Bonne Femme

Chapter 16

A Crime of Opportunity

Near Walker, Michigan, 1:13 PM

        His pulse quickened as soon as he saw her.  She attracted him the way vulnerable prey suggests itself to a predator.  Multiple layers of clothing couldn't conceal the femininity of her movements as she did some kind of yard work.  Something elegant, fragile, and irresistible beckoned him as she bent over a flowerbed.  A scene from an old movie flashed in his mind:  a man in a satin jacket drains an exquisitely sculpted goblet, and hurls it into the fireplace.

        Without slowing, he read the mailbox:  "Brent & Ivey Steward."  There were no swing sets or children's toys in the yard.  Perfect.

        Resisting one last look at her, he drove on maintaining the same steady speed until he reached a crossroad a mile to the southwest.  He unpacked the duct tape, cut carefully measured lengths of the cord, and then stuffed everything into his jacket pockets.  He went to the trunk for a rubber sap weighted with a large ball bearing at the tip, noting with disgust that he had forgotten to bring the camcorder.  At least he had the SLR.  He loaded it with black and white film, and put it back.

 

        She looked up with a frown when he pulled into the drive and turned off the engine.  Getting out, he smiled at her as he approached, thinking that it was a shame that he couldn't capture that look on the camcorder.  She was beautiful.

        "Hello, Mrs. Steward.  I'm Ralph Hampton," he said, trying to sound businesslike as he approached.  "Is Brent home?"

 

281.

       Up close he saw how right he had been.  She was a young one with smooth, unblemished skin and full, pouty lips just like Jill's.  He trembled, anticipating her expression when she finally understood.

"Yes, he is," she said hesitantly.  "Wait here and I'll get him for you."

        "No.  I don't want to interrupt your work," he said with an apologetic smile, before turning toward the porch.  "I just have to speak with him a minute."

"But . . ."

        "You guys probably have plans.  Don't worry.  I'll be out of here before you know it."

There was something strange about him, but his smile disarmed her.

        "He's watching the ball game," she said, trying to remember if her husband ever mentioned someone named Hampton.

        She shrugged and went back to work pruning her roses without noticing how silently Mic had entered the house.  Mic looked back to make certain that she hadn't followed, and then followed the sounds of football game into the adjoining room.

"Getting cold out there, Ivey?" called Brent.

        The sap caught the man just above the right ear.  He dragged him into the bedroom and then went to the dining room for a wooden chair.  Five minutes later he had the unconscious man sitting and secured to it by the duct tape.  He wound another piece to seal his mouth.  Then he slapped the man until he finally came around.

        "We'll talk later," he said, patting the wide-eyed man on the cheek.  "First, I'll go get Ivey." 

He walked slowly down the steps.

"Takes a lot of work to maintain all that beauty, doesn't it?"

        "Yes," she said, pleased that he appreciated her landscaping work.  "But I love the work."

"Makes you feel good to show it off, right?"

She frowned at his choice of words.

        "I wouldn't call it showing off, Mr. Hampton.  It's more like sharing it with others.  That's what I like."

        I'll bet you do, he thought.  You enjoy showing them something that they can't have.

       

282.

        "That's what I meant," said Mic, flashing her his chagrined little boy smile, the one superior feeling women loved.

        Ivey passed off his strange manner by deciding that he was just one of those peculiar people without good social skills.

"Oh, I almost forgot.  Brent told me he wanted to see you."

        She frowned.  It wasn't like her husband to send word out.  She went in to see what was wrong.  As she started up the steps she heard the engine start and the car door shut, but didn't notice that Mic was still standing in the driveway.

 

"Brent," she called when she didn't find him in the living room.

        A scraping sound pulled her attention to the bedroom a second before a hand clamped over her mouth.  Mic pushed her inside and kicked the door closed.

        "Now Ivey," he said in a silky voice.  "In a minute we're going to join Brent in there and the three of us are going to get better acquainted."

        He took his hand from her mouth.  He wanted her husband to hear what he knew she was going to say.

