Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 28

The hot afternoon sun had turned the sky to a gray haze stew. In a nearby park, trees undulated and bowed restlessly in the fitful breeze, the silky shoosh of their leaves sounding like distant applause from an outdoor amphitheater. As I waited at a red light, I could almost smell the rain on the verge of dropping from the clouds.

Who would have ratted Knudsen out? And why?

You can run from the past, but it always catches up with you. Had someone from Knudsen's past caught up with him? Ryan Bledsoe might know, but he was in Ocean City by now.

I could think of people I hated in high school—if I really gave it some thought. I could hardly remember most of them now. If someone from Knudsen's past had it in for him, he must have done something dreadful—something a person would remember fifteen or twenty years later.

The light changed. Instead of going straight to I-95, however, I asked the first passerby I saw the way to Dundalk High School.

I pulled into the school's lot and parked next to the low, flat building. Strolling the quiet, locker-lined halls, I flashed back to a time when a place like this was my universe—a place where cliques ruled and some scowling academic was either threatening to fail you or put a black mark on your permanent record.

I got good grades and never had a smudge, as far as I knew, on that much-storied record, but the high school experience was a far from satisfactory one for me. My memory was of social circles—jocks, scholars, nerds, freaks. Then there was that special group—the ruling elite. The ones who ran for student council or edited the yearbook. The ones who always had the right clothes or just seemed to have a special aura. I was at the other end of the social spectrum—one of the kids so far out of the loop, we didn't merit a special category. I wondered where they were now, those kids who peaked in high school. Probably fat, alcoholic, and either unhappily married or miserably alone—at least, I wanted to think so.

No one was behind the counter in the administrative office. A desk on the other side had a nameplate reading, Ida Wilkie, but Ida herself was not present. Then a petite, middle-aged woman appeared with several files on one arm. The woman had a broad, florid face, pert nose, and short hair, just a trifle too dark and monochromatic to be her real color. She beamed at me, as if glad for the interruption.

"Can I help you?" she said, setting the files on her desk.

"I hope so. My name's Sam McRae. I'm an attorney, representing someone in a case involving two guys who were students here. I don't know if you would know them. It was over fifteen years ago."

"I was here."

"The names are Gregory Knudsen and Bruce Schaeffer."

"Oh." Her eyes widened and the shadow of some emotion I couldn't identify crossed her face.

"You recognize the names?"

"Yes, I do. And you're a lawyer, you said? What did you say this was about?"

"Gregory Knudsen was murdered a few weeks ago. Just this morning, Bruce Schaeffer was also found dead."

She looked grim. "Murdered?"

"It looks like suicide, but I have my doubts."

"Who are you representing?"

"The person accused of Knudsen's murder."

Ida didn't say anything. She didn't look quite as happy to talk to me.

"My client is innocent. I have a witness who can establish that. She was set up, possibly by someone those guys knew in high school. That person may have killed both of them."