Black Friday
At 11:30 a.m. on the day after Thanksgiving, Alvin Caffrey, the manager of the Puritan Falls Mall, walked to the end of the line of children eagerly waiting to see Santa. After the last child, he placed a sign that read, SANTA WENT TO FEED HIS REINDEER. HE'LL BE BACK AT ONE O'CLOCK. No sooner did the round aluminum base of the sign touch the floor than a harried young mother with a small child in tow ran up to the end of the line.
"Can't you please let us see Santa before he goes to lunch?" the woman pleaded. "I've been shopping since five this morning, and I'm about to collapse. I can't wait until one. My son is exhausted, and we both need to go home and take a nap."
Alvin was afraid that if he let one child slip through, other parents would try to play on his sympathy, too, and then the man in the Santa Claus suit wouldn't get his lunch break until late afternoon. The manager glanced to his left and then to his right. No one was looking.
"Okay," he said, quickly moving the sign for the grateful mother.
"Thank you so much, and Merry Christmas to you, sir."
"The same to you," Caffrey replied.
Then the mall manager, who had reported to work at 3:30 in the morning for the early Black Friday opening, headed toward the food court to purchase the largest, strongest coffee on Starbucks' menu.
At one o'clock, Alvin was just finishing his lunch and decided to make one last tour of the mall before returning to his office where he would wait for the assistant manager to relieve him at three. He hoped the next two hours would pass quickly since he couldn't wait to go home and get some sleep. For the next month, the mall would receive a high volume of business, but nothing would compare to the number of shoppers that flocked to the stores on Black Friday.
It was by far Caffrey's least favorite day of the year. He hated the early hours and the fools who lined up outside the mall entrance in the middle of the night just to save a few bucks on a flat screen TV, a tablet or a smartphone. And while no one had ever been seriously injured or trampled to death at the Puritan Falls Mall—as had happened in other stores in America—the busiest shopping day of the year did seem to bring out the worst in many people. Just last year, a fistfight broke out between two men who were both eager to purchase the last Xbox in stock at the electronics store. Thankfully, nothing like that had happened this year. All in all, everything was going smoothly. There hadn't even been a child who was temporarily separated from his or her mother.
When Alvin neared the center court, he noticed an exceptionally long line of children waiting to see Santa. He'd have to tell the man to speed things up. Many of the parents were grumbling with impatience, and one woman took her son off the line, promising him she would take him to the mall in Copperwell the next day to see Santa.
I can't have our customers going to Copperwell Crossings, he thought with alarm.
As Alvin made his way through the decorations in the center court of the mall toward the small building designated as Santa's Workshop, a teenage girl dressed as an elf hurried toward him.
"Mr. Caffrey, you have to do something," she said, showing signs of agitation.
"About what?"
"Santa. He's not back from lunch yet."
Alvin glanced at his watch; it was almost two.
"I'll go down to the food court and look for him."
"He's not there," the girl informed him. "He brought a bag lunch and was headed toward the employee's lunchroom."
Alvin asked the girl to try to entertain the children while he went in search of Santa.
"How will I do that?"
"I don't know. Try telling them a story about Rudolph or start singing 'Jingle Bells.'"
The manager felt his temper rise as he tried to navigate through the crowds of shoppers. He intended to have the human resources director begin an immediate search for a new Santa.
When Caffrey burst through the door of the employee lunchroom, a mall security guard, who was on her coffee break, looked up in surprise.
"You seen our Santa around anywhere?" he asked.
"Last I saw him he was going outside in back of the movie theater for a cigarette, but that was nearly an hour ago."
"Thanks," the manager said and went back into the mall, heading toward the theater complex.
He angrily pushed open the emergency exit door that would bring him directly in back of the theater.
"There you are!" he yelled when he saw a red velvet clad arm peeking out from behind the dumpster. "Do you have any idea what time it is? You've got kids lined up halfway down the mall. Why I ought to fire ...."
Alvin fell silent and he momentarily forgot about the children waiting in line, for the man in the Santa suit was lying sprawled atop a pile of empty plastic beverage crates. The white of his faux beard was nearly as red as the velvet suit, and there were several jagged gashes in his costume where he had been stabbed.
When Alvin turned away from the grisly sight, his eyes fell on the large mall sign proclaiming SANTA ARRIVES FRIDAY, and he was reminded of the problem at hand. Before phoning the police, he called Angelo Giordano, his assistant manager.
"I need your help," Alvin said when Angelo answered.
"What do you want?" the assistant asked warily.
"I need you to come in as soon as possible."
"No problem. I wasn't doing anything important. I'll see you in about ten minutes."
"Wait. That's not all. Would you stop someplace on your way in and pick up a Santa outfit? Try the costume store on Essex Street."
"What's wrong with the one we got? Did some kid throw up on Santa's velvet coat?"
"I'll explain everything when you get here. Oh, and I'll need you to fill in for Santa until closing tonight."
"What?" the assistant manager asked, his voice unintentionally rising with displeasure. "I can't play Santa. I hate kids."
"Look, I'm desperate. If you do me this favor, I'll see that you get both Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve off—with pay."
It was an offer Angelo couldn't refuse.
* * *
Detective Stanley Yablonski was enjoying a quiet afternoon at home. With his wife and daughter out bargain-hunting, Stan was relaxing in his La-Z-Boy recliner, watching reruns of Breaking Bad on Netflix, eating salted peanuts and drinking a can of cold beer, when his cell phone rang.
