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hummed with activity. The walls were festooned with material—term papers that had received A+ grades, high-quality artwork, news articles, colored flyers, announcements, photographs, and one giant overstuffed complaint box. The Admission Offices took up the first floor. The largest of the rooms resembled a bank with a line of students standing on one side of the counter and the school employees sitting on the other side. Behind them was an open space of desks with computers. Lots of people were tapping on keyboards.
    The two detectives waited in line and when they got up to the counter, Marge flashed her badge, asking a startled woman if she could speak to someone from the administration on a personal matter. Five minutes later, they were escorted into the office of the boys’ vice principal. Dr. Martin Punsche, they were told, would be with them shortly. His office was small—a desk with a computer, four chairs, a bookshelf, and not much else. It did have a window with a view of the lawns.
    Punsche appeared with an outstretched hand, welcoming them to Bell and Wakefield. He was a man in his fifties, broad shouldered and bald with a broken nose. Put a white shirt on his body and a whistle around his neck and he could have been the football coach. Instead he wore a blue shirt, gold tie, and gray slacks.
    “Maggie told me it was a personal matter,” Punsche said. “I hope it’s not trouble. The school has been going through some difficult times. Have a seat.”
    The detectives sat down. “Difficult times?” Marge asked.
    “You must know that one of our students met a terrible fate a couple of days ago.”
    “Gregory Hesse,” Oliver said. “That’s actually why we’re here.”
    “I figured as much. Terrible, terrible thing. We’ve already held a school assembly about it. We’ve been encouraging our students to talk about it. I’ve also scheduled several psychologists and doctors to come and talk about suicide prevention. Our student presidents, Stance O’Brien and Cameron Cole, have set up a student hotline. Around a dozen of our seniors have volunteered to meet with the freshmen for an informal rap session during lunch. I’m so proud of how our students have mobilized.”
    Marge stared at him. The poor kid had just blown his head off, and the dude was a booster for school spirit. Did he ever turn it off?
    Punsche placed his hands atop his desk. “So . . . how can I help you?”
    Oliver straightened his tie. “We’re still tying up a few loose ends with the case.”
    “What kind of loose ends?”
    “Things that don’t add up just yet.”
    Marge said, “They may add up later, but right now we’re investigating a few things at Wendy Hesse’s behest.”
    Oliver shrugged. “For starters, we need a few phone numbers.”
    “You mean phone numbers of our students?” When Marge nodded, Punsche said, “You know I can’t just give out numbers without asking the parents.”
    “We’re interested in Joey Reinhart, Gregory Hesse’s best friend,” Marge said. “We can get the number from Wendy Hesse—she’s the one who told us about Joey—but the lieutenant didn’t want to bother her. You can understand that.”
    Punsche stroked his hairless chin. “Why did Wendy Hesse contact you?”
    “Like my partner said, some things are not quite adding up. We take all crime seriously, and suicide is a crime.”
    “It’s a crime in only the most technical sense.”
    “That’s the LAPD,” Oliver said. “We’re very technical.”
    Marge said, “We also found out some interesting things about another friend of Gregory’s. A boy named Kevin Stanger. He transferred from Bell and Wakefield around six months ago at the beginning of the sophomore year. I’m assuming that you’d still have his address and phone number.”
    “Kevin Stanger.” Again, he stroked his chin. “I’m sorry. I can’t put a face to the name.”
    Marge said, “Maybe you don’t know him, so I’ll clue you in to what I heard.