You Kill Me

by Alison Gaylin

  As I started to get out of the car, Fiona handed me a walkie-talkie. “If you need us for anything,” she explained. “It beats a cell phone, ’cause there’s just one button.”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  “Sam?” said Billy.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Your friend…that gay guy.”

  “Yale?”

  “He’s not going to tell anybody about my underwear, is he? I don’t think anybody else from the party remembers, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Billy shops in the boys’ department,” said Fiona.

  “Shut up, Fiona.”

  “Hey, I don’t blame you,” she said. “It’s cheaper. If the briefs fit—”

  “It’s not boys; it’s big-and-tall…young men, so you can just—”

  “I’m sure Yale’s on your side,” I said. “He’s like me—he’s got a weakness for superheroes.”

  When I opened the door to my classroom, it was nearly nine a.m., and one of Veronica’s assistants was teaching my kids.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had an emergency—”

  “It’s okay,” said the assistant—a sweet, freckle-faced girl named either Mary or Marie—I never got it right. “But…um…Terry wants to see you in his office.”

  “Why?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know.”

  I heard Charlotte Weiss say, “Miss Leiffer got a time-out.” And as I hurried down the hall toward Terry’s office, I was well aware of Veronica peering at me through her open door. I would have told her to mind her own business, if she had any of her own business to mind.

  I couldn’t figure out why Terry would call me into his office instead of talking to me after school. This was the first time in my five years of teaching here that I’d shown up late without calling in. Wouldn’t he assume there was a legitimate reason—a murder, for instance? Wouldn’t he at least give me a chance to explain?

  But when I got to the principal’s office, I saw that his reasons for calling me in had nothing to do with tardiness. Terry was standing next to his desk, huddled in what appeared to be an intense conversation with Jenna Sargent.

  This had better not have anything to do with my DNA. When Jenna looked up at me, though, she looked so different, it was though what she’d said in front of the Space had become a prophecy. Like we really were on “take two”—and she’d completely rewritten her role.

  Jenna was wearing a plain gray sweat suit. Her face, dusted with freckles, was devoid of makeup. I noticed deep, bruiselike circles under her blue eyes. She would have looked like a pretty college student who had just put in an all-nighter, were it not for the panic that tensed the corners of her mouth, the fear she seemed to radiate.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Oh, Samantha,” said Terry. “We’re very, very glad you’re here.”

  Jenna said, “I thought you’d disappeared too. A couple of days ago, I would’ve assumed you’d left town together. But…not any…” A tear trickled down her cheek.

  Terry said, “Ms. Sargent’s fiancé seems to be missing. And as he is a friend of both yours and Ezra’s, it’s a Sunny Side concern as well.”

  “For how long, Jenna? Did you ever see him last night?”

  “No.” She looked at me. “He was supposed to meet me at the theater. He’s stood me up plenty of times, but at least he calls afterward…. I figured, whatever. He’ll show up later with champagne and an explanation, like always. Well…he never showed up. He was supposed to take Ezra to school this morning. Didn’t show up for that either. And Samantha, he didn’t make his morning call at the studio. He always makes his…his…morning call. I looked in his dressing room and…and…God.”

  My eyes darted from Jenna’s tearstained face to Terry’s, pinched with worry, as remnants of the previous night’s conversation looped through my mind like a soap opera voice-over. “I can’t tell the police, Samantha. You don’t understand. It will get in the papers. The fans would freak out—I could lose my job. Jenna would fucking kill me. My whole fucking life will be ruined….”

  Unless he ran away, and started all over somewhere else. “Take two,” I whispered.

  “Pardon?” said Terry.

  “Jenna,” I said, “I want you to take a deep breath. In and out.”

  “What is this, yoga class?” She started to sob.

  “I have a pretty good idea that Nate’s okay.”

  She managed to catch her breath. “You do?”

  Terry said, “Where would we find him, then?”

  I looked at Jenna. “The thing is, he loves you, but…”

  “But?”

  “But he’s a huge coward…and I think he left town.”

  “Why?”

