Survival Clause, стр. 39
“Sounds like a plan.” He looked up when Maureen stopped by the table again, and deposited our drinks. “Food’s coming up in a few minutes.”
Rafe nodded. “What happened to the baby?” I asked, since she—and Yvonne as well—were still MIA.
Maureen nodded toward the kitchen. “Still back there. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”
I had my mouth halfway open to say we were fine when Rafe got in ahead of me. “How old are you, Mo?”
“What kind of question is that to ask a lady?” I wanted to know, but Maureen just chuckled.
“Too old for you, sugar.”
When he just grinned, she added, “I just celebrated the big five-oh back in February. Why?”
“Just wondering whether you went to Columbia High the year Kent Jurgensson taught Latin there.”
Maureen’s face closed. “I didn’t take Latin.”
“But you were there that year?”
She tossed her neck, so the beehive swayed. “What if I were?”
“Just wondering whether you remember what happened.”
“We all remember what happened,” Maureen said. “Old Mr. Wilkins left, we got a new teacher, and he only lasted a year because he and one of the students got up to something they shouldn’t have after hours.”
“Do you know which student?” Rafe asked. If Maureen’s delivery had bothered him, he didn’t let it show.
“How would I know that?”
“It was a pretty big deal. Jurgensson lost his job. I imagine people were talking.”
She didn’t answer, and he added, “There was no police report filed, though.”
“Why d’you wanna know?” Maureen demanded. “It’s old news. Ancient history. Why drag it out again now?”
Rafe’s tone was as calm as Maureen’s was agitated. “It might pertain to a case I’m working on. A murder case.”
He let that sink in for a second before he added, “I just want to have a conversation with whoever it was. I’m trying to track down Jurgensson. Depending on the relationship, his…” He hesitated, “victim might have some idea where Mr. Jurgensson ended up after he left here.”
“It was a long time ago,” Maureen said again, but she sounded less confrontational now. Maybe it was the mention of the murder case, maybe the fact that Rafe was doing his best to be reassuring. “But I guess it can’t hurt to tell you. The boy’s name was Trent. Noah Trent. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” I echoed.
Maureen nodded. “Dead. Buried at Oak Street cemetery, if you want to check.”
“That likely won’t be necessary,” Rafe said. “Recently?”
“Ten years ago or so. Suicide.”
I winced. So did Rafe, if very faintly. “Thanks, Mo.”
“Don’t mention it,” Maureen said and walked away.
I made a face at her retreating back. “Ouch.”
Rafe nodded. “This job don’t usually make you popular.”
No, I could see that. “So Jurgensson’s victim isn’t your serial killer. If he’s been dead for ten years, he couldn’t have killed the woman this week. Or the one last year, or the year before that.”
Rafe shook his head.
“That’s a dead end, then.”
“There’s still Jurgensson,” Rafe said. “And Trent’s family.”
“His father would be too old, don’t you think? And why would one of Noah Trent’s family start killing women because Noah was molested by his teacher? His male teacher?”
“No idea,” Rafe said. “They prob’ly didn’t. But I still need to track down Jurgensson. Who’d prob’ly be too old, too…”
I nodded. “And if he’s gay, he wouldn’t really have a reason to go around killing women. He certainly wouldn’t be raping them. The incident with Noah wasn’t the trigger, because that happened fifteen years before the first murder, and Noah’s death wasn’t, because that happened almost a decade after...”
Rafe nodded. “Chances are this don’t have nothing to do with the case. But I still gotta tie it off.”
Because loose ends in a murder investigation made it hard to get a verdict later. Right.
“So if Jurgensson and what happened back then doesn’t have anything to do with the case, what about the…” I hesitated, since the Roman numerals weren’t public knowledge, “Latin connection?”
He shook his head. “No idea. Who else knows Latin?”
I thought about it. “Doctors, I guess. But a doctor isn’t likely to be cruising I-65 killing women.”
“No less likely than anybody else if he goes around the bend,” Rafe said, “but he wouldn’t be a truck driver.”
Probably not. “Doctors have other ways of killing patients, anyway. A doctor would probably be more likely to poison them.”
Rafe didn’t say anything to that, and I added, “Archaeologists know Latin. They’re always finding those old Roman temples and things…”
“Not in Tennessee,” Rafe said. “And an archaeologist probably wouldn’t be driving a truck up and down I-65 either.”
No. “Maybe it’s a way to confuse the issue. I mean, we both know certain Latin letters and numbers, and we aren’t doctors or archaeologists. Everyone who watches movies knows that the year the movie is made is written in Latin at the end of the credits. Most of us try to make it out. And a lot of clocks have Roman numerals instead of regular numbers. I think the courthouse clock on the square in Columbia does.”
Rafe’s eyes went a little distant as he thought about it. “Pretty sure you’re right.”
“So Roman numerals aren’t hard to come by. Maybe it’s just a regular guy trying to be fancy. No connection to anything Latin at all.”
“Maybe.” He looked up as someone approached our table, and his eyes went cool, even as he nodded politely. “Sergeant.”
Tucker didn’t bother to slow down on his way toward the front of the restaurant and the door, but he did dredge up a sneer. “Collier.”
I waited for Rafe to say something else, or for Tucker to, but neither did. Tucker moved past, and Rafe kept his eyes on mine as the sergeant stopped at the register to pay his bill before heading out into the gathering darkness.
“He’s gone,” I said.
Rafe nodded. “Sorry.”
“What for?” I went on without waiting for a response. “You aren’t