by Alan Lee
The meeting broke so we could go shepherd students to the proper places. Taylor met me and started cursing about what a nightmare having class in the cafeteria would be. I was about to agree with her when I stopped and realized it could be a lot worse. I was glad I wasn’t Mackenzie Allen.
Chapter Thirteen
School finally let out after a long day of shouting and echoes in the cafeteria. News crews filmed the buses rolling away as reporters with microphones spoke with somber, serious tones in the foreground. I’d cancelled golf practice, which meant I had a couple hours to spare before I was scheduled to pick up Kix. Which meant I went to Applebees for a drink.
I hadn’t scouted out local bars yet. I felt like a sissy going to an Applebees restaurant for a beer, but I was hoping no one would notice. Instead, Detective Andrews tracked me down. Drat. Busted.
He ordered a beer and joined me at my back table. He had great hair.
“Want another one?” he asked. “I’m buying.”
“Thanks. No.”
“Sure?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“You’re a better man than I am.”
“You noticed,” I said.
He chuckled and took a drink. I knew what was coming.
“Sheriff wants to know if you have an alibi.”
“Don’t need one.”
“Hell, I know,” he said. “But it’ll give me some defense.”
“For talking with me,” I said. He was in an unusual position. The initial discoverer of the body is always a remote candidate for a suspect. Rarely does that person turn out to be the culprit, but it happens. If I had an alibi then a frank discussion would be less questionable. And he wanted to have a discussion because of my previous job. And probably because of my fantastic sense of humor.
“Right on.”
“I have a weak one,” I said. “I’m raising a nine-month-old baby alone. If I killed him, I either have a babysitter or I’m hauling around a baby on my back the whole night.”
“Pretty weak.”
“Yup,” I agreed.
“I called LA.”
“Figured you would,” I said.
“Talked to Captain Jeffrey.”
“Lucky you.”
“Sweet guy.”
“Sweet as motor oil,” I agreed, and took a drink.
“Said LAPD got you from Highway Patrol, which got you from college, mad at the world and out to kill yourself. He also said you were promoted to detective faster than anyone he’s had in ten years. That you got an unreal nose for the bad guy.”
“You should see me in my Spider-Man hero tights,” I said.
“You worked some high-profile cases, including the North murders, got your name in the papers. Then you quit after two years,” he said, glancing down at his notepad. I said nothing. “And now you’re involved in a murder investigation in my county.”
“I’m not involved.”
“Still mad at the world?”
“Not anymore,” I said. “He tell you what I did after I left?”
“He did. Church gig.”
“If I could still be doing that, I would. I’m just awful at it.”
“Finding the body shake you up?”
“Don’t think so. Tonight might be a different story.”
“What made you leave homicide?” he asked.
“I was seduced by the teacher salary.”
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said, growing a little irritated with me. “But there is a murder investigation going on in your school.”
“You saw that too, huh?”
“And you happen to have experience with homicide. If alarms start going off in your head, I wanna know about it. That’s all.”
“Sheriff know you’re talking to me?”
“The sheriff…” He paused and searched for the right phrasing. “The sheriff is confident his department will handle this no problem. I’m more willing to accept help, I suppose. Especially from a pro.”
“Small caliber gunshot to the forehead. No exit hole. Powder burn on the skin. Body was moved posthumously. Anything else obvious that I’m missing?”
“Looks like he drove himself to the school,” he said.
“Hm.”
“Hm,” he agreed.
“I hear alarms, you’ll know.”
Chapter Fourteen
I lived ten miles off Interstate 85, deep into tobacco country. The lake was worth the drive, and so were the stars. I sat on the dock behind my rented house drinking a beer. My Ugly Stick fishing rod was out, and I hoped a catfish would bite the bobbing liver bait, but it wasn’t the right time of night. I just wanted something to do. The night air felt warm, my canvas chair creaked anytime I shifted, a citronella torch burned to keep away bugs, my beer was cold, and the baby monitor hissed softly on the dock beside me. Life was good. Other than Mackenzie Allen still being dead.
A car pulled into my driveway, parked, and went quiet. I assumed a followup visit on the investigation, so I didn’t get up. I was tired of the questions for one day. The headlights turned off and I could hear someone walking down to join me.
I was wrong. Mr. Charlie, the art teacher and substitute pastor, stepped into the torch light and nodded to me.
“Howdy,” I said.
“Good evening, Mr. August. May I sit down?” he asked and unfolded my other chair. I slid the cooler over to him. He took a bottle without saying anything. I didn’t know Mr. Charlie that well, but I was glad for company. He didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk yet, so we sat staring at the stars and water. Eventually I regretted sliding the cooler over. There was one beer left. Mr. Charlie hadn’t opened his yet. I’d just finished my second. After scanning my options for subtly getting the cooler back, I set the bottle down dramatically on the side of my chair closest to him, hoping for a positive reaction. “Him and I were close,” he said, and twisted off the cap.
“Mackenzie Allen?”
“Yes,” he said.