"Yablonski," he answered.
"I hate to bother you on your day off," the desk sergeant apologized.
It was a sentence Stan had heard too many times during his career.
"We just received a call from the manager of Puritan Falls Mall."
"Why? Is there a riot over who's going to get the last Tickle Me Elmo doll?"
"Worse. It's a homicide."
"Those damned Black Friday crowds!" Stan mumbled. "Who got killed?"
"Santa Claus."
Yablonski's hand, which was reaching for the television remote, stopped midair.
"Who put you up to this, McMurtry?"
"It's no joke. The guy who plays Santa Claus at the mall was stabbed in the chest."
"Please tell me it didn't happen in front of the kids."
"No. When he didn't return from lunch, the manager went to look for him. He found Santa lying dead in back of the movie theater."
"Christ! What a way to kick off the holiday season! Did you reach Phil yet?"
"No, I phoned you first. I'll call him next."
"When you get hold of him, tell him I'll meet him in the mall's employee parking lot. And warn him not to use his siren or flashing lights. We don't want to call any unnecessary attention to the crime scene."
Caffrey was waiting outside the mall when Detective Yablonski arrived.
"You the guy who phoned in the homicide?" Stan inquired.
"Yes. I'm Alvin Caffrey, the manager of the mall. The body is on a pile of plastic crates, next to the dumpster. I didn't touch anything, and no one's been out here since I discovered him there."
"Good. A crime scene investigator from the state police is on the way over. He'll look for any forensic evidence that might be in the area."
Stan walked behind the dumpster to get a good look at the victim.
"This is like a scene out of a B-rated horror movie or some macabre comedy," he commented.
"There's nothing funny about it," the manager said, rubbing his temples to help relieve his tension. "I can just see the headlines now: SANTA MURDERED IN PURITAN FALLS MALL."
"Well, for what it's worth, the police department will try to keep a lid on the story."
"Much appreciated."
"Don't mention it. Now, if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions," the detective said as he took a notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket. "What was the victim's name?"
"I'm not sure. You'll have to ask Mitzi; she handles all our employee services."
"How long has the victim worked for the mall?"
"Actually, today was his first day. He came in right before seven this morning, put on his costume and reported to the Santa's Workshop that was set up in the center court."
"And he was there all morning?"
"Yes. He went to lunch right around noon. When he wasn't back by quarter to two, I went looking for him. And that's what I found," he concluded, pointing to the corpse sprawled on the crates.
Phil Langston, Yablonski's partner arrived, got out of the car, walked to the dumpster and exclaimed, "Christ! Now I have officially seen everything! Any witnesses?"
"No one has come forward," Stan replied. "This is Alvin Caffrey, the manager of the mall. He found the body. He's concerned about the adverse publicity this might cause."
"Ah, yes," Langston chuckled. "KOOK KAPS KRIS KRINGLE AT MALL. Ho, ho, ho!"
Before Alvin could respond to the detective's joke, the ringtone on his cell phone sounded.
"Yeah?" he answered.
It was his assistant.
"I'm in the suit, and the elves are opening the doors to Santa's Workshop. Remember, Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve—with pay."
"I won't forget. Oh, and Angelo ... thanks."
* * *
With his partner assisting the state crime scene investigator in the parking lot, Stan Yablonski went inside the mall offices to question Mitzi Danner, the woman in charge of human resources.
"Here's a copy of his employment file with his application and W-4," she said with crisp efficiency.
"Thank you," the detective said and quickly scanned the information. "He lists a New York City address. Do you have a local one for him?"
"All I have is what's on those forms."
"Was he interviewed before he was given the job?"
"Yes. Mr. Caffrey conducted the interview himself."
Yablonski looked toward the manager, who was sitting nearby, drinking another large cup of strong coffee.
"What did you learn about him during the interview?"
"Not much," Caffrey answered. "I interviewed three men for the position, and he looked the most like Santa, so he got the job."
The detective shook his head.
"This guy has a steady stream of small kids sitting on his lap. Didn't anyone at least check to see if he had a criminal record or was on the sex offender registry?"
The manager paled.
"You don't understand. Our Santas start the day after Thanksgiving and work up until Christmas Eve; that's only a month. Frankly, we didn't think it was necessary to spend the money on a background check for a temporary employee. Besides, he's never left alone with the children. There are always his elves and the parents nearby."
"Okay," Stan said with a sigh and closed his notebook. "We'll check this guy out and see if there's something in his background that will lead us to his killer. Meanwhile, if we have any other questions, we'll get back to you."
As he headed toward the door, the detective turned and told the mall manager, "Why don't you go home and get some sleep? You look like you could use it."
"I'd love to," Caffrey admitted, "but my assistant, who was to take over for me until closing, is playing Santa. I'm afraid I'll have to stay here until eleven. It's Black Friday, after all."
"Yeah, that it is. And it looks like neither one of us is gonna have a pleasant evening."
* * *
"I should have gone away for the weekend," Stan said with disgust as he pushed himself away from his computer terminal.
"What is it, the Kringle case?" asked Officer Shawn McMurtry.
