Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  Before a sheepish Kyle can let rip with his muahaahaa, I say, “If you do your villain laugh, I’ll take it back.”

  He closes his mouth and sticks out his hand. I shake it. Then I hear my name called from the overhead walkway where Sam is training his smartphone lens on us. I elbow Kyle, and we wave for school blog history.

  The loudspeaker crackles, and Kyle jumps as the happy announcer lists the top ten names: Kyle, the Legume Sisters, Ferd, six others, and ringer me. Kyle collapses over his project in happiness.

  “You made it, too, Kami! We both made it!”

  Sam texts: Way to go!

  Last year as a finalist, I’d danced around the courtyard, but this time I’m worried about exploding volcanoes and a girl in the hospital ER.

  Blimp wranglers lead us with their floating charges from the courtyard into the coliseum for the final judging. For most people, the volcano prank is a passing exclamation point. The Legume Sisters are on full beam. I can’t see Call-Me-Matt anywhere. Ferd is on a bipolar high, blustering how he’ll win. The news crews, including Johnston and Sam, are relocating, too. I slip my vital data reports into my backpack and help Kyle carry his project. No way will we leave them behind and unattended.

  Our feet rustle the little green and red slips of paper with the symbols for earth and fire. The volcano represents earth, I think; the explosions and burned displays, fire. That leaves two unclaimed elements of the ancient world—air and water. Those blimps on leashes draw my attention. Air . . .

  “Kyle?”

  I fill him in on my thoughts, and when I’m done, Kyle nervously agrees to help. He heads over to a blimp pilot, taking his little steam engine and the eight-inch fan that works with it. After they converse, Kyle gives me the thumbs up. My plan is set to go—if it turns out we need it.

  * * * *

  Inside the coliseum, Star Wars theme music is playing on repeat. “Da, DAAA, Da da da DAAA da.” A teacher is directing traffic from the stage, using the loudspeaker. “Blimp crews, line up to my left of the stage. Finalists, please sit right of the stage. The front rows in front of me are reserved for science teachers. Other contestants and their families can fill in behind the teachers.”

  While I take a seat with the beaming Legume Sisters, I see Kyle working on a blimp. And Luis is standing by the stage, checking lanyard IDs before the judges and dignitaries can find their seats on the stage.

  I twist around, scanning the crowd for terrorists. But in reality, I’m looking for one guy—Call-Me-Matt—who’s been carrying a hefty case of convenient chemicals. I’m feeling guilty I didn’t mention my suspicion to Luis. I don’t see Matt anywhere in the crowded coliseum.

  Thanks to Johnston’s webcast and subsequent live posting, the Elemental Terrorist has generated interest. Curious townspeople are packing the seats. Up in the media section, Sam is shooting smartphone vid. Luis asked him to act as another set of eyes, too.

  I text Sam: Anything new?

  Sam stops videotaping long enough to read my text and responds: Johnston’s reading my tweet feed like he wrote them. And he’s live—Internet and television. He’s gloating. Kami, I don’t like this guy.

  Call-Me-Matt passes Sam, mixing with the crowd drawn to the media booths.

  Sam: Good luck, Kami. Hope you win.

  Not a chance, but I’m okay with it. I’m distracted watching Call-Me-Matt, who is as twitchy as a cat seeking a mouse. Who is this guy? Terrorist? Prankster? Or something else?

  I text: Did you interview the Legume Sisters?

  Sam: Who? Then he texts: Ha! Got ya. Ag exhibit. Yep, why?

  Me: It’s good, Sam. Groundbreaking-Borlaug-Food-Prize good. Uses moisture-collecting bacteria for 35% faster germination. It will shorten growing seasons. It could feed millions.

  There’s a pause, and then he texts: Thanks for the lead. I’m on my way.

  Sam begins heading from the upper deck to the Legume Sisters sitting beside me. Call-Me-Matt looks right at me and flicks a finger wave. And what does that mean? Does he know I’m on to him?

  The assembly—that’s how it feels—starts when a science teacher, I kid you not, dressed in a short black skirt and a 1960s Star Trek red shirt takes the podium.

