Chapter 22
Brooklyn Sloane
The clown's smile stretched unnaturally wide across its painted face, contrasting sharply with the single tear that trailed down its white-powdered cheek.
The oil painting hung behind Principal Watkins's desk.
Other than the steady tick of an outdated wall clock and Bit's constant fidgeting in the chair beside her, the only sounds were muffled voices drifting in through the open door from the main area.
Brook’s thoughts drifted to the photo Bit had sent her earlier.
While the grainy street camera captured an individual who matched Jacob to about seventy-one percent, she'd dismissed it almost immediately, noting the imbalance in the man's shoulders that Jacob didn't share. Bit had wanted to cover more of the population with his facial recognition program, but a low threshold meant vetting too many so-called matches. She’d already requested that it be reset to the original parameters.
“What does it mean when a grown man has an affinity for clowns?” Bit's question pulled Brook from her mental wandering. He had twisted in his seat to check that the hallway remained empty before voicing the question. “It’s got to mean something, right?”
Brook refocused, grateful for the distraction from thoughts of Jacob.
She studied the painting more deliberately now, taking in the details that had initially registered only peripherally.
The painting was skillfully executed—not amateur work—with particular attention paid to the contradiction between the wide smile and the single tear.
“Most people make immediate connections to John Wayne Gacy,” Brook replied, her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond the office. “A serial killer who performed as a clown at children's parties while murdering young men.”
“So, you're saying Principal Watkins could be—”
“I'm saying that's the automatic association,” Brook corrected, shifting slightly in her chair so she, too, could monitor the entrance.
“Psychologically speaking, people who display clown imagery often have a complex relationship with attention.
They crave it while simultaneously fearing true emotional exposure.
The clown's makeup both draws attention and conceals the person beneath.”
She gestured toward the painting.
“Take the lone tear. The symbol suggests awareness of this contradiction. It acknowledges the pain behind the performance.”
“From how Big T and Little T described Principal Watkins, he’s reserved and practical,” Bit said, his foot tapping in a rapid rhythm against the carpet. “Not someone who'd need to be the center of attention.”
Principal Watkins’ office was neat and organized, with diplomas and awards arranged in perfect symmetry on the walls. Awards for academic excellence, community service, and educational leadership created a narrative of ambition and achievement.
“That's the interesting part. Sometimes people surround themselves with imagery that represents what they repress rather than what they express. Watkins may be acknowledging parts of himself that he keeps tightly controlled. It could be the reason he was drawn to the painting in the first place.”
“Or maybe he just thinks it's artsy,” Bit suggested with another wary glance at the painting. “You know, being in charge of an elementary school. Some kids love clowns. I mean, not everything has to be a window into the soul, right?”
Before Brook could respond, they heard Jane alert Principal Watkins that his visitors were waiting in his office. Bit straightened abruptly in his chair while Brook stood, mindful of her jacket that she’d hung over the arm.
“Ms. Sloane, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” Watkins closed the distance between them and shook Brook's hand firmly before turning to Bit. His gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary on Bit’s grey knitted beanie.
“And you must be Mr. Nowacki. I’m not sure what else I can tell you about Mr. Quinn.
I’ve already told Mr. Neville everything that I can… legally, of course.”
“We appreciate your flexibility, Principal Watkins.” Brook waited until he had moved behind his desk before reclaiming her chair. Bit followed suit. “I imagine news of Mr. Quinn’s arrest has made the rounds.”
“Tyler Quinn has been placed on administrative leave pending further investigation,” Principal Watkins replied as he leaned back in his chair. “The school board felt it was the appropriate action given the seriousness of the allegations.”
Principal Watkins’ gaze slid to Bit, whose attention had returned to the clown painting. His expression suggested a renewed analysis of its significance, so Brook maintained a professional demeanor, intentionally bringing Watkins’ attention back to her by explaining the reason for their visit.
“We're actually here about a different matter."
“I’m not sure what other information I can provide you.”
“Our investigation has led us to some connections that require your insight,” Brook explained, noticing how Principal Watkins smoothed his tie in preparation for what was to come. “We’d like to ask you about Loretta Whitlow.”
The mention of Figg's mother had clearly caught Principal Watkins off guard. His expression shifted from surprise to confusion, and finally to a wary understanding as the connection to their investigation registered in his eyes.
Brook immediately nipped his assumption in the bud.
“Figg Whitlow doesn’t fit the profile of the individual who murdered Heather Moore,” Brook explained, noting how she had also attracted Bit’s attention.
She technically hadn’t ruled Figg out at all, but she also didn’t want Principal Watkins spreading information about the investigation before she was ready to have it released to the public.
“We’re asking about Loretta Whitlow because there is a slim chance that she interacted with said individual during their high school years. ”
“I haven’t heard Loretta’s name in years,” Principal Watkins said softly, as if testing its weight after years of disuse. “You do know that she passed away many, many years ago.”
“Twelve, to be exact,” Brook confirmed, noting how Watkins leaned forward to rest his forearms on his desk.
“I’m not sure what I can tell you, Ms. Sloane.” Principal Watkins laced his fingers together. “Loretta was a devoted mother who raised that boy alone. Whatever Figg has become, whatever choices he's made as an adult...they don't reflect on her.”
Watkins was protective of Loretta’s memory. Unfortunately, he was still under the assumption that their inquiry suggested Figg's involvement in the murders.
“Please tell me what you can remember about her,” Brook directed, deliberately steering away from any direct accusations.
