over the file. Gibson picked up a cardboard jacket marked prints.
“Really. That simple.” He opened the package gingerly and drew out the card with Felton’s imprint. It was a perfect print and hadn’t smudged over the years.
“Awesome.”
Gibson put the card back in the envelope and set it aside. He flipped the pages carefully, tracing down the edges with his fingertip. A criminal records check was on the top. There were plenty of performance reports and wage hikes. Then a discipline letter got his attention. He thumbed through it.
“It’s an incident with a pupil. Fifteen years ago. It’s very vague about what happened, and there was no action taken against Felton,” he said.
He skimmed through a dozen more evaluations. There was nothing striking, nothing that caught his eye until he turned to the final sheet in the folder.
“What have we here?” Gibson asked. He knocked his knuckles on the table.
“They fired Felton,” Eckhart said as she peered at the letter.
“Yes, so it seems.”
“Sexual misconduct. They granted him a pass the first time.”
“Not as tolerable in the ‘Me-too’ environment,” Gibson replied.
The door handle jangled, and the receptionist breezed into the chamber, her flowered skirt flowing behind. “Got what you were searching for?” She smirked.
“Why are Felton’s prints here?” Gibson asked.
“Let me clarify why we have his prints. We have every teacher’s prints. Actually, every applicant. The Criminal Records Review Agency does a records check on everyone that applies for a job with the school board. And not only teachers but all staff. They take the prints but only run them through the RCMP data if something relevant shows up during their enquiries. Something like a DUI. Felton’s prints are still here because he had no kind of unlawful history and nothing came up while he was on staff. It’s as simple as that. We continue to conduct criminal checks this way to be fair to both the staff and the students. Rarely does an unsavoury person get by us.”
“Can we keep the prints?”
“What prints?” the receptionist asked.
Gibson realized she didn’t like Felton but didn’t want to get herself into trouble either. That was cool with him.
The dungeon was a floor below, a windowless basement. It didn’t smell musky but was cool and well lit. The receptionist trotted at a brisk pace, her crepe soles making a soft squelching noise. They clip-clopped after her down the narrow corridor, single file like children do. She halted in front of a grey steel door, her shoes squeaking from the abrupt motion.
“Let me figure out what room it is. Haven’t been here in a while.” She referred to a note in an alloy frame beside the entryway. “Nope, not this one.” She proceeded along and considered two more placards before announcing, “Here we are.”
When she opened the door, a light turned on immediately. It was a limited space comparable to a storage locker. Boxes piled to the ceiling leaned precariously on the right side. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll leave you to it. Come visit me before you take off.” She spun around and asked, “Will you find your way out?”
“I expect so. I left behind a trail of breadcrumbs,” Gibson said.
The receptionist grinned, her lips lifting upwards. The beam reached her eyes. “Good luck.” She thought of something else and pivoted toward them. “Margaret’s maiden name is Sayward.”
She retreated down the hallway, the squelching sound providing her whereabouts.
“Nice lady.”
“Yeah. Where do we start?” Eckhart asked.
Gibson tugged at his collar and gaped at the containers. They were labelled, but the years had faded the ink. He passed his palm along the stickers, pressing them back in place as he worked. They hauled down boxes and examined their contents. The search went on for ages as they dismissed irrelevant files. Finally, Eckhart yanked out a binder with ‘Margaret Sayward’ faintly imprinted in blue.
“Got it,” she said. Her hands shook as she flipped it open. There were two formal letters and a brown envelope. “Her resume and acceptance letter. And behind door number three.” She tipped the sleeve and a print card dropped into her palm. “Ta-da!”
“All right. We’re set,” Gibson said and tucked the treasure into his front pocket with Felton’s.
“But Felton is lame and Margaret is fat. Pardon my politically incorrect terminology,” Eckhart said.
“That’s true, but at least we have two prints to run we didn’t have a few hours ago. You never know,” Gibson said. He agreed with Eckhart and didn’t expect the prints to bring them any closer to a murderer, but it chased the day away. One more night and a morning.
Eckhart curled her pale pink lips and rolled her eyes. They clambered up the concrete steps. At the halfway point, Gibson’s cell chirped. He looked at the text.
“They picked up Todd. I guess there isn’t any mobile coverage in the basement. They got him an hour ago.”
“Okay, that’s something,” Eckhart said. They were going in so many directions, it was making her brain spin. She just wanted something to pan out. They climbed the rest of the stairs and found their way back to the front desk without any problems.
“Thanks for everything,” Gibson said.
The receptionist offered a shrewd grin and retired to her keyboard. The clacking of keys was fast and steady.
The heat struck like a tsunami wave as Gibson opened the main door outside.
“Holy shit. It’s sizzling out here,” Eckhart said. The Expedition sat where she had left it hopped up on the curb. The waves of heat off the hood were visible even from the top of the steps. They held the truck doors open for a few minutes to let the hot air escape. It fired up admirably, and soon frosty air flowed out the vents. Eckhart slapped the dashboard. “Good truck.”
Gibson sat back and depressed the lever at the side of his seat, allowing himself a few more inches of space. His spine felt compressed by the session of tugging heavy boxes off towering le
dges.
“Let’s shoot the prints over to the station first.”
“Okay.”
Gibson plucked his cell out. He had it in a front pocket this time. The call dispatched to voicemail after ten rings. “Damn. Frenchy isn’t there.” He glimpsed at his wristwatch. “Oh, it’s six already. Guess someone has a life.”
“Not us,” Eckhart said.
He dialed another number. When Cooper finally answered, Gibson spoke for several minutes before disconnecting the call.
“What’s going on with Frenchy?” Eckhart asked after he hung up.
“She went to a concert in Toronto with Reggie.”
“Really? What did Cooper say about the prints we found?”
“Not a lot. He was surprised. Hey, we missed lunch today and I’m ravenous. What about you?” On cue his belly rumbled.
“Sure. Where to?”
“The Mansion House. It’s near the police station. We can nip in there afterward.”
“That’ll work,” she said. “Should we give Rodney a heads up as well?”
“I’ll shoot him a text. Undoubtedly he’s left the office.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
It was seven by the time they dropped off the prints and headed back to town. It was Saturday night, and the streets were crawling with people dining out and pub hopping. The lone theatre had a queue that vanished around the corner. There wasn’t one spot to park either so Eckhart hit the police lot.
“Should we go in first?” Gibson asked. His stomach growled in revolt with no means to muzzle the noise except to feed the beast. “Forget it. Let’s dine.”
Even as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the intensity of the day ebbed slowly. They zipped down the sizzling pavement to the pub. A live band pumped rock ‘n’ roll, country style, into the street. They grabbed one of the last free tables, happy to sit still at last. It looked as if the waiter was overworked so they sat back and enjoyed the music while they waited. Their server finally came over, and Eckhart ordered a wine while Gibson asked for the on-tap house beer. The burgers would get there when they got there. What can you do? Gibson checked the screen when his cell chirped. It was the superintendent.
‘Excellent job, you guys. Call me in the morning.’
