Southern Cross by Patricia Cornwell Page A

bell rang.
    “We need to go on to the auditorium,” Mrs. Grannis said.
    He felt her searching his face, looking for a clue. Weed knew she was hoping the faculty had not made a mistake advancing him to the outer limits of Godwin’s art instruction.
    “I don’t want to listen to no cops,” Weed told her.
    “Weed?” It wasn’t negotiable. “You’re going to sit with me.”
     
    Brazil parked his marked patrol car on the circle outside the high school’s front entrance, and despite his constant complaining during the drive, felt happy to be here as he climbed out of the car and students milling about stared. It did not occur to Brazil that his tall, chiseled, uniformed presence was striking, that this might have something to do with the attention he so often got.
    He had never really accepted his physical self. In part this was because he was an only child left to the mercy of a mother who had always been too miserable and eventually too drunk to see him as someone separate from herself. When she looked at him, she saw a bleary projection of her husband, who had been killed when Brazil was ten. In her rages, it was Brazil’s dead father she ranted to and struck and begged not to leave her.
    “You got any idea where the hell we’re going?” West asked as she pushed shut the car door.
    Brazil scanned the notes Fling had given him.
    “ ‘Go in, take a left,’ ” he read.
    “Go in where?”
    “Uh,” Brazil scanned some more. “Doesn’t say. We ‘go through doors ahead to green hallway through more doors to a blue one until see a bulletin board with photographs.’ ”
    “Fuck,” West said as they walked.
    “After that,” Brazil said, “we ‘can’t miss it.’ ”
    “It’s a conspiracy. I’m telling you, Andy. They deliberately had Hammer inherit Fling to fuck her.”
    “I don’t know,” Brazil said as he opened one of the front doors for her and they entered the commons. “The former chief had him for three years.”
    “The former chief also got fired for incompetence.”
    “Ah.” Brazil spied a pretty young teacher walking with one of her students. “Excuse me,” Brazil said to her with a smile. “We’re trying to find the auditorium. I’m Officer Brazil and this is Deputy Chief West.”
    “Of course,” Mrs. Grannis answered with enthusiasm. “You’re exactly who we’re on our way to see. I’m Mrs. Grannis and this is Weed. You can just follow us. It’s just straight ahead. I’m sure everybody else is already seated and waiting with great anticipation.”
    “What’cha say?” Brazil said to Weed.
    “Nothing,” Weed said.
    “Ah come on,” West said. “I hear they teach a lot more than nothing here.”
    “Weed’s our star artist,” Mrs. Grannis proudly said, patting Weed’s shoulder.
    He moved away from her, his lower lip protruding in a combination of hostility and near-tears.
    “That’s cool,” Brazil said, shortening his long strides. “What kind of art, man?”
    “Whatever kind I want,” Weed said.
    “Oh yeah?” Brazil said. “You do sculpture?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How about pen and ink?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Watercolors?”
    “Going to.”
    “Papier-mâché?”
    “Easy.”
    “Impressionism. You like Cézanne? ‘Le Château Noir’?”
    “Huh?” Weed looked up at Brazil. “Say what?”
    “Cézanne. He’s one of my favorites. Go look him up.”
    “Where’s he live?”
    “He doesn’t anymore.”
    Weed frowned, following the two cops and Mrs. Grannis into the auditorium. It was full, students turning around in their seats, wondering what Mrs. Grannis and Weed were doing with the two important guests. Weed held his head up, walking cool in his baggy look of the day. He and Mrs. Grannis slipped into the second row, near other teachers. Brazil and West made their way onto the stage and sat in chairs on the dais, spotlights on them. West tapped her microphone and it thudded loudly.
    “Can everybody hear?” she asked.
    “Yes,” voices