Crooked Numbers (14 page)

“They can survive in almost any habitat.
Turdus
is Latin for thrush.” He barely controlled himself this time. “But the name makes me laugh.” Then he got serious again, somber almost. “I called him Robin, and he called me Finch. Because of my last name and other obvious reasons. I do not usually like the names parents give to their kids, so I give them new ones. Names that fit. Especially my friends.”

I thought of the way Dougie had handled himself in Williamsburg and how his mother told me he was fitting in here at the Upper West Side private school. Elliot was spot-on. Dougie
was
a generalist.

“What’s the website?” I asked.

“Finch’s Landing,” he said with obvious pride, “is a website exclusively devoted to the social needs of exceptional children in the private school setting.” He’d given this pitch before. “We have thirty-one members as of this morning.”

Exceptional
: one of the many politically correct euphemisms for kids with special needs. Dougie had a reading disability. It wasn’t crippling, but it did slow him down when acquiring and processing new information. It was apparently enough to get him into his new school. I must have been looking a bit too long at Elliot without speaking, because he gave me a look and said, “I am an Aspy.”

“Excuse me?”

“An Aspy,” he repeated. “I have been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. Are you familiar with the diagnosis? You should be. You are a teacher, right?”

“Right. And yes, I am familiar with Asperger’s.” I thought of Edgar. “I have a friend who has many of the characteristics.”

“Is he highly intelligent?” Elliot asked.

“Very much so.”

“Does he have few friends and trouble reading social cues?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is he now a successful adult in a field a lot of ‘normal people’ might not be drawn to due to its lack of human interaction and its technical requirements?”

I laughed. “Have you met my friend Edgar?”

He gave me a serious look. “Not that I remember.”

Kids with Asperger’s don’t always get the joke. “Did Dougie have a lot of friends at the school?”

“Yes, he did. As I said, he was a generalist. He fit in with every group at school.”

That’s going to make Murcer’s job harder
, I thought.
There’d be fewer kids to interview if Dougie hadn’t been so damned popular.

“Did you hear,” Elliot said, “about our student who was killed a few days ago while skateboarding?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“On Riverside Drive,” he said, pointing west. “He was going down a hilly street and skated directly into a city bus.”

“Shit,” I said. “He went to your school?”

“Yes. I did not know him well, but he was a friend of Rob—of Douglas. He was obviously quite upset about Douglas.” He paused for a bit. “I miss Douglas. We used to talk a lot about bird-watching.”

“What else did you and Dougie talk about?” I asked.

“You sound like a police detective, Mr. Donne.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Why do you want to know what else Douglas and I talked about?”

I took a chance and moved a few steps closer to Elliot. If he was still afraid of me, he was hiding it well.

“The police are saying Dougie’s death was gang-related and—”

“Then the police are stupid,” he blurted out. “He did not belong to a gang.”

“I promised his mother I’d ask some questions and see what I could find out.”

He leaned forward and squinted at me. “You sound like a detective again.”

“I used to be a cop, Elliot. Many years ago. That’s the reason Dougie’s mom asked me for help.”

“And now you are a teacher.” He continued his squinting. “You … are a raven, Mr. Donne. Do you know much about ravens?”

“They’re like big crows, right?”

“Hardly, but most people do make that same connection. Ravens are of the family
Cordivae
and among the smartest of birds.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Ravens are also symbols of mystery and death. As a teacher, you have most likely read Poe’s poem.”

“Once a year,” I replied. “At Halloween.”

He gave me a disappointed look. “Ravens also take pleasure in bothering other birds for no other reason than their own amusement. Does that sound like you?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I am asking you, Mr. Donne.”

“I do not believe I do that, no.”

Elliot smiled. “Of course you would say that. Would you like an example of how intelligent ravens can be?”

“I’d love one.”

