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For the next few weeks, I gathered information on the dead students. Talked to their friends, classmates, and turned up nothing. Mentioned Synge to them and drew blank faces. Ronan Wall, the swan guy, rang me often and offered no clue as to how I should proceed. If he was the Dramatist, I had no way of proving it. His tone continued to be a mix of baiting, flattery and arrogance. He even said,
“Who’d have expected us to become friends?”
I couldn’t let that go, asked,
“You think we’re friends?”
“Oh yeah, Jack, we’re close.”
I called Ridge and she said there was no evidence of foul play. When I mentioned the book, she said she couldn’t explain that. Perhaps it was a bizarre coincidence, one of those thousand-to-one chances that defy logic. I’d lost patience, asked,
“You really beli