  “He had a…” I cleared my throat. “He…flirted…with a woman who was later murdered, and—”

  “What?!”

  “He was very afraid of the scandal. Thought it would cost him his job, and you. I said he had to tell the police, or I’d do it for him. He asked for twenty-four hours—to tell you, I thought. It’s my fault…I scared him away.”

  We all sat there for such a long, quiet time—staring at the floor, our hands limp and helpless in our laps. Until finally, Jenna said, “I’m sorry, Sam. But I just don’t think that’s true.”

  “It is, I—”

  “No, I have to agree with Ms. Sargent—that doesn’t sound right, in light of…” Terry turned to Jenna. “Show her what you found. Please.”

  Jenna reached into her portfolio bag and removed a piece of red construction paper. I couldn’t tell what was printed on it—I could see only the back—but I did notice that the hand holding the paper was trembling. “See.” Her voice quavered too, just like her hand. “This was in his dressing room this morning. I guess it must’ve come in with his fan mail, and…it’s…it’s…”

  It was a collage consisting mainly of digital snapshots. Personal color photos of body parts, blood spattered, desecrated. A lifeless hand missing a thumb, a woman’s bare chest riddled with stab wounds, the slim, brown back of a man obscured by dark, oozing rivulets. Straight brown hair framing a throat that had been gouged open.

  At the center of the page, someone had glued Nate’s Soap Opera Digest cover. And across the top, three words were printed huge: ALL ABOUT ME.

  “This doesn’t mean anything at all,” I had said, in a halfhearted attempt to reassure Jenna—and myself—that Nate was okay. “But let’s get the police on this anyway, just to be safe.”

  I’d pushed the red button on the walkie-talkie and, though Terry was surprised that our school was under surveillance for the second time in a year and a half, he still seemed happy to see Six Charlie.

  They called another squad car to bring Jenna and the collage to the Twentieth Precinct, where Live and Let Live’s studios—and both Nate’s and Jenna’s apartments—were located. When those officers arrived, I hugged her tightly and whispered, “Nate’s fine,” in her ear.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m psychic.”

  We waved good-bye to Jenna. And after we heard the sirens fade, Terry said, “You are a very kind person.”

  It was the first compliment I’d heard him give anyone, ever. “Thank you.”

  Fiona and Billy asked if I felt like going home, but I said, “I need to teach my class.”

  “You must love those kids,” Fiona said.

  I did, much as anyone loves a group of children they’ve known for only two days. But there was another reason, too—one I wasn’t as willing to admit: I didn’t want to go home.

  If someone was watching my classroom from across the street, they would have seen the kids’ collages. I’d stuck them, one next to the other, on the wall facing the window. That’s what I told myself as I walked down the hall to my classroom. It wasn’t lost on me, though—the fact that I was actually trying to comfort myself with the idea that the murderous stalker I apparently had was not someone I knew. Was not someone who shared a closet with
me, who had helped me bring magazines to school and store them in the art-supplies closet a month ago and who had, just last night, stared Nate Gundersen down….

  Why did my suspicions keep turning to Krull, when anyone could have killed those people, anyone could have sent Nate that collage?

  The stalker asked a kid what the collages were called. That’s how he knew to write, “All About Me.” He asked Veronica. She’s a font of information—always has been. Maybe he’s related to one of my students. A sick stepfather, a schizophrenic older brother…

  When I knocked on the door, Harry S. answered it, wearing a Cinderella costume from the dress-up bin. “I’m a princess,” he said.

  “Very nice.”

  Abraham, wearing full pirate regalia, was jabbing a toy sword at the teacher’s aide Mary / Marie’s legs, while Harry W. was standing on my desk in a red cape, screaming, “I’m Spider-Man!” Charlotte, also dressed as a princess—Snow White, to be exact—was happily writing her name on the wall with some kind of indelible pen, while Ida was strutting around the room in the poor teacher’s aide’s platform shoes.

  “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said. “I didn’t have your day planner or the keys to your art-supplies closet, so it’s been like endless dress-up in here. This is a…very lively class you’ve got.”

