by Matt Witten
"No way. We're going stargazing," I said.
"Five to one you're back in jail before the night’s out," Judy said.
"Hey, this time he's got me with him," Andrea said. "It’ll be a piece of cake."
"Famous last words."
But we ignored Judy's negativity and marched out the door. I reached into my Toyota and grabbed Melanie's flashlight.
Just in case there were any cops or killers keeping tabs on us, we stuck to the shadows as we headed down Elm Street, turned right on Long Alley, and then came back up Ash to Ms. Helquist’s house. There was no wind and all the dogs were asleep, or at least silent. Except for our own footsteps, the only noise came from the occasional buzzing streetlights. Easing down Ash, our hearts stopped when we thought we saw a dark figure lurking alongside a house half a block away. But then we decided it was just a bush.
We stepped past Ms. Helquist’s panoply of flowers onto her porch, and I pulled out my AAA card. Getting the door open took maybe five seconds. I felt like a pro.
Unfortunately, the cliché "no pain, no gain" turned out to be an accurate description of our search of Ms. Helquist’s domicile. We found plenty of seed packets and gardening magazines, but no envelopes from BOCES and no standardized tests.
"I hope whoever killed Ms. Helquist didn't take those tests away," Andrea said as we stepped out of the house onto the porch.
"And I hope whoever buys this house takes care of her flowers."
Still sticking close to any cover we could find, we oozed on down the street, took a couple of rights, and found ourselves on High Rock Avenue. We saw our first moving car of the evening, which turned out to be a cop car. We ducked down behind a parked SUV and waited for it to pass by.
A couple of blocks away loomed the object of our criminal designs, High Rock Elementary. Across the street from it was the Robinson house, and Andrea and I both noticed at the same time that the lights were on in their front downstairs window.
"You think they're awake?" Andrea said.
"Let's reconnoiter."
We edged up the street, then hid behind a row of bushes in front of the house next door to the Robinsons. We stood there for about three minutes and didn't see any signs of activity.
"Looks okay to me," I whispered.
"We should look in the window and make sure. I don't want them jumping us from behind."
"You women are always so cautious," I said, but didn't mean it. A little extra caution wouldn't be such a bad idea here.
We slunk up the Robinsons' driveway toward their house. I almost tripped on some object, which I then realized was a skateboard. Probably Mark's. I shook my head. He'd made such a point of stealing it back from Meckel, and it had gotten his whole family into such a mess, and now here he left it just lying around on the driveway.
Andrea and I moved around the front wall of the house and looked in through the windowshades, standing a couple of yards back from the window so nobody in the front room would be able to see us.
But the room was empty. Andrea and I watched for a while, then withdrew. I was careful to steer dear of the skateboard this time.
Then Andrea and I headed across the street to the school. We walked up to the front door. This time it was locked.
"Do not fear," I said, "Triple A is here."
I took out my card and set to work.
Then I set to work some more.
But nothing happened. The magic was gone. "I'm so embarrassed," I said.
"Let’s try the other doors."
And we did. We went around the school and tried every single one. But nothing gave. My AAA card let me down again and again. I was seriously pissed. Maybe next year I'd let my membership expire.
"How about if we just break a window?" Andrea suggested.
"I'm worried about the noise, but I guess we'll have to," I said. Then I got a minor brainstorm. "Wait a minute. Let’s try the window to Meckel's office. Me and that cop might’ve damaged it when we were pushing our way out."
So we went over there. Sure enough, the window was open slightly, maybe a quarter of an inch. I was able to work the tips of my fingers in there and pry it open a little farther. Now it was open maybe an inch.
"You try opening the bottom of the window," I told Andrea, "and I'll get the side."
So we wedged our fingers in and pulled. I groaned, Andrea grunted . . . and suddenly the window slid wide open.
"Cool," Andrea said.
"Way cool," I agreed.
The windowsill was about five feet off the ground. I gave Andrea a boost, and she dropped into Meckel's office. Then I scrambled up to the sill, and dropped in myself.
