by Alan Lee
Near the end of planning, I emailed Mr. Charlie and invited myself to their next work night, and asked him why he hadn’t mentioned these nights before. It occurred to me after I hit “Send” that I should have asked him this in person. Chocolate made me stupid, apparently.
Food kept pouring into the classroom and I kept eating it, grading the accompanying papers, and thinking about Mackenzie Allen. And Mr. Charlie, and work nights, and the mysterious note, and drugs, and South Hill, and the school board, and more drugs, and the shooter. Someone in Mecklenburg County was manufacturing crystal meth. Maybe several someones. Someone was also trafficking in cocaine. I bet these someones knew how to get their hands on hired muscle or a shooter if they needed one. But I didn’t know how to get my hands on those someones, much less the shooters. I remained new to South Hill, an outsider. And the drug business didn’t explain the note left in my room, nor why they would ace a middle school band teacher.
Charlie emailed me back right before eighth period ended, when I was almost in a food coma.
Mr. August, it’s your lucky night. A few of us are meeting tonight to wipe down desks. Flu season is approaching and we can’t be too careful. It should be a real good time. I’ll meet you in front of your trailer at eight. We’ll probably be here an hour tonight. Sincerely, Mr. Charlie
Bingo. I’d get to watch the usual crowd that Mr. Allen spent time with before he died. Nothing better for detecting guilt than hanging around and making people nervous.
I made a quick sweep of my room, throwing forks and plates into the auxiliary trash bag. The custodian gave me dirty looks because of my messy room, so I’d been making an effort. Hopefully I had gotten back onto his Christmas card list.
I motored a mile up to the high school. They had an open gym, which I visited now and then. A few of the beefier football players spotted me and followed me around the weights, challenging themselves to lift more than I could. A few of them succeeded. Two years ago I would have destroyed them, but I didn't mind the challenge nor the company. Good role models were hard to come by and I made sure my life was very transparent, easy to inspect and imitate. I answered their questions, joked with them, encouraged them, got very honest concerning my mistakes. A couple even left the gym to run a few laps around the track with me. I finished and decided I'd probably ran off two periods’ worth of dessert and the rest would go straight to my ass.
After toweling dry in the locker room, I used the shower-in-a-bottle spray which guaranteed I'd get more girls, and went to Leta and James's house for dinner. Kix’s babysitters were the closest thing to family I had for two hundred miles. I drank iced tea and tried to burn calories by concentrating. Kix could feed himself now, which made eating much more enjoyable and cleanup much more of a hassle. Most of his macaroni ended up on his cheeks and eyebrows, and between handfuls he would often offer me a bite. My heart swelled with pride at my generous and disgusting child.
Leta rejoiced at the opportunity to keep Kix a few more hours while I was at the school with Mr. Charlie and his work night crew. Her son lived four hundred miles away and only visited on holidays. So I left Kix there and drove back to the middle school, ready to clean desks.
As I drove I thought about how the investigation kept getting in the way of quality time with Kix. We still had most nights together and the weekends, but I felt bad when I only saw him for a few minutes like I would today. Yet another reason to bag the killer.
I got there a little before eight. One car in the lot. It was dark enough for the street and courtyard lights to have turned on, bathing the brick buildings and sidewalks in orange. I pulled into a space close to the entrance and killed the engine. Something felt wrong. Then I saw the body.
Same place as last time, lying in roughly the same position. The hairs on my neck stood up. I reached over and removed a gun from the glove compartment. I owned two guns, and felt very satisfied with my decision to keep one in the car. Just a small Smith and Wesson .38 Special, but it’d do the trick.
I fought off the notion that I was a hypocrite. After all, I told the resource officer to put away his gun that morning. But that had been seven in the morning and this was eight at night. Nighttime was way scarier, after all, a scientific fact. And this was the second body. And I was alone. Hypocrite or not, I got out of the car armed.
I approached cautiously, peering as best I could into the shadows of the courtyard, but there were too many places someone could hide and watch. I knew the corpse was a man and I knew he was dead, but I got close enough to confirm anyway. And close enough to realize I knew him.
I’d grown tired of dialing 911, so instead I punched in the sheriff’s cell.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, it’s Mack August.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Got another body. Same place as last time.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“I wish.”
“Christ, why do people keep dying around you?”
I hung up and tried to pretend that wasn’t true.
41
I looked at my watch every fifteen seconds for the next six minutes. After two of them my thighs began to burn but I didn’t shift positions. My pistol lay between my feet and if someone wanted to shoot me they could.
Roy had been shot in the forehead at close range with a small caliber pistol. It appeared that he’d fallen dead where he currently lay and hadn’t been moved, unlike Mackenzie Allen. Other than that, a bunch of little signs pointed to the same shooter. The back of his head was bloody and his hands were still in his pockets. He’d taken one in the forehead and fallen backwards, dead before he hit the asphalt.
If this trend continued then we’d run out of faculty soon. I’d be the last teacher standing.
