Executive Times
		2005 Book Reviews
		School Days by Robert B. Parker, Jr.
		Rating: ••• (Recommended)
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	Hope Just when readers might expect Robert B. Parker, Jr. to write another Spenser mystery on autopilot, the author surprises us and writes School Days, one of his best novels. This is unvarnished Spenser, with Susan out of town, and Hawk not needed. The result is such clarity on Spenser’s integrity, dedication and consistency that readers will enjoy turning every page. In School Days, Spenser accepts as a client the grandmother of a high school student who has confessed to a Columbine-style murder spree at a suburban high school. The grandmother’s hope triggers reactions in Spenser that drive him to face all odds. Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter 5, pp. 22-25: The Dowling police station looked like a rambling, white-shingled Cape. The Dowling police chief looked like a Methodist minister I had known once in Laramie, when I was a little kid. He was tall and thin with a gray crew cut and a close-cropped gray moustache. His glasses were rimless. He wore a white shirt with short sleeves and epaulets and some sort of crest pinned to each epaulet. The shirt was pressed with military creases. His chief’s badge was large and gold. His black gun belt was off, folded neatly and lying on the side table near his desk. His gun was in the holster, a big-caliber pearl-handled revolver. “I’m Cromwell,” he said. “Chief of Police.” “Spenser,” I said. “I know your name,” Cromwell said. “Sit down.” I sat. “Real tragedy,” Cromwell said, “what happened over at that school.” I nodded. “We got there as soon as we heard, contained it, waited for backup and cooperated in the apprehension of the perpetrators,” Cromwell said. I nodded. “You ever been a police officer, Spenser?” “Yes.” “Then you know how it goes. You do the job, and the press looks for some way to make you look bad.” I waited. “We got some bad press. It came from people who do not know anything at all about policework. But it has stung my department, and, to be honest with you, it has stung me.” I nodded. “We played it by the book,” Cromwell said. “Straight down the line. By the book. And, by God, we kept a tragedy from turning into a holocaust.” “Should I be taking notes?” I said. Cromwell leaned back in his chair and looked at me hard. He pointed a finger at me, and jabbed it in my direction a couple of times. “Now that was a wiseassed remark,” Cromwell said. “And you might as well know it right up front. We have zero tolerance for wiseasses around here.” I liked the we. I wondered if it was the royal we, as in we are not amused. On the other hand, it still seemed in my best interest to get along with the local cops. I looked contrite. “I’ll try to do better,” I said. “Be a good idea,” Cromwell said. “Now what we don’t need is somebody coming along and poking around and riling everybody up again.” I was back to nodding again. Cromwell liked nodding. “So, who hired you?” Cromwell said. I thought about that for a moment. On the one hand, there was no special reason not to tell him. Healy knew. DiBella already knew. On the other hand, it didn’t do my career any good to spill my client’s name to every cop who asked. Besides, he was annoying me. I shook my head. “You’re not a lawyer,” Cromwell said. “You have no privilege.” “When I’m employed by an attorney on behalf of a client, there is some extension of privilege,” I said. “Who’s the lawyer?” Cromwell said. “I’m not employed by a lawyer,” I said. “Than what the hell are you talking about?” Cromwell said. “I rarely know,” I said. I smiled my winning smile. “What’s our policy on wiseasses around here?” Cromwell said. “Zero tolerance,” I said. “Except for me.” Cromwell didn’t say anything for a time. He folded his arms across his narrow chest and looked at me with his dead-eyed cop look. I waited. Finally, he said, “Let me make this as clear and as simple as I can. We don’t want you around here, nosing into a case that is already closed.” I nodded. “And we are prepared to make it very unpleasant for you if you persist.” I nodded. “You have anything to say to that?” Cromwell said. “How about, Great Caesar’s Ghost!” I said. Cromwell kept the dead-eyed stare on me. “Or maybe just an audible swallow,” I said. Cromwell kept the stare. “A little pallor?” I said. Cromwell stared at me some more. “Get the hell out of here,” Cromwell said finally. I stood. “You must have screwed this up pretty bad,” I said. “If you’re smart, you son of a bitch,” Cromwell said, “you won’t be back.” “I never claimed smart,” I said, and walked out the door. At least he didn’t shoot me. How Spenser goes about doing what he has to do in School Days will bring pleasure to readers. Steve Hopkins, November 21, 2005
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