1 Per Cent Murders

by T W Morse

  “We will need statements from all of you. Why don’t you three go out to the gym? It’s too gruesome to wait in here. The detective can take your statements from there,” suggests Deputy Diaz.

  I gather Ulysses and Hannah and proceed back to the gymnasium, leaving Deputy Díaz and other deputies to secure the crime scene.

  We sit in the gymnasium for an hour, watching deputies and crime scene investigators flow in and out of the mechanical room. Most of the deputies are done interviewing the crowd and the gym is practically empty. I don’t see Bob.

  “Dad, how much longer?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll ask one of the deputies if we don’t hear something soon. Hannah, did you get ahold of your parents?”

  “Yes, Mr. Adair. I told them everything. They were shocked, but I told them you were with us and they cooled off. Poor Mr. Wright.”

  “I saw the deputies swiftly take Conrad away,” Ulysses comments.

  “It must be so awful,” Hannah puts her head on Ulysses’ shoulder.

  “Here, this looks like a detective.”

  I see a tall, thin man with an old looking navy plaid suit stroll up to us. His face looks emaciated and he wears thick, black rimmed glasses probably weighing more than he did. He reminds me of a scarecrow with a vision problem.

  “You Adair?” he said in a deep Southern drawl, either from Louisiana or Mississippi.

  I stand. “Yes.”

  He gestures for me to sit. I hesitantly agree. “This - Ulysses - Adair, your - son?” he asks in a staccato speech, like he is afraid people won’t understand his deep Southern drawl if he speaks too fast.

  “Yes, and this is Hannah Reyes. My son’s friend. We, along with Principal Thomas Barron, found the body.”

  “My name is - Detective - Lieutenant - Jaxson - Brute. I am in charge - of this - investigation. Did - y’all know - the deceased?” His Southern drawl was irritatingly slow. Pausing after most words.

  Believe it or not, we don’t get too many Southerners with thick twangs this far south. They say the Deep South ends at Orlando. There are too many transplants south of that point to maintain that Deep South culture. Confusing? Yes, I know. You sometimes encounter Floridians north of Orlando who have thick accents, but nothing like this guy.

  “Detective Brute, nice to meet you. Yes, we knew the deceased. Mr. Wright’s son, Conrad, is my son’s best friend and a student of mine. I teach here and was watching the front entrance for tickets. Can we give a statement tomorrow? It is getting late and...”

  The detective put up his long hand again, giving us a muted face. Brute’s flat affect maintained his scarecrow-like demeanor. Crows would definitely be scared of this guy.

  “Y'all - can go - when I say - so. Mr. A-dair - did y’all see anybody - enter the mechanical room?

  “No. Sir. My eyes were not on that door; I was mostly watching the front entrance. My son saw only Mr. Wright enter.”

  “That’s right!” Ulysses chimes.

  “Hm. I hear this man is - some kinda a rich fella?” He turns to a deputy standing behind him for a pen, clicks it, and licks the tip, while his long fingers take out a thick black notepad. “Let’s start - this up - alright - boys and girls. Which - one of - y’all - is wanting - to go - first?”

  I volunteer first. “Yes, to answer your question. I believe Mr. Wright was a very well-to-do corporate attorney. He’s got a large mansion on the beach.”

  Detective Brute’s eyebrows are thin and arched high when I mention this. He writes everything down while I review the entire night’s events. He often interrupts me, and I am forced to restate what I said. He is quite an irritating man. He writes as slowly as he speaks, his sharp elbows making wing movements as with every stroke.

  Ulysses and Hannah tell of how they saw him enter the mechanical room and U mentions the argument with Mr. Barron yesterday in the office. With this news, the scarecrow puts his boney fingers to his long chin, rubbing the stubble that is growing there. Mr. Barron is sitting on the other side of the gymnasium, with deputies writing down his statement, looking hollow and beaten down.

  “So - why did - Principal,” he checked his notes, “Barron go into - the mechanical - room?”

  “We don’t know. Why don’t you ask him? It looks suspicious to me!” Ulysses chimes in.

  “I - will, son.” Detective Brute replies bluntly.

  “Can we go now?” I ask, irritated.

