by Alan Lee
“How do I help?”
“Fetch the sheriff.”
Mr. Suhr left, and five minutes later he returned.
“You need to see me?” the sheriff said.
“Yep. Time to come clean.”
“Yeah?”
“I got a note from the killer. I think so, at least.”
He arched an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and didn’t say anything.
“The first school day after Allen’s death, I found a note on my keyboard. It’s currently in the top right desk drawer in my trailer. It warned me to be careful with whom I’m friends.”
“Whom?”
“Yup. Whom.”
“Why didn’t you share this before?” he asked.
“I didn’t want word to get out. If I shared it with you it might become common knowledge and scare the guy off.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I shipped it to LA for finger prints, my old outfit,” I said. “You can call them to confirm. The note is a standard index card with pasted magazine letters. No prints anywhere.”
“We could have used this information two weeks ago.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“I could bust you for impeding a police investigation.”
“Maybe.”
“So why tell me now?”
“I gotta funny feeling,” I said. “There might be another note on my keyboard.”
43
The following day was Saturday. No school, so Kix and I practiced crawling. I owned several books on being a father and raising a boy, but none of them gave advice for crawling exercises. I did, however, feel confident in my ability to give the sex talk when he turned ten. In the meantime, I laid him stomach down on the carpet and placed bits of cookie just out of his reach. He possessed the ability to squirm his way forward and get the cookie, but nothing approached crawling. He was developing a mean scowl because I kept moving the cookie backwards.
I hadn’t stayed long at the school the previous night. The sheriff had returned to the classroom rattled, holding a second note. Same style of note card, same cutout magazine letters. Different message.
YOUR FRIEND SELECTION IS POOR.
My planning and suspicions were down the tubes. The school board theory now looked weak. Roy was dead, so it probably wasn’t him. The work night angle was all weird. Maybe one of them, maybe not, and I couldn’t imagine it could be Mr. Charlie. Everything now hinged on that email and the two notes.
Two dead bodies, both lying in front of my trailer. Two murders, two notes, both seemingly addressed to me. The implications of that were something I didn’t enjoy thinking about.
Before leaving the school, I had called an old friend in LA and asked if we could send her some things to look at. She was a pro, and I'd feel better with her opinion on the evidence.
Kix and I walked around the house for a while. He held my two pointer fingers and took long, wobbly steps through the kitchen and living room while bragging about himself loudly.
The sheriff’s department was running fingerprints, processing the body, casing the school campus, going over film from the school’s cameras, comparing notes from the Allen homicide, and trying to catch a killer. I was duck walking with my son.
I still remained under a fair amount of suspicion due to my shady email alibi. Until that mystery was solved the sheriff couldn’t be sure I hadn’t left those notes myself, however unlikely. To make matters worse, the local newspaper had a nasty habit of discovering and printing all the investigation details. It wouldn’t be long before my picture adorned the front page, subtitled “Suspect.” That would not help the teacher-parent relationship. I intentionally did not watch the news, confident Richmond and Raleigh would run it, as probably would a few twenty-four-hour cable news shows.
I made us PBJ sandwiches for lunch. After we finished eating, I was going to drop Kix off at Leta’s and head to the sheriff’s office. Considering the killer appeared to be interested in me, and I had more experience with homicides than all law enforcers in South Hill combined, it seemed reasonable that I should help out. They’d accept my help more willingly if I had a good explanation for being at school so late last night. For the tenth time, I wished I’d printed out that email.
Kix smeared his food onto his face and managed to get some in his mouth while I opened up my laptop. I’d begun an email earlier to my father, filling him in so he wouldn’t worry. The screen with the half-finished letter was there waiting for me after the computer returned from hibernation. I stared at the screen for a while, trying to figure out what exactly was nagging me. I felt I was missing something obvious. Unable to locate the source, I finished the letter and hit “Send.” The email disappeared, leaving the In-box on screen.
“Ah hah.”
Kix smiled at me.
“Daddy’s got an idea.”
About time, he said.
I called the sheriff's office and was quickly transferred.
"Sheriff Mitchell.
"Yes, I have a legal question. Would I get into less trouble for shooting a cat rather than a dog? And can I borrow your gun? Don't ask what for."
"Who the hell is this?"
"Your favorite middle school teacher. When I check my emails at school, those emails pop up in separate, individual windows on my monitor. They stay there on screen until I close out the window or reply to them. Make sense?"
“Yeah, so.”
"The email from Mr. Charlie was the last thing I saw on my screen yesterday. I don't think I cancelled it out. Even though the school's email server has no record of that email, I think there will be a copy of it on my screen."
"I'll ask the principal to meet one of my deputies there and open the door. He'll take a look."
"You'll need my password to unlock the screensaver," I said.
“Okay,” he said. “Let me write it down.”
“This is a little embarrassing.”
“Get over it, August,” he responded. “You’re a person of interest in a murder investigation.”
“All right, fine. It’s ‘Sheriff Mitchell.’”