We made sure the windowshade was all the way down. Then we turned on Melanie's flashlight and began exploring.
Almost immediately we found a huge pile of mail on Meckel's desk, addressed to either "Samuel Meckel" or "Principal, High Rock Elementary School." Evidently the mail was sitting there waiting for the next principal to come along.
I went through the pile quickly, and within seconds found a familiar large brown envelope at the bottom of the file. It was about twelve inches wide by fifteen inches long, and filled with papers. I turned the envelope over and read the return address: BOCES in Albany.
"Jackpot," Andrea said.
"Hopefully."
I removed the envelope's contents and Andrea shone the flashlight on them. It sure looked like a jackpot. Just as we'd anticipated, these were the High Rock students' Terra Nova answer sheets, as graded by BOCES. The three hundred or so answer sheets were divided into twelve manila folders, one for each class.
Andrea and I started with the answer sheets from Melanie's class. We checked the first test, from a girl whose name I didn't recognize. At the top of page one was her official score for the English portion, which was an eighty-four. The page looked like something from a college SAT test. It had all of those little ovals you're supposed to fill in with a number two pencil.
Shining the flashlight closely, we noticed that several times someone had erased one oval and filled in a different one. But we didn't find reason to believe anyone but the student herself had made these changes. In fact, about half the time the change resulted in the student getting the wrong answer.
"I don't see any evidence Meckel or Melanie or anybody else cheated on this test," I said.
"Let’s check the math section."
We turned to the math, where the student had scored a ninety-one, and found two pages that didn't have any ovals on them. Here the student had to write down actual numbers instead of circling multiple-choice answers. Also, there was an empty space for her to do calculations before she wrote her answers.
Andrea and I checked the answers, and found hardly any erasures. Then we checked the answers against the calculations. They matched. No obvious chicanery here, either.
We examined an answer sheet from another student of Melanie's, and again came up goose eggs.
Then we tried four or five more. Still nada. Was Melanie clean?
"Let’s try Elena's tests," I said.
"I hope we don't find anything," said Andrea, still loyal to her friend.
Outside the wind was starting up, rattling the windowshades in Meckel's open window. We were leaving it open in case we had to make a sudden escape, like I'd made the last time. I checked my watch: five minutes to four. "Whatever we find, we better find it fast," I said.
But the first test in Elena's batch didn't yield anything interesting, and neither did the second, third, or fourth. It was enervating. Soon it would be getting light outside, and we'd have to take off with nothing to show for all the risks we'd taken.
I put Elena's folder back down on Meckel's desk.
I picked up a couple of other folders and flipped through them, feeling dispirited.
But as I flipped, something suddenly caught my eye. I looked again. It was still there.
Meanwhile Andrea was saying, "Maybe we should just head back home—"
"Wait." I sta
red at the answer sheet I was holding in my hand.
"What?"
"Holy tomato juice."
"What is it?"
I pointed to the top of the answer sheet. "Eighty seven. He got an eighty-seven in English."
"Who?"
"Justin Richardson."
I flipped to the math portion and read the official math score. "And he got an eighty-six in math."
Andrea frowned. "I thought you said he scored over ninety-five in both."
"I did say that, 'cause that’s what it said on the other thing—the page of preliminary scores I found in Meckel' s office that night." I was talking fast, because I was excited. "The scores Meckel did before he sent the tests off to BOCES for official tabulation."
"So what are you thinking?" Andrea asked. "That Meckel scored the test wrong?"
I had a flash of inspiration. "Wait a minute, I bet Meckel didn't score those tests himself—Ms. Helquist did it for him. That would explain everything."
"Slow down and explain it to me."
"Try this out. After Ms. Helquist scored the test, Barry got hold of the score sheet. And he changes his kid's preliminary score because he wants him to get into the gifted program." I snapped my fingers. "I'll bet Barry didn't even realize those scores were just preliminary. The way Ms. Helquist did it, it looked official."
"But how could Barry have gotten hold of the score sheet? You think he snuck into Meckel's office at some point?"
