Chapter 5
Pierce spent the better part of the morning doing what he did best, turning fragments of information into a coherent narrative that would eventually become compelling audio content.
Seated at a corner table in Daily Grind Café, laptop open and notebook filled with his cramped handwriting, he worked through the timeline that Evelyn Cross had provided while cross-referencing it with the newspaper coverage Mia had shown him.
The coffee shop hummed with the kind of low-level activity that made it perfect for working, local residents stopping by for their morning caffeine fix, tourists planning their day in the mountains, the occasional business meeting conducted in hushed tones over oversized muffins.
Pierce had chosen a spot where he could observe the room while maintaining privacy for his phone calls, a habit developed over two seasons of investigating cases where the wrong person overhearing the wrong conversation could shut down sources permanently.
His phone rang as he was reviewing Evelyn's notes about Rebecca's art class schedule. The caller ID showed a local number he didn't recognize.
"Pierce Landry."
"Mr. Landry? This is Tom Dillard. I understand you're looking into the Rebecca Hale situation."
Pierce felt the familiar surge of excitement that came with unsolicited contact from potential sources. "That's right. Can I ask how you heard about my investigation and got my number?”
"Small town. Word travels fast, especially when it concerns something like this.
Evelyn gave me your number." The man's voice carried the careful neutrality of someone who'd spent years avoiding taking sides in community disputes.
"I worked with Rebecca at the time. Taught alongside her, I mean. Art program at the high school."
"Would you be willing to meet? I'd love to hear your perspective on what Rebecca was like in the weeks before her death."
There was a pause that suggested Tom Dillard was weighing the wisdom of getting involved. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. Like I said to Evelyn. There is nothing I'd tell you that isn't already public knowledge, more or less."
“Still, it would be good. If you don’t mind.”
They arranged to meet at the high school after classes ended, which gave Pierce the afternoon to prepare questions and review what he knew about Rebecca's professional life.
According to the newspaper coverage, she'd been well-liked by colleagues and students, the kind of teacher who stayed late to help struggling kids and volunteered for extra duties without complaint.
But Pierce had learned that official narratives rarely captured the complexity of real people living real lives.
Tom Dillard turned out to be a thin man in his fifties with the kind of patient demeanor that suggested decades of dealing with teenage drama and administrative bureaucracy.
He met Pierce in the art department hallway, surrounded by student work that covered every available wall space with the enthusiastic creativity that characterized high school art programs everywhere.
"Rebecca's old classroom," Tom said, gesturing toward a door marked with her name on a placard that had never been updated. "They've been using it for storage since... well, since she died. Nobody wanted to take it over permanently."
Pierce followed him into the room, noting the way afternoon sunlight streamed through large windows designed to provide optimal lighting for artistic work.
Even empty, the space felt like it belonged to someone who'd cared about creating an environment where young people could explore their creativity without judgment.
"What was Rebecca like as a colleague?" Pierce asked, settling into one of the plastic chairs that seemed to be standard issue for every public school in America.
"Dedicated. Maybe too dedicated, if that makes sense." Tom perched on the edge of a desk, his expression thoughtful. "She had this way of getting involved in her students' lives that went beyond what most teachers would consider appropriate professional boundaries."
"Can you give me an example?"
"Kids with problems at home, she'd make sure they had supplies for projects even if they couldn't afford them.
Students who were struggling academically, she'd stay after school for hours helping them catch up.
There was this one boy, troubled kid from a broken family situation, and Rebecca practically adopted him for a while. "
Pierce felt his investigative instincts engage. "What was his name?"
"Keith Dwyer. Nice enough kid when he wasn't acting out, but he had some issues.
Anger management problems, difficulty with boundaries, that sort of thing," Tom said in a way that made it clear he’d learned to discuss difficult students without crossing legal or ethical lines.
"Rebecca saw potential in him that other teachers missed. "
"Was this around the time of her death?"