“Christ, I'm thinking about throwing you into jail just to shut you up."
I gave him the correct password and got Kix dressed. He liked to lie on his back, kick his legs and laugh while I tried to thread his legs into his pants. I bet Sheriff Mitchell would threaten to throw him in jail if he saw.
Leta forced a BLT sandwich on me when we got to her house. Even though the grass had stopped growing two weeks ago, James was on his riding lawn mower and he waved as I drove off. He’d recently decided he didn’t want me to catch the killer, he wanted me to shoot him. Better yet, catch the killer, bring him to James and let James shoot him. I’d get free babysitting for a month. I listened to a sermon on the radio, discussing the Song of Solomon. According to the preacher, I'd been all messed up when it came to women, and I had a feeling he was right. I also became pretty sure that Taylor was not the girl for me, no matter what she looked like in heels. I just had to avoid touching her the rest of the school year. The thought of being successful in my next relationship filled me with hope. If there was a next relationship.
44
I parked in front of the sheriff’s office and walked in. The Mecklenburg County law enforcers were on edge. The front secretary was on the phone and probably had been all day, fielding calls from press. An open newspaper lay on a tabletop. The homicide had just enough time to make the front page, but the report was scarce with developing details. I was mentioned. Third time in about three weeks.
Detective Andrews waved me in. His clipboard was on his desk, pencil lying on top. His hair looked great.
"Identical to Mackenzie Allen," he said. "Roy Davis drove himself to school, no sign of struggle, same slug, assuming same gun which we’ll verify soon, tissue cleaned up the blood. Davis wasn't moved though. That's the only difference."
"Cell phone clean?"
"Nothing suspicious. None of his recent calls
matched Allen's."
"I'd check house phones or look for another cell. Both these guys had to be communicating with someone somehow. They were both at the school late, and someone apparently knew they were coming. If not a phone or email, then face to face?"
"We’re bringing in school staff. Starting later today. We'll ask them if they ever saw those two hanging out with the same people, but that'll be tough to narrow down."
"His wife Marie have anything interesting to say?" I asked.
"Yes."
That's all he said. He was enjoying this. I played along.
"And?"
“Marie said Roy went out drinking after dinner, like usual. Before he left, he told her he'd be back late. Said he had to help some friends at the school.”
“Ah hah. A work night. Did Roy’s wife say which friends he was supposed to meet?”
"Yep."
"Fine. I'll guess. Elvis?"
"Mr. Charlie and Taylor Williams,” he said.
"That so?”
"That is so.” He nodded.
"I bet Marie's ready to kill Taylor."
"She had a loaded gun on the table. So why did Roy Davis think Charlie and Williams would be at the school so late?"
“Same reason I did, maybe,” I said.
“Charlie is starting to look suspicious.”
“It’s not Charlie,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“Oh. You can tell.” He smiled. “Pardon me. I didn’t realize you could tell.”
“He wasn’t lying about that email. And we’ve talked before. I can smell guilt.”
“Fascinating,” the sheriff said, walking into the room. Andrews got up and sat in another chair. Sheriff Mitchell sat down in the vacant chair, pulled out a drawer and rested his boots on it. “What a fascinating superhero power. You can be Captain Super Nose. Okay with you if I question him anyway, Captain?”
“You look tense. You need a back rub?”
The Sheriff stared passively at me until Deputy Burnette walked in. I recognized her from the myriad of crime scene’s I’d been at recently. She was dressed in deputy-brown and her hair was braided.
“Got it,” she said. “The first thing on this sucker’s computer screen was an email from Mr. Charlie. Maybe he wasn’t lying after all.” She handed over a printed copy of the email.
“You look nice, are you braiding your hair differently?” I asked.
“Be nice if you was guilty,” she said, not looking at me. “Could rough you up. And shut you up.”
“Real nice,” Mitchell agreed, reading the copy of the email I’d been bragging about. “So,” he said after a second read. “It’s not you.”
“It’s not me.”
“Then who is it?”
“Someone with access to the school’s email server,” I said.
“And why do they keep dropping bodies in front of your trailer and leaving you notes?” he asked.
“Cause I’m lovable?”
“Let me throw him in jail,” she said. “Just for a little while.”
“Deputy Burnette,” Mitchell said. “Run background checks on all staff at South Hill Middle. Call the principal and find out who had master keys or access to the school’s email server. Start with them.”
“I’d include all public school technology employees in your background searches, not just those at our particular school,” I said.
“Fine. That too.”
“Red flag anyone who lives near the school,” I said. “This person is getting to the school regularly, so they’ll probably live close.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Yes sir,” she said, and she walked out.
“Can I borrow a phone? I want to call a friend.”
“Your forensic psychologist?” Andrews asked.
“Yup,” I said.
“Call here. I’m listening. Andrews,” he said. “Take notes.”
We surrounded the sheriff’s phone. I punched in a number and put it on speaker.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said.
“Hi Anne,” I said.
