Which meant whoever killed Linklater had entered through the front door, then closed it upon leaving. Rachel looked at the photos. The doorframe was still intact. The chain was still attached to the wall. The wood had not been splintered in a way that would suggest the front door had been kicked in or tampered with. And if it had been, the security system would have gone off.
All of this meant one thing: Matthew Linklater had opened the front door for his killer.
It had to be somebody he knew. Someone he would open his front door for, without question, on a school night. Somebody he would not suspect. Somebody he believed was incapable of such a vicious crime.
Linklater did not come across to Rachel as a reckless man. He lived an ordered life. He did not fraternize with anyone outside a very, very small social circle. Which meant that whoever knocked on Linklater’s door the night he died was someone he trusted. But what if Linklater was right? What if the person he trusted actually was incapable of such violence?
The answer was obvious. There were at least two people in Matthew Linklater’s home the night he died. One of whom he knew and opened the door for. The other, Rachel surmised, was a stranger. Perhaps even someone Linklater did not see. Hiding just out of view. Waiting until Linklater opened the door before subduing him. Rachel rubbed her temples. Tried to picture the scene.
Linklater must have heard a knock at the door or the doorbell. He then went to answer it. He was a cautious man, so he looked through the peephole. He saw someone he recognized. Someone he trusted. Whoever had the gasoline, bucket, and rodent was out of view.
Rachel went over the case notes. Officers had interviewed many of Linklater’s neighbors and every teacher in the school. Nobody claimed to have seen Linklater within three hours of his death.
Everyone in his small circle of friends had an alibi. Stu Bendix, an old college classmate who lived in Ashby, was confirmed to be at home with his wife. ATM footage showed Dinesh Pandit, a former colleague at Pemberly Middle School, entering a movie theater with his son in Peoria and exiting two hours and eighteen minutes later. There were a few others, and all had airtight alibis.
Rachel had to wonder: If it wasn’t a fellow teacher or a friend, who else would Matthew Linklater have opened his front door for without hesitation?
She needed a break. Her eyes were bleary, and her shoulders ached from hunching over the computer. She’d drained the pot of coffee and felt jittery. Her tongue tasted like the underside of a carpet. She trudged upstairs to get a glass of water. She heard footsteps, grabbed a knife from the butcher’s block, and spun around, expecting to see Evie Boggs standing in her living room.
“Mom! Stop!”
Eric stood there, terror in his eyes. Rachel immediately put the knife in the sink and took a step toward her son. He took a step back.
“Eric, I’m sorry, I . . . my head isn’t right. I’ve been buried in paperwork.”
“Who did you think I was?” he said.
“Nobody,” she replied. “I’m just a little paranoid. I’m working on it. You can understand.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Eric held out a piece of paper. He did not come forward to hand it to her. It was a printout from her research. She’d obviously left a page in the machine. The printout was a picture of a large Norway rat.
“Why were you researching Midge?” Eric said.
“Midge?” Rachel said, confused.
“Yeah, isn’t this Midge? Midge is the rat Ms. Genova keeps in the biology lab. She went missing the other day. We all figured she finally escaped. This is her, right? Are you trying to find Midge?”
Rachel’s stomach did a flip. She knew where Midge was—at the Ashby City Morgue. She hadn’t escaped; she’d been taken. By someone with access to the biology classroom. It wasn’t a teacher, friend, or neighbor who knocked on Matthew Linklater’s door the night he died.
It was one of his students.
CHAPTER 12
Per orders from their APD superior, Lieutenant Mazzera, Serrano, and Tally joined the assembly at Ashby High to answer questions from the grief-stricken students and faculty about the death of Matthew Linklater. Their aim was to help calm a community reeling from a horrific act of violence toward one of their own and assure everyone that the crime would not go unpunished.
The entire high school, a thousand strong, filled the Seymour J. Esch gymnasium bleachers. Those who didn’t fit in the bleachers sat on the floor. The mood was somber. Serrano could not recall seeing so many children so eerily quiet all at once. He could hear soft whimpers from the bereaved, saw many of the students—and faculty—holding hands to give each other strength and solace.
Serrano and Tally sat on uncomfortable polyethylene steel-back chairs in the center of the gym, along with Principal Alvi and several other faculty members. Alvi wiped away tears and took the microphone.
Alvi’s voice cracked as she spoke, fat tears spilling down her cheeks.
“It is with a heavy, heavy heart that I begin today’s assembly with the news that Matthew Linklater, beloved teacher, colleague, and friend, has been taken from us.”
Taken from us, Serrano thought. Like someone came by and gently put him in a car and drove away, rather than being tortured and burned alive.
After Alvi’s remarks, Serrano and Tally gave a brief statement about the investigation and implored any students with information to come forward.
“We’re not looking to get anyone in trouble,” Tally said, to quell concerns about “narking.” “We just want to make sure Mr. Linklater gets the justice he deserves. Some of you might be able to help us do that.”
“Everything matters,” Serrano said. “Something you saw. Something you heard. Even if you think it doesn’t matter, maybe it does.”
Principal Alvi informed the students that grief counselors would be available and that substitutes would be filling in for Mr. Linklater until the end of the school year. There was a murmur of disapproval from the students; Serrano wondered if a few cold hearts had hoped social studies might be canceled, those with poor grades being granted a morbid reprieve.
The detectives stayed in the gym for an hour following the assembly, hoping a student or faculty member might come forward, take a business card, or ask to talk in private. Nobody did. Either Matthew Linklater’s death was a total mystery to Ashby High . . . or people were scared. They all watched the news, had access to social media. They knew how Linklater had died. The killer’s message had come across loud and clear, and nobody else wanted to be next.
Walking back to their car, Serrano and Tally noticed a small memorial for Matthew Linklater outside the school’s fence. Dozens of flower bouquets, framed photos of smiling students posing with Mr. Linklater, delicate votive candles, and prayer cards had been left in a neat, respectful circle. Taped to the fence was a large photograph of Matthew Linklater taken at the prior year’s graduation ceremony. He was wearing a brown sport coat, his hair neatly combed and parted, his arms around two graduating seniors, all three of them caught midlaugh. Written in yellow chalk underneath the memorial were four words, encircled by a red heart: We will miss you.
“God, what a waste,” Tally said.
“How do you think it went in there?” Serrano said.
“Unusual that not a single person came forward after the assembly,” Tally said. “All these flowers and mementos, but apparently not one of the people in that building knows anything about what happened to Matthew Linklater. I don’t buy it.”