Blood on My Hands

students have. And in some cases, it may be even more important than grades. There was a time when it was easy to know who was popular and who wasn’t. If you were a jock or a cheerleader, you were popular. Then it changed. Sometimes it seemed like the coolest and most popular kids were the ones with their own bands. Or the artists. Or the kids in student government. Or even the brainiac geeks, with their super-high GPAs and science awards.
But lately a new group seems to dominate. They may have talent, or none at all. They might be pretty, or get good grades, or not. What’s the one thing they do have? Money. Enough to spend whatever they want on clothes and entertainment and other kinds of fun, and never even have to think about it.
The strange thing is, with one or two exceptions, these kids didn’t earn a penny of it themselves. For the most part they’ve never had to work a day in their lives. It’s not like in the old days, when kids had to be good at something to be popular. Back then, athletes and cheerleaders had to train. Musicians had to rehearse. Student government kids had to campaign and run for election. Geeks had to study.
These days, it seems, all you have to do is be born rich.

Chapter 37
    Wednesday 11:02 A.M.
    SILENCE. I LIE in my new hiding place in the pool table, feeling worried and scared and baffled. Then comes a rumble of commotion and voices in the hall. A door bangs open and I hear heavy footsteps and breathing as several people rush into the room.
    “Check everywhere,” a man orders. “The closets, cabinets, everything.”
    I hear shuffling, banging, and the scraping of furniture being moved. “She’s not here, sir.”
    “The window,” someone says.
    “Damn it!” another man grunts, as if angry with himself that he didn’t notice it sooner.
    “You think she went down the fire escape?”
    “Down, or up. One of you go each way.”
    More grunts. I imagine two police officers climbing out the window to the fire escape. A walkie-talkie crackles on. A man in the room asks, “Any sign of her?”
    “Negative,” comes the reply over the walkie-talkie.
    “McGregor and Petersen, you in the front?” asks the man.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I want one of you on either side of that crowd. Watch for her.”
    “Ten-four, sir.”
    I listen as he gives more orders and suddenly realize something I didn’t think of before. Because of the ceremony, the whole police department is probably here. For the moment no one’s out on patrol, no one’s taking the day off. I couldn’t be more surrounded.
    “Wilson,” the man in the room says, “anything on the roof?”
    “Negative, sir.”
    “Palluci?”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Go out in the front with McGregor and Petersen. Keep your eyes on that crowd. When people start to leave after the congresswoman’s speech, look for anything she could hide in. You see a baby stroller, check it.”
    “Ten-four.”
    Another voice in the lounge says, “Heating ducts?”
    “Christ, only in the movies,” mutters the man giving orders, who I think must be Chief Jenkins.
    “Ready to stake your job on that?” asks the other man.
    “Wilson, go find a janitor or someone who knows where the ducts are and check them.”
    “Ten-four, sir.”
    A door opens and closes. Is the police chief still here? Is he alone in the lounge or did he leave, too? I strain to hear what’s going on. Then there’s a burst of walkie-talkie static. “Chief?”
    “Whatcha got, Howard?”
    “Nothing, sir.”
    “You checked under the cars, too?”
    “Affirmative, sir.”
    “Okay. Remain where you are and keep your eyes open. She can’t have just disappeared.”
    “Ten-four.”
    The lounge goes quiet, but I can hear breathing. I’m pretty sure Police Chief Jenkins is still here, but there could be someone else, as well. I wait. How long is he going to stay in the lounge? Why doesn’t he leave? I hear a faint hiss and a thump, as if a window was just closed. “She’s got to be somewhere in this building,” he says.
    “Or she could be hiding in that crowd,” the other man answers in a way that makes me think he’s an equal or a confidant. He didn’t feel the need to add “sir” or “chief.”
    “It’s only a hundred people,” Chief Jenkins replies.
    “Someone could be helping her.”
    It’s quiet for a moment. Then the police chief mumbles, “Christ, what a mess.”
    “Did you ask her about the medical review board?” the other man asks.
    “She won’t talk