T here was another reason that Susan wanted Ian to come over late. As soon as she and Ian got to the fifth floor, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, doubled back downstairs, got in her car, and drove across the river to Jefferson High School. There was no way she was going to let a night pass without getting to meet Archie Sheridan.
Portland was divided into quadrants: Northwest, Southeast, Southwest, and Northeast. Which quadrant you were from said a lot about who you were. If you were from Southwest, you lived in the hills and had money. If you were from Southeast, you were liberal and probably a vegetarian. If you were from Northwest, you were young and spent a lot on clothes. If you were from Northeast, you had some money and a dog and drove a Subaru wagon. Then there was Portland’s so-called fifth quadrant: North Portland. North Portland was carved out between Northeast and the Willamette River. Only 2 percent of Oregon’s population was black. But you wouldn’t know it walking down the street in North Portland.
Jefferson High was in this fifth quadrant, or, as it had been recently rechristened, “NoPo.” The area was still recovering from heavy gang activity in the nineties. Teenagers were still occasionally shot dead on the street, but the empty lots thatched with dead grass that punctuated many blocks were getting fenced in and being transformed into multiuse development projects. Blame the gentrification on all the hipster white kids buying up or renting houses because they were cheap and close to downtown. The houses were usually bent with dry rot, but you didn’t have to worry about neighbors calling the cops if your band played too loudly in the basement. The benefits of this renaissance—a bevy of trendy restaurants, boutiques, and renovated old Portland four-squares—had not had much impact on the local school system, which boasted some of the lowest test scores in the state. Most of the kids who went to Jefferson were poor and most were black, and many were no strangers to violence.
Susan noticed the police cruisers parked out in front of the large institutional-looking brick school. She easily found a spot to park her car on a side street and walked the block back toward the campus, notebook in hand. There was some local news activity. Charlene Wood, of Channel 8, was standing on the corner, interviewing a huddle of teenage girls in tight jeans and puffy coats. About half a block behind her, a man in a bright orange windbreaker was yammering into another microphone. Several teenagers, presumably fresh from extracurricular activities, loitered on the steps of the school, a nervous energy permeating their practiced insouciance. A uniformed police officer and two crossing guards waited with them for parents or friends or buses or some other vessel of safety. On the other side of the river, the sky over the West Hills was ablaze with deep pinks and oranges, but on the east side it just looked gray.
Susan traced a line of vehicles up ahead to a police checkpoint, which was set up at the first intersection past the school. She could see a uniformed officer talking to the driver of the car at the front of the line. Then the officer waved the car through and the next car rolled forward. A large placard was set on a metal easel near the checkpoint. On it, Susan could just make out a photograph of Kristy Mathers and the words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?
“Thanks for the question.”
Susan spun around. Archie Sheridan was standing a few steps behind her. He had his badge clipped to the breast pocket of his corduroy blazer and was carrying a red spiral-bound notebook and a paper cup of coffee. He was walking toward the checkpoint.
“I thought you were very convincing,” she said. “With the speech. You’re very intimidating.”
Archie stopped and took a sip of the coffee. “A little posturing can’t hurt.”
“Do you think he’ll see it?”
He shrugged a little. “Probably. It’s a funny tic about serial killers. They generally enjoy the attention of your profession.” A trio of tall teenage boys walked by, and Archie and Susan stepped aside to let them pass. The boys reeked of marijuana.
Susan watched Archie for a reaction. Nothing. “I don’t remember the pot I had in high school being that good,” she said.
“It probably wasn’t.”
“You going to arrest them?”
“For smelling like a class C controlled substance? No.”
Susan surveyed him playfully. “What’s your favorite movie?”
He didn’t have to think about it. “Band of Outsiders. Godard.”
“Shut up! It’s French. Your favorite movie is French?”
“Is that too haughty?”
“A little, yeah,” Susan said.
“I’ll come up with something better for tomorrow.”