He stared into space, a look of vacant surprise in his eyes. I stared at him as memories of other corpses superimposed themselves onto his body. I could hear the sounds of Los Angeles, smell gunpowder, feel blood on my hands, hear myself and others crying, hear the sirens coming closer.
His body took on a flickering bluish hue and two squad cars rolled into the parking lot. One pulled up onto the sidewalk, as close to the courtyard as it could get, and illuminated everything with its high beams. I stood and kept my hands by my sides so they could see them. Car doors slammed.
I recognized Detective Andrews by his voice. “Shit. Same as last time. Same as freakin’ last time.”
“That’s my piece,” I said. “On the ground. I took it out of the car when I saw the body.”
“Yeah, well put it back. You look guilty enough as it is.”
I retrieved the revolver and put it in my jacket pocket.
“What are you doing here so late, anyway?” he asked.
“I was just wondering the same thing.”
Due to the circumstances, there was a noticeable attitude shift toward me. I no longer held the position of helpful former detective. Now I was a potential suspect. I knew both victims, I’d found both bodies, and, considering the small-town nature of South Hill, everyone already knew Roy didn’t like me. I went from insider to outsider, and the looks I got from the deputies confirmed it. And what was I doing at the school so late?
Sheriff Mitchell arrived and asked that exact question. I told him about the work nights. So where was everybody? I resisted the urge to say, “Dead.”
“So you know about these late-night cleaning parties?” Sheriff Mitchell asked.
Principal Martin nodded. She’d arrived fifteen minutes after the sheriff. She wore Crocks, jeans and a college sweatshirt. The three of us stood in her office. The hallways were dark. Her desk light was burning. “One of the administrators has to be here. I didn’t know about it tonight.”
The sheriff’s arms were crossed. He turned his gaze to me.
“I didn’t know about it either until Mr. Charlie told me this afternoon,” I said.
“Is Roy Davis usually at these meetings?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Yes.”<
br />
“Sheriff,” a deputy said, sticking his head in the room. He was running messages into the room every few minutes. “Officers Crossman and Carley are here.”
“Have them start knocking on doors,” he said, arms still crossed. “See if anyone heard or saw anything.”
“Yessir.” He disappeared.
“The last meeting, or party, or cleaning party, or whatever. When was it?” he asked.
“No idea. I found out about these parties yesterday,” I said.
“Last month sometime,” Principal Martin said, and she bent over her desk to look through her calendar.
“Who told you about the parties?”
“Mackenzie Allen’s mother,” I sighed. I usually asked the questions. I felt frustrated being on the other side. “She came to visit me, see how the investigation was going.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“I said I’d kill Roy if it’d make her feel better.”
“Think you’re funny?”
“Think you’re being productive?”
“Gentlemen.” Ms. Martin rubbed her forehead. “Not now. The last meeting was September twenty-fifth.”
“Who was there?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I wasn’t. I’d guess Mr. Charlie, Mr. Allen, Ms. Smith, Ms. Lewis, Mr. Davis, Mr. Gosney probably, a few of the custodians most likely. And Vice Principal Mr. Baskins.”
I made a mental list of the names. Future leads, perhaps.
“Both victims are in that list,” I said.
“Think it’s a clue, hotshot?” he said.
Detective Andrews entered the office. “Sir? Mr. Charlie is here.”
“And?”
“He says there was no cleaning scheduled tonight. And he never emailed August.”
All three stared at me.
“Ah hah!”
“Ah hah?”
“A clue,” I said. I could see it in their eyes. Who was lying? Me or Charlie? “This is easy to verify. Mind if I use your computer?”
Martin logged herself off and I sat down. I logged on. I hadn’t deleted Charlie’s email, and even if I had the letter would still be in the Trash. I pulled up the program.
The emails were listed in chronological order. At the top was the most recent email. The letter at the top of my email program was a note from the nurse, sent an hour before Charlie had sent his. No letter from Charlie. I checked the Trash folder. Nothing. In other words, my alibi was gone.
“Where is it?” the sheriff asked.
“Not there,” I said. “Now that, Sheriff, is suspicious.”
42
I was upgraded to a Person of Interest in the investigation. Charlie came in to confirm he hadn’t sent the email, and he gave all indications of telling the truth. I expected him to fidget, ramble too much, look to his left, shuffle his feet, not know what to do with his hands. He was either a pro, or honestly hadn’t sent that email. The principal deliberately kept her distance from me.
The sheriff went to deal with the crime scene and I decided to wait in a classroom near the exit closest to the courtyard. Leaving would make the sheriff nervous, as he wasn’t sure if he trusted me or not. Besides, I wanted to figure out where that email went and I had access to a computer. Whatever happened to that email would point to the actual perpetrator. The classroom belonged to a sixth-grade teacher who pasted motivational posters and catchy science phrases on her walls.
This time the story might go national. Two teachers, same school, same location, probably the same gun. The leap from one murder to two was a big one, and the public would be fascinated with public servants being murdered at their job. The press would invade South Hill in a much bigger way than last time, and the public and parent outcry was going to triple.
I pushed away from the computer in frustration. I didn’t know enough about computers to investigate the disappearing email very far. It was gone. That’s what I knew. I lowered my head into my hands and tried to think.