  She taps her fake communicator brass emblem. “Scotty, going to fix this?”

  The iconic space opera music mix changes to the four soft chimes that build to the original Star Trek’s theme song. The audience splits by preference: half cheer, half jeer. It’s a science thing.

  Red Shirt says, “Are you ready for the blimp races?”

  Everyone stamps their feet, whistles, and screams.

  “Scotty?” A trumpet heralds the race, and Red Shirt shouts, “And they’re off!”

  Sort of. There’s a reason that blimp races aren’t well known. They are slow. Like nasty slow. An obstacle course of round rings hang overhead. One by one, the blimps pick up sand-filled, whisper-thin baggies as cargo from a suspended platform, weave through the rings, and then deposit them at the finish line—if the baggies don’t break first. Rough sandpaper lines each ring’s interior surface. If a blimp bumps the edge, the baggie can tear, dumping sand on the audience. To avoid that, the dirigibles fly slowly through the rings. Emphasis on slow.

  At the end of the line, Kyle screws his small steam engine and a fan to a blimp’s power platform. Then he knuckle-bumps each crew member.

  The dirigibles fade to background entertainment as Red Shirt says, “Here are the top three finalists selected from the original ten. When your name is called, please join us on stage for your interview.”

  She explains, “Judges will quiz each finalist on his or her project. Based on earlier scores and the answers here, the final winner will be chosen.”

  With Oscar-worthy suspense, she opens an envelope. “Our first finalist: from our host city, Kami ‘Chaos Theory’ McCloskey—last year’s winner!”

  I don’t move. The Legume Sisters poke my side. But I’m the ringer, not a final three contender! I stumble to the stage steps where Luis waits. “I’m not supposed to be here,” I whisper.

  Not looking at me, his eyes rake the stadium for threats instead. “Yes, you are.”

  “But you set it up—”

  “I said, ‘it was covered.’ I knew you’d step up your game. Believe in your project, Kami. You got here yourself.”

  Overhead a blimp knocks a gate and sand bursts free. People laugh. I think of exploding volcanoes as I head to the podium.

  One of the math judges pulls an Alex Trebek: “Kami’s chaos theory exhibit explains how an infinitesimal data bit in the right place can create huge changes years later in complex systems. Kami, the judges were impressed with the time and effort you took working your data to show chaos results using three separate sources. Could you explain one of them?”

  “My first data set was a life insurance-policy projection with assumed interest rates, expense charges, and premium payments.” I go into detail about my statistical research while I scan the upper balcony. Call-Me-Matt has left his spot, shoving his way to the railing.

  The judge prompts me. “And then?”

  “After weeks of fiddling the projection cell by cell, it happened. The end product collapsed.”

  “Impressive work, Kami, but why should chaos theory concern us?”

  Shocked, I say, “Because if we can figure out how to identify that miniscule point that changes everything and creates chaos, if we can identify that point before it happens, we’ve changed the future. Alexander Fleming found mold in a petri dish and did something with it. That tiny moment of discovery saved millions of lives. And that’s just one example. That’s what the items I collected in my locker signify—possible chaos trigger moments: a musical program that leads to a future opera singer, a note scribbled on a napkin that creates a famous journalist later. They are little things representing moments of time t
hat can change people’s lives forever!”

  I whisper into the mic and it carries around the coliseum, “Chaos theory maps life, and we need a road map. That’s why we should care.”

  “Thank you, Kami.” The judge guides me to a chair on stage. Red Shirt calls up the Legume Sisters. The blimps continue to fly one by one overhead.

  At the podium, the redheaded girls babble about growing food in shorter growing seasons. Meanwhile Call-Me-Matt is leaning over the balcony railing, searching the audience. And Sam’s reporter guy is no longer in front of a camera. I remember his bulky duffel bag.

  I text Sam: Where’s Johnston?

  Sam, who is now beside Luis, posts back: Camera break. Top row in the upper balcony Section 14.

  Johnston is up there working on something in his hands. Something small, maybe a phone. No . . . it’s bigger than that. Then I notice a nearby blimp pilot waving his control box as if it isn’t working anymore.