"What do you want?" she asked predictably.

        "For you to treat me right.  You see, if you don't want something really bad to happen to Brent, you're going to have to help me enjoy my stay."

        Gripping her by the throat, he pinned her back to the wall.  With his free hand, he slowly pulled her stocking cap straight up.  Long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders.  He caressed it and then slowly wound his fingers into it and released her throat.

"Please, if it's money you want . . ."

        Without answering, he pulled back and down on her hair, bending her backwards until she was looking up into his face.

"Money?" he said softly.  "I'm going to take everything you've got."

"Please," she began.

        Suddenly he slung her viciously to her hands and knees.  As she screamed, he yanked her back to her feet.

 

283.

         "Shut up!  Don't say another word," he whispered harshly as he shoved her back against the wall.

Ivey stared at him mutely.

"You want me to enjoy myself, don't you?"

She began to sob.

"Unbutton the coat."

When she didn't comply immediately, he sighed.

        "I'll slit his throat if you can't do better than this.  You're smart Ivey.  Don't you realize that you're the only one who can get this over with?  As soon as I get what I want, I'm out of here.  Now.  Get to it."

        She fumbled at the buttons and then dropped her hands to her sides and looked down, waiting for him to do whatever he would do.

        "Look at me," he commanded as he slid the coat from her shoulders and let it slip to the floor.  He adjusted his grip on her hair, grasping it closer to her scalp.  Pleased with the terrified look in her eyes, he spoke loudly.

        "Brent, Ivy's got something she wants to show me.  I think I'll share it with you."

        He guided her into the bedroom, watching the horrified look on her husband's face, he almost missed it when her eyes flitted to the nightstand.

"Let's see what's in there," he said as he guided her over.

        Holding her by the hair, he pulled open the drawer and removed a small pistol.  Slipping it into his pocket he released her.

        "You're not going to get out of this without giving me what I came for," he said.  "If you try to run away I'm going to shoot Brent right between the eyes.  Then I'll chase you down and do the same to you."

Ivy stood hugging herself, shaking uncontrollably.

"I'll do whatever you say," she choked out.  "Just don't hurt us."

        "Hey," he said, as he began unbuttoning her blouse.  "That's the way I prefer it.  I've done this a dozen a times.  Most of the time, my . . . hosts don't even report it to the police."

 

284.

He stroked her hair.

        "It avoids all the embarrassment that way.  Your friends don't have to know what happened to you.  You're picture isn't smeared all over the papers.  You don't have to tell all the details to some policeman while he imagines that he was the one that did it to you.  This way it can stay our little secret---yours, mine, and Brent's.  We all just walk away from it and go on with our lives.  That's what you want, isn't it?"

 

        Mic held the jerking cord taut until Ivy went limp.  Then he let the body sprawl forward.  Releasing the garrote, he left it draped loosely over her bare shoulders.  He tousled her hair as he closed his eyes and caught his breath.  Then he got up from the bed and tucked in his shirttail.

"Quite a show, huh, Brent?" he said as he put on his gloves on.

        Taking the pistol from his pocket, he wiped it clean with Ivey's blouse.  Then he took a pillow from the bed, using it to prevent blowback as he shot the husband in the forehead.  After retrieving the camera, he flipped the woman onto her back, repositioned her, and took two pictures.

"That second one was in case she blinked, Brent," he murmured.

 

        He dressed in new clothes purchased at a Rapid City discount store.  He huddled close to a brick barbecue grill at a campsite near Lake Weten and stirred the blackened remnants of his old clothes, shoes, the remainder of the duct tape, and cotton cord.  He placed more wood on the fire and made sure it was still burning before leaving the deserted park.  Already he was coming down, the exhilaration fading so quickly that it was almost as if it hadn't really happened.  He felt cheated.

        It used to last, he said to himself as he reached the highway.  He almost went back for one more look, but that would be really stupid.

        "It was just a dry run," he reminded himself as he turned onto the road to put distance between himself and his latest conquest.

