As Smithback scrolled through the Web site, the sinking feeling returned. It was all so unspeakably boring. But there was one detail that caught his eye. Every student had been given a nickname, and Fairhaven’s was “The Slasher.” He felt his disappointment abate just slightly. The Slasher. It would be nice if the nickname turned up a secret interest in torturing animals. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
And he’d graduated only sixteen years ago. There would be people who remembered him. If there was anything unsavory, Smithback would find it. Let that bastard crack his paper next week and see how fast that smug smile got wiped off.
P.S. 1984. Luckily, the school was only a cab ride away. Turning his back on the computer, Smithback stood up and reached for his jacket.
The school stood on a leafy Upper West Side block between Amsterdam and Columbus, not far from the Museum, a long building of yellow brick, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. As far as New York City schools went, it was rather nice. Smithback strode to the front door, found it locked—security, of course—and buzzed. A policeman answered. Smithback flashed his press card and the cop let him in.
It was amazing how the place smelled: just like his own high school, far away and long ago. And there was the same taupe paint on the cinderblock walls, too. All school principals must’ve read the same how-to manual, Smithback thought as the cop escorted him through the metal detector and to the principal’s office.
The principal referred him to Miss Kite. Smithback found her at her desk, working on student assignments between classes. She was a handsome, gray-haired woman, and when Smithback mentioned Fairhaven’s name, he was gratified to see the smile of memory on her face.
“Oh yes,” she said. Her voice was kind, but there was a no-nonsense edge to it that told Smithback this was no pushover granny. “I remember Tony Fairhaven well, because he was in my first twelfth-grade class, and he was one of our top students. He was a National Merit Scholar runner-up.”
Smithback nodded deferentially and jotted a few notes. He wasn’t going to tape-record this—that was a good way to shut people up.
“Tell me about him. Informally. What was he like?”
“He was a bright boy, quite popular. I believe he was the head of the swim team. A good, all-around, hardworking student.”
“Did he ever get into trouble?”
“Sure. They all did.”
Smithback tried to look casual. “Really?”
“He used to bring his guitar to school and play in the halls, which was against regulations. He played very badly and it was mostly to make the other students laugh.” She thought for a moment. “One day he caused a hall jam.”
“A hall jam.” Smithback waited. “And then?”
“We confiscated the guitar and that ended it. We gave it back to him after graduation.”
Smithback nodded, the polite smile freezing on his face. “Did you know his parents?”
“His father was in real estate, though of course it was Tony who really made such a success in the business. I don’t remember the mother.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“At that time he was an only child. Of course, there was the family tragedy.”
Smithback involuntarily leaned forward. “Tragedy?”
“His older brother, Arthur, died. Some rare disease.”
Smithback abruptly made the connection. “Did they call him Little Arthur, by any chance?”
“I believe they did. His father was Big Arthur. It hit Tony very hard.”
“When did it happen?”
“When Tony was in tenth grade.”
“So it was his older brother? Was he in the school, too?”
“No. He’d been hospitalized for years. Some very rare and disfiguring disease.”
“What disease?”
“I really don’t know.”
“When you say it hit Fairhaven hard, how so?”
“He became withdrawn, antisocial. But he came out of it, eventually.”
“Yes, yes. Let me see…” Smithback checked his notes. “Let’s see. Any problems with alcohol, drugs, delinquency…?” Smithback tried to make it sound casual.
“No, no, just the opposite,” came the curt reply. The look on the teacher’s face had hardened. “Tell me, Mr. Smithback, exactly why are you writing this article?”
Smithback put on his most innocent face. “I’m just doing a little biographical feature on Mr. Fairhaven. You understand, we want to get a well-rounded picture, the good and the bad. I’m not fishing for anything in particular.” Right.
“I see. Well, Tony Fairhaven was a good boy, and he was very anti-drug, anti-drinking, even anti-smoking. I remember he wouldn’t even drink coffee.” She hesitated. “I don’t know, if anything, he might have been a little too good. And it was sometimes hard to tell what he was thinking. He was a rather closed boy.”
Smithback jotted a few more pro forma notes.
“Any hobbies?”