“No,” she says quickly. “That would be wrong. Of course we need to consider everyone. I don’t keep admission files here, but Shawn’s entry was recent enough that I might be able to help.”
SIXTY-ONE
Val’s version only confirms that Dalton isn’t misremembering. What I want to know, though, is how thoroughly the council researched Sutherland.
“He brought in a significant sum of money,” she says. “And the teachers’ union had only begun to raise suspicions. They hadn’t actually accused him. It’s an ideal situation, like in your own case, where no charges have been filed and no formal accusation made.”
“So what research does the council do in those cases?”
“In yours, they would have confirmed that the young man’s death occurred as you claimed and that the attack on your current boyfriend happened as you also claimed. But that’s a case where there’s the threat of violence and no financial gain.”
“Because I wasn’t buying my way in.”
“Yes. You brought special skills, though, so they likely didn’t do more than a basic check.”
“Would the council have confirmed that the teachers’ union was investigating bad investments? Or would they just take Shawn’s word for it?”
“If no accusations were made, it would be difficult to follow up without further alerting the union.”
“What about Shawn himself?” I ask. “What background checks would have been done on him?”
When she hesitates, I say, “In my case, for example, I had to submit my passport and supporting identification.”
“It’s standard procedure to request at least two forms of government-issued ID.”
“What I think Casey’s really asking,” Dalton says, “is not whether it’s the normal routine, but whether the normal routine applies to everyone.”
“It is supposed to but … They do run a criminal background check. I know that much. Also, they will run an online search, to alert us to potential problems. That is a serious concern, naturally—that someone could claim to have committed white-collar crimes when it turns out he’s the prime suspect in a serial-killing spree. The council takes steps to ensure there are no outstanding criminal issues.”
In other words, though, they run searches that may very well come up empty. That they hope will come up empty. That might prove someone hasn’t been accused of any crimes, but what it doesn’t prove? That Shawn is who he says he is.
* * *
Val contacts Phil. I put my questions to him as delicately as possible. He still tries to claim they ran basic background checks on everyone, but his blustering says that’s bullshit. Sutherland’s check cashed. That’s the only ‘check’ that mattered. Which means we’re going to need to be a lot more suspicious of every white-collar criminal in Rockton. It’s a helluva loophole.
What I’m postulating, then, is that Shawn Sutherland isn’t a funds manager who cheated a teachers’ union. He’s just a guy with enough cash to buy his way in, one who wants to come to Rockton for another reason.
So how does that blow apart my time-line issue? It doesn’t. It’s just step one in a theory that I have to wait until morning—and daylight—to pursue.
* * *
The next day, Dalton and I are out on the sleds just before daybreak. His brother has been camping where Dalton can find him. We pick him up and spend the next four hours driving farther from camp than I’ve ever been. Farther than Dalton has been in years.
We have to hide and leave the snowmobiles for the last few kilometers, to avoid alerting everyone within earshot.
Dalton walks in silence, looking calm and focused. But I can hear his breathing, a little ragged, as if his heart’s beating faster than it should be on a casual hike.
“Jacob and I could do this,” I say. “Right, Jacob?”
“Sure,” Jacob says.
Dalton shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”
“Or you could go with him and I’ll stay behind,” I say. “If that’s better.”
“It’s not.”
We continue in silence, but his gaze starts moving, as if seeing things that tweak half-forgotten memories. It’s like walking through a house you lived in as a child and think you’ve forgotten, but then you catch a glimpse through a window and memories spark. His gaze will catch on something, and then he yanks it back to the path, breathing accelerating.
I watch Dalton anxiously, worried this dredges up uncomfortable memories. His brother is watching him too, but for an entirely different reason. There’s hope in Jacob’s eyes, and they light up when Dalton notices something. It’s going through that old family home with the brother he lost in a divorce, and hoping he remembers, because it’s not just about a place, but a time, a shared time, a shared bond. And every time Dalton tenses, I do too, afraid Jacob will pick up on his brother’s unease, will realize this walk through their past isn’t what he wants it to be.
I’m trying to think of a distraction—for both of them—when Dalton slows, his gaze fixed on the ruins of a very old shack.
“You remember that?” Jacob says. “It was your hideout when we wintered around here.”
When Dalton doesn’t respond, Jacob falters, and I cut in with, “Eric had a hideout?” and Jacob turns to me.
“He did. See the right side there, where it’s a little higher? There’s enough of the roof left that Eric was able to hollow out a room for himself. He didn’t think I knew about it. It was his secret spot for when I drove him crazy. Which I could.”