285.

Spence's Story

Kenner's Cafe, Cassville, 6:52 PM

        Kenner's was a mom and pop cafe wedged between a hardware store and a recently vacated pool hall.  They sat near a window, sipping iced tea while awaiting Spence.

        "Richard, maybe that woman was right.  If Mic had all these girls who admired him, what would compel him to attack Carly Williams?"

        "Senter says power is important.  The terror of the victim is a big part of the payoff.  He doesn't want admiration or anything consensual."

"So he wants to hurt them."

        "Yes, and if he thought she felt superior to him, he could have been driven to punish her---put her in her place, so to speak."

        "Miss Morgan said that he did not physically abuse the girls," said Jill thoughtfully.  "He did manipulate her, however.  That is control, is it not?"

        "He got a kick out of it when she got caught," he said, looking out the window as an old couple approached.  "He's here, and there's a woman with him."

 

John Spence's callused hand gripped his firmly.

        "Mr. Carter this is my wife, Joan," he said, nodding toward a short, gray haired woman beside him.

        "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," replied Richard with a nod.  "This is my fiancée, Jill Belbenoit."

Mrs. Spence returned a tight smile of acknowledgment.

        The narrow room's limited floor space was crowded with tables, but there were few customers, and none close.

"What got you interested in Carly Williams?" asked Spence as he sat."

Taken aback by the abrupt question, Richard decided to hit the problem head on.

 

286.

         "A woman in Michigan was abducted and killed recently.  A man associated with her went to school with the Williams girl."

Spence frowned.

"How did you find that out?"

Richard wondered how much he should tell Spence.

"I know him.  He got drunk and said something that made me suspicious."

"He told you about her?" asked Spence dubiously.

"No, just that he had done something down here when he was a kid."

"Why would he do that?"

        "He attacked Richard," interrupted Jill.  "Then he threatened me.  Perhaps to make the threat credible he taunted Richard by saying he had done something violent before, when he was young." 

        "I don't know why he said it," added Richard.  "But when I found out that the Williams case is still unsolved, I decided to see if there was any connection between the two of them."  

Spence nodded sourly.

        "You're the first person in years to take any interest in her at all.  Your notion may be way off base, but I don't see how it can hurt to let you know a few things about the case."

        "My husband's interest is personal," said the old lady, speaking for the first time.  "He was the one who found her."

        "I want someone to find the thing who . . . done that to that little girl," he said.  "I overheard you at the office.  The sheriff don't take you serious because you're not a lawman."

"You do?"

        "All I know is that you come all the way down here from Michigan, so you think you got a good reason.  I don't know if there's anything to your suspicions or not."

He sipped at his coffee, seemingly reluctant to go on.

        "Your wife said you found her," said Richard.  "Can you tell us anything about it?"

 

287.

        "Mind if I let Joan go on home?  I just brought her down here to set you and your lady at ease.  Might be a good idea if your lady went some'rs else too."

        "John insisted that I bring my car," said Mrs. Spence to Jill.  "He treats me like a child."

Spence scowled, but didn't say anything.

        "Dear," she said, patting his hand, "I've heard it all before, but only in bits and pieces over the years."

She patted Jill's hand too.

        "Don't worry dear.  My husband is incapable of being indelicate around the weaker sex."

        Spence looked out the window onto the street at nothing in particular.  He seemed to be debating with himself silently, or perhaps he was weighing the chances of convincing his lady to go on home.

        "I was out patrolling Fasco Road," he began without preamble.  "That's south of town.  I went by the Taylor place about a quarter of six that morning.  Went about a mile past his trailer when it dawned on me that the lights was on.  Ed and his wife was getting a divorce, and she'd went off to her folks in Springfield.  He's took off on a fishing trip to Canada, so there shouldn't have been no lights on.  I went back to check it out.  Everything looked normal.  Front door was locked, and I couldn't hear nothing going on inside.  But the back the door had been fooled with.  I pulled my piece and slipped in the back door.  There had been some burglaries out that direction."