"Or Helquist’s office. Hey, he volunteered in the school. And he hung out sometimes to talk to Meckel about stuff. He probably saw the scores lying around one day and took advantage. He figured, I'll just change these scores before Meckel sees them."
"So you're thinking Barry might’ve . . ." She stopped.
But I didn't stop, I kept going. "I think Meckel realized the numbers were changed and figured out it must be Barry. So on Tuesday morning, he sees Barry heading for the john, and he goes, 'Come in my office.' So Barry does. And Meckel accuses him: 'Somebody changed these scores. It was you, wasn't it?' So Barry denies it of course, and Meckel gives him a hard time, and Barry starts yelling, and Meckel says no way in hell will your son ever get in my gifted program, you sonufabitch. And then somebody pushes somebody, Barry grabs the trophy, and he doesn't mean to kill Meckel . . ."
"But he does."
"And we can prove it. The cops took that preliminary score sheet I found in Meckel's office to the police station. If they find Barry's fingerprints on it, and they find somebody erased Justin's scores and put in new ones—"
"—then I'd be in trouble," a voice said.
Andrea screamed. So did I. It was Barry Richardson's voice, coming from outside. In the dim light we saw Barry's face above the windowsill. We also saw a gun, pointed straight at Andrea.
"Voices down, please," Barry said, his own voice tight. "Andrea, come here and climb over the windowsill, if you would."
"Barry, what are you doing?" I squeaked.
"If you really want me to shoot you here in Meckel's office, I will. But I'd prefer you to climb out. You've got ten seconds."
His voice was preternaturally calm. Andrea and I looked at one another, each of us hoping the other would know what to do.
Barry broke the silence. "One . . . two . . ."
"Okay, I'm coming!" Andrea yelled.
She headed for the windowsill. I half turned, thinking about making a break for the door. Barry noticed it. "If you step out that door, I'll shoot your wife," he said.
I didn't step out the door. Instead I watched as Andrea climbed up on the sill, then jumped to the ground.
Keeping his gun trained on Andrea, Barry turned to me. "Now you."
"Listen, Barry," I said, "I know you. You're not a bad guy."
"Drop your flashlight now, before you come to the window."
"Get hold of yourself—"
"One . . . two . . ."
Now it was my turn to yell. "Okay!"
I dropped the flashlight, then climbed up onto the sill. I wanted to jump down on top of Barry, but he was standing too far away, and his gun was still trained on Andrea.
"Last time I ever ask you to babysit," I said. Then I jumped to the ground.
"What are you gonna do with us?" Andrea asked.
"We're going to take a little walk across the street," he said.
I looked across the street to the Robinsons' house. Immediately I knew what Barry's plan was. He was going to kill us right by their house, to make it look like one of the Robinsons had done it.
"March," said Barry. "And don't make a peep."
I looked up and down High Rock. No trucks, no cop cars, no nothing. Andrea and I both shuffled our feet as we started down the front walk from the school. We were taking as long as we could. Barry was right behind us.
"Just tell me one thing," I said, trying to distract him.
"Shhh!" he hissed, jabbing his gun in my back.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Was I right about what happened? Between you and Meckel?"
"Yeah," Barry whispered hoarsely. "Bloody bastard was gonna keep my kid out of the gifted program. I didn't mean to kill him, though. I pick up that stupid trophy and next thing I know, he's lying there dead. Like you Americans say, 'shit happens.'"
"What about Ms. Helquist?" Andrea asked.
"That fool. She calls me up the next day. Asks if Mr. Meckel ever talked to me about the discrepancy in my son's test scores. I say I don't know what she's talking about. But I can tell she doesn't believe me. Sooner or later she's gonna go to the cops. They'll put me in jail, even though Meckel was an accident. It’s not fair. So that night I go to her house with my gun. She thinks she's ready for me—she's got her own gun. So I grab it off her and I shoot her."
