“The two were friends early in their careers, until Forrest performed Macbeth in London. The audience booed him and Forrest got it into his head that Macready had orchestrated the reaction out of jealousy. A few weeks later, while Macready was playing Hamlet, Forrest stood up in the middle of the audience and heckled him. He was immediately cast out of London society and had to return to New York.”
“Is this going anywhere, Jones?” I checked my phone and saw two missed calls, both from Jake.
“In May 1849, Forrest and Macready performed competing versions of Macbeth in New York on the same night. An army of Forrest’s fans stormed the Astor Opera House, determined to put a stop to Macready’s production. The rioters pummeled the theater with rocks and tried to set the building on fire, which prompted the militia to start firing into the crowd.”
“All this over a couple of theater actors?”
“These men were the movie stars of their time. Over twenty people died that night and a hundred more were injured. It was the worst tragedy in the history of theater. And it happened because of Macbeth.”
“It happened because of a bunch of idiot rioters and some policemen who couldn’t do their jobs.”
“But what set it off? Macbeth. Forrest’s terrible performance in London, which started the whole rivalry in the first place. What were they both playing that night? Macbeth. It’s the story of a man who murders his way into a crown. Not an insane man. Not a manipulated man. Just an ordinary man, drawn to extraordinary evil. That’s what Macbeth is, and for four hundred years, violence has been drawn to that play like a moth to the flame.”
He put the pictures away and looked at the one of Hattie lying on top of the desk. His voice dropped, as if the story had exhausted him.
“You’ll find your murderer, Sheriff. You’ll have a weapon and a motive and everything you need for your day in court. The curse is what you won’t be looking for, what you’ll never be able to prove with forensics. It’s the catalyst. It’s what makes things boil over.”
I’d fallen still, my hands lost in the papers. Something about his words brought the memories back. They could be gone for years, healed over and laid to rest, and then out of nowhere the gun smoke stung my eyes, the wet jungle invaded my nose, and I had to bury them all over again. You could leave a war, but it never left you.
“Ordinary men commit extraordinary evil all the time. Trust me.”
He smiled a bit and nodded in deference. “You would know.”
I started working again and shook my head. “You know what that play really is? An insanity defense from heaven.”
Jones laughed just as Jake phoned again and I answered this time.
“What have you got?”
“Why didn’t you answer any of my calls?”
“Good God, Jake. When you get married you better find some girl who likes wearing the pants.”
“We could’ve found the murder weapon. Or there could’ve been an explosion at the plant.”
“Dispatch would’ve called for something like that.”
“You don’t know, that’s all I’m saying. It could be important.”
“Well, is it?”
“Damn right it is. I found out who L.G. is.”
Finally some good news today. And I was in just a mood to haul this pervert through the ringer. “The warrant came through?”
“Yes, so I accessed her account information and found hundreds of messages to a guy named LitGeek.”
“L.G.,” I muttered.
“Exactly. So I accessed his account information and there was an email address. I traced . . .”
I didn’t hear much of the techno talk, because at that moment I flipped a piece of paper and saw a name that clicked everything into place. I dropped the other papers and stared at the black type, thinking back over the last few days.
“. . . so when I got the gmail registration it said the guy’s name is—”
“Peter Lund,” I interrupted.
“How did you know that?” He was pissed as all get-out.
Gerald Jones wasn’t so good an actor that he could pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping, and the last thing I needed was another juicy bit leaked to the press. If Hattie had had an affair with her high school teacher, they’d be on Pine Valley like white on rice.
“Never mind. I’m headed there now. I’ll have him at the station in thirty minutes.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re staying right there and printing out every email you’ve got off of Hattie’s computer. And take that busted fax machine out of the interrogation room. And make sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee.”
“You’re going to try the friendly angle?”
“No, I’m thirsty.” I hung up and tossed the half-full coffee cup Jones had given me into the trash. He grinned.
“Somehow it’s heartwarming to know the crusty-sheriff cliché is alive and well.”
“Happy to oblige.” I got up and shook his hand. “Jones.”
I took the highway back to Pine Valley at a hundred miles an hour, lights flashing. The speed felt good. It got the blood up, helped clear the morning away. I walked into Pine Valley High School less than fifteen minutes later and the principal met me before I’d even crossed the front door.
“Sheriff. This about Hattie?”
“I wouldn’t be pulling one of your teachers out of the classroom otherwise.”
“Which one you need?”
“Lund.”
He made a sort of sucked-in face before hollering to his secretary to call for a sub.