Truth (2 page)

My only reliable source is Georgia, whose mom knows Mrs. Granville. She's been at the Granvilles' house all weekend, helping look after the two little kids.

“What have you heard?” Georgia asks as soon as she sees me.

“I've heard a zillion rumors already,” I tell her, “but no one seems to know what really happened.”

As usual, Georgia looks like a movie star who got trapped in high school by mistake. Red hair perfectly in place, pierced belly button peeking out over low-cut jeans, and just a faint red rim around her eyes. She's obviously been crying, but when I cry my face looks like it's been run over by a tractor. Life is totally unfair.

She sniffs delicately. “My mom says he died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Massive head injuries.”

“Did you see the blood on the floor?”

She nods, making a face. “I can still picture it if I close my eyes.”

“What was he doing at the party?”

“Mom said he was a family friend. Ian's parents had asked him to keep an eye on the house.”

Then the bell rings and there's no time for more details.

In homeroom we hear that our principal Mr. Seorgel — a.k.a. Snoregel — has called a school assembly. No big surprise. I'm just glad I'm not the one who has to cover assemblies for the school news show. They're usually one big snoozefest.

A few years ago, one of the teachers got permission to run a student-operated news and sports hour on the Fairfield cable station. It airs once a week and the entire student population seems to tune in — maybe for the gossip factor.

I worked on the show all last year. This year I'm a lead reporter. My big stories so far are:

“Is Shoplifting on the Rise?”

“Joe Jobs — the Good, the Bad, and the Cash.”

“Exposé! A Day in the Life of a Fairfield Basketball Star.”

The research for that last one was pretty fun. But Ms. Chan, the sponsor teacher, says I need to start working on more serious stories. “Dig for the truth,” she said a few weeks ago. At the time I thought the concept of real news happening in Fairfield was pretty funny.

Making my way through the hordes to the assembly, I see Jerome coming towards me. He's tall — just over six feet — and his hair is pale, pale blond. He's easy to spot. Not hard to look at, either. When he first asked me out last spring, I was so excited there was a perma-grin stuck to my face for a week.

“Did the cops come to your house?”

“At three in the morning,” I tell him. “I was dying to call you yesterday, but Dad decided it was father-daughter quality time. All long, long, boring day! Did they talk to you?”

“Yeah. Mom freaked. What did you tell them?”

“Basically nothing. You?”

“Same. They weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer anyway. The cops here are either mean or stupid.”

“Think so?”

“Remember last year, when Ross was driving drunk and they tried to pull him over? He outran them for long enough to make a run for it. Then he called his grandmother from a pay phone and told her some kid had just stolen the car. She believed him
and
the cops believed him. Or at least they couldn't prove otherwise.”

By this time we're in the gym and Snoregel is at the mike. When he gets everyone quiet, it goes something like “unmatched tragedy … condolences to friends and familypolice investigation … full cooperation … ”

Jerome leans over partway through the speech. “Listen, Ross is worried the cops are going to hassle him because of that fight last summer. You'll stay cool about it, right?”

“Of course.” When I think about it, Ross
was at the party when I came in, but I don't remember seeing him after I saw the body. I was probably in shock. I try to remember who was with me in the bedroom. Candi had screamed her way downstairs. Georgia ran up with me. Ian was there, looking like a ghost. I guess having to explain a dead guy to your parents is a little worse than them finding out about your house party.

Who else? Jerome. I know there were more, but everyone else is a bit of a blur. It was Nate who took control of the situation. He walked in and within seconds the world was moving again. He sent Ian to phone 911 and told everyone else to clear out. That's what we did. Fast.

“Listen, tell Georgia to stay cool too, okay?”

I nod absently. Officer Wells is at the microphone now. He's way taller than Snoregel and has trouble adjusting the microphone. He tries to stoop towards it and look up at the bleachers at the same time.

He tells us how important any information
will be in the next few days. How all tips will remain confidential, etc. It sounds suspiciously like my dad's customary weekend speech: “If you ever need a ride home, just call. There will be no questions asked.” Who believes that speech? Not even my dad, who's pretty laid-back in general, can pull off that one.

Georgia catches up to me in the hallway after the assembly. “Listen,” she says, “I was talking to Nate and he asked if we could keep as cool as possible about this whole thing. You know, don't talk about it too much at school and stuff.”

I shrug. “Sure. Jerome said the same thing.”

The rest of the morning is a write-off. I drift through my classes until lunch. Then I remember I have a news team meeting.

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 10 is supremely cool and 1.5 is about as cool as the average teacher gets, Ms. Chan is at least an 8. She's the sponsor teacher of our TV show
—
Fair Game
. The show runs on Fairfield's local cable channel every Friday after school. It's supposed to be like a news program, with an anchor introducing different reporters “on location.” Usually there's one feature and a couple of short clips.

Before she became a teacher, Ms. Chan was a reporter in Ontario. I can totally picture her with a tape recorder in one hand and a microphone in the other, following a lawyer down the stairs of the courthouse to get a comment. She looks like she should be on TV too. She has bobbed black hair, nice clothes, heels that click, click across the lab.

The media lab is actually an office at the back of Ms. Chan's classroom. There are a few chairs, a couple of big tables and two computer desks where we do our video editing.

At our Monday meeting we divvy up assignments. This week there are the usual sports updates, a profile of the new art teacher and an exposé on whether men's and women's razors are actually different. The main
story is a special feature on the murder investigation. That one's mine.

I sit for a minute after the meeting breaks up, organizing my thoughts. What would I most want to know if I was listening to the news? I'd want to know if Officer Wells was going to turn up at my house again. Maybe more about how they do a murder investigation. And the main thing: who was the murderer?