“How close?”
“Not like brothers. Went to my churches some,” he said. “Like, good friends.”
Another long silence. His drink was half gone. I started to get nervous. However, I had the good friend of a murder victim on the verge of rambling. Useful information often surfaced during rambles.
“I just met him,” I said. “Seemed like a great guy.”
“Yes,” he said. “He was, he was. It’s got me spooked, Mr. August.”
“Spooked?”
“Yessir, spooked. Worried, you know, wondering what all happened.” His voice was slow and calm, but also haunted.
“Me too. Doesn’t seem like the type who’d be involved in the stuff that gets one shot.”
“He wasn’t,” he said. “No sir.”
“Did he work on the side?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You know, own his own lawn care company? Bartend? Deliver papers?”
“No.”
“Was he into drugs?”
“No,” he said.
“Not even pot?”
“Well, Mr. August,” he said slowly. “I don’t wish to disrespect the dead. But he’d smoke some dope once a while. I told him his body was a temple, but he never listened. His guy is an old friend of ours.”
“His dealer?”
“Yes.”
“Pot isn’t usually worth killing over,” I said. “Doesn’t cost enough. What was he doing at the school so late?”
“I wish I knew, Mr. August.”
“Dating anyone?” I asked.
“No, his girlfriend moved a long time ago. He was single since then.”
“Gambling?”
“Just Friday night poker once a month. Twenty dollar buy-in.”
“High roller.”
“Yessir.” He grinned.
“Sounds squeaky to me.”
“Squeaky clean,” he agreed.
“Wh
ich is why you’re spooked.”
“Yes,” he agreed again. He picked up the last bottle and opened it. Shucks. “So are you going to catch them?”
“Catch?”
“I hear you some kind of super cop.”
“Nah,” I said. Someone had been talking. And exaggerating. Double shucks. “Used to be a regular cop. That’s it.”
“A regular cop?”
“Just an ordinary, regular cop.”
“Not a detective?” he asked.
“Just an ordinary, regular detective. Not even a private detective.”
“So, are you going to catch the perpetrator?”
“Yup.”
Chapter Fifteen
A hazy morning, and a few camera crews were set up just outside the school lawn. I made it to my trailer without finding any dead bodies, which is how I preferred my pre-school routine. I carried a wrapped plate of biscuits smothered in sausage gravy. At least half of my mornings would have been spent hungry without Leta’s generosity.
No school yesterday. Kix and I had spent a lazy day at home. We practiced crawling and saw no improvement, and he practiced Halo, even though he just turned in circles, fired at the ground, and got whooped by the Brutes. I’d also gotten in a jog, pushing Kix around the neighborhood in his jogging stroller.
The murder had made the six o’clock news in Richmond. Few details were given because few details were known. The reporter said that a fellow teacher had discovered the body. I’m famous.
My conversation with Mr. Charlie had not given me anything to report to the police. Other than pot, which might show in the autopsy, but probably wasn’t a lead. I mused over my quick response that I’d find whoever killed Mackenzie Allen. The sheriff or the police would probably catch the killer. They usually did. If they didn’t, I was going to try. For two reasons. One, I was good at it. Two, I had liked Mackenzie. But I’d give the law a day or two.
My key hung from a blue and gold school lanyard around my neck. I pulled it over my head, unlocked my door and pushed in. Steam rose from my breakfast when I unwrapped it. I popped the top of a Diet Pepsi and attempted to enjoy the last ten minutes before eight a.m.
Five of the minutes went by before I noticed a note card resting on my keyboard. The paper was white, and letters cut from a magazine had been pasted onto it. It read, “BE CAREFUL WITH WHOM YOU’RE FRIENDS.”
Chapter Sixteen
My classes were bleak, understandably so. Many students were still processing the death. Some kids had gone home, had no one to talk to because their single parent worked, and were now back at school ready to vent. Guidance counselors were in and out of the room, pulling out students who didn’t seem to be coping very well.
During my planning period I retrieved an old fingerprint kit from the trunk of my Accord. Not a very tough car, but it had never broken down and was great on gas. Plus, I love Hondas. Other oddities in my trunk: handcuffs, belt holster, and a baseball bat.
No fingerprints surfaced on the card. I also dusted the backrest on my chair, in case the note-placer had pulled it backwards. I got a few big prints and lifted them, even though I figured they were mine.
I probably shouldn’t assume the note was related to the murder. Nor should I assume the note was from the killer. But I was doing both. If that was true, the dynamic of the crime shifted dramatically.
If the note was from Mackenzie Allen’s killer, it suggested the murderer, on some level, wanted to be caught. If not caught then at least discovered. Like a child showing off a finger painting to a parent, or a disruptive student enjoying the notoriety from the class and attention from the teacher, the goal is recognition, significance, and possibly approval. The mental awareness of the consequences of being caught is dominated by the human desire to be noticed and appreciated. The consequences for murder are severe enough to indicate extreme imbalance in the person ignoring them to chase attention.
I think.
