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sophomore year. I’m assuming that you’d still have his address and phone number.”

      “Kevin Stanger.” Again, he stroked his chin. “I’m sorry. I can’t put a face to the name.”

      Marge said, “Maybe you don’t know him, so I’ll clue you in to what I heard. Kevin Stanger transferred because he was bullied.”

      Punsche shook his head. “If he were bullied here, I would have heard about it.”

      “You didn’t hear about it,” Oliver said. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

      “Look, I don’t know everything, but I do know a lot. If we knew that a child was being bullied, we would deal with the situation quickly and efficiently. We have no patience for that kind of nonsense.”

      “So bullying doesn’t go on here?”

      “There are cliques. Although the school excels in academics, sports, and theater arts, it’s still a high school filled with teenagers. There are popular kids and I’m sure they’re not the most gracious to everyone. There are bound to be kids who feel like outcasts. But that’s a far cry from bullying.”

      Marge tried a different approach. “I’m sure you’ve got an excellent feel for your students. Right now, all we’re looking for is a couple of phone numbers. Heck, all we want is to bring a little, bitty piece of comfort to Wendy by nailing down a few details. Help us with that.”

      Punsche said, “I suppose I can get you the phone numbers. Kevin Stanger may take a few minutes because he’s not current and is no longer in the computer.”

      “That’s okay,” Oliver said. “We can wait.”

      “If you can get us Gregory’s class schedule, that would be helpful,” Marge added.

      “Surely you didn’t come all this way just to get a few numbers and a class schedule,” Punsche said.

      Marge said, “Actually we did. We were in the neighborhood anyway. But while we’re here, if there’s anything else you can tell us about Gregory that might be helpful, please feel free to talk.”

      Oliver said, “Things like what he did, who’d he hang out with, what clubs he was in … what made him tick.”

      “This is embarrassing but I’ll say it anyway.” Punsche’s cheeks pinkened. “I didn’t really know the boy. I never had any cause to become … involved with him. Usually, I deal with problems and problem boys. As far as I knew, Gregory fit in nicely.”

      “Is that opinion based on something concrete or the absence of problems?”

      The VP hedged. “I’m sure I would have gotten to know him better. But when all this went down, I was … unaware that he was troubled.”

      Oliver said, “Since you didn’t know him well, maybe you can direct us to someone who did.”

      Punsche seemed bothered. “Try some of his teachers. I’ll get you that class schedule, and then if I were you, I’d just go down the list.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      I’D SHOOT MYSELF if I had to be in high school for nine hours a day, five days a week.” Oliver was looking over the class schedule. “Whatever happened to creative boredom?”

      “That’s why Hollywood is mostly remakes of old stuff.” Marge was behind the wheel. They had finished up with Bell and Wakefield by one and were headed toward Dr. Olivia Garden’s dermatology practice in Sylmar. “No ingenuity. And I’m not even talking redoing the classics. It’s like sixties sitcoms or Charlie’s Angels. Lowbrow stuff.”

      “There I disagree.” Oliver looked wistful. “Charlie’s Angels had redeeming virtues.”

      Marge smiled. “I told Lee Wang to take the Ruger to ballistics and see if it’s been used in other crimes.”

      “How do you think Hesse got hold of it?”

      “Beats me.” Marge’s cell rang. “Can you get that for me?”

      “You could use Bluetooth.”

      “So you could hear all my personal stuff? No, thank you.”

      “Picky, picky.” Oliver rooted through her purse and picked it up. “Detective Oliver.”

      The voice on the other side was female and hesitant. “I’m returning a call from Sergeant Dunn.”

      “She’s driving right now. Who am I talking to?”

      “This is Nora Stanger.”

      “Ah, thank you for calling back, Mrs. Stanger. I’m Sergeant Dunn’s partner, Detective Scott Oliver. We’re going over some details of Gregory Hesse’s tragic suicide and wondered if we could talk to you. I understand your son, Kevin, was a friend of his?”

      “The boys hadn’t seen each other in a while.”

      “Yes, I know Kevin transferred out of Bell and Wakefield. I was hoping that your experience could shed some light on what happened. Gregory’s mother, Wendy Hesse, is suffering, and any answers we could give her would be helpful.”

      The voice over the line was baleful. “That poor woman.”

      “She’s really in the dark about what happened. And we don’t know a lot about Bell and Wakefield. The administration, of course, is protective of the school. Maybe you can fill us in. My partner and I have an open schedule. What would work for you?”

      “I … I have to talk to Kevin. At this age, I can’t make decisions for him.”

      “You have Sergeant Dunn’s number. Let me give you mine.” Oliver rattled off some digits. “Le me know when it’s convenient for you to meet us. And thanks for calling back.”

      “You’re welcome.” Nora cut the line.

      Oliver stowed Marge’s phone back in her purse. “She has to ask Kevin.”

      Marge nodded.

      “What did you think about Punsche?”

      “Glad-hander and a bullshit artist,” Marge said. “But I believe him when he said that he wasn’t aware about Kevin Stanger’s problems.”

      “He must have known that the kid transferred.”

      “Maybe he knew about the transfer, but maybe not why. If the kid was bullied, I do think the school would have reacted.”

      “Maybe.” Oliver thought a moment. “I wonder how much Nora Stanger knows about her son’s problems.”

      “Enough to pull him out of the school,” Marge said. “Kevin’s the one we really want to talk to. He’s the one who can name names.”

      DR. OLIVIA GARDEN, M.D., and Dr. Gary Pellman, M.D., ASDP, was a medical corporation. The office was in a one-story strip mall that shared a parking lot with a doughnut shop, a sandwich shop, and a Laundromat. Marge found street parking and fed the meters.

      Once inside the office, Oliver knocked on the sliding glass partition. The woman behind the door was in her sixties, with short gray hair, a round face, and brown eyes. She wore no makeup but her skin was baby smooth—a walking advertisement for the practice. She had on a white coat, and a stethoscope dangled from her neck.

      “The office is officially closed until two, but maybe I can help you.”

      “We’re looking for Dr. Garden,” Marge said.

      “You found her.” After Marge presented her badge, the doctor said, “Come around the side.” She opened the door. “Let’s go into my office. I’m just finishing lunch.”

      “We’re sorry to interrupt,” Marge said.

      “No problem.” She ushered them inside her personal domain. “Pull

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