Death in the Park

by London Lovett

  His cheeks puffed out in irritation. He was taken aback by my response, then a crooked grin emerged once his cheeks deflated. "I will let you keep your sources then," he said dryly. He tossed a new folder in front of me. It was as empty as the one from the day before. I opened it up. A sheet of paper had the words High School Work Experience Program. Smithville High.

  I looked up in confusion.

  "That's your new assignment. Smithville High has started an experimental work experience program for their students. The school counselors help match students to summer jobs in the community. I want you to go to the school and get all the details."

  "But I've already started on the Alder Stevens story."

  He opened his drawer and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. "That was a story about his retirement. That is no longer a relevant topic." He poured a puddle of hand cleaner in his palm. The strong fragrance filled the air as he rubbed his big hands together. I noticed his hands were dry and cracked like a dishwasher's hands. Myrna had mentioned that he was a little obsessed with germs.

  I scooted forward, forgetting that fold-up chairs weren't the most stable seating spots. The back legs lifted off the floor. Not wanting to land knee first in front of my editor's desk, I slid quickly back. The legs dropped back to the floor. "Mr. Seymour, sir," I added, hoping to flatter him some. "I think this new development, namely, his being shot, could make for some interesting reading."

  His fluffy brows did a little dance under his lined forehead. "How did you know he was shot?”

  "Sources," I reminded him.

  The angry puff returned to his cheeks. It seemed I would be smart not to overuse the 'sources' excuse with my new editor.

  A burst of air blew from his mouth as he released his cheeks. "Chase is already covering the murder. Leave the big stuff like murders and crimes to the more senior reporter and stick to the assignments I give you."

  It was my turn for puffing up like an angry bird. "I'm at least five years older than Chase. I have plenty of experience with tough, gritty assignments like murder and crime. I started my day learning about Alder Stevens. It only seems fitting that I finish the story."

  A sharp knock on his door thwarted what I was certain would be a terse response.

  "Come in," he barked.

  Chase opened the door and walked right in, even after noticing that the folding chair was already taken and that Parker and I were deep in conversation. It seemed he'd spread just a little too much hair product in his dark hair. It was stiff and shiny with gloss as he headed straight up to the desk.

  Chase nodded at me. "Morning, Sunni."

  "Morning."

  "I just got back from the police station and that cock of the walk, Jackson, told me he wouldn't have any information for me until the coroner's report came in, and even then, he said he wouldn't hand out anything that might interfere with the investigation."

  I smiled to myself. I was already leaps and bounds ahead of the more senior reporter on this.

  "Did you want the jelly donut, Chase?" Myrna called from the open doorway. "Otherwise I was going to save it for after my lunch."

  "You know I only like the jelly ones, Myrna." Chase grunted about the interruption, which I found amusing and quite hypocritical.

  "Well, keep on it, Evans." Parker moved some paper piles around on his desk. "I expect you to have a story by Friday, and it better be good. We lost another advertiser yesterday. Barton's Lumber Yard. That's a half page ad. We need people to read this paper or we're all going to be out on our journalistic rear ends. Now don't stand here and squabble about jelly donuts. Go out there and get a story." Parker then turned his now red and ruddy face to me. "And you too. Take your little notepad and pen and get over to the high school. And write one of those terrific stories, like the stories that got you this position." He picked up the hand sanitizer again and dropped some into his palm. "And the deadline is Friday. I need time to read everything and put in my line edits before we go to print." He rubbed his hands vigorously. "Now both of you get out of my office. I've got a mountain of paperwork to finish. I don't have time to listen to you two griping and complaining."

  Chase sighed audibly and walked out.

  I picked up the folder. I badly wanted to argue my case further, but it seemed my boss wasn't in the mood to hear it.

  "And Taylor," Parker said curtly.

  I turned back to look at him.

  "I know you're talented, so my expectations are high. Don't disappoint me."

  My stomach dropped to my knees. "Yes, sir."

  "You can call me Parker," he added before I shut the door. "Sir makes me feel old."

  "Yes, Parker." I shut the door and stared down at the folder. Once again I'd been handed an assignment that was so dull it could be summed up in one short line on a blank sheet of paper.

  As I walked to my desk, I overheard Chase on his phone, lamenting his new assignment. I wondered if he was talking to his girlfriend. Myrna had mentioned that he was dating the owner's daughter.

  Myrna had placed the chocolate donut on my desk. I'd planned to save it for later, but the aggravating morning made it look too tempting. I picked it up and was enjoying the chocolate goodness when something wonderful dawned on me. My new assignment meant I needed to visit Smithville High. It was the perfect cover for me to snoop around and find out more about Alder Stevens.