If I was the only recipient of a note, then I was intended to be the catcher or discoverer. My attention was being sought. My approval was worth killing for. For reasons unknown to me, I was very compelling to the killer.
Not something I wanted to be.
If the note was from the killer. And that was a big if. I’d been involved in similar cases, but only as the investigator and not the object of the obsession. I wasn’t sure if I was evaluating the situation rationally yet. I had been in South Hill for just a few weeks. Didn’t seem long enough to foster an obsession. Nor was I a celebrity, powerful, or even that interesting.
How did the note-leaver gain entrance into my room? Did they have a key? I saw no signs of forced entry. No window screens were ripped. Initial guesses pointed to an individual with access to a key. Did the teacher who occupied the trailer last year still have a copy? Custodians, administrators, secretaries? Anyone standing close enough to the box where extra keys were kept? Anybody with even slight talent at picking locks?
I kicked around theories in my head all day, prompting Mr. Charlie, Kristen Short, Mrs. Ballard, and Mr. Cannon to ask me at different times if I was doing okay. Evidently I looked shocked. And considering I discovered the body it was no wonder, Mrs. Ballard told me.
I locked my door after eighth period, though apparently getting past the lock wasn’t much of a challenge. The day had been long and trying. Hitting golf balls at the Country Club sounded about right.
“Hey, city boy,” the resource officer said. He was leaning on the brick wall beside the sidewalk. His thumbs were tucked behind his belt, which was too tight. He had dip behind his lip.
“Hey, Barney Fife,” I said in return. My conscience twitched and I stopped. “No, listen, I apologize. I gave you a hard time the other day and I shouldn’t have.”
“You apologize?” he said. He spit on the sidewalk near my foot. “Fuck your apology. You big stuff out in California. But out here, in the good ‘ol Commonwealth of Virginia, you listen to me. I’m the law and you ain’t.”
“You spell ‘Commonwealth’ and I’ll give you five bucks.”
“Next time I tell you to do something,” he said as he shoved off the wall to approach me, “like put handcuffs on, you better listen. Cause, city boy, I don’t play nice.”
“This is a great speech,” I said. He stopped just inches from me. I wasn’t fazed by his intimidation tactic. He wouldn’t try anything on school grounds. And if he did, I could take him while grading papers. “You should try it out on the killer. How’s that going, by the way? Found’em yet? Too busy practicing tough?”
“Don’choo worry about the killer,” he said softly. “Sum’bitch like you, better watch out for yourself.”
I sniffed. Behind the cheap cologne and underneath the tobacco was the faint smell of marijuana. I glanced at his eyes for confirmation. The RO was high.
Chapter Seventeen
At the golf course I forewent the traditional teaching on the driving range. Today felt like a good day to simply golf. There was no back nine, so we divided up into two foursomes and teed off. I was in the second group and waiting for my turn when Detective Andrews stepped up beside me. The wind didn’t ruffle his all-American hair.
“Beautiful day,” I said.
“Have a minute?”
“You fellas go ahead,” I told the group of three middle school gents, staring openly at us. “I have to teach the Deputy how to hot-wire a car. I’ll catch up.”
“I never learned how to do that,” he said as we walked to the side of the clubhouse.
“I did. Never used it though. I should rustle up an old-fashioned car chase.”
“The victim is coming up clean,” he said. “Cell phone records, credit card, townhouse is clean, car is clean, everyone we’ve talked to waxes about what a nice, normal guy he was.”
“Squeaky.”
“Slug is a .22, handgun, close range.”
“Found the location of original shooting?” I asked.
“Negative. Nothing shows on school surveillance
either. And a standard Kleenex was used to clean the victim’s face.”
“Face was cleaned?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Weird.”
“Agreed. Any alarms?” he asked.
Sure. He smoked pot. So does the officer at the school where he worked. The same officer who told me not to worry about the killer. And someone left me a note telling me to be careful with my friend selection.
“A .22,” I said.
“So?”
“You never seen the movies? Tough-guy killers carry bigger guns than that.”
“That’s all you got, huh?”
“The gun is most likely silenced, because even a little .22 would wake the neighbors, but the lack of shells means he is either picking them up or using a revolver. Finding a .22 revolver that will fit a silencer is difficult, so this guy is probably careful.”
“Can’t figure a girl,” he said.
“Unless she’s a hoss. Or had help carrying the body.” We stood silent for a moment, watching the golfers tee off. “Small handgun, close range, victim still in work clothes, no sign of struggle at his place, probably drove himself to school, body moved, face cleaned.”
“Right on.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Agreed.”
* * *
All of the golfers left except for Stephen. He stood by the putting green, hitting the tips of his shoes with his pitching wedge. I dropped a few practice balls nearby, and chipped one onto the green.
“Your mom coming, Stephen?”
“I hope so.”
“Hope so?”
“Sometimes she forgets,” he mumbled.
“What about your dad?”
“He died last year. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t know.”
He shrugged and started stepping onto his golf balls hard enough to press them halfway into the earth.
