Free Darkness peering by Alice Blanchard Page B

minute." His tall
forehead and alert eyes contrasted sharply with the rigidity

    of his jaw and those deep parenthetical lines around his lips, lips
she had once kissed and which, if she admitted it to herself, she still
wanted to kiss. "I think one of the boys who was there that night went
back and decapitated those cats. I don't think it was your brother,
though. I think Ozzie Rudd killed Melissa D'Agostino."
    "That's ridiculous." She tried to picture the soft-spoken truck
driver--her brother's childhood friend, the football coach's son, now a
devoted father himself--killing someone ... anyone ... but couldn't.
She'd known Ozzie since they were kids and he'd always been kind to
her, giving her an occasional Milky Way bar or a bottle of toilet
water.
    "I disagree." McKissack sat forward. "I think Ozzie Rudd shot those
cats, then went back later on and decapitated them for kicks. I think
he dropped Melissa D'Agostino off at Black Hill Road, then returned
later on to strangle her. I think he's one sick fuck."
    "So why wasn't he arrested?"
    "He had an alibi, if the girl is to be believed. "An old rage flared
in his eyes, then dissolved into resigned bitterness. "We couldn't
make a strong enough case to satisfy the D.A."
    "Ozzie's no murderer."
    He shrugged. "You asked."
    Her stomach constricted as she held his eye. "I'd like to reopen the
case."
    "What for?"
    "We owe it to her parents."
    He crossed his arms, and the body language book she once read would've
said he was shutting her out, being noninclusive. A lowered chin meant
insecurity, folded arms meant distrust. "We don't have the manpower.
We don't have the funds."
    "Please," she begged. She'd never asked him for a favor before. He
rubbed his eyes, smoke rib boning from his nose, and she wondered if he
missed her as much as she missed him. She could

    fee! the heat emitting from his body. He couldn't help himself, he
radiated vigor.
    "Rachel. I'd strongly advise against this. You never know what you
might uncover."
    "Like what? The truth?"
    Wearing a slightly defeated look, he tamped out his cigarette. "Do it
on your own time."
    "Thanks," she said, grateful. "I promise it won't interfere with my
regular duties."
    He leaned back in his chair. His desk was old wood. Oak. "I got my
picture in the paper right after the murder. Somebody cut out the
article, but I had to throw it away. I didn't want to be reminded."
His lips, pressed against one another, grew pale. "Doesn't matter how
many homicides you handle, you never get used to the death of a
child."
    She picked up the file. "All the more reason to find out what
happened."
    He gave her a wry smile. "You're more like your father than you
know."
    EVERY MORNING AT 8:30, BILLY STORROW WAITED FOR CLAIRE
    Castillo to join him in the lobby of Pelletier Hall, where together
they greeted their students. Claire taught the lowest-functioning
class of juniors and seniors at Winfield School for the Blind and
Special Needs, and Billy was her teacher's aide. Their students ranged
in age from sixteen to eighteen and most lived on campus in cottages
named after characters from Beatrix Potter books. The double doors of
Pelletier Hall--a grab bag of nineteenth century architecture--opened
into an ornate lobby with two

    banks of grillwork elevators and a central staircase. The lobby
glittered with glazed terra-cotta tile beneath a domed stained glass
skylight, and Corinthian pillars supported the fourteen foot ceilings.
Billy spotted Claire among the throng of students pouring into the
lobby and waved.
    "Hi, you," she said, slightly out of breath from walking up the front
steps. Her cheeks were flushed, and her long red hair was shiny and
brushed off her face, and he felt light-headed just standing next to
her.
    "Hey," he said as casually as he could.
    "I can't believe it's Monday already."
    "Do anything fun over the weekend?"
    "Naw, just sat around in my underwear, mostly."
    He was backed against