  “I have to get home. My parents will be so worried!” Hannah adds dramatically.

  “Y-e-s.” He makes yes longer than it was ever intended to be spoken. “I - need to - speak with - the principal. But I’d appreciate - y’all-comin - down for a full statement - tomorrow - morning.” With that, Detective Brute’s long legs glide over to Principal Barron for additional questions. By now Barron’s tanned face is its natural pale white. I shake my head at him as we leave the gymnasium. He tries his best to not acknowledge me.

  As the exterior doors of gymnasium burst open to Florida’s balmy humid air, we find a wave of reporters and bright lights that follow us to the car.

  “What do you know about tonight's murder?”

  “We have nothing to say,” I reply.

  One reporter yells, “Did you know the victim?”

  I could hear one of the news anchors turn away from us and report back to her live camera. “This is Helen Ross, reporting live at the scene in Somerset at Mangrove High School, home to the rich and famous, where successful corporate attorney Donald Wright was murdered tonight at his son's basketball game. According to the sheriff’s department, they have no suspects as of yet but are following several leads. We will continue to investigate and report back with more information.”

  Her voice trails off as I shield the kids from the cameras, slipping them into the Prius, hopping in myself and driving away from Mangrove High.

  “What a night!” Ulysses is the first to speak. I am so pissed that he and Hannah had to endure tonight’s events.

  Hannah follows, “How did they know so fast?”

  “Probably the deputies,” I respond. “Ulysses, have you tried calling Conrad? Poor kid, he’s going to need you more than ever now.”

  “Yeah, I know, I’ve been trying, but it goes straight to voicemail.”

  “So gruesome. So awful,” Hannah slumps in her seat in disgust.

  “So you don’t think Principal Barron killed Mr. Wright?” Ulysses asks me.

  I think for a hard minute and turn to him sitting in the back with Hannah.

  “No, I don’t, but he’s definitely hiding something. I tried to get more information from him while you guys were getting help, but he wouldn’t budge. I think he is genuinely scared for his life. He did say that he and Donald Wright were once business partners, before he got into education.”

  “How is the Gallant house Mr. O’Leary’s renovating involved with it all?” Ulysses adds.

  “That’s the mystery,” I reply.

  We then sit in silence before dropping off Hannah at Penny University. We both walk inside and speak at length to Hannah’s parents, once again retelling the entire night’s events before tiredly dragging our exhausted bodies back home to our welcoming beds.

  CHAPTER 17

  - ULYSSES -

  A CAFFEINATED WAR ROOM?

  P enny University is sparsely populated as we take up positions at a large picnic table on the back patio. A large shading structure keeps the blazing mid-morning fall sun off our weary heads. Below the patio, large yachts and sailboats rock to the rhythm of the green-tinted Gulf Coast waves. Many different breeds of tropical birds sing in unison, filling the air as the smells of café con leche, scrambled eggs, tostadas, and fresh fruit loom over the patio where we sit devouring our breakfasts after yesterday’s long, brutal night.

  It is nearing early afternoon on Sunday. Dad, Hannah, and I have just finished giving our official statements at the sheriff’s station where Detective Brute continued to repeatedly ask the same questions in a contin
uous loop. Mr. Reyes invited us back to the cafe for brunch and to decompress after the events of the past few hours.

  Mr. Reyes breaks our focus from our café con leches. “Do the police have any suspects?” He says, over pronouncing his words in his heavily accented English.

  “No, Papa,” Hannah interjects.

  “They almost arrested Mr. Barron. If we weren’t there to give him an alibi, he probably would’ve been arrested,” I add.

  “Maybe that is what the killer intended,” Dad comments, looking unshaven and worn down. The death of Mr. Wright is probably resurrecting the feelings from losing Mom. Dad continues to mull over his coffee as he blows over the rim of his cup to make it cooler. “Maybe the killer wanted to frame Principal Barron.”

  We all look at each other nervously.

  “So if we didn’t follow him into the mechanical room, he would have been framed for Mr. Wright’s murder?” Hannah asks, looking at me intensely.

  “Well, we spoiled that, didn’t we?” I add half jokingly.