  “Okay, guys, settle down!” I used the voice of authority. Everyone froze. “Ida, give the teacher back her shoes. Charlotte, stop writing on the wall. Abraham, Harry, calm down.”

  “Awesome,” said Marie/Mary, and ran out the door.

  “Okay, now the good news is, everyone can keep their dress-ups on if they want to.”

  “Yay!”

  “The maybe not-so-good news is, no jumping on furniture, no attacking each other or me. Everyone must sit quietly and listen to a story….” I looked around the room. “Where’s Ezra?”

  Ida said, “He’s under your desk.”

  “Excuse me a minute.”

  I crouched down and saw Ezra, curled up into a tiny ball in the dark space.

  “What are you doing down here, honey?”

  “Hiding from monsters.”

  “You mean Spider-Man?” I smiled. “He’s not on the desk anymore.”

  “Spider-Man’s not a monster. He’s a superhero. Superheroes save people. Monsters take them away.” He picked at a fingernail. “Mommy doesn’t know, but I saw Uncle Nate’s collage before she hid it in her purse. A monster made that.”

  I patted his hunched little back. “No monsters are going to take you, honey. I won’t let them.”

  “You a superhero?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  A smile spread across his face. “What are your superpowers?”

  “Ummm…I can eat ten grilled cheese sandwiches in one gulp.”

  He laughed. “That’s silly.”

  “How about you?”

  “I can drive the Batmobile, scale tall buildings, umm…Fly, for sure. Shoot lasers out of my eyes. And—”

  “Scare monsters away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too, Ezra. Come out from under there, and you can help me read the story, okay?”

  “Oh, I forgot. I can also win Oscars.”

  As I helped Ezra out from under my desk, he said, “You know what? My uncle Nate forgot to take me to school today. Isn’t that silly?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. Just one set of fingers, on one hand, so the kids wouldn’t notice. He’s fine. Please let him be fine. “He was probably busy practicing his acting so he can win an Oscar,” I said.

  Ezra sighed dramatically. “Uncle Nate doesn’t win Oscars, Miss Leiffer. He wins Daytime Emmys!”

  “My mommy is gonna win a Daytime Emmy,” said Charlotte.

  “No, she isn’t,” Ezra said.

  “Yes, she is!”

  “Guys!”

  “Miss Leiffer,” Ida said.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Ummm…We didn’t spill that paint. So is it okay if we don’t clean it up during cleanup time?”

  “What paint, Ida?”

  The little girl pointed to the closed art-supplies closet.

  When I looked down at the floor, I saw what she was talking about—a puddle of dark red liquid was oozing out from under the door. “That’s icky paint, all right,” I whispered.

  I tried taking a deep breath, but it was hard to manage breathing of any sort. It’s only paint, just spilled art supplies. Get the kids out of the room. Now.

  “Hey, everybody! Guess what time it is?”

  “Story time?” said Harry S.

  “Recess!”

  “Yay!”

  As soon as all eight kids were on the playground, I stuck my head in Veronica’s classroom, where she and her two aides were helping the kids paint a giant American flag. “Can one of you guys please watch my class?” I asked.

  Reluctantly, Veronica herself volunteered. As I rushed back to my classroom and slipped back in, I was vaguely aware of her calling out behind me, “Why on earth are you having recess now?”

  I locked my door from the inside, grabbed the art-supply closet key from my purse, and just stared at it for a few seconds—this strange-looking key, purchased by Terry as a preventative measure last year, after my classroom had been robbed for the third time. This state-of-the-art, SAF-T brand key, like some sort of James Bond torture device—a dense, five-inch-long rectangle, with piranha teeth. Safety.

  I unlocked the door. “It’s just paint, it’s just paint, it’s just paint,” I kept saying. It felt like a prayer.

  I could hear the children’s shouts wafting in from the playground, (“Gimme that!” “Whee!” “I’m Spider-Man!”) as the door drifted open.