He cleared his throat as if he were about to present a report to his science class. “Ravens are scavengers mostly. They will hunt when necessary, but they prefer to find their food ready to eat. Ravens have been known to come across a large, dead animal—let us say a deer. Unable to get at the good parts, they will proceed to make enough noise to attract other carnivores—those with sharp teeth and the ability to get at the flesh of the deer—and let those animals rip off the outer layer, exposing the meat of the animal. They then wait patiently until the carnivore is satisfied and leaves, so they can enjoy whatever remains.”

I nodded, impressed. “They let the wolves do the dirty work.”

“That is one way of putting it,” he said. “Another, more
precise
way, would be to say that ravens are intelligent enough to understand and accept their limitations. By locating the food source and sharing with other animals, they benefit the whole community.”

I gave it some thought. “I like your way better, Elliot.”

“Call me Finch,” he said. “And I will call you Ray.” He held up his hand as if to stop me from talking. “Before you tell me not to get presumptuous, Ray is short for Raven, as well as the name your parents gave you.”

This kid was good.
“Tell me about Finch’s Landing.”

As he considered his response, he again cleared his throat.

“You are,” he began, “aware of the popularity of social networking sites among the students you teach.”

Not sure if that was a question, I just nodded.

“The most popular of these sites are quite attractive to those in my demographic group,” he explained. “Initially. We are seduced by the ability to make ‘friends’ easily and often without much effort. You can understand how those such as myself, Asperger’s kids, would…”—he paused for effect—“… flock to such sites.”

I nodded and smiled this time, enjoying his choice of words.

“After a while,” he went on, “the same social issues arise nonetheless, and those of us who are not your ‘typical,’ ‘normal’ kids feel left out. We may not pick up on social cues very well in face-to-face situations, but online we pick them up better than our non–Asperger’s counterparts.”

“So,” I said, “you still find yourselves on the outside, looking in.”

He gave me an approving look. I was learning.

“Yes. So, I did the only logical thing and created a site for those of us who do not fit in. A site where we do not have to concern ourselves with saying the right thing or with the subtleties and nuances that are so confusing to us in the so-called real world.” He flourished his arms like a magician. “Finch’s Landing.”

“I’m impressed, Finch.”

“Yes. As I said, we have thirty-one members as of today.” He stopped, realizing what he’d just said. “I guess that … we have thirty now. I was counting Douglas.” He swallowed hard and rubbed his eyes. “That is just from three schools on the Upper West Side. All private, all special needs. I plan to expand in the new year.”

“Did Dougie hang out with any of the other members?” I asked.

“In real life?”

“Yes, in real life.”

“I observed him ‘hanging out’ with a few of my members. Boys who go to this school. The student who was killed was one of them. I was not personal friends with them, but they met membership criteria.”

“You didn’t care much for them?” I asked.

“They were part of the popular group,” he said.

I detected what sounded like disappointment in his voice. “Did that bother you?”

He gave that some thought before speaking. “Do you know much about finches, Ray?” he asked, pretending to brush more snow off his shoulders.

“About as much as I know about ravens.”

“The more colorful the male finch,” he explained, “the more mates he attracts.”

“Okay,” I said. “That makes sense.”

“The less colorful males eventually become aware of this difference and make a conscious choice to hang out with their more colorful, more attractive counterparts in the hope they will have more opportunities to mate.”

“Kind of like social networking.”

“Very good,” Finch said. “I started my site in an effort to be more popular.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who cares much about popularity.”

“I do not, in theory. But I was interested in seeing if it would work in practice.”

“Did it?”

“No, Ray. It did not. The only true friend I had on Finch’s Landing was Robin.
Douglas.
That was enough for me.” He pulled up his jacket sleeve and looked at his watch. “I have to go now.”

“Was Dougie close to any teachers here?” I asked.

“My train is coming.” A touch of urgency in his voice. “I have to go now.”

He started off in the direction of the subway. I followed him.

“Finch,” I said, picking up my pace, “was Dougie close to any teachers?”

He looked at his watch again. “Four forty-seven. Yes, he and I both got along well with Mr. Rivera, the computer teacher. He was also our advisor.” He started walking faster. “He might still be at the school. He is in charge of the afterschool computer class. I have to go now.”