  “I’m just glad you’re all safe. Thank God!” Mr. Reyes says as he crosses himself. “I have to get back to help tu madre in the kitchen before the lunch shift begins. Hannah, you take the day off. You’ve been through a lot; look after your friends.”

  “I already have it off, Papi,” Hannah says dejectedly.

  Mr. Reyes smiles reassuringly, throws a hand towel over his shoulder, kisses Hannah on the forehead, and gingerly touches Dad’s and my shoulders as he fades away through the glass garage door entrance to the cafe.

  “Who would have benefited from Mr. Wright dying and Mr. Barron being framed for his murder?” Dad thinks out loud, not realizing Hannah and I are intently listening. “Sorry, kids.”

  “I think Mr. O’Leary did it!” I blurt out with anger.

  “Why, because he kicked you out of class?” Hannah says with a huge grin.

  “No, because of the Gallant house Mr. Wright and Mr. Barron mentioned in their argument and of what you overheard. The Gallant house is the big white house Mr. O’Leary is currently renovating and flipping,” I add with a serious face to Hannah’s fading smile.

  “O’Leary is no killer!” Dad asserts.

  “He wasn’t at the game. Where was he? Did he have an alibi?” I sure hope not, I thought to myself.

  “What about Ms. Clifton? Our great — new assistant principal,” Hannah says sarcastically.

  “I saw her all night standing at the far end of the court with Mr. Barron,” I interject.

  “Yeah, I saw her there, too. What would she have against Wright and Barron? No. It wasn’t her unless she can be in two places at once.”

  Hannah shrugs. “Who then? What did Mr. Wright do to deserve this?”

  I put my arm around Hannah.

  “We shouldn’t guess. Let’s just leave it to the police. I’m sure they’re more than capable,” Dad says unconvincingly.

  “Oh yeah! Like Detective Brute! He’s no Colombo, Dad!” I add wittily, hating the idea of that guy being in charge of the investigation and knowing Dad thinks the same.

  “I know, but we don’t need to get involved any more than we currently are. Alright?” Dad adds.

  “Your dad’s right; we should be there for Conrad,” Hannah says, as she gently takes my hand.

  “I'm going over to Mr. Nelson’s house, to see how he’s doing,” Dad says. “His two best players were suspended, they lost a game they should’ve won and one of his player’s fathers died. I’ve got to be there for him. He also may know when the funeral is.” He finishes his coffee and gets up. “Ulysses, you want me to swing you back home?”

  “Nah. I’m going to hang with Hannah.”

  “How about I pick you both up later and I can make dinner for all of us tonight?”

  Before I can think of a reason to say no, Hannah answers for us, beaming her enchanting, childish smile at Dad. “That sounds great, Mr. Adair!”

  Dad proudly admits, “I make a wicked good spaghetti and meatballs! How about I come back through here around six?”

  To be honest, they are wicked good. They are homemade and ginormous! We sometimes give Ortiz one as his meal.

  “Sounds good, Dad.” As I say this, he exits the stone patio and heads off toward his Prius.

  “I think we should check out the Gallant house,” Hannah says eagerly. “It may be connected with Mr. Wright’s murder.”

  I do a double take. “You want to check out the house owned by Mr. O’Leary? Are you crazy?! What happened to not getting involved and agreeing with my dad?”

  Hannah shrugs. “We should investigate. Our friend’s father is dead. We should bring that person to justice. For Conrad,” Hannah says unsurely. “You’re always reading those mysteries, and now you’re in one and you want to sit it out?!”

  “No. But I don't have a death wish either.” I’m not sure if it is the caffeine running through my body or adrenaline. I can’t resist Hannah’s smile. She is now pushing her loose brown hair behind her ear, thinking these moves would work on me — she’d be right. “Okay — but we need to be careful! What’s your plan?”

  CHAPTER 18

  - LOGAN -

  THE COACH NEEDS A NEW PLAY

  I pull into Bob’s condo complex. The sun is shining, but some unfriendly clouds are moving in. Bob lives in one of the new posh complexes near the Somerset city limits, closer to Bonita Springs, named Vanderbilt Greens. You can always tell you are in Somerset because all the condo communities have rich, douche names.

