by Alan Lee
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.
“Your mom just getting off work?”
“No. After she drops me off at home, she goes to work the night shift.”
“You stay home alone?”
“My sister is in tenth grade.”
Unfortunately, his story wasn’t very rare. I’d deduced from random comments that several of my students put themselves to bed while their parents were out working, drinking, or playing bingo.
“Something else bothering you?”
He shrugged again, and started kicking at the half-buried balls. I looked around to make sure none of the groundskeepers were watching.
“You take band, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“All three years?”
He nodded again.
“So you were close with Mr. Allen, the teacher who died.”
“He came to my dad’s funeral.”
“Mr. Allen sounds like he was a great guy. I wish I’d gotten to know him better.”
Stephen nodded. I stood there with my arms crossed, holding my putter, watching Stephen kicking halfheartedly at golf balls, and felt like an idiot. Did I have no encouragement? No support to offer? I felt like I should, but nothing came out of my mouth.
I stood frozen until his mom pulled up and honked her horn. Stephen grabbed his clubs.
“See ya, Mr. August,” he said before slamming the door behind him.
“I’m a jerk,” I said as they drove away.
18
My face was hot and sensitive after the round. It always was. I turned the car on, threw my sweaty hat in the back and drove off toward Leta’s house to pick up Kix. My favorite part of the day. By far.
Either the sheriff or Detective Andrews was holding out on me. Toxicology would certainly have come back by now and probably revealed marijuana use, but Andrews didn’t share that with me.
I punched a number in my phone and got an answer on the third ring.
“Sergeant Bingham,” the voice said.
“August,” I replied, identifying myself.
“You don’t say.” The voice on the other end belonged to my old sergeant. He had been primarily responsible for pulling me into the homicide division. He was a hard-nosed, gritty boss who hated murderers and loved the men and women who worked for him.
“Fraid so,” I said.
“It’s a good thing I was sitting down. Might have fallen over backwards, on accounta how full of joy I suddenly am.”
“I knew it.”
“You coming back here?” he asked. I could hear him chewing on a tooth-pick around his words.
“Negative.”
“Then get off my damn phone,” he said.
“I need a favor.”
“What.”
“I’m quasi-involved in a murder investigation down here,” I said.
“I heard. Captain got a call from…somebody. People get murdered in Virginia?”
“Yup.”
“That’s a shame,” he said.
“If I overnight something to you, can you run the prints? I think they’re mine but I want to check.”
The line was silent for a few seconds.
“I thought you were consulting. How involved are you?”
“Got more involved today. I think I received a note from the killer.”
“You would,” he sighed.
“Prints?”
“Virginia can’t run prints?”
“Mostly we churn butter and fight off the British,” I said.
“And?”
“And,” I said, “I don’t want word to leak that I got a note. Which it would, if I handle it locally. Might scare him off. Or her.”
“You wish, her.”
I grinned. “A little bit.”
“Send them through. Hey,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“We have too many people here right now. Might have to transfer a couple out. But your job is waiting for you as soon as you want it.”
“Thanks. Means a lot.”
“Miss it?” he asked.
“A little. No one shoots at me here though.”
“Give them time. They just met you.”
19
“FANBOYS,” I said. My students looked at me expectantly, pens poised, eager to learn. At least one of them did. “That’s how you can remember conjunctions. For, and, nor, but, or, yet, and so. On your test, remember Fanboys.”
“Mr. August,” Jon said and raised his hand. Jumping Jon the golfer. “Did you make that up?”
“Of course I did. That’s what I do in my spare time. Think of mnemonics for you.”
“Do you really?”
“No. However,” I said, but the door opened. Ms. Friedmond, the sassy science teacher, walked in and approached my podium. She was supposed to raise her hand before approaching the podium, but I decided I wouldn’t give her silent lunch.
“Mackenzie Allen’s funeral is Friday,” she said softly. “We just found out. The school is letting out at noon that day.”
“Ms. Friedmond, you don’t belong in here,” one of the students informed her.
She turned around and said, “Your momma.”
The students laughed.
“Can we say that to students?” I whispered.
“Your momma too,” she told me.
“She’s no longer with us,” I said. Dramatically. That should show her.
“Then all her sisters.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Tell your students about Friday.” Then she walked out, waving Miss America style to the class. I liked her as much as all the students did. Which is a lot.
The funeral was held at First Baptist Church, near the bed and breakfast in which I was once visited by Taylor. The school closed early so students and teachers could go. I was surprised by the turnout. Over three hundred people, I’d guess. Cousins and uncles of the victim greeted at the door. Mackenzie Allen’s mother was a widow and she sat in the front, and I could hear sobbing from the back row. Up until now I hadn’t thought much about his family and their nearly unbearable grief. The mystery, the confusion, the ongoing investigation only added to the pain. My heart began to ache from the weeping.
But I didn’t stay long.