“Mackenzie, my boy!” she said, so loudly the speakerphone vibrated a little on the desk. Anne Parker was a forensic psychologist contracted out by the LAPD. We’d collaborated on the high-profile North murders. She had also been fairly unprofessional in her pursuit of me, which I’d found both distasteful and charming. Couldn’t blame her though, poor girl. “Two phone calls in two days. I’m blushing.”
“Long distance, no less.”
“And you didn’t even call collect. I knew we were meant to be together.”
“Anne, did you get…”
“You have a computer nearby? We could video conference and watch each other while we talk dirty.”
“This is your criminal profiler?” Sheriff Mitchell asked me.
“Should I be taking notes on this part?” Andrews said.
“Am I on speaker?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“You bad boy,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Did you get a chance to look at all those pictures and notes we sent your way?”
“Of course, Mackenzie. Anything for you,” she said, and we could hear her start clicking on her computer. “Let me pull my notes up.” The three of us looked at each other, waited, and had an unspoken “Who’s Tougher” competition. At least I did. I won. “These old computers. Are you dating anyone?”
“No ma’am.”
Andrews coughed, but it sounded like his cough was less a result of an irritant within his lungs and more as a contradiction to my statement.
“Whaaaat?” Anne said. “Is this true? You’re dating? I’m hanging up. No wait, here they are. Ready?”
“Shoot.”
“Bear in mind, love, that I’ve only had these a few hours and I know next to nothing about the case. I may tell you nothing new. But here goes.
“As you know, crime scenes tell us an awful lot about the person who committed them. The body being dragged, the tissue cleaning up blood, the lack of shells, the lack of noise, the emails, all this points to a very neat, tidy, thorough individual. Murder weapon is strange, and considering how systematic this guy is he might have bored his own revolver barrel to fit the silencer. I’m saying ‘he’ because odds are it’s a while male. But that’s just the odds.
“The note’s your biggest clue. It’s fascinating for several reasons. First, it’s written in very proper English. Highly unusual, so not only is he thorough and careful but also educated. Second, it’s not signed. Notes from the killer are usually signed. Third, notes are almost always intended for the media or the police.
“Considering the bodies were left outside your classroom, considering the notes were left for you and not to get attention from the public, considering the notes were both criticizing and warning you about who your friends are, this killer might be taking a ride on the Obsessive Love Wheel.”
“Uh oh,” I said.
“The what?” Sheriff Mitchell asked. Andrews wrote as fast as he could.
“Obsessions generally follow a predictable pattern. Attraction, anxiety, obsession, destruction. Those four make up the Obsessive Love Wheel. The killings and notes sound to me like the obsession and destruction phases.”
“So a lunatic is in love with August? That your guess? A gay lunatic?”
“Not necessarily romantic love,” I said, and I rubbed my eyes.
“Mack’s right,” she said. “Most likely, yes, a romantic obsession. But not necessarily. So our male profile is either gay or has a non-romantic obsession with him.”
“Or,” I said. “It’s a woman.”
“Or it’s a woman,” she agreed. “It appears to me that the murderer has tunnel vision with Mack and is using extreme control tactics, along with the anger, rage and revenge associated with the destructive phase.”
“It’s probably because I’m so funny.”
“M
ack, any love interests or friends acting obsessive?” she asked.
“Other than you?”
“Other than me,” Anne said, a smile obvious in her voice over the phone.
“Nope.”
“You said you were dating,” she prompted.
“No, Captain America coughed that I am dating. She was no big deal.”
“She still pursuing you? What about new friends? If this is an obsession, it’s probably a recent relationship. Considering the anonymous nature of the notes, there’s a good chance this person does not want their obsession discovered, which would fit their careful personality. He or she wants to be close to you but doesn’t want you to know he’s obsessed. I’m surprised this hadn’t occurred to you, Mack.”
“I think I didn’t want it to occur to me.”
“So why kill Allen and Davis?” Mitchell asked.
“That’s why I’m not sure it’s a romantic obsession,” I said. “I wasn’t romantically involved with those two. Just friends. No romantic competition,” I said.
“Maybe,” Anne said. “I have to run, boys. Because of my love for you, Mack, I’ll keep glancing at this and re-sifting my thoughts.”
“Thanks,” I said, and she hung up.
We sat in silence, processing. If she was right, and the evidence was quickly ruling out most other options, then the list of suspects just got very small.
“So,” Detective Andrews said. “Is it Taylor? She the killer?” He looked worried. I didn’t blame him, considering two other guys whom she flirted with had recently been aced.
“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “What’s your super nose tell you?”
“One thing is for certain. Whoever this person is,” I said, “they have superior taste.”
South Hill Middle School staff began showing up for questioning. First through the door walked Taylor. I disappeared in a back room. I didn’t want her or Mr. Charlie to see me and develop suspicions.
I remained very curious about the emails. If emails sent to me had been deleted, what else had been erased? If Charlie hadn’t sent that email, which was still up for debate, then how many other fake emails had been sent? It certainly appeared that one had been sent to Roy Davis.