  How could Bob afford a place like this? One reason is he is a bachelor, another is he often mooches off of us, so he doesn’t have many expenses. He often gets a home-cooked meal from Ulysses and I, joining us for dinner four to five times a week.

  The building is designed with whitewashed stucco siding and Spanish tile roofing, making it look like a frosted wedding cake. I park the car and ride the birthday cake’s elevator to the fifth floor. I knock a few times until Bob slowly answers the door in a faded, ripped Orlando Magic t-shirt and boxers plastered with tiny red hearts. He looks like he has just woken up. Bags hang under his eyes, making his pumpkin head look more like a decomposing jack o'lantern. It is weird not seeing him in a tracksuit, too.

  “Hey — Logan.” When he spoke, it came out in a depressed shrill.

  Empty pizza boxes and beer bottles rattle the floor as he walks back to the worn black leather sofa that forms around his frame. I feel a little sorry for Bob. No pictures hang on his walls, and only a couch and a club chair sit in front of a wall-mounted television, which is too big for the living room. He doesn’t have a kitchen table, just two old stools under a breakfast nook. A typical drab bachelor pad.

  “Hey buddy. How we doin?” I interject.

  He sinks further into the couch and stares at his ceiling fan. “Well, let's review! My two best players are suspended for drug possession. My only good replacement just had his father killed, and I was just told by his supermodel mother that he is going back with her to New York City! Oh, and we lost to a team that we should have beaten! I’m not doing goood, Logan!” Most of this was still in a whiny shrill, but when he said “good,” he extended the o, making it sound like “goood.”

  “Conrad’s moving back with his mother?” I exclaim.

  “Yup. New York City!” Bob practically screeches. “So now I’m down three players! Logan — you got to help me!”

  “What the hell can I do?”

  “I think there's a plot to destroy my basketball team,” he hysterically adds.

  I laugh. “Bob, the world is not out to get you; nobody is out to get you. You just have a few bumps in the road. You’ll be fine. The team will be fine.”

  “Not if I keep losing! Mangrove wants a winning coach. Mr. Barron will surely fire me; he doesn’t like me that much anyway. Rumor has it you found Mr. Wright’s body and Mr. Barron killed him.”

  “I did find the body, along with Ulysses and Hannah, but only right after Mr. Barron found it. He does need to a
nswer some hard questions from the police, but I don’t think he murdered Mr. Wright.”

  “Ah — I was hoping for him to be guilty, so my job wouldn’t be in jeopardy.”

  “Bob, you are a piece of work.”

  “I know, buddy. I know,” he shakes his pumpkin head, honestly agreeing. “Wow! Mmm, hmm!” He continues to shake his head and put his hands on his head. “Nasty business. So that’s crazy! Right? How’s U and Hannah?”

  I look at him, puzzled at how weird Bob could be. “They seem fine, but you never know with teenagers. They shouldn’t ever have to see a dead body.” Quickly thinking of Jill but blocking it from my thoughts.

  “So, can you help me? Please!” His whining now becomes irritating.

  “Help with what? Conrad’s going to NYC with or without this murder being solved,” I add.

  Bob clasps his hands together in a praying position as I sit on the edge of his club chair.

  “Not the murder, bro; the police got that locked down. I’m talkin ’bout the drug charge on Terry and Jack! I know they don’t do drugs,” he pleads at me. “Terry goes to Bible school for Christ’s sake!” (No pun intended, I think scoldingly.) “Jack may get a scholarship to Gulf State University, and we wouldn’t want to jeopardize that. If you prove their innocence, then I would get them back on the team and we would win again, and I would keep my job!”

  “You’re not being selfish at all!” I sarcastically retort. I don’t know how to investigate. Sure, I read a lot of mystery books and I can be hyper observant, but I am just a teacher!

  “What the hell can I do? I’m just a teacher like you!” I yell out my thoughts.

  “Bro — come on. I know you can see things others can’t, what do you call it — de-suction or something? Deduce! Deduce the crap out of this! Please!” Bob now practically begs and looks even more pathetic.

  “I shouldn’t get involved. We could both be suspended or worse, we could both lose our jobs!”

  I did feel obligated to help Bob. Even with all his faults, he has been a trustworthy friend, especially at a time when I really need one.