  And overhead? A blimp is off course, rising with slow but steady speed, past the obstacle course rings, toward the ceiling.

  OMG. Earth. Fire. Air. Air vents? The ceiling has massive air vents and the dirigible is heading straight for them. Did Johnston hack the remote control on the runaway blimp, sending it toward the ceiling vents? He’d fiddled with exhibits earlier, including the volcano. What could he do with an air vent? . . . A toxin release? I’d thought something might happen with the air ships, but I hadn’t considered how the ceiling vents could be used.

  I punch in Luis’s number and whisper, “Sam’s press guy! Section 14!”

  As the Legume Sisters head toward their chairs, I slip out of mine, jump from the stage, and race for Kyle’s team.

  Red Shirt announces, “And our last finalist is from our host city as well—Kyle ‘Steam Punk Engineer’ Oberwitz!”

  But Kyle’s noticed the runaway dirigible, too, and has begun priming the engine he attached to his team’s blimp. It kicks into high gear with a mechanical whir, its fan spinning with rapid click, click, clicks. It should be the fastest airship here. I yank its tether line free and let it go while Kyle grabs the remote and banks the blimp at a sharp angle to intercept the errant one. As Kyle promised, his engine adds superior speed. I’d never seen one fly that fast.

  Apparently unaware of what’s happening overhead, Red Shirt repeats, “Kyle Oberwitz?”

  The audience members don’t seem to care that Kyle isn’t running up on stage. They’re riveted by the upcoming blimp collision—every neck in the audience is craned upward. Everyone’s but mine and Call-Me-Matt’s, who is flying up the upper balcony stairs, off by one section. Johnston doesn’t seem to notice.

  Kyle’s larger blimp bumps the smaller one, and they careen off course. Both dirigibles stabilize, the smaller one rising again.

  I shout, “The cargo arms. Hook the cargo arms together! Bring it down!”

  Kyle nods, and his air ship surges again.

  In the balcony, more linebacker than teacher, Call-Me-Matt races through the seat rows toward Johnston.

  Kyle’s blimp hooks the smaller one, dragging it downward. In the balcony, Johnston must have triggered something, because purple smoke is now trailing from the errant blimp. Wraith tendrils are spreading out and rising. And rising. And rising.

  Earth—volcano eruption. Fire—resulting fires. Air—the blimp’s smoke...

  Water! The overhead sprinklers kick into gear as the fire alarms go off with a deafening clang, clang, clang. With water spraying everywhere, people begin charging toward the exits. Then a potato cannon boom echoes, putting the fire alarms to shame. Slips of blue and white paper spin out from Johnston’s position, drifting through the water spray. It’s a good guess the slips read air and water in ancient Greek. I see Johnston through the falling water shoving a cannon back into his duffel.

  With the boom, everyone screams and pushes toward the exits faster. People stumble and fall into each other, striking metal railings.

  Across the way, Johnston charges down the stairs toward the panicked crowd. From behind, Call-Me-Matt takes him with a tackle. Johnston’s face pile drives into the concrete walkway. He-Who-Is-Obviously-Not-A-Student-Teacher shoves a knee in the guy’s back, cuffing Johnston’s hands.

  Stinky water that smells like it’s been stored for years in the fire-suppression system sprays nonstop. Sopping wet, I look around. The stage is empty. The coliseum is an anthill, and the ants are streaming for the exits.

  All except . . . In the middle of the disappearing main floor crowd, Ferd is standing motionless, ignoring the cascading water, with the lumpy backpack he’d teddy-bear-hugged this morning at his feet. Then he starts to rock side to side, eyes closed. He tips his head back with a gaping open mouth. Something is very wrong.

  I race to him but pull up short. His fingers are tenderly wrapped around a cell phone, holding it like a small bird in his hand. His thumb hovers over the keypad.

  “I’ll show you what I can do!” he screams. “I’ll blow this place up!”

  No one but me seems to hear him over the fire alarm. It doesn’t take a genius to know that if he presses the button, things will go boom—including me. I consider running for an exit, but they’re jammed. I pray his phone has shorted out from the water gushing down, but I can’t take any chances.

  “Ferd?”

  He opens his eyes.