I said, "How can you—"
"It’s their own bloody fault," Barry exploded. "How could they do this to my son? Your public schools in this country are utterly atrocious!"
"But that’s no reason to go around killing people."
"Sure it is. Move," he said. "Across the street. Now."
Andrea and I did our slow death march across the street. Never were two people more in need of A Plan.
And then, just like that, one came to me. Maybe it was somewhat desperate, but it was a plan nonetheless. When we made it to the front of the Robinsons' house, I asked, "Up the driveway?"
I was afraid he'd order us to go up the walk to the front door instead. But we got lucky. "Up the driveway," he said.
Trying not to be too obvious about it, I cast my eyes down to the asphalt. About ten or twelve steps in front of me, I found what I was looking for: a dark shape down close to the ground. Mark Robinson's skateboard.
I glanced over my shoulder. Barry was still directly behind me.
Andrea was walking beside me. I nudged her slightly with my hip so that we'd veer a little to the left. That way the skateboard would be directly in my path.
I came to the skateboard. Again trying not to be too obvious, I lifted my legs a little higher so I would make it over the skateboard without tripping.
Then I got ready, my body tensing. And a moment later, I heard the sound I was waiting for Barry's foot coming into contact with the skateboard.
I turned, lunged, and rammed my head into Barry's body. I was hoping the skateboard had thrown him off balance enough that he wouldn't be able to shoot me right away.
I guess I was right, because when the shot came a moment later, it didn't hit me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Andrea go down—I hoped to God it hadn't hit her either. Maybe she was just ducking. Barry and I were both falling hard. The force of my charge pushed him down to the driveway, and I landed on top of him.
His head banged against the driveway. His gun arm flailed behind him and his hand hit the ground. The gun flew from his hand. I could hear it rattling back down the driveway toward the sidewalk.
I started to jump off him so I could go for the gun. But then he grabbed onto me and somehow rolled on top of me. I reached for
his neck and tried to strangle him. He got my head in both his hands and practically threw it against the driveway. I think I lost consciousness for a moment.
Next thing I knew, Barry was jumping off me and racing for the gun. Through the fog in my brain, I knew Andrea and I were done for.
Then I saw a shadowy figure down by the sidewalk. It was Andrea. She was holding the gun.
Barry rushed at her. "Stop!" Andrea said. "Stop!"
He was almost on top of her. His arms reached out—
Then I heard the gunshot.
Barry gave a wild banshee scream and fell down.
He moaned for a while, and then he was silent.
18
But Barry got lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. He didn't die. Andrea, who's much better with blood and gore than I am, was able to staunch some of the bleeding from the hole in Barry's chest. The paramedics arrived within ten minutes. Barry spent a couple of weeks in intensive care, then went to jail.
According to Dave, the cops found Barry's fingerprints and alterations on the preliminary score sheet. That, combined with the statement Andrea and I gave, convinced Barry and his lawyer they should negotiate some kind of plea bargain. They're working it out now. I don't know what kind of sentence Barry will get, but I doubt he'll see freedom anytime soon. I hear via the grapevine that Barry's wife and kids are planning to move up north to Stony Creek this fall, to live with Ronnie's parents and try to escape some of the bad memories.
Andrea felt pretty shaky about firing a gun at a real person—it's not something she ever imagined her pacifist self doing. And my kids felt a tad weird going to school with the children of a man their mother had shot. But time helped us regain our balance, and once again, dinner table conversation at the Burns household most days revolves around point guards and Pokémon instead of murder.
Our recovery was helped along by the fact that Chief Walsh dropped all the criminal charges against me for breaking and entering and obstruction of justice. I guess he was afraid he'd look ridiculous throwing me in jail right after my wife and I had single-handedly—or should I say double-handedly—apprehended Public Enemy Number 1. Judy Demarest had splashed Andrea and me all over the front pages of the Saratogian and turned us into local heroes. Chief Walsh never thanked us for solving the murders for him, though; he just sort of tightened his jaw and looked away whenever we happened to see him on Broadway. I almost felt sorry for the guy.