“Thanks, Finch,” I called as he flew away toward his train.

*

A group of four boys was coming out the front door of Upper West Academy when I got there a few minutes later. They seemed to be talking about something serious, until they all broke out into laughter. The school seemed to be made up of four brownstones connected to one another. The steps leading to the main entrance had recently been swept clean of the light snow. Behind the boys was a man of about thirty, talking on his cell phone as he looped his computer bag over his shoulder. We caught each other’s eye at the same time.

“Mr. Rivera?” I asked.

He held up his hand in a give-me-a-second gesture and said good-bye to the person on the other end. He slipped his cell inside his jacket. “You a reporter?” he asked. “Or another cop?”

“
Another
cop?” I asked.

“I spoke with a Detective Murcer a couple of hours ago,” he explained.
Good for Dennis
, I thought. “I really don’t have much more to say.”

“Actually,” I said, “I’m Raymond Donne, Douglas Lee’s old teacher. From Williamsburg.”

He gave me a long look and then smiled. “Oh, yeah,” he said, offering his hand. “I saw you in the paper over the weekend. Looks like the article got the cops off their asses a bit, huh?”

“Actually,” I said, “Murcer’s a pretty good cop. He’d have made his way up here eventually. The article just sped up the process.”

“Good for you,” he said. “Douglas used to talk about you. Said you helped a friend of his a couple of years ago. A runaway kid or something?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How well did you know Dougie?”

“Damn shame about Douglas.” He took his phone out again to check the time. “You mind if we walk and talk? I gotta tutor a kid downtown in forty-five minutes.”

“Not a problem,” I said, and we headed west.

“Why are you here, Mr. Donne?”

“I was returning a walkie-talkie that belongs to one of your students. Dougie’s mom asked me to get it back to the kid,” I lied then realized it was still attached to my belt. “Wow. We had a whole conversation, and I forgot to give it to him.” I handed him the walkie. “Would you mind?”

“That would be Mr. Finch, I assume. Our bird-watcher.” He slipped the radio into his bag.

“It would be.”

“Interesting young man, Elliot.” Rivera gave me another look as we crossed Columbus Avenue. “So why are you
still
here, Mr. Donne?”

“Raymond. I also promised Mrs. Lee I’d ask around a bit. See if I could find out anything the cops should know about. That was before I knew Detective Murcer had come up this way.” I wanted to keep this guy talking. “Were you able to tell him anything useful?”

He paused before answering. “I don’t know. He asked how Douglas was doing in school, how’d he’d been acting before he was killed, who his friends were. Stuff like that. Kinda questions the TV cops ask, y’know?”

“The same questions I would have asked.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. Douglas was doing great in school. Top of his class, as a matter of fact.”

“How many kids are in a class?”

“Fifteen. We’ve got four grades, two classes per grade, and fifteen kids in each class. He was becoming a standout. You prepared him well.”

“Thanks.” I thought back to the group of boys I’d seen coming out of the building. “One hundred and twenty kids,” I said. “How many non-whites?”

Rivera grinned. “You picked up on that, huh? Not many,” he said. And then with a joyless smile added, “It’s time for ABC.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“ABC,” he repeated. “Another Black Child. We’re a private school, Raymond. Come fund-raising time, we can’t be too white, you know what I mean?”

“It’s a different world from what I know,” I said. “I understand Dougie hung out with the popular kids. Any best friends?”

“Elliot tell you that? ‘The popular kids?’” I nodded. “Yeah. Dougie was tight with…” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “The
not-so-special
kids, as we call them in the faculty lounge.”

“Because…”

“This is the Upper West Side, Raymond. Parents do what they can to give their kids any advantage over their friends’ kids. Let’s just say their idea of a ‘learning disability’ is not the same as yours and mine.”

“Don’t kids have to be evaluated to get into the school?”

“Pay six thousand bucks for a private eval up here, the evaluator will pretty much tell you what you want to hear.”