Watkins's expression softened, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“A true teacher. Not someone who simply showed up for a paycheck, but someone who believed she made a difference.” Watkins smiled as he revisited the past. “Loretta taught literature with a passion that made even reluctant students engage with the material. She had high standards but infinite patience.”
“You were colleagues at the high school, correct?”
“Yes, for over fifteen years.” Watkins shifted and studied the bookcase on the left side of the room. “I believe I still have—yes, there it is.”
Watkins stood, pushing back his chair enough to slide out from behind the desk. He walked over to the bookcase, pulled out what appeared to be a yearbook bound in faded blue cloth, and returned to hand it over to Brook. The gold embossing was still visible despite the wear.
“This was from our final year teaching together before I moved into administration.” Principal Watkins made his way back around his desk. Once he was seated, he gestured toward the book. “Loretta features prominently. She usually did since she was the students’ favorite instructor.”
Brook browsed through some of the pages until she reached the faculty photographs.
They were arranged in alphabetical order.
Loretta Whitlow was slim with high cheekbones that her son had inherited.
Her dark hair was cut just so to frame her heart-shaped face, and she wore a modest silk scarf around her neck.
Not yellow, but rather a deep burgundy that complemented her complexion.
There was a quiet dignity in her posture, a sense of self-possession that emanated even from the flat image.
“There are more photographs throughout, of course,” Watkins explained as he laced his fingers once more. “Loretta was involved in nearly everything—academic competitions, prom committee, graduation preparations.”
“Loretta wasn't married,” Brook stated, already aware of the woman’s marital status. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to sift through some more personal information should Watkins be so inclined to share. “Do you know if she was dating anyone back then?”
“Oh, goodness, no.” Principal Watkins shook his head at the mere suggestion of Loretta being involved with someone.
“Figg's father was never in the picture, at least not during the time I knew them. And Loretta never mixed business with pleasure. As far as I know, she was never serious about anyone.”
Brook absorbed the information while continuing to examine the yearbook. She flipped back to check the publication date, making a mental calculation.
“This would have been Heather Moore's senior year,” Brook noted, lifting her gaze to monitor Watkins' reaction carefully.
“Yes, I believe so.” Principal Watkins pulled his arms from the desk and leaned back in his chair. “Heather was an excellent student. Quiet, but very bright.”
Brook held out the yearbook to Bit.
“Were Loretta and Heather close?”
“Close?” Principal Watkins’ tone had taken on a defensive edge.
“How so? Heather and Figg graduated together, if that’s what you mean.
Not that they ran in the same circles. Figg’s friends were more…
well, let’s just say colorful. I don’t think he appreciated that his mother not only had a role in his private life, but also his academic existence. ”
“Can you recall a student who took a shine to Loretta?”
“You mean an unhealthy attachment,” Principal Watkins amended, not willing to be fooled by any casual question.
“And no, I don’t. Some of those kids might have had some home problems, but no one would have murdered Heather years later.
And if you’re suggesting that one of those kids killed Loretta, you should know that—”
“Yes, I do know that Loretta Whitlow died of cancer.” Brook had hoped that Principal Watkins would be willing to share information regarding Heather’s classmates, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe any of his former students had the ability to harm another.
“Did Loretta ever tutor any students at home?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Principal Watkins replied as his gaze switched to Bit and then back again.
“Such personal interaction is frowned upon by the administration. Still is, as a matter of fact. If a student needs additional help, they can arrange for a tutoring session in the library. Loretta was a stickler for the rules, too.”
Bit had been paging through the yearbook. He’d been staring at one for quite some time, his knee bouncing with an increasing intensity, a sure sign he’d noticed something significant. She waited until she’d caught his attention, giving him a subtle nod of approval.
Bit stood abruptly, causing Principal Watkins to startle. Before he could speak, Bit had set the yearbook on the desk facing the opposite way. He pointed to a group photograph. Brook slowly stood to join them as they all studied what appeared to be a book club posed in the school library.
Loretta Whitlow was standing at the center.
“Who is this?” Bit asked, pointing toward a boy standing slightly apart from the main group. “There are seven names underneath the photograph, but he would make eight.”
By this time, Principal Watkins had leaned forward, squinting at the image. It wasn’t until after he’d reached for his reading glasses that he was able to answer Bit’s inquiry.
“Ah,” Principal Watkins said after a moment. “He shouldn't have been in that picture, actually. He was a freshman, not yet a member of the club.”
Brook leaned closer to study the image. The boy stood at the edge of the frame, yet his expression was anything but casual.
His gaze was fixed entirely on Loretta Whitlow with an intensity that was immediately apparent.
His expression was one of pure adoration mixed with something harder to define.
While the other students smiled at the camera or chatted among themselves, he seemed to exist in a separate reality in which only the teacher mattered.
“What is his name?” Brook pressed, the significance of the boy's expression not lost on her.
Watkins hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.
“I don’t think you understand,” Principal Watkins said, attempting once more to escape their direct question. “This boy couldn’t have murdered Heather Moore.”
“His name, Principal Watkins.”
“Henry, but he was in a car accident a year after this photograph was taken. He’s paralyzed from the waist down, and he’s been in a wheelchair ever since.”
Brook studied the photograph again, taking in the details she'd missed initially.
“You’re saying the boy in this picture is Henry Quinn?”
“Yes, Henry Quinn,” Principal Watkins replied, believing that he’d gotten his point across. “Tyler Quinn’s brother.”