"Keith graduated a few years before Rebecca was killed, but he kept coming around. Sometimes he'd show up at school events, sometimes he'd hang around the parking lot after hours. Made some of the staff uncomfortable, but Rebecca always defended him."
Pierce made careful notes, his mind already working through the implications. "Did anyone ever express concerns about Keith's behavior toward Rebecca specifically?"
Tom was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing how much to reveal. "There were rumors. Nothing substantiated, you understand, but people talked about whether his attachment to Rebecca was... appropriate."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he was a young man with obvious emotional problems who seemed fixated on an older woman who'd shown him kindness. Rebecca insisted it was innocent, that she was just trying to help someone who'd had a difficult life, but..."
"But?"
"But not everyone agreed with her assessment." Tom stood up, moving toward the window that overlooked the student parking lot. "Rebecca had a blind spot when it came to troubled kids. She wanted to believe that everyone could be saved if they just had someone who cared about them enough."
Pierce followed his gaze toward the parking lot, imagining Keith Dwyer lingering there after school hours, watching the building where Rebecca worked. "Do you know where I could find Keith now?"
"Still lives in town, as far as I know. Works odd jobs, nothing steady. You might find him at some of the local bars, or maybe ask around at the hardware store on Main Street. He does handyman work sometimes."
"Anyone else from Rebecca's art classes who might be worth talking to?"
Tom considered the question. "There was another student who used to attend her weekend classes. Travis Rudd. He was older, had come back to take some continuing education courses after college. Rebecca mentioned that he made her uncomfortable sometimes, but I never got the full story."
"Uncomfortable how?"
"The usual, standing too close, asking personal questions, finding excuses to stay after other students had left. The kind of behavior that makes female teachers nervous but isn't necessarily criminal."
Pierce felt the familiar pattern emerging, a victim who attracted troubled men, who either couldn't or wouldn't recognize the dangers of trying to help people who might be beyond helping. "Do you know where I could find Travis Rudd?"
"Haven't seen him around town since Rebecca died. Might have moved away, might just be keeping a low profile. You could ask at the community college where Rebecca taught her weekend classes."
They talked for another twenty minutes, with Tom providing details about Rebecca's routine, her relationships with other staff members, and his own observations about changes in her behavior during the weeks before her death.
Nothing he said contradicted the official timeline, but Pierce caught hints of complexity beneath the surface, a woman who might have been dealing with personal stress that didn't make it into police reports.
"One more question," Pierce said as they prepared to leave. "Did Rebecca ever mention feeling threatened by anyone? Any concerns about her safety or Jacob's?"
Tom shook his head. "Nothing like that. If anything, she seemed... I don't know, distracted maybe? Like her mind was somewhere else. But threatened? No, I never got that impression."
Pierce thanked him and headed back toward town, his mind already working through the next steps. Keith Dwyer clearly needed to be interviewed, and soon. In Pierce's experience, the longer someone had to think about an approaching interview, the more likely they were to either flee or lawyer up.
Pierce found Keith Dwyer exactly where Tom Dillard had suggested he might, nursing a beer at Murphy's Tavern on a Tuesday afternoon, surrounded by the kind of regulars who treated day drinking as a legitimate response to unemployment and disappointment.
The bar was exactly what Pierce expected from a small Adirondack town—dark wood, neon beer signs, the lingering smell of cigarettes from the days when smoking indoors was still legal.
Keith wasn't hard to identify. Pierce had done his research during the drive from the high school, pulling up social media profiles and public records that painted a picture of a man in his late twenties who'd never quite figured out how to transition from troubled teenager to functional adult.
The photos showed someone with the kind of restless energy that suggested constant internal struggle—thin build, sharp features, eyes that seemed to be looking for threats or opportunities with equal intensity.
"Keith Dwyer?" Pierce approached the bar with the casual confidence of someone who belonged there, though everything about his appearance probably screamed outsider to anyone paying attention.
Keith looked up from his beer, his expression shifting through surprise, suspicion, and something that might have been resignation. "Depends who's asking."