Although Shawn had the makings of a good detective, he lacked the ambition to advance in his career. He was content being a small-town cop. Everyone knew and loved him. Every year he went to the elementary school and gave a talk on bicycle safety and the usual don't-talk-to-strangers spiel. He also went to the middle and high schools and warned about the dangers of drug abuse and drunk driving.
As sweet a guy as Shawn was, however, he did have a fascination for the darker side of police work. He was an avid reader of detective novels, never missed an episode of Law & Order or CSI and was a big fan of real-life police dramas. So in those rare instances when Yablonski had a major case to solve, he often let Shawn help out.
"I've run into a brick wall," the detective complained. "The victim gave false identification when he applied for the job at the mall. His name, address and social security number are all fake. If we don't know who the guy is, it'll make it that much more difficult to find out who killed him."
"Maybe we'll be lucky," Phil said hopefully, "and his fingerprints will be on file. I'll give the lab a call and see if they've come up with anything yet."
A few minutes later, he hung up the phone and delivered the bad news.
"No luck on the prints. We'll have to consider him a John Doe."
McMurtry picked up the employment file on the victim and began reading it.
"Is this on the level?" he asked with a laugh.
"Yeah, why?" Yablonski replied.
"Then our victim had a sense of humor. Look at this: name, Fred Gaily; address, 34th Street, New York City; previous employment, Macy's; references, Doris Walker and Mr. Shellhammer."
The two detectives looked at the patrolman questioningly.
"Don't you see? These are all references to the movie Miracle on 34th Street."
"The one where a Macy's employee thinks he's the real Santa?" Langston asked.
"Fred Gaily was the name of John Payne's character, the lawyer who had Kris Kringle legally declared Santa by the New York Supreme Court."
"So the mall job was a big joke to our victim?" Phil asked. "Sounds right. After all, who takes a job as Santa seriously?"
"But the joke was on him," Stan added. "He's deader than Jacob Marley."
* * *
Dan Bergen, the chief of police, sat at his desk opposite his senior detective, waiting to hear the progress report on the Kringle case.
"There's been no progress," Yablonski admitted sheepishly.
"None at all?"
"We still don't know who he is."
"Forensics?"
"Tons of it. He had hundreds of kids climbing up onto his lap from seven o'clock until noon. The victim had fibers, hairs and food crumbs all over him."
"A crowded mall, on the busiest shopping day of the year, and no one saw anything," Bergen said with disgust.
"Three mall employees saw him in the lunch room, eating a turkey sandwich. One of the security guards saw him go outside the theater exit to smoke a cigarette. No one noticed anything out of the ordinary, not until the mall manager found him dead in the parking lot."
"Were there any security cameras outside the theater?"
"Only of the parking area, not the spot where the body was found. Mall security is going to send over copies of the tapes sometime today so we can view them."
"They probably won't reveal much except for Black Friday shoppers and whining kids."
Yablonski spread his hands and shook his head. He had nothing to add.
"Keep me posted. Let me know right away if something turns up."
* * *
"If we only knew who the guy was," Stan said while he, Phil and Shawn were eating Chinese take-out in the station lunchroom the following Monday, "we could question his family, business associates, neighbors, even his kindergarten teacher. But a John Doe—that's like finding a needle in a haystack."
McMurtry put down his chopsticks, turned toward Stan and, hoping his friends wouldn't mock him, asked, "What if the victim's identity is irrelevant? What if the perp wanted to kill Santa Claus?"
"It's possible," Yablonski said, trying to suppress his smile.
"There're a lot of nuts out there," Langston declared—a sentiment he'd expressed many times over the years. "I wouldn't put it past some whack job to shoot the mall Santa because he didn't get a BB gun for Christmas when he was ten."
"Have there been any other cases of Santa shootings?" McMurtry asked.
"A serial killer targeting Santas?" Yablonski asked.
"It's worth looking into, isn't it?"
"Sure, it is," Stan said, noting the look of eagerness on McMurtry's face. "If you have some time this afternoon, why don't you see if the Salvation Army has reported any of its Santas missing."
"I'll do that," Shawn said and then popped a piece of General Tso's chicken into his mouth.
"Open season on Santas? Like I said," Phil repeated, "there're a lot of nuts out there."
McMurtry thought he was on to something when he later learned that a Boston Salvation Army Santa had disappeared—bell, kettle and suit—from the corner of Boyleston and Dartmouth Streets.
"This guy could be another victim," he excitedly told Stan.
The detective maintained an open mind.
"Can I ask you to follow through with the Boston P.D.? I have to look at all those security videos the mall sent over."
"Sure thing," McMurtry replied, the smile on his face indicating his eagerness to aid the detective.
Yablonski poured himself a cup of tepid coffee from the pot in the lunchroom and headed for the interrogation room where a stack of videocassettes was lying on the desk next to a portable television with a built-in videocassette recorder. He frowned at the outdated technology. Why hadn't mall security switched to digital?
After loading the early morning tape of the employee parking lot into the VCR, the detective scanned the footage at maximum speed, until he came to the part where the employees began showing up for work. The manager, Alvin Caffrey, was the first to arrive in his Subaru Forester. Within a period of twenty minutes, five more employees pulled up, and both overnight security guards left.
Meanwhile, in the background, other cars—early bird shoppers—were headed toward the main parking area. Then at 6:45 a.m. a somewhat portly, gray-haired gentleman appeared on the tape, walking from the area of the bus stop.
