Did you tell Se?or Diaz about the janitor?
No. I know I should have, but I was pissed at him for hitting me. Besides, telling what I’d seen meant explaining how I’d happened to see it, and I didn’t think he’d appreciate the part about me looking to get stoned. I needed time to come up with a sanitized version of the story—one that would stand up to questioning.
Meanwhile, I decided to ask some questions of my own. When we finally got to school that morning, I quizzed the librarian about the janitor. She didn’t know much. His name was Whitmer, Marvin or maybe Martin, and like me he was new; she’d heard he’d worked at another school before this one, but she couldn’t say where.
“So you wouldn’t know whether this other school was also by the highway?”
“No, dear.”
I thanked her and sat down. Then Carlotta started interrogating me: “What are you so interested in the janitor for?”
“It’s nothing,” I told her.
“Like hell it’s nothing. Hey, I’m not stupid like Felipe.”
“OK, it’s not nothing. But I’m not ready to talk about it.” I didn’t think Carlotta would care about the dope—at least, not enough to give me shit for it—but she would care that I’d gone into the closed wing without her.
Of course, now she was mad at me anyway: “What do you mean you’re not ready to talk about it? Since when do we keep secrets?”
“Carlotta…It’s not a secret, exactly, it—”
“You asked about the highway,” she said. “You think the janitor had something to do with that kid who got killed?”
Good guess; maybe there was something to the Bobbsey Twins after all. “Yeah, I do.”
“But why would you think that? What happened? Did you see something?”
“I told you, I’m not ready to talk about it…Look, Carlotta, I promise I’ll tell you later, OK? But first…I need your help with something. I want to search the janitor’s van after school today, and I need you to be my lookout.”
Now, I came up with this purely as a way of stalling, but when I thought about it, I realized it wasn’t a bad plan. If I did find incriminating evidence in the van, I could turn the janitor in for that, and forget about the other thing.
Wouldn’t you still have to explain your decision to search the van?
Well, that was the beauty of it: if I found proof that the janitor was a serial killer, people would be so excited they’d accept pretty much any explanation. At that point I could just say I had a hunch, and even Carlotta would probably buy it.
So after final bell that day, instead of going back to the library, we went to the lobby and waited for the other students to leave. Not long after the last of them had cleared out, the janitor passed through, pushing a cartload of garbage bags towards the rear of the building.
“What do you think?” I asked Carlotta, once he was out of earshot.
“I think this might not be such a smart idea, Jane. What if he really is the death angel? If he catches you—”
“He won’t. You just stay here, and if you see him coming back, stick your head out the front door and yell something.”
“What should I yell?”
“Anything but my real name.”
The teachers had all taken off too by now, so aside from the librarian’s Volkswagen, the janitor’s van was the only vehicle left in the lot. It was a utility-style van, with no windows in the rear side panels; the windows in the back doors were small, and tinted so you couldn’t see in. Add a little soundproofing, I thought, and it’d be perfect for kidnappings.