Not much later, a girl walked in front of my SUV. She was tall and, like many tall teenage girls, slumped in a self-conscious way. She had a longish nose, not much chin, and stick-thin legs. She wore a puffy silver coat, blue jeans, and tall rubber boots. Her hair was a light blond with a black streak blowing across her face. When I got out, I recognized her from the hallway yesterday. I had nearly run over her.

She nodded at me. “You work for Dillon’s mom?”

“I do.”

“And you wanted to find out why that moron arrested him for nothing?”

“That’s the idea.”

We stood in the shadow of the old mill, beside a city park with a snow-covered amphitheater. I asked her if she’d like to sit in my truck where it was warmer. Nothing like a middle-aged man trying to talk a teenager into his car. Even as the words came out of my mouth, I felt like a creeper. All I needed was to start keeping candy in my pocket.

“I’m already late for school.”

“I can drive you.”

“I’m okay,” she said. The girl held a battered purple backpack loose in her hand and hung there for a moment, seeming not to know what to say. She had a dark complexion with black eyes. The blond hair was probably fake but the streak was the original color. She shook a little in the cold wind.

“You fished my card from the trash?” I said.

“That asshole ran off to talk to Waters just as soon as you left.”

“He looked as though he needed the exercise.”

“Last year he broke into my best friend’s locker and found a half-pint of gin,” she said. “They arrested her and I haven’t seen her since. She was sent to some camp for girls. They make them raise vegetables and sing songs.”

“A lot of that going around?”

She nodded. She looked around as if the trees had ears. She peered up into the empty windows of the endless mill that probably coaxed her ancestors over away from the potato famine. The girl shifted her feet and squinted at my face, hands deep into the pockets of her puffy coat. She pulled the long streak of black out of her eyes. I wondered how much it cost to have all but one streak dyed or if she’d done it herself. Probably herself.

“How many?”

“How many what?” she said.

“Kids are getting sent off?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe ten, twelve from my grade. I know there are a lot of others. No one wants to make a big deal about it. You’re afraid to even open your mouth. You get labeled as a problem and they’ll ship you off.”

“What about probation?”

“Haven’t you heard,” she said. “No second chances in Blackburn. You get arrested and you’re done. Not just in school, but your whole life. You’re a freakin’ criminal.”

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You won’t get in trouble,” I said. “I just don’t know what to call you.”

“Beth.”

“Beth what?”

“Beth Golnick.”

“Okay, Beth Golnick,” I said. “You sure I can’t give you a ride?”

She looked at her cell phone and then back at me. “You could let me out at the gas station, down the street.”

“Sure,” I said. “Wherever you like.”

We got into my Explorer and circled out of the lot. I adjusted the vent and the girl placed her hands in front of the blower. The wind had been sharp over the river. We drove along Central into the downtown and then turned toward the high school.

“Dillon was my friend,” she said. “He didn’t deserve this. He was just joking. He should have gotten detention, not sent to that prison.”

“Why do you think they sent him?”

“To scare us,” Beth said. “They want to control our whole lives. They can’t stand it that they can only tell us what to do at school. They want to watch everything we do at home, too.”

“Why don’t the parents do something?”

“They’re afraid,” Beth said. “All the grown-ups around here have their own problems. They’re scared to speak up. I mean, a lot of them are Cambodian or Vietnamese and don’t even speak English. Some are from South America. My older brother, who’s like six years older than me, said they had some real trouble with gangs and drugs when he was in school. He says it’s different now. Better.”

“And now the school is abusing their power?”

“The school and the police.”

“They’re together in this?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Of course.”

“Can you give me the names of some kids who’ve been sent away?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?” I said. “It would help me to help Dillon.”

“Umm,” she said. “I can ask around.”

I drove through Blackburn, keeping the girl talking, but it wasn’t long until the school came into view. I spotted the gas station down the road and slowed beside the pumps. The gas station, like most things in the town, hadn’t changed much in fifty years. The place advertised fuel with a red neon mule that said IT KICKS!

“You know,” she said. “You’re wasting your time.”

“How so?”

“Newspaper wrote something about all this last year,” she said.

“And?”

“And nothing,” she said. “Shit happens. Nobody cares.”

“I care.”

“About Dillon, ’cause you’re paid,” she said. “What about the others?”

“One kid at a time.”

6

A big metal sign for The Star still advertised the newspaper from the top of the city’s tallest building. But the building had long been condemned and The Star had relocated to a redbrick storefront several blocks away. An antique printing press sat dusty behind a plate-glass window surrounded by framed front pages of Extra editions: Victory Over Japan, Man Walks on Moon, Nixon Quits, and the October when the Curse Was Reversed.

I doubted the paper was printed anymore. If it was, it was probably the size of a Bazooka Joe comic. I walked inside to find anyone who was left.

The ceiling was high and the walls were exposed brick. There were maybe a dozen desks, all empty except for two. A young white man and an older black woman sat staring at laptops. The white kid hopped up and approached the front desk. He wore a wrinkled blue dress shirt and a loose black tie around his skinny neck. Hip.

“News?” I said.

He seemed disappointed that I didn’t want to take out an ad. Maybe if all went well with this case I could open a branch office in Blackburn. The kid jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Over there,” he said.

The woman was heavyset but not fat, with a very short Afro and enormous gold hoop earrings. Her blouse was red and long-sleeved, with a keyhole cinch at the top. Black slacks and black boots. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with a bit of gray showing up in her hair. She wore canvas braces on her wrists and loosened them as she leaned back from her typing.

I smiled at her. She barely glanced up at me.

I told her I was an investigator from Boston. “I understand you worked on a piece about Judge Scali last year.”

“Mmhm,” she said.

“I understand he’s got quite a reputation,” I said.

“Mmhm.”

“Nice weather we’re having.”

She looked over the top of her reading glasses and pulled off the wrist braces. She tilted her head, staring at me as if I’d come to the wrong place. I just smiled back. Friendly old Spenser, community watchdog.

“You don’t remember me,” she said. “Do you?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Should I?”

“Don’t blame you,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a long time. But I sure as hell remember you, Spenser. You were looking for some fancy English book taken by some campus crazies about a million years ago.”