That's got to be our Santa, the detective thought.
Yablonski jotted down the time and made a note to check what bus stopped at the mall at that hour. Then he switched the tape, inserting one with an interior view of the mall's employee entrance, and fast-forwarded to the appropriate time stamp. He watched every move John Doe made in real time, and then he rewound the tape and viewed it again in slow motion. The detective not only carefully followed the steps of the mall Santa but also scrutinized the faces of the shoppers who passed by him. From tape to tape, Stan followed the victim's progress from the entrance to the mall offices, where he donned the red velvet costume, to the Santa's Workshop in the center court.
The detective ejected the tape, and wrote his observation in his notebook: John Doe talked to no one on his route from car to workshop.
Finally, he inserted the tape taken from inside Santa's Workshop and fast-forwarded to the moment when Santa entered. Yablonski watched the first child to visit that fateful day. The little boy, about six years of age, sat on John Doe's lap, gave him a rather long list of toys he wanted, smiled for the teenage elf who took his photograph and then, after collecting a candy cane from Santa, exited the workshop with his mother.
Only moments after the boy vacated the red velvet lap, a little girl took his place. Child after child climbed up on Kris Kringle's lap, some willingly, others coerced by their parents and still others screaming in fear of the bearded man in the crimson suit. Infants who hadn't the slightest notion of what Christmas was about were placed in John Doe's arms so that parents could have that treasured Baby's First Christmas photo on Santa's lap.
The detective was about to go to the lunchroom and make a fresh pot of coffee when the interrogation room door opened and McMurtry entered.
"Don't tell me you've found a lead on the Salvation Army Santa already," Yablonski said, after pausing the videotape.
"That Santa's all right," Shawn reluctantly admitted. "Boston police found him in a local pub, drinking away the collection money from his kettle."
"Stealing from the Salvation Army! I bet he'll get coal in his stocking this year," Stan laughed.
"I've got something you might be interested in," McMurtry said, handing a fax to the detective. "Missing person report. The description sounds like our John Doe."
"Really?"
Yablonski phoned his partner and read him the report.
"Martin Rennie, about the right age and physical characteristics. Lived in Quincy with his sister. She claims he never came home Friday night."
"Quincy? That's gotta be at least an hour commute to Puritan Falls," Langston noted. "Seems a lot of trouble for a temporary job that pays little more than minimum wage."
"Are you gonna go down to Quincy and talk to the sister?" McMurtry asked.
"First, I'll give the woman a call. I want to be pretty sure that Martin Rennie is our man before I fight the traffic going around Boston."
"If there's anything I can do ...."
"You know, there is something you can do for me, Shawn."
The look in McMurtry's eyes reminded Stan of the faces on many of the kids seeing Santa.
"Can you finish watching these security videos for me? There's probably nothing on them, but you never know."
"I always say it pays to be thorough," McMurtry said with a smile.
"Don't be overly concerned with the kids; it's the adults' reactions I was looking at, including Santa's. Does he appear to be afraid of some kid's parent? Did he have words with anyone? Was there a threat of any kind? You know what I'm talking about, Shawn."
"Yeah. You think the killer might have taken his kid in to see Santa?"
"Just covering all the bases," the detective replied, as he left the interrogation room to phone Martin Rennie's sister in Quincy.
* * *
Thelma Rennie was the older sister of the victim. Never married, she lived in the house that once belonged to her parents. While Phil searched the dead man's room, his partner questioned the sister.
"Martin and I were born here," she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief rather than a Kleenex. "Martin was what people referred to as a change-of-life baby. My mother was nearly fifty when she had him. That's why there's such a great age difference between us."
"You were the only two children?" Stan asked.
"No, I had another brother, older than Martin. He died in the war—World War II, that is."
"Had Martin always lived with you?"
"Oh, no. He went off to college when he was eighteen, and I didn't see him again until about six months ago. He showed up one day, claiming he needed a place to stay temporarily. I couldn't turn away my own brother; he was all the family I had left."
"And where was he from the time he graduated college until he came back here?"
"He got married right out of school and began a teaching career. Then about a year ago, he lost both his job and his wife."
"Widowed?"
"No. Divorced. I can't tell you anything about her. I never met the woman, don't even know her name."
"Any children?"
"No. They were childless."
"Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm your brother?"
Again, Thelma raised the dainty handkerchief to her eyes.
"No. I didn't know him that well; after all, there was a twenty-eight-year age difference. Even all the while he was living here he didn't speak much about his personal life."
"What did the two of you talk about?"
"Books mostly. We were both avid readers. Or rather I should say that I did most of the talking, and Martin listened. He was a very quiet man."
The elderly Thelma indeed enjoyed talking, and Stan had no difficulty getting her to answer his questions. Unfortunately, she had no information that would lead to her brother's killer. Still, when the detectives left Quincy, they had two new avenues to investigate: they wanted to find Martin Rennie's ex-wife and wanted to know the name of the school where the dead man recently taught.
* * *
The following Tuesday morning Yablonski arrived at the station just after seven o'clock, carrying two large coffees, one intended for his partner. As he headed toward his desk, he saw Gwyneth Neale, a young officer who spent her days at a computer terminal, headed his way.
"Stan," she called cheerfully, "I have an early Christmas present for you."
"Season tickets at Fenway?" the detective joked.
"No, I found Mrs. Claus for you."