  “Oh, dear God,” I heard. But it was my voice. It was me standing there, alone in this room—my classroom—staring into the face of Nate Gundersen. His amber eyes were motionless, his mouth cracked open as if trapped midsentence forever. Nate’s body was propped up against the shelves—amongst construction paper and glitter glue, multicolored markers and Dora the Explorer stickers—in the all-white outfit I’d seen him in, yet mostly rust-red now, from the blood that had poured out of his slashed chest, his deeply slit throat.

  I looked down at his hands, alongside his feet, expecting to see Sterling roses. But what I saw instead, in his left hand, was a rolled-up piece of white construction paper. I pulled it out, unrolled it, read: S: You kill me. It was written in blood.

  I pushed the red button on the walkie-talkie. “Come quick,” I started to say. But what came out was an agonized animal sound, somewhere between a scream and a sob. It didn’t seem ever to stop.

  11

  The Gentleman Caller

  Everything started happening in snippets—disjointed as mixed-up movie stills, or pieces of a dream.

  Billy Rathke’s cologne…bay rum, like my dad used to wear. “Keep the children outside!” he shouts.

  “Miss Leiffer? What’s wrong?” Ezra. Just a mess, honey. Just made a great big mess is all. Say it. Why can’t I talk?

  Fiona’s voice. “Miss Leiffer’s fine. Don’t wor—”

  Marie/Mary on her knees behind me. “Oh, God, no, no, no, no…”

  Billy saying, “Who is that woman? Get her out of here.”

  Voices crackling out of police radios. A gust of air as more uniforms rush by. It’s got a chemical smell—a combination of polyester, metal and gun oil.

  Amanda Patton’s face. “Are you all right?”

  Then Krull’s: “Lean on me. Deep breaths. Deep…”

  The clean smell of Krull’s soap. The warmth of his arms. He didn’t do this. He couldn’t.

  But who did? Who did this because of me?

  I’m in a squad car. Don’t know how I got here, where this blanket came from, but I’m cold. Could use another. I’m thinking about turning my head….

  S: You Kill Me

  The car’s moving. A woman sitting next to me, holding my hand. She must have poor circulation; her
hand’s like ice. Is it Patton? Must be. Who else would it be?

  In the front seat, Fiona. “Where’s Detective Krull?”

  Patton says, “With the body.”

  Fiona says, “Seems like she could use him a little more than the body could.”

  Out the window, people on the street stop and stare in slow motion. The car is traveling fast; yet I can see the tiniest movements on each individual face.

  I’m in shock. This is what shock is like. A giant magnifying glass, with freeze-frame.

  Chatter drifts out of the police radio. It reminds me of the humming of bees. I can’t understand any of it, except for a few words: Male. Caucasian. Morgue.

  Out the window, the dark blue medical examiner’s van. “He’s busy today,” says a cop in the front seat.

  And I know what he’s talking about. Two bodies in one day.

  Two corpses.

  I close my eyes, and I’m a twenty-one-year-old stage manager, backstage during dress rehearsal for King Lear. He’s standing inches away from me, this creation who plays Edmund the Bastard. He hasn’t spoken to me during any of the earlier rehearsals, but now he’s so close I can feel the heat his body emits. “I might need your help with my costume change,” he says. “Is that…okay?”

  And then he looks at me…. It’s like he can see through my clothes, through my skin, into my soul. He radiates. I stare back, struck silent by the heat, thinking, That’s the thing about this actor. He’s 10 percent more alive than everybody else.

  I opened my eyes to the back of Fiona’s head. As I stared at her thick red hair, the disjointed, surreal feeling—the shock—began to dissipate. Nate is dead, I thought. Nate Gundersen is dead.

  “How often does this ever happen?” I said, as Fiona flipped on the tape recorder. “Two murders in one day, same material witness.”

  Fiona said, “Not very often, I’ll tell you that much.” But as Boyle, Krull, Patton, Fiona and I—plus Pierce and his two partners, Munro and Sawyer—sat around the same table, Krull smoking the same kind of cigarette, the same strange welts on his hands, I was struck instead by how different everything was now.

  No one teased Pierce about calling the bomb squad; there was no talk of astrology, no remarks coming from the women about cute male witnesses, none of the gallows humor so typical of homicide cops. No humor at all.