He sipped his coffee.

"I found her on the bed in there."

Spence cleared his throat.

        "He arranged her on the bed, but she was probably killed right off, not at the trailer.  According to Claude---he's the coroner---she was hit on the back of the head with a pipe or something.  He said he don't think she could ever come to after she was hit.  She was cold when I touched her neck.  Not that I . . . you could see it in the eyes.  Still, it's something you have to do."

        "No evidence to amount to nothing.  No fingerprints, blood, or anything.  Tire tracks out back of the trailer, but not clear enough to get an impression.  There were jimmy marks on the door . . . looked like a screwdriver maybe.  No real leads either."

"How about suspects?"

 

288.

       "Not really.  There was a guy name of Hankins . . . bad character . . . done time for child molesting over in Galena.  He didn't have no alibi, and people give him a hard time---not that he didn't deserve it.  Finally ruled out because he didn't have access to a car.  I never did think he done it."

"Why not?" asked Richard.

        "Perverts like him ain't interested in girls like Carly Williams.  She was just a child, but she didn't look like no child."

"No one ever suspected William Boyd?"

        "He was just a punk kid with a lot of juvie trouble.  I don't recall him being questioned.  They weren't well acquainted."

"You're sure he wasn't questioned?"

        "My husband has a good memory, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Spence unexpectedly, reaching across to pat Spence's hand.  "Too good when it comes to poor Carly."

"Now, Joan," he said in irritation.

        "We talked to her friends, family, and all the people at the prom that night," he continued.  "She picked that night to tell her boyfriend that she was going off to SMSU and that they should split up.  He run his fist through a window, and they throwed him out of the prom.  He was the prime suspect for a while because he didn't get home until the middle of the next day and couldn't explain where he'd been.  Then, his friends fessed up.  They'd been together at one of em's house boozin' it up.  The dad confessed to getting the alcohol for ‘em.  They all passed the polygraph."

        "That left us with no suspects.  A bunch of people in town got the idea that it was someone just passing through that done it, but that was nonsense.  It was somebody right here."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Richard.

        "The jimmy marks on the trailer were rusted.  That would take a couple of days at least.  Someone broke in right after Ed took off for Canada.  He wasn't passing through.  Someone local already knew of an out-of-the-way place where he could take Carly when he decided to grab her."

"Mr. Spence, the paper didn't give many details at all." 

        "Old John Biggers' . . . editor of the Cassville Democrat . . . didn't believe in trying cases in the paper.  But I don't think he could bring himself to publish a detailed description of the way we found her---out of consideration for the family."

 

289.

"Could you tell me about the crime scene?"

Spence looked out the window for what seemed like a long time.

        "You ladies are gonna have to go on," he said without taking his eyes from the street.

        "Come on, dear," said Mrs. Spence.  "You can wait in the car with me until the men have finished."

Jill looked questioningly at Richard.

"Yes, well we will be outside in the car I suppose," she said.

Spence was silent for some time after they were gone.

        "I was glad when none of it come out.  Mr. Man, you'd best not be running a game on me.  I don't want to see this is in the paper or in some book either."

        "We've told you nothing but the truth," said Richard.  "I'm trying to keep what happened to that young lady from happening to someone else's little girl."

        "She was face up . . . naked to the waist with her hands under her like they was tied, but they wasn't.  He'd put these frilly red and black . . . drawers      on her.  Her mom said they wasn't hers.  The clothes she wore to the prom were gone.  We never found them."

"Had she been molested?" asked Richard.

"Not according to Claude.  He just . . . messed with her."

"Messed with her?"

        "There were marks on her neck . . . ligature marks, they call them . . . but she was already dead when he did that.  There wasn't no bruising, and something about the inside of the eyelids . . . they say you can tell."

        "Capillaries rupture when a person is strangled," said Richard.  "It's called petechial hemorrhaging, I think."

Spence cleared his throat again.