"Martin Rennie's ex-wife?"
"Yes, sir. Her name is Marcy, and she lives in Connecticut, on the outskirts of Greenwich."
"Mrs. Claus must have money."
"She and her husband bought the house while they were still married, and she got it in the divorce settlement."
"Must have had a good lawyer," he said, handing Phil's coffee to her in a gesture of appreciation.
"Not only that," Gwyneth added. "She must have a good job or big bank account to afford to remain in that area."
"I'll let you know after I talk to her."
"Talk to who?" asked Phil Langston, who had just walked into the room.
"Martin Rennie's ex-wife."
"When are we going to question her?"
"As soon as I have my coffee, we'll drive down to Connecticut."
Langston frowned.
"Connecticut? Want me to call her and make sure she's home first?"
"No," Stan replied. "I want to see her reaction when I spring the news on her. Besides, if we call ahead, we give her time to come up with a story."
"Do you think she needs one?" his partner asked.
"Maybe, maybe not."
* * *
Not only did the Rennie house look as though it belonged on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens, but there was also a late model Mercedes SL550 roadster in the driveway.
"What does this woman do for a living?" Phil asked.
"I don't know, but her husband was a teacher."
"Must have come from a rich family; you can't afford a place and a car like this on a teacher's salary."
Yablonski rang the doorbell, half expecting a butler to answer. After a few moments, the door was opened by a woman in her early fifties, who obviously spent a lot of time and money on her appearance.
"Mrs. Rennie?" the detective asked, holding up his badge and carefully observing her reactions.
"Yes?"
Fear.
"I'm Detective Stan Yablonski from Puritan Falls, Massachusetts. This is my partner, Phil Langston. We're sorry, but we have some bad news. Your ex-husband, Martin, was murdered on Friday."
Surprise followed by relief.
"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions," Langston said.
"Of course. Won't you come in?" she asked, stepping aside so the two men could enter.
"We understand your husband was a teacher," Phil began after he sat down at Marcy Rennie's elegant formal dining table.
Discomfort.
"Yes, but in this economy teachers are being let go to save tax dollars. I often told him to look for a new career, possibly computers. As I understand it, recent tax cuts have also affected many Connecticut police departments. Is it the same in Massachusetts?"
Yablonski wondered if the woman was deliberately trying to steer the subject away from her late husband's teaching experiences. Acting on his proverbial policeman's hunch, he jumped into the conversation.
"Where did your husband last teach?"
Suspicion.
"I don't see what that has to do with his murder."
"Maybe nothing at all, but we must pursue all avenues. Now, would you please answer the question, Mrs. Rennie?"
Unease.
"He taught English at a high school in Hartford, but he was let go two years ago. The enrollment had gone down, and the school district laid-off a few teachers."
"And where do you work?" Stan then asked.
Surprise and apprehension.
"I'm in public relations."
"I asked where you worked, not what you did."
Anger and hostility.
"Look, I haven't seen my husband in over a year. I didn't even know he was in Massachusetts until you told me. I have no idea who killed him or who might have wanted him dead. I have no information that can help you in your investigation. Now, if you have any further questions, you'll have to speak to my lawyer."
When Marcy Rennie rose from her seat, haughtily indicating that the interview had come to an end, Yablonski noticed that her hand was trembling.
* * *
"Well, that was a complete waste of time, driving all the way down here to Connecticut," Phil exclaimed as the two detectives sat in heavy traffic on I-95 North. "And for what? She didn't know anything about her husband's death."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Stan said. "Maybe she didn't know he was dead and maybe she hasn't the slightest clue who killed him, but ...." He turned to Phil, smiled and continued, "She knows something, and she doesn't want us to know about it."
At New Haven, Yablonski surprised his partner by pulling into the lane that branched off onto I-91.
"You better turn on the navigator; 95 is that way."
"I know where I'm going."
"You want to let me know, then?" Phil asked.
"I'm headed to Hartford. Why don't you phone McMurtry and ask him to find which high school Martin Rennie taught at. Tell him it takes top priority over everything else he has to do. He ought to love that!"
Twenty minutes later, Phil's cell phone ringtone sounded; it was the theme song from Cops. Stan smiled and shook his head.
"It's Shawn."
McMurtry had come through again.
* * *
"Martin Rennie was one of our best teachers," the school principal told the detectives. "We were very sorry to lose him."
"I suppose when the school has layoffs, they let teachers go by seniority rather than merit," Stan commented.
"Usually, but we haven't had to lay anyone off in years."
"Didn't Martin Rennie get laid-off?"
"No. He resigned. He was offered a position at one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country."
"What school is that?" Stan asked with surprise.
"Whittington. It's south of here, in Greenwich."
The two detectives exchanged a quick look. Marcy Rennie had to have known about the prep school. Why didn't she tell the police about it?
Meanwhile, the principal opened a manila file on her desk.
"If it will help, I can give you a copy of his employment file. It lists his background, education, prior teaching experience ...."
"Yes, we'd like that very much," Langston replied.
"I can also provide you with a copy of his letter of resignation and his performance reviews."
"Thank you," Stan said. "You're being most helpful. I suppose that since Martin Rennie was such an exceptional teacher, there were no problems of any kind while he was here."
The principal's eyes lowered.
"Nothing major."
"And what about minor incidents?" Yablonski prompted.