Mackenzie’s townhouse was three miles from the church, halfway to the middle school. I got there in five minutes. As I drove, I considered the odds of the murderer being at the funeral. Pretty good, I’d bet. All signs were pointing to him being murdered by someone he knew.
His back door was cheap sliding glass. With a little rocking, the latch lifted free and the door slid open. The two-story townhouse smelled the way all vacated victims’ homes do. Empty, lifeless, and the hint of fingerprint powder.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I hoped I would know it when I saw it. An alarm might go off, who knew.
He was a neat guy, with all his band teacher paraphernalia fastidiously stacked around the room. It looked like he might have played three different wind instruments plus guitar and piano. Small TV, no video games, laptop computer, digital camera nicer than mine. Juice and beer in the fridge, soup and canned fruit in the pantry, Oreos on the counter, Bagel Bites in the freezer. KFC bag in the trash.
Spare bedroom had winter clothes in the closet and a set of drums. Lucky neighbors.
I apologized to him for invading his privacy but explained that it might help bring about justice. I hoped he understood and then went into
his bedroom.
Family pictures in little frames, spare change and cologne on top of the dresser. Pictures of friends pinned next to his closet. Bed unmade, empty glasses on the nightstand. He was reading Season of Life. Lots of shoes and shirts in the closet. No pornography or anything else under the mattress, no secret notes or letters in drawers, nothing unusual in pockets. His bank statement was open on his desk. He made a little more than me. But he also had a car payment, which I did not. Small victories. He made no marks on his wall calendar. I sat down in his desk chair and looked and thought.
The townhouse did not smell like pot. Good sign he was just a casual user, maybe smoked out back.
I left after fifty-five minutes, knowing nothing more than when I entered.
20
My phone rang as I drove away from the townhouse.
“August,” I said.
“Bingham,” he replied.
“Yo.”
“The prints off the chair are yours,” he said on speakerphone.
“Shucks.”
“Shucks?”
“It’s what we say in Virginia,” I said.
“In California we just cuss.”
“So do the eighth graders in my class,” I said.
“Are you saying LAPD has the vocabulary of thirteen-year-olds?”
“If the shoe fits. What about that card?”
“Nothing special. Standard note card, you can get them at any store, letters came from People magazine or equivalent, and glue stick adhesive. No prints.”
“Shucks,” I said again.
“You remember everything you need to about getting a note from the killer? That’s some heavy stuff.”
“Think so.”
“Pretty hairy, August. Get yourself some backup.”
“I might let the local fuzz in on it,” I said.
“Do it.”
“Yes sir, Sergeant Bingham, sir.”
“Hang in there,” he said.
“This too shall pass.”
21
“So basically,” Curtis said, “all the other teachers had over two weeks to prepare for students. You had two days.”
“Basically,” I answered.
Curtis Shortt was Kristen Shortt’s husband. They’d hooked me up with Kix’s babysitter. He had a degree in finance and did something in the accounting department at a local corporate office. His slacks were pressed, his blue shirt had a white collar without buttons, his cufflinks were gold and he still wore his tie for dinner. His glasses were rimless. He had the build of a long-distance runner. Kristen was an excellent teacher, or so I gathered by watching her tell kids to slow down in the hallway, and she had excellent taste, or so I gathered from her choice of Leta and James, the babysitters.
The Shortts had just finished building their new home, a modest two-story house with a garage. The walls were brilliant, the wooden floors gleamed, the carpet was fresh, the trim a modern white. They shopped at Ikea. I bet Curtis the finance whiz had decided to build so he could play with prices for everything in the house. We finished dinner. Kix and Jessica were taking turns stealing Elmo books away from each other on the floor.
“Damn. I can’t imagine,” he said, and took a small, measured sip of wine. Gewurtztramiener. I brought it. Kristen had made soup. “I cannot imagine working with middle school students.”
“Let me help,” I said. “You work with numbers on the computer, and I work with students in a classroom. So, imagine a tax column on your revenue and expense forms trying to switch places with the column of September’s expenses every time you look away from the computer screen, hoping you won’t notice.”
Kristen laughed and said, “That’s pretty good.”
“Or you try to print out a summary of payroll and your computer says to you, ‘No.’ So you hit print again and again, ‘No.’ Then you call in your boss but the printer refuses to print so your boss takes the computer and printer away and you can get it back tomorrow after it’s been in detention.”
“Or your mouse grunts and says, ‘Mm! That’s nice,’ and looks at your butt every time you pass,” Kristen said. She had dressed up for the dinner, wearing brown slacks, a tight V-necked shirt with an oversized collar and a thin silver necklace.
“Or the letter ‘K’ on your keyboard keeps wanting to go see the nurse,” I said.
“You’re a funny guy, Mack,” Curtis said.
I pointed at him with the hand holding my wineglass. “You’ve obviously been drinking.”
Nah. I’m a funny guy. Curtis was correct.
“Before this you were a police officer?”