        "When I saw how he laid her out I was scared we'd find more like her, but it never happened."

"Do you think Boyd could have done it?"

 

290.

       "Right off, I'd say he was too young.  As a juvie he was always doing community service, juvie probation, counseling---all the stuff that don't work.  Later we suspected him of burglary.  Around nineteen he beat up a girl and burned up her boyfriend's car too."

"He didn't go to prison for that?"

        "The lawyer convinced Judge Harlowe that the boy had potential, something about his IQ.  Said she could get him into the armed services but only if he didn't have a criminal record.  The judge bought it and got the prosecutor to drop the charges.  He joined the Marines, as I recall.  His Momma moved off.  Neither of them ever come back."

"Mr. Spence, do you think he could have killed her?"

Spence stared at him a long moment, considering the question.

"Son, I don't know what kind of man it takes to do a thing like that."

 

         Dressed in pajamas and a robe, Jill came from the bathroom and sat in the room's sole chair between the beds.  Seeing her somber expression, Richard swung his stocking feet from the bed and sat up.

 "Something wrong?" he asked

        "While I was showering I realized how much I want it to be Mic who killed that girl.  That seems as if I am victimizing her also."

"So you want a solution.  She's beyond hurting, don't you think?"

"I suppose.  It is just that when I think of it . . . of what happened . . . it is too real."

        "It may sound trite, Jill, but if we can somehow make him pay for what he did to her then . . . well, there needs to be some justice for her or for the family."

        "Yes.  There is never just one victim, is there?  It is so awful.  The sheriff is right.  We must be careful not to accuse him prematurely or falsely.  We have already said too much about him perhaps."

        "Spence told me that he beat a girl before he left here.  So much for Leona Morgan's theory that he wouldn't assault a female."

 

291.

"Why?"

"Jealousy I presume.  He burned her boyfriend's car."

Jill didn't seem as surprised as he had anticipated.

        "Jill, I've been thinking about the night she was abducted, about her motivation and the way she probably acted.  Do you think she just accepted a ride with someone from school or maybe an adult she knew?"

        "It would have to be someone she knew and trusted.  She was smart and responsible."

        "She was an upset kid who had just had a fight with her boyfriend.  Emotionally distraught adolescents often do things that are out of character."

        "Her boyfriend was emotionally distraught, not she.  She was depressed because she had hurt someone she was fond of and had chosen the wrong time to tell him that their relationship was over.  Had he ended it she might have accepted a ride incautiously.  She wanted to be alone, I think."

        To Richard it seemed that Jill could understand things about the girl that he was incapable of.

"Go on.  You're doing great," he said.

Jill furrowed her brow in concentration.

        "I do not think she planned to tell him at the dance.  Perhaps he forced it by something he said.  He may have chosen the occasion to ask her to marry him.  After his---do they call it ‘a fit of anger?  After that she would not want to stay.  She cannot go home in his car, so she walks perhaps.  The night is warm and the sky is clear."

"How do you know what the weather was like?"

        "The weather forecast was in the newspaper," she said impatiently.  "So while she walks, someone sees her and tries to force her into his car."

        "No.  He hit her in the back of the head, only too hard, killing her instead of only knocking her out.  The boyfriend would be the perfect suspect except for the alibi and polygraph."

        Richard imagined a troubled underclassmen cruising the town and spotting one of the most popular girls walking alone.

 

292.

       He knows where she live, so goes ahead and waits until she comes by.  He hides and rushes out as she passes, bashing her unconscious.  He throws her into the vehicle and takes her to the trailer where he discovers that she is already dead.  But why the postmortem strangulation, the change of clothing, and the posing of the body?

        "He'd been thinking about doing something like that for some time," he said.  "She was a victim of opportunity, but he had a place ready and he had the costume ready for her, lingerie to make her wear.  He had a script too:  strangulation, and displaying her dressed and posed lewdly.  He tried to turn her into his fantasy."

Thinking about it made her feel ill.