"There was something. About three years before Martin resigned, a father came in here demanding to see the superintendent. He claimed that Martin had made inappropriate advances toward his teenage daughter. The man was a known criminal, spent time in jail for drug possession, couldn't keep a job—you must know the type."
The detectives nodded.
"There was an investigation into the matter, a quiet one that didn't make it into the newspapers. No evidence of any misconduct was found. We all assumed the father was hoping to make a quick buck by suing the school district."
"So there were no charges filed?" Yablonski asked. "No reprimands of any kind?"
"No."
"And the girl? What did she have to say?"
"She never said a word. It was all her father. By the end of the school year, the family had moved out of the area."
"Do you know where?"
"To another state. New Jersey, I think."
"Do you have the father's name and the girl's?"
"Really, detective. It was nothing, and it's all in the past."
"You needn't worry," Stan assured her. "We'll use the utmost discretion. Not a word about the school will be mentioned."
"All right," the principal reluctantly agreed.
Then she consulted her computerized records and wrote down the name of the girl and her father.
* * *
"Please don't tell me we're going to Jersey," Phil said when his partner took the interstate heading south rather than north.
"No. We're going back to Greenwich," Stan replied.
"Gonna have another crack at Marcy Rennie?"
"I don't think that would do any good. She'll lawyer up the minute she sees our car pull into the driveway. No. I want to talk to whoever is in charge at Whittington."
Phil laughed and said, "I have a feeling whoever it is isn't going to be as helpful as the woman in Hartford."
"I think you're right."
The receptionist, an attractive young woman from Bridgeport, was friendly and welcoming. She brought the detectives coffee while they were waiting to speak to the school's administrator.
"Do you remember a teacher named Martin Rennie?" Yablonski asked her.
"No. He must be before my time. I just started in September of this year."
"Are you a former student?"
"No way!" she replied with a laugh. "My father is a bus driver. He could never afford the tuition on his salary. Besides, Whittington graduates don't become receptionists. They become highly paid lawyers, doctors, politicians and CEOs. Did you know that four former presidents and three vice-presidents attended Whittington?"
"Sounds impressive," Langston said.
Yablonski picked up a school brochure that was lying on the table beside his chair. He leafed through the pages that described Whittington's proud history, its outstanding academic record and the state-of-the-art technology available to its students. Nowhere was there a reference to the cost of such an education.
Lying beside the brochures was a directory that listed the telephone extensions of the faculty members and the administrative staff. The detective's gaze was drawn to one name in particular.
"You'll need to revise this phone list," he told the receptionist. "M. Rennie is still on it."
"Oh, that's not Martin Rennie. That's Marcy, his ex-wife."
"She works here?"
Stan could not hide his surprise.
"Yes," the receptionist said, but then in a low, conspiratorial tone she added, "of course, I don't know what she does. She never comes to the office and never gets any phone calls or messages. To be honest, I don't even know what she looks like."
A theory was forming in the detective's mind, one he hoped to explore further with Whittington's administrator.
* * *
Moments after a well-dressed man, briefcase in hand, entered the administrator's office, the intercom on the receptionist's desk sounded.
"You can go in now," the girl told the detectives.
Inside the administrator's office the atmosphere was not nearly as pleasant. In fact, it was downright chilly.
"My name is Everett Gregg," the man in the expensive suit said. "I represent Whittington."
"We're investigating the murder of a former teacher, and we're here just to get some background information on him," Yablonski explained.
"We'll be happy to provide you with a copy of his school file," the lawyer said.
Apparently the administrator was told to keep quiet and let the attorney do the talking.
"Thank you. Now, Martin Rennie worked here for a barely a year. Why is that?"
"He opted to take early retirement," Gregg replied. "Health problems, I believe."
"Seems to me like it would be hard to get a job in such a fine school, and I'm sure it pays well."
"Your point, Detective?"
"My partner and I would like to know if there were any inappropriate comments or actions on his part toward any of his students."
"Certainly not!" the administrator bellowed.
Stan noticed that the man had a nervous tic in his left eyelid and that his question had set it off.
"I assure you, Detectives," the lawyer said, taking the role of spokesman again. "Whittington performs the most thorough screenings on its employment applicants. The backgrounds of all candidates are carefully scrutinized before a teacher or other staff member is hired."
"So naturally you would have known if Martin Rennie had been suspected of misconduct at another school," Yablonski said, noting that the administrator's tic was downright spastic.
"All his previous employment records were examined, and a criminal background check was performed. Mr. Rennie had a spotless record," the lawyer said.
"Well, if you're satisfied, we're satisfied," Stan said, tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket.
Believing the questioning had come to an end, the administrator relaxed, and his eyelid became still.
"Just one other thing," the detective said, hoping he didn't sound too much like Lieutenant Columbo. "I notice Mrs. Rennie works for the school."
The tic was again building momentum.
"Yes," Gregg replied. "She learned of a job opening through her husband and she applied. After interviewing several candidates, the school decided she was the most suited person for the position."
"Which is?"
"Public relations."
"If I wanted to have a look around her office ...."
"I'm afraid you'd need a search warrant, Detective," the lawyer insisted.
"I thought so," Yablonski said, rising to leave. "Thank you, gentlemen. I think my partner and I have everything we need."
* * *
"Are we going back to confront Marcy Rennie with the truth?" Phil asked.