  Chapter 13

  Memories, both good and bad, came back to me as I sat in the bustling high school office waiting to see the principal. Mrs. Rodriguez, the woman who seemed to be in charge of the office, was the typical fast moving, efficient, no-nonsense kind of person that ran every high school office. At Bonita High, where my siblings and I went to school, Mrs. Zander ran the office with all the strident charm of a drill sergeant. I'd gained a great deal of respect for Mrs. Zander after spending one semester working in the office for career study. I was only there for an hour a day, but in that short span of time there would be a hurricane of activity and Mrs. Zander handled it all without breaking a sweat. Smithville might have been a small town and the high school, from first glance, looked to be a third the size of Bonita High, but the office was just as hectic. In the few minutes I'd sat on the hard bench outside of the principal's office, I witnessed one severe bloody nose from a 'locker fight incident', one frantic search for a student's missing house keys, ten tardy slips (and the accompanying lecture from Mrs. Rodriguez about being late) and one irate parent who insisted her daughter should have gotten a better grade on her term paper. Some of the activity centered around several teachers, who were distraught about the news of Mr. Stevens' death. It seemed he was well-loved by the staff and the kids, which made his murder even more stunning.

  I'd decided to walk in with a notepad and tape recorder to look official but not too official. I needed to adjust my professional self to the small town mindset. When I called the school to set up an appointment to learn about the work program, the woman on the phone, Mrs. Rodriguez, I assume, told me I'd have to meet with Principal Morely first. She mentioned that he liked to meet all new visitors to the campus before they were given a visitor's pass. It sounded perfectly reasonable to me, and it was a bonus. Even though I was technically not covering the story about Mr. Stevens, I had planned to mention the human interest story I'd been working on, in hopes that Principal Morely would allow me to interview the students about Alder.

  That hope faded quickly as Principal Morely brusquely walked out of his office with two male students. One student wore a smirk and the other looked sheepish and contrite, two opposite reactions to a visit with the principal. Morely looked none too pleased with either of them. The tight set of his mouth along with the reddish tint of his neck, just above the snug collar of his shirt, assured me it had already been a long morning for the high school principal.

  Principal Morely said a few more curt words to the boys and sent them on their way. The principal, a tall, thin man with deep set eyes and thick eyebrows, barely glimpsed my way a
s he invited me into his office with a wave of his hand.

  He walked to a desk that seemed oversized for the crowded office space and sat promptly in his chair. "I'm sorry for the wait." His demeanor softened some, and the tight set of his mouth creaked into a forced smile. I was sure, just like all school principals, Principal Morely had two different demeanors, one for students and one for adults.

  He stood back up briefly and held back his tie with one hand as he offered me the other. "I'm Principal Morely."

  "Nice to meet you. Sunni Taylor." I flicked the laminated press badge I had clipped to my shirt pocket. "Reporter for the Junction Times."

  "I know you're here to write an article about the summer jobs program. I'll be sending you to the counseling office. They have flyers about the program. They'll be able to fill you in on details and answer any questions you might have. I think you'll find it is a well-organized, productive program. Thirty percent of our juniors are already matched with summer employers." It was obvious that he was quite proud of the program and rightly so.

  "It sounds great. Wish I had something like it when I was in high school. I spent far too much time looking for a job in those first summer weeks. It left little time to actually work."

  Our conversation and my accolades about the work program helped to soften his manner even more.

  "Well then, I won't keep you. Mrs. Rodriguez will get you a visitor's pass and point you in the direction of the counselor's office."

  "Wonderful." I patted my notepad. "I'm ready to start. There is one thing," I spoke up and stopped him from standing to see me out.

  "Yes?"

  "Before I was given this intriguing assignment about the work program, I was working on something else that, coincidentally enough, had to do with Smithville High too."

  Some of the softer lines were replaced by harder edges on his face. "Oh? What would that be?" His tone grew harsher.

  I forged ahead, something I'd learned to do as a journalist. Stories didn't write themselves you had to chase them, and sometimes that meant chasing them through unpleasant circumstances. "I was writing a human interest story about Alder Stevens." His face blanched like white marble but I continued. "He'd worked here for so long, and the quilting bee in town was making a beautiful retirement quilt for him. And now, well . . ."

  Morely's sharp, thin shoulders folded in as he sat back against the chair. The cold expression melted into one of grief. "It's been a very hard morning. The staff and students are still trying to absorb the shock."

  "I thought I might talk to the kids and see if they have any nice stories to tell about him."

  The principal sat forward so abruptly, his chair inched back. "I can't allow that. And what would be the point?"

  "I thought I might still write an article about the man's life. After all, he worked at this school for forty years. Seems like a small tribute would be proper."

  "I can't allow that. We have counselors standing by for students who want to talk about the recent tragedy."

  The outdated looking intercom on his desk buzzed. He pressed the button. "Yes?"

  "Mr. Greer is here to see you," the voice answered back.

  The announcement of Principal Morely's next visitor seemed to fluster him. He instinctively straightened his tie and moved a few things on his desk to make it look more organized. "I'll look forward to reading the article about the work program," he said briskly as he stood to hurry me out.

  "Yes, I look forward to writing it." I stacked my things neatly and reached for my purse. I bent down and pretended to adjust my shoelace before standing. I was purposefully moving like a sloth in slow motion. I hadn't stood from the chair yet, which made him antsy. I deduced that his next visitor was someone of importance. In my head, I quickly listed people who were above the principal on the administrative chain. In large districts, there were curriculum directors and assistants to the superintendent, but in a small town district I doubted there were more than a few people above high school principal in rank. Yet, Morely looked anxious about his next guest.