         "Spence said her prom clothes were never found," he continued.  "He wouldn't keep them all for souvenirs---except maybe a small item.  Maybe he destroyed them because knew about trace evidence, which we know he did because he left nothing at the trailer but the body and the jimmy marks."

"Why did he not burn the trailer?" she asked.

"Because he wanted her to be found.  That's why he left the lights."

        Killing her was not enough, thought Jill,  He punished her after she was dead.  What would he have done to her if she were alive?

        "I know you think Mic did this, Richard.  But remember that it is only an assumption."

       "True, but what Leona Morgan described was a classic sociopath:  alienated, a misfit, skillful at manipulation, unable or uninterested in emotional relationships."

He stood.

"I'm going to take a shower unless you want me to go out for ice cream again."

"No," she said.  "I have no appetite."

While Richard was in the bathroom Jill thought about Mic.

        He certainly manipulated me.  His stories about Somalia.  He knew just how  to impress me with his sensitivity.  How could I have been fooled for so long when he never showed any real signs of affection?  All he cared about was my looks.

        That he never cared deeply for her had been apparent from the beginning.  The unmistakable implication of that was that she was only attracted to him for physical reasons also.

 

293.

Why was I a fool for so long?

Then she realized how Mic had maintained his fiction. 

When Richard came from the bathroom she neither looked up nor spoke.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"You knew what he was doing all along," she said.

She saw the shock on his face.

        "I mean the lies.  All the things he told me about Africa.  And you knew how he . . . thought about me."

        "I wanted to say something to mess it up for him, but I . . . can't explain my behavior to myself much less to you.  Look, would you have said something to me if Marta had been doing something like that?"

"Marta would not."

"Of course not.  But if she had."

        "I might speak with her.  I see your point, but it still makes me angry because you helped him deceive me."

        "Then you're going to be angrier, and I don't blame you.  All this is my fault.  Mic only came to your table that day because he noticed me staring at you.  Jill, I didn't point you out.  I didn't talk about you.  He just picked up on my interest somehow."

She nodded slowly.

        "It no longer matters.  Aunt Mirabelle says worrying about the past is tending the ashes instead of the fire.

 

294.

 Cassville, September 7

       Further interviews with classmates tended to diminish rather than support Leona Morgan's story.  Male classmates remembered him as tough, smart, and sometimes funny.  Women described him as a handsome with a bad boy image that raised warning flags for some and lured others.  Richard sensed lingering admiration for the trouble Mic caused at school.  No one claimed to have been his friend.  One of the women suggested that they speak with one of the few teachers with whom Mic got along.  Paul Canaday agreed to talk with them, perhaps because Jill made the call requesting the meeting.

 

        When they entered Kenner's at two that afternoon, most of the tables were taken.  A tall, balding man waved them to his booth just as a teenage waitress came to take his order.

"What would you like to drink?" he asked as they slid in.

"Coffee, I think," said Richard.  "Tea for you, Jill?"

        When she nodded, the man spoke to the waitress.  "Cindy, could you bring us two coffees and a tea for the lady?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Canaday," she said with a smile.

        "Former student," explained Canaday.  "I've taught half the county.  It gets embarrassing when I can't remember names.  I remember exactly what they were like, even where they sat, but I've misplaced a truckload of names."

"But you find William Boyd easy to remember?" prompted Jill.

"A body doesn't forget someone like him.  Or something like what happened to Carly."

He smiled apologetically.

"This is a small town.  When strangers come asking about Carly, word gets around."

"It is not just curiosity, Mr. Canaday," said Jill.

        "No, but you're not writing a book either, and you're not journalists.  You're not recording the interview or taking notes.  Then again, maybe I've seen too many movies."

 

295.

He frowned.

        "Whatever you're doing, folks, please don't talk to the Williams family.  Carly was their only child.  They couldn't tell you anything anyway.  They're the most bewildered people in town.  If you're decent people you won't refresh their sadness."

"We will not bother them," Jill promised.

Canaday looked in her eyes for just a moment.

"Good enough for me."