“Before this I worked at a church. Before that I worked for LAPD.”
“Mack-of-all-trades.”
“Pun intended.” Kristen rolled her eyes. “And before that,” she said, “he played football for Radford.”
“I think Kristen has a little crush on you,” Curtis told me.
“Just a little one.” She grinned.
“Don’t get too excited,” Curtis said. “She crushes easily.”
“And you don’t get too worried,” she replied. “He’s a preacher. And a good man.”
“A cute, good preacher?” Curtis asked.
“I never said he was cute. Much too scary for my taste. And don’t forget football player,” she said.
Kix tugged at my pants and held up his hands. I set him in my lap and he began pointing out food on my plate he wanted.
“I’m pretty impressive,” I agreed. “Zero for twenty-one as a starter.”
“The team was new, right?” Curtis asked.
“Yup. First two years. So we were terrible. Our middle linebacker was an English major.”
“A cop with an English degree,” Curtis said. “How’d that happen?”
I finished my wine and set the glass down. Kix munched on crust. I had not discussed the specifics of my past with anyone in South Hill. Trying to leave it behind, I suppose. Not letting anyone in, though, was a good way to not make friends. Not making friends was a good way to be lonely.
“I was once engaged. She graduated from Radford and moved north to work. I stayed in Radford to finish my degree that fall. She was shot and killed in the Brooklyn mass shooting soon after arrival and I went nuts. Instead of joining the military I joined the California Highway Patrol. Better pay, got to stay in the States, still got to chase bad guys and shoot guns.”
Kristen tilted her head to the side and said with sincerity, “Oh Mack, geez, I’m so sorry.”
I was used to it.
“The Brooklyn shooting,” Curtis said. “One of those militant Islamic extremism rampages, right?”
“It’s been over nine years. I’m no longer dealing with it. Now I’m dealing with the repercussions of dealing with it incorrectly. Nine years from now, I’m hoping I look back on my teaching decision as a good one.”
“You said LAPD. That’s not the Highway Patrol,” Curtis said. He was sharp. I wondered if he’d do my taxes.
“It’s easier to get into Highway Patrol. They’re desperate, and signed me up on sight. I transferred to LAPD after a year and a half. I’m not cut out to sit in a car.”
“So where does Kix fit in?”
“If only we had dessert,” I said, “there’d be time for that story.”
22
Two in the morning. I was woken by a ruckus outside my house. Several loud thumps against the wall. I sat up straight and almost spilled Kix out of my lap.
It was Friday night, so we’d stayed up late playing games and watching Sesame Street off the Tivo. I’d fallen asleep with a smile on my face as I compared my current contentment to the self-destructive years I spent fashioning my body into a fighting machine, followed by the one year dramatic overcorrection working at a church. Followed by teaching. And peace. My son slept on my chest. The cherry on top.
And now there was a ruckus outside my house. Peace disrupted. This wasn’t a dream of gunfire and screaming, echoing in my skull. This was real life.
/> I stood and walked quickly to the hall closet, Kix in my arms. He stirred, peered at me, and put his head back on my shoulder. With one hand, I fumbled the latch open on the pistol case, retrieved my gun, hammered the magazine home on my thigh, and looked at the front door. The calls and growls were still coming, and I didn’t remember if I’d locked the bolt. My mind immediately jumped to the warning card left in my trailer, though I had no way to know if this was connected.
I took Kix to his bedroom, and laid him in his crib. Urgency replaced grogginess, and I rubbed my eyes with my left hand to speed up the process.
My house sat fifteen minutes from the interstate. In a nice, secluded, lake house community. Neighbors weren’t close, so even if they were home they might not hear. Chances were, though, nobody was home. Most just vacationed here during here summer.
My gun was a Kimber Custom TLE II. A semiautomatic, double action .45. Stainless steel. No blued metal for Mr. August. I had grown used to it on the force, so I bought one of my own. I pulled the slide back to check the chamber, and let it snap home. We were safe. I was good with the pistol. Real good. And mad. Whoever was making noise outside and throwing things at my house was not safe.
In the spare bedroom, I peered out of the blinds.
Well, what do you know.
The resource officer stood there with two friends, laughing and bouncing rocks between his hands. While I watched, his short friend aimed and threw at the porch lights beside the front door. Thump. Missed. Several beer cans lay at their feet.
The RO was dressed in civilian clothes. Jeans and an untucked T-shirt. His short friend wore a vest and hat, the taller friend a Carhardt Jacket. All three had the build of former second-string varsity football players gone soft with beer and chips.
They were obviously drunk. Partly from the Natural Light, but also from the sense of power. Steve the RO was a police officer, and therefore somewhat above repercussion and given to being an idiot. I knew the feeling. Was I going to call the sheriff? Steve was the police. So to speak. Who would the sheriff trust? His fellow cop? Or me? Steve’s friends felt invulnerable standing beside him. I smiled, and went to get my video camera.
