The Cabinet of Curiosities

That reminded him: he turned, grabbed a battered dictionary from a nearby shelf, flipped through the pages until he reached “n.” Nugatory: of no importance, trifling.

Smithback put back the dictionary.

What was needed here was some deeper digging. Before the time when Fairhaven had gone pro with his life. Back when he was just another pimply high school kid. So Fairhaven thought Smithback was just another run-of-the-mill reporter, doing nugatory work? Well, he’d wouldn’t be laughing so hard when he opened his Monday paper.

All it took was ten minutes on the Web to hit paydirt. Fairhaven’s class at P.S. 1984, up on Amsterdam Avenue, had recently celebrated the fifteenth anniversary of their graduation. They had created a Web page reproducing their yearbook. Fairhaven hadn’t shown up for the reunion, and he might not have even known of the Web page—but all the information about him from his old yearbook was posted, for all to see: photos, nicknames, clubs, interests, everything.

There he was: a clean-cut, all-around kid, smiling cockily out of a blurry graduation photograph. He was wearing a tennis sweater and a checked shirt—a typical well-heeled city boy. His father was in real estate, his mother a homemaker. Smithback quickly learned all kinds of things: that he was captain of the swim team; that he was born under the sign of Gemini; that he was head of the debating club; that his favorite rock group was the Eagles; that he played the guitar badly; that he wanted to be a doctor; that his favorite color was burgundy; and that he had been voted most likely to become a millionaire.

As Smithback scrolled through the Web site, the sinking feeling returned. It was all so unspeakably boring. But there was one detail that caught his eye. Every student had been given a nickname, and Fairhaven’s was “The Slasher.” He felt his disappointment abate just slightly. The Slasher. It would be nice if the nickname turned up a secret interest in torturing animals. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And he’d graduated only sixteen years ago. There would be people who remembered him. If there was anything unsavory, Smithback would find it. Let that bastard crack his paper next week and see how fast that smug smile got wiped off.

P.S. 1984. Luckily, the school was only a cab ride away. Turning his back on the computer, Smithback stood up and reached for his jacket.

The school stood on a leafy Upper West Side block between Amsterdam and Columbus, not far from the Museum, a long building of yellow brick, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. As far as New York City schools went, it was rather nice. Smithback strode to the front door, found it locked—security, of course—and buzzed. A policeman answered. Smithback flashed his press card and the cop let him in.

It was amazing how the place smelled: just like his own high school, far away and long ago. And there was the same taupe paint on the cinderblock walls, too. All school principals must’ve read the same how-to manual, Smithback thought as the cop escorted him through the metal detector and to the principal’s office.

The principal referred him to Miss Kite. Smithback found her at her desk, working on student assignments between classes. She was a handsome, gray-haired woman, and when Smithback mentioned Fairhaven’s name, he was gratified to see the smile of memory on her face.

“Oh yes,” she said. Her voice was kind, but there was a no-nonsense edge to it that told Smithback this was no pushover granny. “I remember Tony Fairhaven well, because he was in my first twelfth-grade class, and he was one of our top students. He was a National Merit Scholar runner-up.”

Smithback nodded deferentially and jotted a few notes. He wasn’t going to tape-record this—that was a good way to shut people up.

“Tell me about him. Informally. What was he like?”

“He was a bright boy, quite popular. I believe he was the head of the swim team. A good, all-around, hardworking student.”

“Did he ever get into trouble?”

“Sure. They all did.”

Smithback tried to look casual. “Really?”

“He used to bring his guitar to school and play in the halls, which was against regulations. He played very badly and it was mostly to make the other students laugh.” She thought for a moment. “One day he caused a hall jam.”

“A hall jam.” Smithback waited. “And then?”

“We confiscated the guitar and that ended it. We gave it back to him after graduation.”

Smithback nodded, the polite smile freezing on his face. “Did you know his parents?”

“His father was in real estate, though of course it was Tony who really made such a success in the business. I don’t remember the mother.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“At that time he was an only child. Of course, there was the family tragedy.”

Smithback involuntarily leaned forward. “Tragedy?”

“His older brother, Arthur, died. Some rare disease.”

Smithback abruptly made the connection. “Did they call him Little Arthur, by any chance?”