  "One quick question, Principal Morely." I rose from the chair, which relieved him.

  "Yes?"

  "I got the impression from a few people I interviewed that Mr. Stevens was asked to retire. There are rumors that it wasn't voluntary."

  The skin on the principal's neck turned red with anger. "Miss Taylor, it seems to me that a true, professional journalist would not be interested in rumors. It makes me question your attitude for the story you'll be writing about the work program."

  "So it was voluntary?" I knew I was pushing my luck, but he seemed unreasonably defensive about the topic.

  "I think we are through here." He walked to the door. "I would like to see your article before it is published."

  "You don't need to worry, Principal Morely. It will be professionally written, and I promise it will be a glowing narrative of the work program." My reassuring words seem to cool his mood some.

  "Please see Mrs. Rodriguez for the visitor's pass." He opened the door. A finely dressed, polished looking man with dark sideburns that had just the right of amount of gray stood up from the bench.

  "Mr. Greer, good to see you," Morely said with great enthusiasm. The man looked somehow too professional and finely suited to work in the school district but then what did I know about the Smithville District. Maybe they paid their administrators well enough to buy designer suits.

  The nicely dressed man nodded politely at me and then turned a more severe expression on Principal Morely. "I just heard about Alder Stevens," I heard the man say before they disappeared behind a closed door.

  Chapter 14

  I'd spent a respectable amount of time, at least forty minutes, in the counselor's office talking to one counselor, a young woman named Ms. Chesterfield. I concluded fairly quickly that she was the counselor with the least seniority and therefore the person stuck with the task of talking to the newspaper reporter. I gathered as much information and data as I could to patch and paste together a semblance of a story on the work program. I had no doubt it was just the type of article that would end up mostly unread behind the advertisements for teeth whitening and the local feed store. The biggest disappointment with my interview of Ms. Chesterfield came when I discovered that the fresh, peach faced woman had only just recently joined the counseling staff at the high school. When I casually brought up Alder Stevens at the end of the meeting, she looked properly distraught. At the same time, she admitted she hardly knew the man. She added that she was deeply saddened to hear about the tragedy and mentioned that some of the students came to school in tears and in need of some crisis counseling.

  I thanked her for her time, and she pointed out the way to the office and school exit. Once again, I deployed my slow motion technique for leaving a scene, and my unhurried steps outlasted her interest in making sure I headed in the right direction.

  A short time later, I found myself caught up in the chaos of a late morning nutrition break. Students of every shape and age scurried past me to the outdoor eating quad. As I'd predicted, they paid me no attention at all. After all, I could have just been a substitute teacher or a parent wandering through campus to my necessary destination.

  I figured my time to explore was limited. I needed to turn my visitor's pass, which was just a bright yellow sticker, back in and sign out of the guest book. It was the typical log kept by most public schools, a necessity these days for safety. Since I'd alerted Principal Morely to the notion that I was interested in talking to the students about Alder, I was sure he would take note of the time I signed out. I decided it wouldn't hurt to ask for a quick direction and put an end to my aimless wandering.

  I approached two girls who were standing near a patch of lockers, picking at a muffin.

  "I'm sorry to bother you on your break. Would you mind pointing me toward the custodian's office."

  The girl wearing bright blue rimmed glasses frowned at my question. "Oh, are you here to see the memorial?"
/>   "The memorial?" I asked.

  "Yeah, the one for Mr. Stevens," her friend added. "It started as just a few flowers that some of the kids brought this morning but it's grown."

  "That's nice. So the Smithville students really liked Mr. Stevens?"

  The girl with blue glasses tipped her head side to side. "Most of us thought he was super nice. He never complained, you know? Even when he had to clean up nasty stuff or scrub permanent marker off the bathroom stall doors. He was just a hardworking guy. Didn't deserve what happened, that's for sure."

  In all fairness, I hadn't broken Principal Morely's command not to interview the students about Alder Stevens. These girls were generous enough to provide information without me prying it out of them. If only adults were as open and forthcoming with their narratives, then my job would be that much easier.

  I wondered just how much the girls knew about his untimely death. I was just as glad to leave that part of the conversation open-ended. I certainly didn't want to get into any gritty, gory details about a murder case with two teens sharing a blueberry muffin.

  "Mr. Stevens' office is across the quad in the small building that runs along the baseball field. It's easy to spot his office door because there are a lot of flowers and cards in front of it."

  "Thank you so much." I glanced around as I scurried toward the quad. The only adults I noticed were the two proctors. They were both occupied with making sure the kids picked up after themselves and didn't notice the woman sidling through the crowd.

  The quad area opened up onto two rows of portable classrooms. A sharp left turn before the portables took me out to the athletic fields. The bell rang, signaling the end of the nutrition break. That meant halls and paths would be emptying and a lone, unfamiliar woman would be noticed.

  I headed straight to the small, unremarkable building that bordered the baseball field. I opened the door and was surprised to find at least a dozen students standing in the narrow hallway. A pile of flowers that looked mostly plucked right from backyard gardens filled the space in front of a pale gray door. A plastic plaque on the door said Head Custodian.