"No. I think we already know what the situation is. She wanted to divorce her husband and at the same time continue to enjoy her comfortable lifestyle. She goes to the school and tells someone there that she'll keep quiet about the allegations made against him in Hartford. They give her a title and a substantial salary, which she earns by keeping her silence."
"That's blackmail."
"Do you think anyone at Whittington is going to admit it?" Stan asked. "The school's alumni are some of the most powerful men and women in this country. I'm not ready to take them on over the death of a shopping mall Santa."
"That's not like you to back down," Phil declared.
"If I honestly thought the ex-wife or anyone at the school was involved in the murder, I wouldn't. I'd fight even if it meant losing my job. But I just don't see a motive here in Greenwich. Rennie's death serves no purpose. On the contrary, a police investigation might stir up the skeleton that everyone here is trying to keep tightly locked in the closet."
"Yeah," Phil agreed. "Mrs. Rennie can kiss her fancy house and her Mercedes goodbye if the truth comes out—not to mention she would be facing criminal charges."
"That brings us back to square one. Who killed Martin Rennie?"
"Maybe McMurtry was right. Maybe Santa Claus was the intended victim after all."
"It's possible."
"Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants if McMurtry solved the case?"
"I still want to see if we can find that girl from Hartford," Yablonski said. "What was her name?"
"Tobin. Joanne Tobin."
"That's right. I want to see if we can locate her. It's a long shot, but maybe she can shed some light on her teacher's character."
* * *
Wednesday, affectionately known as "hump day," was the midpoint of the week for most people. Yablonski often wondered why he had wanted to become a cop rather than taking a nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday job, sitting behind a desk, getting weekends and holidays off.
That particular Wednesday morning, the day following his trip down to Greenwich with his partner, Yablonski walked into the police station with his usual two coffees in hand.
"Phil here yet?" he asked the desk sergeant on duty.
"He called in and said he was gonna be late. Said you two didn't get back from Connecticut until after midnight."
"It was that damned traffic on 95. There was an accident near the Mystic exit."
No sooner did Stan sit at his desk and open the plastic top of his coffee than Shawn McMurtry asked to meet with him.
"Thanks for finding that school for me yesterday," Stan said when Shawn took the seat across the desk from him.
"Glad to do it."
"What have you got for me?" the detective asked, noticing the bulging accordion folder McMurtry was carrying.
"I watched those mall security tapes, and there's something I'd like to show you."
"Let's go into the conference room and look at the tape."
"No need to. I transferred the video onto a DVD, or rather my son did."
McMurtry opened the folder and took a portable DVD player out of it.
"You can just turn it on; it's battery operated."
When the detective pressed the PLAY button, he saw Martin Rennie dressed as Santa sitting on his regal throne in the mall's Santa's Workshop. The time code on the video file read 12:05 p.m. The men watched in silence a few moments and then Shawn pointed to the screen.
"Look at his face. Doesn't he look surprised to you?"
McMurtry pressed the REWIND button and replayed the video at a slower speed.
"Yes, he does," Yablonski agreed. "He looks like he recognizes someone."
"Wait a second; there's more. There! Look at that kid. See the resemblance?"
"It could be a coincidence or it could be some relative Rennie didn't expect to see."
"Watch his face when the mother takes the son away. He stares after them. Now it might be my imagination, but he looks worried to me, so I went to the mall and talked to the teenager who takes the photos in Santa's Workshop. She gave me a CD with copies of all the photographs taken on Black Friday. I printed out this one."
McMurtry handed Yablonski a photograph of the boy sitting on Santa's lap. Seeing the two faces side-by-side accentuated the uncanny resemblance.
Stan smiled and handed Phil's cup of coffee to McMurtry.
"Nice job, Shawn!"
"Thanks, but I didn't learn her identity. She paid cash for the picture of her kid with Santa, so there was no reason for the mall to have her name and address."
"No problem. Unless I'm very much mistaken, I already know her name."
* * *
Gwyneth Neale made the detective's day when she handed him a computer printout of names, addresses and dates.
She summarized the information verbally, "After the alleged incident at the high school, Joanne Tobin's family left Hartford and moved to New Jersey. They were there only three months, at which time the father was arrested for possession with intent and sentenced to five years. Unfortunately, he was stabbed to death when a fight broke out between two other inmates, a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The girl and her mother moved to New York, where the mother died of an accidental overdose."
"Jeez, the poor kid!" Stan exclaimed.
"The daughter seems to be clean. No problems with the law, and until the claims of molestation against her teacher, she was an excellent student who never got into trouble at school."
"Where is she now?"
"With both her parents dead, Joanne Tobin went to live with relatives right here in Massachusetts: Essex Green, less than a fifteen-minute drive from the mall. And you're gonna love this," the young female officer proudly announced. "According to Department of Health records, Joanne is a WIC recipient."
"WIC is only for pregnant women and small children, isn't that right?"
"Yes. Joanne gets WIC checks to help feed her young son."
"And the father?"
"He's not named in any of the records I searched," Gwyneth admitted. "But the child was born five months after the family left Hartford."
"Which means the accusations against Martin Rennie probably weren't fabricated."
"She could have gotten pregnant by someone else and tried to blame the teacher."
Yablonski took the Santa Claus photo out of a folder on his desk and showed it to Gwyneth.
