Schooled in Murder (9 page)

I said, “You know, in the past when I’ve suggested they talk to you, they say they’re afraid of you.”

“Good. They should be. The farther away the stupider ones stay, the better. I hate those suckups, and I’m not even in the same department as you.” She taught physics and calculus to seniors and juniors.

“What if the media calls?” I asked.

“You’ve handled them as much as I have. I have complete faith in you.”

I appreciated the vote of support.

She said, “I’m going to see if any of my other charges need to be protected from errant administrators.”

I thanked her for her help. She left.

Todd Bristol, my attorney, entered the room. He was tall and waspishly thin. He shut his umbrella with a snap. He took off his Burberry overcoat and folded it carefully over a student’s desk. I had only ever seen him in his courtroom attire. His charcoal trousers were held up by black suspenders stretched over a white shirt. He wore a perfectly knotted tie and glasses with thin gold rims.

I told him everything. He said, “Keep your mouth shut. No DNA sample.”

I said, “I want to go home.”

Todd said, “Let’s find the cops.”

The hallways were deserted. It was quiet. The old school smells, chalk and human sweat, permeated the atmosphere. I glanced out a window. Rain continued to pour. The part of the faculty parking lot I could see was nearly empty. I wished Frank Rohde, my friend on the River’s Edge police force, were still in homicide.

10

Scott, Todd Bristol, and I found the cops in a room on the first floor. They had firm, set looks on their faces. I introduced my attorney. Gault’s frown deepened. Vulmea looked pissed.

Gault held a small notebook in his right hand and tapped it on his left wrist. He said, “We’ve got a little problem.”

My attorney said nothing, so I kept my mouth shut. That’s why they created lawyers: so that someone knows what to say when the police come calling.

Gault rested his butt on a student’s desk. I saw a mustard stain in the middle of the wrinkles and creases of his dress pants. Scott would never have let me get out the door with such a sartorial faux pas. Gault said, “You claim Brandon Benson and Steven Frecking were with you when you found the body.”

My attorney said, “That’s what my client told you.”

“Yes, he did. Unfortunately, the two gentleman in question deny they were there.”

Scott moved closer to me and put his hand on my shoulder. My attorney kept his eyes on the cops.

I began, “I–”

My attorney said, “Be silent.”

I clamped my mouth shut. I was mystified and furious. Those two assholes–who I’d been thinking of checking on, to see if they needed any help–had turned on me. As far as I was concerned, those two shits could fry. I was eager to tell what they’d really been doing and whose DNA the cops should check for, but my attorney had said, “Be silent.”

My attorney said, “Tom has told you what he knows.”

Gault said, “And now we have it contradicted by two people.”

My attorney said, “Why would he add those two to such a scene at such a moment?”

“To divert suspicion from himself,” Vulmea said.

My attorney asked, “How would making two people up who could easily deny it divert any suspicion or make any sense? It might make sense if he made up one person, but not two.”

“Killers do crazy things,” Gault said, “illogical things, irrational things. They’ve just committed murder. They’re out of control.”

“Does my client look out of control to you? Has he looked out of control?”

“Maybe he’s a psychopath who’s plotting and planning every second. Maybe he’ll kill again.”

My attorney said, “You can’t have it both ways. If he’s plotting and planning, then he’s not out of control. If he’s not out of control, then he planned the murder carefully and my question remains, why would he add two people to the scene who were not there? Your question should be, why did they lie?”

Gault said, “Maybe you’re right, but we’ve got two guys’ word against one.”

“Did you talk to them together?” my attorney asked.

Gault said, “I know my job.”

“Did their stories match?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did they claim they were?” my attorney asked.

“In Mr. Benson’s room discussing a kid’s grade. Some athlete who was failing.”

My attorney said, “Tom, it’s okay to tell the police the reason they are lying.”

I hated to rat out my fellow teachers, but this wasn’t some gang or mafia vendetta where the code of silence might be breached and death follow dishonor. That crap mostly exists in the minds of teenage boys when they are attempting to cover their own butts for bullying and doing minor illegal drug offenses. Or in wild imaginations of mindless school administrators when they’ve done something stupid. However, my statement would also out both men, which, on general principles, I opposed. Outing the innocent was wrong. Outing the guilty, however, struck me as a way, in this instance, to get even. Not only were they trying to make me into a liar, but worse, a murder suspect. And my lawyer had given me the go-ahead. What’s not to like? I said, “They were making out.”

“They’re gay?” Vulmea asked.

“I have no idea. What I saw was each of them with their hands on the front of the pants of the other. Their clothes were awry. They were kissing.”

“In school?” Vulmea asked.

My attorney ignored the obviousness of the response to this question and said, “So, you’ll have to talk to them again. Anything else?”

Gault said, “This is bullshit.”

My attorney said, “I couldn’t have put it better.”

I said, “The superintendent told us a rumor that you’d found fresh evidence of sexual activity.”

Vulmea said, “We’re not commenting on that.”

Gault said, “We got a call from Frank Rohde. He said he wouldn’t be able to get here tonight. He said to trust you. Must be nice to have friends high up on the force.”

The cops picked up their coats and notebooks and left.

“Those fuckers,” I said.

My attorney said, “Are you referring to the police or to your colleagues?” “Both,” I said.

Scott said, “They really think they can tell that kind of lie and get away with it?”

My attorney said, “It takes a special kind of stupid to make up that kind of lie. It’s late.” We returned to my classroom where he unfolded his coat with meticulous precision, put it on, and picked up his umbrella. He added, “Don’t talk to the cops without me present.”

We left.

11

The rain fell in sheets. I dashed to the car. The parking lot was as dark and gloomy as usual. One quarter of the overhead lights gave weak illumination to the bleak scene. Some were out as a result of student vandalism. Most didn’t work because the custodians did not put a high priority on replacing burned-out lights in the parking lot. The media trucks and their bright lights were out in front of the school. The teachers’ parking lot was in back. We weren’t permitted to park out front.

Scott would drive his own car back home. Inside mine I set the XM radio to the folk music station. I put the SUV in reverse to pull out. The car wouldn’t move. I shoved it in drive and pulled forward to the bumper block then tried backing out. No luck. I didn’t want to just try and run something over. There shouldn’t have been an obstruction.

I turned off the car and got out.

I didn’t remember running over a dead body as I pulled in that morning. That’s the kind of thing I notice. But that’s what was blocking the rear wheels of my car now.

12

I recognized the corpse. It was Peter Higden, one of the greatest suckups in modern history. He was a fifth-year teacher. You’d see him in the department office in the mornings, bringing in doughnuts. He’d be in the main office before and after school, smiling and using his charm on the secretaries. He was bluff, friendly, and a Nazi. Few dared say anything to him about his prejudice because he was also African American. I heard him make an anti-Semitic remark once. I was appalled that the other six people listening to him said not a word. I did. I told him that it was an unacceptable and rude comment. He did apologize, and he stopped making any kind of slurs around me. Others told me he still made all kinds of slurs about any number of groups. I often asked why they didn’t speak up. They claimed they were afraid.