“Are you talking about bullying?”

“That’s the term we use today. I’m sure the students from Sandville got more than their share of abuse. They were at the bottom of the heap.”

“Do you think Terry or his sister were bullied?”

“I don’t know specifically, but I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re more sensitive to that kind of thing these days. But so much goes on that’s beyond adult supervision. You know, on the bus or at the bus stop, in bathrooms and hallways. It’s like we’re on different planets, the adults and kids, and unfortunately we’re never able to control some of the bad stuff that happens in their world.”

“Do you remember anything more about Terry’s death?”

“There were a couple of articles in the paper. And there were some rumors. People always talk. I can’t tell you if there was anything to them. I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember,”

“Rumors, what kind of rumors?”

“Like I said, I can’t remember details, but some people thought it didn’t quite add up. They said maybe he was killed. Why would anyone kill him? Anyway, they didn’t have anything more than feelings. There was no evidence. ”

“One more question,” Sue said as Schaffer put her hand on the door. “What else can you tell me about Sandville?”

“Not much. Some,” she said, shrugging. “I guess it was a flourishing village back in the lumber days. A hundred years ago, there was a railroad and two or three mills, a store, post office, a saloon, and a couple of churches. When the lumber was played out, the land was sold off cheap for farms. You know, the soil is so fragile up here. But the immigrant settlers were lured by cheap land. They pulled out the stumps and built farms and had a few good years growing potatoes. It wasn’t long before the soil was depleted and people started drifting away. Then some businessman from down south, maybe Ludington, bought up most of the land east of town and started what they called a sand mine. They hauled out millions of tons on the railroad. I think that lasted until sometime in the 50s. It tore up the terrain something awful, just like strip mining. That area is mostly overgrown now. It’s worthless land. And almost nothing is left of the town now—a cemetery and a few old houses. There used to be lots of vacant houses, but they had some arson a decade or so ago. People said it was one boy, others thought it was a gang of them that liked to see things burn. Since they were unoccupied, pretty much worthless, I don’t think anyone cared. Anyway, Sandville is little more than a ghost town. Sorry I can’t tell you much else. We haven’t been very good at writing down local history.” Schaffer smiled sadly.

“On the contrary, you’ve been most helpful. Could I see Terry’s records, and would you check and see if there was a request for the girls’ records?”

“Yes. This will take a few minutes.”

While she waited, Sue pulled her laptop from a backpack and typed notes about her conversation with Schaffer. Then she read through them, making revisions and corrections.

Finally, Schaffer returned, a little out of breath. “I have the folders for Caitlyn and her sisters,” she said, settling back at her desk and opening the top folder. She shifted through the contents, then she did the same for the other two. She peered up at Sue over the top of her glasses and shook her head. “Nope, nothing. It doesn’t appear that there were any requests for records. But like I said, that’s not uncommon.”

“So you’ve got the folders for Terry’s siblings. I’d be interested in seeing Terry’s school records, too.”

“I’d planned to bring his, but…” She opened the top folder distractedly.

“But what?”

“I couldn’t find his CA60, his file that is. It doesn’t seem to be there.”

“Maybe it was moved after he died?” offered Sue.

“We’ve never done that. We’ve always kept every class year together, A to Z. I’ll do some more checking. I don’t understand it.”

“Do you have an address for the family, the Sandville address?” asked Sue.

Schaffer opened the top folder again and scanned with her finger. “Yes, it’s 411 North Second Street. I doubt if there is still a structure there.”

“You have my card,” said Sue. “If anything else occurs to you about Terry or his siblings, please give me a call. And I’d like to know if you find his records.”

“I’ll look for them,” she said, shaking her head again. “This is most peculiar.”

4

Ray sat at his conference table, the 10 pages of a Missing Person Report laid out in two sets of five. Ray couldn’t remember ever having any previous contact with the woman sitting on the other side of the table, but she looked vaguely familiar. She’d identified herself as Joan Barton, and appeared to be in her middle to late 50s. Her long black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into a loose bun. A tight black jacket covered a maroon turtleneck.

“There’s a lot I didn’t fill in,” Barton said, her hands grasped together in her lap.

“I understand. It’s a generic form. Only a fraction of the information applies in this case.” Ray looked at second page the form, “And you’re Vincent Fox’s daughter, Ms. Barton?”

“Yes.”

Ray slid the first page of the report across the table. “Would you put your e-mail in the margin next to the phone numbers. We need to get this form updated.”

“Can you read it?” she asked, sliding the form back.

“No problem, you have beautiful handwriting.” Ray sat back and took a breath. “When did you last see your father?”

Speaking quickly, Barton said, “It was this past Wednesday. I took him grocery shopping and to the bank. Then we had lunch at the Last Chance. He loves their cheeseburgers and fries. That’s not what I think he should be eating, but when you’re pushing 90 it probably doesn’t matter much.”

“And you’ve had no contact since then?” he asked, noting the shade of her eyes, a mahogany brown.

“I call every day to check on him, but quite often I don’t reach him. I don’t bother to leave messages because he refuses to learn how to use voicemail, says he doesn’t want to talk to a machine. I even got him a cell phone and he wouldn’t use it.” She shrugged, tugged at her collar. “So it’s no big thing if we miss a day or two, sometimes three. Like I said, I was with him on Wednesday. He didn’t answer on Thursday. We did connect on Friday and Saturday morning. But then I couldn’t reach him Sunday or yesterday morning. I went downstate to visit one of my kids; my daughter’s having a rough time with a pregnancy.” She lifted her chin. “I help her with housework and look after my two very energetic grandsons. Then I called him several times as I was driving north this morning. And instead of stopping at my house in Traverse City, I just drove right up to his place. His little dog was there, cold and hungry. He almost never goes anywhere without her. His bike was there, too. That’s how he gets around. And now that the snow is mostly gone, he’s been using it again.”

Barton was looking agitated. Ray smiled and said gently, “So you went to his house. Tell me what you did then, step by step.”

“I parked in the drive. His dog came out and yapped at me—there’s a dog door and a small fenced area off the kitchen. I don’t know if I’m over-reading the situation, but the dog seemed more hysterical than usual. Dad’s very hard of hearing, but the barking is usually enough to bring him to the door. I knocked and knocked, and when I didn’t get a response, I let myself in.”

“The door was locked?”

“Yes, he’s very compulsive about that, keeping the place locked up. He’s afraid of getting robbed,” she scoffed. “Not that there’s much anyone would want. I had a lock put on his door with one of those keypads about a year ago. I programmed his birth year as the entrance code, something he wouldn’t forget. Before that, he kept losing his key and then the backup, which he would invariably forget to return to its hiding place in the shed. He’d go to the neighbors and call me and ask me to drive out and open the door. That gets old real fast.”