"If this is the son—and I believe it is—then the proof is in the kid's face. Joanne Tobin became pregnant, willingly or unwillingly, by her teacher. And, coincidentally, she and her son were the last people to visit Santa before he was killed."
"Coincidence?" Gwyneth echoed. "I doubt it."
* * *
On Christmas Eve morning, Stan Yablonski walked into the District Attorney's office by himself. Phil Langston was home with the flu, complaining that it was rotten to be sick during the holidays. The detective carried with him a briefcase full of papers pertaining to the Martin Rennie murder case.
He looked at his watch. It was just after nine. He hoped the meeting would be over by noon, so that he could go home early and be with his family.
It shouldn't take too long, he reasoned. After all, I've already had several discussions with the assistant D.A. concerning the case. Today's meeting ought to be just a formality before official charges are filed.
When Yablonski walked into the conference room, he was surprised to see the district attorney himself rather than one of the assistant prosecutors.
"Have a seat, Detective," the D.A. instructed.
Only then did Stan notice the second man in the office.
"This is a friend of mine from Boston," was all the D.A. said, but Stan recognized the man, whose family currently wielded as much power in Massachusetts as the Kennedys once did.
"Let's see what you have on this Kris Kringle case," the D.A. said, seemingly trivializing the murder with his attitude.
"It's an open-and-shut case," Yablonski replied. "We've got the girl's signed confession."
"And the evidence to support it?"
"We've got the killer and her son on the security video. We also have DNA proving the former teacher was the boy's biological father."
"You got a murder weapon, preferably one with fingerprints?"
"No. Tobin claims she threw it in the river, and we haven't found it yet."
"What about witnesses?"
"None."
The district attorney frowned.
"The case is weak, very weak. In fact, I don't see any way my office can get a conviction against the girl."
The detective was dumbfounded.
"We've got a confession!" he argued.
"Which any good lawyer can have thrown out because the girl was an emotional wreck at the time it was made."
"She had means, motive and opportunity," Yablonski insisted.
"You have no weapon, no fingerprints, no forensic evidence putting her at the scene of the crime. Most importantly, you have no witnesses. We're talking about Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year when there were thousands of people at the mall."
"She did it. She killed him."
"Maybe she did," the D.A. said with a this-is-my-final-answer tone of voice. "But I can't prove it."
Thus, Yablonski walked out of the conference room much sooner than he'd anticipated. After returning to the police station and wishing a Merry Christmas to the skeleton staff on duty, he went out the door and headed home.
As he sat in a traffic jam of last-minute shoppers near the Puritan Falls Mall, he wondered what had gone wrong.
Not enough evidence! he thought with frustration.
He'd seen an inexperienced assistant prosecutor get a conviction on less evidence than he'd presented to the D.A.
It's almost as if he doesn't want to prosecute and is looking for any excuse to get out of filing charges. Although I don't know why ....
Another hunch. Yablonski reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone and called Gwyneth Neale at the station.
"Good! You're still there," he said when she answered.
"I'd rather be home in front of the fireplace, drinking eggnog and reading a good book."
"How would you like a free cup of coffee first thing on the day after Christmas?" he asked.
"If you want me to do you a favor on Christmas Eve, it had better be from Starbucks."
After promising Gwyneth a venti Caffé Mocha, he asked her to check on the educational background of the D.A.'s "friend from Boston."
"I don't need my computer for that," she said. "He's a Harvard grad. His whole family went to Harvard."
"Not college. I want to know where he went before that."
"Okay. I'll check and call you back."
As the traffic inched along in front of him, Yablonski nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Ten minutes later, as he passed the mall and was finally able to use his gas pedal and not his brake, his cell phone rang.
"Small world," Gwyneth said. "Your boy went to Whittington, but that was long before Martin Rennie taught there. So what's the connection?"
"It was just a lose end. I'm sure nothing will come of it," Stan said and after wishing her a second Merry Christmas that day, he ended the call and put his cell phone back in his pocket.
He would break the bad news about the case to Phil when they returned to the station on the twenty-sixth; no use spoiling his partner's holiday any more than the flu already had.
The veteran detective was wise to the ways of politics. No doubt when he returned from his Christmas holiday, he and Detective Langston would be assigned to a new case, and the Santa Claus homicide would eventually find its way to the cold case files, where no one would ever learn of Rennie's association with the elite Greenwich prep school. There was nothing he could do about it. The D.A.'s friend from Boston was but one of the many powerful people who had gone to Whittington, most of whom would go to great lengths to protect the reputation of the school, even if it meant a killer would go free.
Oh, well, Stan thought with a sigh of resignation as he got out of his car and headed up the walkway toward his front door, which was festooned with a brightly decorated holiday wreath. It's not as though we're letting Casey Anthony go. Joanne Tobin was a poor kid, molested by her teacher. She's had to deal with losing her parents and being a teenage mom. Hell, maybe Martin Rennie deserved what he got!
When he opened the front door and entered the house, Stan was determined to put the case behind him, and that's exactly what he did. He enjoyed his holiday and returned to duty the following day in good spirits. Not even reading in The Puritan Falls Gazette that the powerful man from Boston had endorsed the district attorney's nomination for state senator could darken his bright outlook, for as was said before, the veteran detective was wise to the ways of politics.
Salem got mad at our local mall Santa Claus because he got coal in his stocking last year instead of chocolate!