        He took a sip of coffee, tented his hands before him with his elbows on the table, his index fingers resting lightly on his pursed lips.

"I'm curious.  Are you French or Canadian?"

"My accent?" she asked in surprise.

        "You don't have one as far as I can detect, except when you introduced yourself.  Belbenoit, you said?"

"French," she said, impressed.  "And your pronunciation is perfect."

"That's all that's left from my high school French classes, I'm afraid.  Use it or lose it." 

Canaday's smile faded, and he looked away.

"Mr. Canaday?" said Jill.

        "Mike, call me Mike," he said distractedly.  "I may have an ethical problem here, especially given my personal feelings about William.  I didn't like him, Miss Belbenoit.  I didn't like him at all.  So you see, I'm quite biased and people change as they mature---at least that's the premise behind sealing juvenile records."

"Could you tell us the kind of trouble he got into at school?" asked Richard.

        "If I gave you specifics even about his attendance I'd be breaking the confidentiality statute."

"Perhaps you can tell us what he was like as a child," Jill suggested.

"Is he still charming?" he asked.

 

296.

"He can be," she replied.

        "He could be with classmates.  Not with adults, however.  He did that Eddy Haskell routine, you know?  Well, perhaps you don't.  I keep forgetting how old I am.  Suffice it to say there was no sincerity, not even a genuine attempt fake it.  He delighted in his disrespect, but was always careful to maintain, to borrow a phrase from an earlier era, plausible deniability."

He stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting from Jill's to Richard's.

        "It's obvious that you think he killed Carly." he said.  "If you're looking for me to confirm that theory, I can't."

        "We only want to know what he was like as a teenager.  We have spoken to classmates, and now we need an adult perspective," said Jill.

        "We just want background information," added Richard.  "We aren't asking you to judge him."

        "Before we go on tell me why this is so important to you?  You've come a long way for this."

Jill looked questioningly at Richard.

"It's your call," he said.

        "He threatened to kill me," she said softly.  "I need to know if I should take the threat seriously."

        "You're not kidding," he said.  "Oh boy!  How can I tell you that?  I haven't seen him in over ten years.  I can't say anything definitively."

"Then tell me your impressions," she said.

Canaday pursed his lips.

        "Impressions!  Okay.  I'll tell you a little incident---my first run in with him.  I saw this really small junior high boy arguing with one of our new teachers.  She wasn't handling it well, so I decided to help.  Usually a stern word or two will settle a junior high kid right down.  Not this time.  William stared me right in the eye, amused as all get out.  And he got a rise out of me just as he intended.  This knee-high kid was so absolutely sure of himself.  He was chewing on the pocket clasp of a pen and grinning at me.  I grabbed it, intending to pull it from his mouth, but he bit down on it and wouldn't let go.  His eyes twinkled."

 

297.

Canaday paused to sip his coffee, shaking his head as he recalled the incident.

        "Sounds silly, doesn't it?  But you see he knew that I couldn't even write up a discipline referral.  I mean, what am I going to say?  He smiled at me.  He chewed on the cap of a pen.  You see, he had that all figured out.  I'd let myself get maneuvered into this situation, thinking that I was taking charge, but now I see that he's in control.  William just stands there with a triumphant smirk on his face---absolutely unafraid.  We still used corporal punishment back then, but you could have beat that kid within an inch of his life and it wouldn't make any difference.  No one ever intimidated that kid."

Canaday seemed embarrassed after telling the story.

        "I'm just a social studies teacher, not a psychologist.  I do know that an awful lot of pubescent boys have some of the traits I saw in William."

"However . . ." prompted Jill.

        "Most grow out of it.  William just stopped getting caught.  There was always trouble around him, but his hangers on always paid for it, not him."

        "From your years of being around young people, how unusual do you think he was?" asked Richard.

He paused.

        "I'm only telling you this because you may be in danger," he said to Jill.  "I think he may be a psychopath.  Stay as far as you can from him, Miss Belbenoit."