Mackenzie Allen. Band teacher. Roy Davis. Agriculture teacher. Both liked Taylor. Both had potential beef with the school board, and vice-versa. Both participated in the work nights or cleaning parties. Killed in very similar styles. What was Roy doing at the school tonight?
Definite similarities. How did I fit in? Why did I get a bogus email? Or did I? Why did Charlie never mention those cleaning parties before? Where was Russ Cummings tonight? What about that mysterious note?
Until I cleared my name, I couldn’t help answer those questions. Suspects are strongly discouraged from interfering with homicide investigations. But I wasn’t sure how to clear my name without answering some of those questions. I bounced my head on the heels of my hands and said, “Think, think, think.”
“Think about what, Mr. August?”
I looked up as Mr. Suhr walked into the room.
“You live nearby?” I asked. Seeing a friendly face was not unpleasant.
“I volunteer on the Rescue Squad. We are going to transport the body later tonight. I heard you were in here and decided I would come tell you that the Lord is still with you.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” I said.
“Do you always determine truth by what you feel?”
I put my head back into my hands.
“I know it was not you,” he said. “I know you’re not the killer.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Anyone who knows you will not believe it was you.”
“They have nothing beyond circumstantial evidence. I’m not worried about that. Frustrated, yes. Worried, no.”
“Then what are you worried about? You look badly shaken,” he said.
“Finding the body,” I said. “Shook me up.”
“I assumed a police officer who investigated homicides for a living would be used to bodies. Were you and Roy close?”
“No. Not that, really,” I said.
“Then what?”
“Memories. The last few bodies have brought memories and nightmares. I was involved in the North murders, a grisly ordeal.”
We stared through the classroom windows into the courtyard for a minute. I couldn’t see the body but I could see a deputy taking pictures, his flash and the blue siren lights lighting up my trailer in the background.
“Every corpse I see turns into my best friend’s body. His name was Richard. He was my partner.”
Mr. Suhr nodded but didn’t say anything.
“He was shot in front of me. I held him as he died. My life didn’t make sense after that, and I lost my ability to effectively do my job.”
“I can understand,” he said in his big, tall, kind drawl.
“To make matters worse,” I said. “His wife was pregnant. But here is the really weird thing. Richard was sterile, so they asked if I would donate sperm and be the biological father. I was very tight with them, so of course I said yes. Then he died, and his wife Melynda went to pieces. She lost her will to live, couldn’t get out of bed. Clinically depressed and suicidal, but she was pregnant and didn’t want to take powerful drugs. She couldn’t even muster up the energy to push during delivery, and she died right after an emergency C-section. While I held her hand. No one else was there, so they handed the baby to me. I was the biological father, so no one thought much about it. All that in the same month. So now when I see a body I remember holding Richard as he bled to death with an ambulance not far away, and I remember Melynda dying on the operating table.”
He whistled and shook his head, then said, “Those are significant memories.”
“Yup.”
“What help have you received?”
“Counseling helped. Drinking, sex and overeating did not.”
“That does not surprise me.”
“All this…shit inside of me. I’m still polluted from those years of self-destruction. Memories, you know? Awful memories. Dunno how to get rid of them.”
“It is a process,” he said. “I work Rescue Squad. I know. You were damaged physically and spi
ritually.”
“Not sure about the spiritual part.”
“You think murder is not a spiritual problem?”
“I guess it is,” I said, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I investigated homicides for several years and I never thought about it spiritually.”
“How many murders went unsolved in or around your city while you were there?” he asked.
“Many.”
“Maybe that is because the investigators only think in terms of what they can see. Maybe you are still doing it.”
“Mr. Suhr, I’m too tired for this.”
“I know, but I believe you are more involved in these murders than you think.”
I didn’t answer. Did he know I’d received a note from the killer?
He continued, “Perhaps because I know nothing about the evidence and therefore necessarily am not influenced by it, but I’ve been praying for you. And while I pray, I grow more and more aware that you are involved and in danger.”
“You’re a creepy guy, Mr. Suhr. I don’t know if I can believe that spiritual forces are the key to solving murders.”
“You used to not believe in God. Does that mean He did not exist then?”
“No, I think He existed whether or not I believed.”
“Then trust me on this, Mr. August. There is more going on here than what can be seen.”
I rubbed my forehead and watched the lights outside. “I don’t get it. I’m trying.”
“The police are good at what they do. In fact, government and justice are both ideas from God. But they are not investigating this from a spiritual standpoint. Do not put your trust in the police. Put your trust in a higher power.”
“And I’m involved?”
“I think so.”
“How?” I asked.
“I do not know.”
“Is the school board involved?”
“I do not know,” he said. “I am not a prophet or a psychic. I only know that I feel very burdened to warn you and pray for you.”
“So,” I said, leaning back in my chair and trying not to feel foolish, “if this has something to do with influences we can’t see, and involves me…” I let the gears in my mind turn. Was I looking in the wrong place? Ignoring something? “…then I bet I know where another clue is.”