That stops me. It's like I've been refusing to think about it since Saturday night. Now there's the giant question mark jumping at me from my notebook. Who killed Ted Granville? I was there, I should be able to figure it out. More than that — I should already know!

Some people are always the last to know everything, but I'm the first. Too much time on the phone and an overdeveloped sense of gossip, I guess. I love secrets. When Georgia's mom was pregnant last year (can you imagine getting pregnant when you're forty-five?), I was the only one other than Georgia who knew for three whole months. When
that girl in grade ten moved away, who was the first to find out that her neighbors thought her dad was in the KKK? Me. Even though it turned out to be a lie. That's all part of being a good journalist. I have to sniff out rumors and check the facts.

So why don't I know this?

By the time I've finished wondering, everyone's gone except Scott Rich, our best camera operator. Ms. Chan has assigned him to get some crime scene shots.

Scott's unusual in our school — he's actually interesting. He's only in grade eleven, but he seems like the sort of old philosopher that you'd find living in a mountain cave. He's got shoulder-length, curly hair that he mostly wears in a ponytail, and it seems like he always has a video camera with him. He says he's an observer of humanity. I swear he's achieved a Zen state at age sixteen.

The other day we were all hanging out at lunchtime in the courtyard of the school, and Georgia and Nate were arguing about what “mellow” music was.

“Melancholy,” was Georgia's answer.

“You mean sappy, my-boyfriend-dumped-me songs,” Nate said. “That's not it at all. It's tempo.”

Then they saw Scott walking by the door and they pulled him outside and into the debate.

He tilted his head to the side for a second. “Passive,” he said and left. And everyone else sat there nodding.

Anyway, it's always interesting to work on a story with Scott. On one hand, he makes me a bit nervous. I might not live up to his transcendental vision of the world. On the other, he sees things that I would otherwise miss.

We arrange to walk over to Ian's house — the “scene of the crime” — after school together. Scott can get some shots, and I can grill any investigators that are hanging around.

Lucky for me, the first police officer I see is Dave McBride. He plays tennis with my dad in the summers. He's just on his way to
his car when we see him. I'm happy to find him outside because I really, really don't want to ring the doorbell and talk to Mr. and Mrs. Klassen. They can't possibly be in a good mood right now.

“Officer McBride!” I call, and Scott follows behind as I run up to the police car. “Can you give me any info on the investigation? I'm covering the story for the school news.”

“Hey, Jen!” he greets me with a big smile. “Don't know how much I can tell you. You should call the detachment and they'll put you through to our press contact.”

“And what will he tell me?”

“Oh, general stuff. The victim is Ted Granville, local banker, 43 years old, father of two elementary school kids. The force is dedicating its full attention to the investigation.”

“And what does that mean?” I ask. “How exactly do you investigate? I thought there would be police all over the place, but you're the only one here.”

“The more officers you have, the more likely someone will disturb the scene. I
stopped by to make sure everything was secure, but there's an investigator inside finishing up the real work.”

“And what's that?”

“He photographs everything, makes notes of blood splatters and body position, looks for signs of the struggle, collects the major evidence.”

“Does any of it point to a killer?” I hold my breath.

“Sorry. Can't release that information to the press.”

“Off the record?” I say hopefully. I glance back at Scott. He takes the hint and wanders away, turning the camera toward the house.

“I really shouldn't be discussing it…” he says, but I detect a hint of wavering.

I think fast. “Of course I'd never tell anyone. But I watch all those cop shows on TV, and the way they collect their evidence is
so
amazing.” Am I overdoing it? I hold my breath.

“It's an art form,” Officer McBride agrees.

“Fascinating. Can you give me an example?”
My eyelashes have never been batted so quickly in their entire eyelash lives.

“Hypothetically?” Officer McBride says.

“Of course.”

“Well, we might see a partial boot print in the blood at the scene. We can compare that to prints on file — find out that it's not a regular shoe.”

“Really? Is that what happened here? You have a distinctive print?” I try to keep my excitement out of my voice.

Officer McBride looks uncomfortable. “I was speaking theoretically,” he says. “And not a word of that to anyone.”

“Scout's honor,” I tell him (which doesn't count for much, since I quit after three weeks of Brownies).

I grab Scott and prepare to scram, but just then a second officer comes out of the house and strides towards us.

“You kids looking for something?” he asks. He's tall and thick like a stereotypical cop. Beside him, Scott looks like a string-bean.

“Just getting some footage for the school news show.”

He leans towards us. “I hope you're not involved in any of this.”

We shake our heads in unison.

“I'd better not find out otherwise.”

We smile as if he's joking, but he doesn't smile back. He turns and struts off towards Officer McBride's car.

“Power trip” is Scott's assessment as we leave.

When I get home, I've had enough of cops for the day. Still, I call the detachment and the receptionist faxes a press update to the machine in my dad's den. I start to skim through, and it says almost exactly what Officer McBride said it would. Then something catches my eye.

“At present, the detachment is investigating the possibility that more than one assailant may have been involved in the attack.”

Here's a diary of my hellish Thursday:

8:15 a.m.

Georgia's on-again, off-again crush on Nate is definitely on at the moment. Personally, I don't see what's so attractive about a hockey jersey, but the girl's obsessed. I'm trying to talk to her about the murder before the homeroom bell rings, but she's not paying attention. She's scanning the hallway, hoping to spot Nate.

“We had lunch in the courtyard together twice last week, but this week he's totally avoiding me,” she complains.

“I don't know what you see in him,” I tell her. “Jerome says he's on steroids. Probably can't even get it up. Steroids do that, you know.”

“Oh, and you have so much experience in that area.”

She's got me there. I think Jerome's been expecting things to heat up soon, and I haven't decided yet what to do about that.

“Whether he can get it up or not, you still shouldn't be following him around like a puppy dog. He's not worth it.”