  I nod at his right hand. “If you hit the phone’s send button, it goes kaboom?” I don’t define it, hoping against hope it’s a smoke or stink bomb.

  He nods back. “I got the design plans on a Darknet site. Take a look.” He gestures at his backpack. “It won’t hurt you unless...”

  He wipes water off his face, using his phone hand. I sweat bullets. I kneel and unzip the pack, peeling the bag from around the pressure cooker inside. A bomb made famous by the Boston Marathon bombers. Ferd plans to die in the blast. My hands shake as I stand. I want to throw up.

  Keep him talking. The longer we talk, the more people get out.

  “Are you a terrorist?”

  “Nah, but I posted threats on the Internet. Bounced my IP address. Hid my location.”

  Delay. Give people a chance.

  He sighs. “It’s my senior year. I told the whole school I’d win. They said I wouldn’t, and I told them that if I didn’t I’d bomb the place.” Tears escape his eyes, visible despite the falling water. “They laughed at me. Kami, I’ve been bullied my whole life, but I thought this would finally be my chance to show everyone what I could do. But I’m not going to win. I’m not even in the top three. That damn steam engine, the ag bacteria exhibit. If I go back to school a loser, they’ll . . . I can’t go back there.”

  I consider kicking that damn phone out of his hand, but no matter how fast I am, he will be faster. “So don’t go back.”

  He spins in a circle with water cascading onto us, holding the cell as if he’s forgotten it. “Popular kids don’t get us, Kami. They’ll never understand scientists or what we can do!”

  I step toward him. “They don’t matter. We do. Don’t you have more science to explore? More to discover?” I hold out my hand. “Give me the phone. Besides, you know who wins today, right? No one beats out the Legume Sisters.”

  He gives a shaky half grin and hands over the cell. It feels like a stick of dynamite.

  EPILOGUE

  Call-Me-Matt? He’s with Homeland Security. Ferd got the transfer he wanted, but it was to a special school where they helped him with his social issues—it was better than juvenile detention. Angry reporter Johnston? He’s been fired and is awaiting trial. Sam’s first byline tops his Chicago Times news story about it. And the Legume Sisters? Yeah, they won the state science fair. It’s like I told Kyle—you can’t beat an ag project in the Midwest.

  * * * *

  Author’s note: See this link for information on the real global-winning Legume Sisters
’ experiment and its potential to feed the world.

  www.irishtimes.com/news/technology/three-irish-students-win-global-science-competition-1.1938595

  OUTSIDE THE BOX, by Ruth Moose

  On the table lay a handful of white plastic drinking straws, a roll of silver straight pins, and six blank sheets of paper. We, this team of four, have to construct a house. This is leadership school at the Smarty Pants Librarians conference. (There is an official name, but this is what I’ve been calling it since I got the flyer and signed up, drove four hours, and checked into this hotel. I would go to a conference called How to be a Hot Shit to get out of my library for a day, two days, any time, anywhere, any day, go to any place where students don’t have to be catered to, pampered, instructed, fetched for, or handed to, or can’t spell or read or find things. Stupid students. And some adults.) Here we are adults. We are lovely, carefree, day-out-of-school strangers.

  This is the leadership class Part I of the conference. At the front of the room, two workshop leaders hold a timer. He in black suit, white shirt, red checked tie. She in black pantsuit, white blouse, and red-ringed scarf. They look like a married couple minus the bride on a wedding cake. He sets a timer. It dings. She says, “Begin.”

  The woman across the table picks up a straw, deepens the frown lines across her forehead. She blinks. Her eye shadow is deep purple, dark as bruises.

  The bald man to my left pokes me with his elbow, runs his fingers along the row of straight pins, and hums a little off-key tune that makes me clinch my teeth.

  “You can talk,” Mrs. Workshop Leader says.

  “So,” Baldy says, “a house, huh?”

  I try to imagine him in whatever job he has at some rinky-dink university or small private-college library. Something in a back office shuffling papers. A finance/book cataloging/ordering type job. Lower rung for thirty years, waiting for retirement. Won’t get a rocking chair or gold watch. Just a plaque with his name misspelled.