A Simple Suburban Murder

A

IMPLE

UBURBAN

MURDER

Mark Richard Zubro

S
T.
M
ARTIN'S
P
RESS

N
EW
Y
ORK

A SIMPLE SUBURBAN MURDER
.

Copyright © 1989 by Mark Richard Zubro.

For Kathy

— 1 —

I
unlocked my classroom door and stepped inside. I stopped. Someone sat in the last desk in the last row farthest from the door. The window blind was down and in the early-morning dimness I couldn't tell who it was.

I flipped on the lights. "Hello, good morning," I called. There was no response. With the light on I could tell it was a male. He didn't move. Whoever it was had his head cradled in his arms on the desktop, face turned away from the door.

What the hell was someone doing here? I dropped my briefcase on top of my desk, tossed my overcoat after it, and started down the aisle. Halfway to the desk I recognized Jim Evans, the math teacher. I glanced at my watch: 6:53. Jim Evans never showed up early for school. He always walked in at 7:35, precisely on time for work, usually the last one here.

I reached him, called his name, touched his shoulder. The body was cold. He was dead.

I shuddered briefly. I'd seen death before, when I was a marine in Vietnam. It never got easier to deal with, but I'd learned to accept the reality.

I walked to the intercom button, pressed it.

"Yes, Mr. Mason." It was Georgette Constantine, the school secretary.

"Would you send Mr. Sylvester to my classroom, Georgette, and call the police?"

"Mr. Sylvester is busy, Mr. Mason." She paused. "You want me to call whom?"

"The police, Georgette."

"Really, Mr. Mason, I can't do that. Mr. Sylvester has to make that kind of decision."

"Georgette, whatever Sylvester is doing—"

She interrupted, "He's with parents now, Mr. Mason. You know I'm not to disturb him when he's with parents. He always tells me parent-school relationships are the most important. "

I was not up to mustering the patience it normally took to deal with her. I said, "Georgette, listen, you will call the police. Tell them there's a dead person in my classroom."

"What?" Her voice squeaked.

"A dead body, Georgette. After you call the police you are to go to Mr. Sylvester's office, interrupt him, and tell him what I told you."

"Mr. Mason." She sounded faint.

"Do it now, Georgette." I switched off the intercom.

I walked back to Jim Evans. Carefully I checked the body. There was no obvious wound. Then I raised the head. Jim Evans was no longer a handsome man. Someone had caved in the whole left side of his face. Blood caked on his head and the arms of his coat.

Among the 150 or so teachers in the district he was barely an acquaintance, not a friend. Our paths seldom crossed. Why was he dead, and why was his body in my classroom?

The desks sat in neat rows, books rested in proper order on the shelves. There was no blunt instrument covered with blood and gore. I checked the top of the desk and the floor for bloodstains. A little, but not much. He'd been killed somewhere else and brought here.

I heard the door open. Alfred Sylvester walked in. Compared to him, Ichabod Crane would look robust. He was in his early sixties and almost completely bald.

I stood between him and the corpse.

"What's the meaning of this? How dare you order my secretary around? I'm not to be disturbed."

I moved so he could see the corpse. I pointed to it. He shut up.

"Jim Evans is dead," I said.

"How can that be?" He inched closer, to the body. Five feet away he stopped. His face turned white. "Why does this have to happen to me?" He moaned. Abruptly he sat down in the desk closest to him.

"It happened to Evans," I reminded him.

He talked on as if he hadn't heard me. "There's no sub for his classes. He didn't call in saying he'd be out today. Who could I get this late? This is some sick joke."

There was a commotion in the doorway. Crammed there were four kids from my remedial English class who came in early each morning for help with their work. The first, Jill Anderson, took a step inside the door.

"Mr. Mason?" Her voice was tentative.

Her words sparked Sylvester to life. "You kids get out of here. You don't belong here now." He rushed over to them, shooing them out the door.

Sporadic mumbles of "What's going on? What is this?" broke out from them, but they moved. He slammed the door on them and turned to me. "We can't let the kids know about this. They'll never be able to handle it, and their parents! What are the parents going to say? They'll blame me.

I'll have to call the superintendent." He bounced on his toes as he talked, his thin body jerking spasmodically.

I walked slowly up to him and spoke softly. "We need to call his family; his wife needs to know. The kids at school will find out eventually. It's best if they're told up front and honestly. We also need to—"

He snapped, "I know what we need to do. I can handle this. There's going to be trouble."

The door swung open. The police walked in.

I teach remedial sophomores and honors seniors English at Grover Cleveland High School in River's Edge, a far southwest suburb of Chicago. The school is over fifty years old. The roof leaks when it rains.

I've been teaching since leaving the marines. I guess I'm odd. I still love teaching after fourteen years. The money's never going to make me rich, but I wouldn't trade the joy of seeing a child learn for anything.

My boss, Alfred Sylvester, is a major-league asshole. If there was a World Series for idiot administrators, he'd be most valuable player—unanimously. I watched him fawn at the police, blithering out various inanities.

Early on I perched myself on my desk out of the way.

The first two cops examined the body quickly. They were young guys. From their tentativeness I guessed this was probably their first murder, maybe even their first time with violent death. One left to get help. The other hung around looking lost. He asked me my name and if I was the one who found the body.

I answered the two questions.

He wandered toward the corpse, stopped halfway between it and me, and stood aimlessly.

In a short while the room began to fill with official-looking people. They talked to Sylvester and got him out of the room.

The detective who seemed to be in charge finally came over to me. He introduced himself. "I'm Detective John Robertson."

"Tom Mason." I shook his hand.

"You found the body?"

"Yes."

"Want to tell me about it?"

I told him the story.

When I finished he asked, "Are you sure the door was locked?"

"Yes, I had to use my key."

"Who else has a key?"

"I'm not sure. Lots of different people have used this room over the years. I doubt if they've kept accurate records. Besides, some of the keys to the other classrooms open this one too. These locks are easy to break into. Teachers forget their keys all the time. It would take a janitor half a day to get here to open it. Some of us have broken in ourselves. A few let the kids do it for them."

"Terrific." He sounded disgusted. "We'll have to check everybody's keys anyway. Probably useless. The murderer might have had the sense to throw it away."

Since the doors had a spring lock it wasn't odd that I had to use the key to get in. They put in spring locks years ago because teachers kept forgetting to lock their doors, and kids got in and took unnailed-down materials.

Robertson gave me a suspicious look. I kept silent. He was in his early thirties, dark haired, gray suited, with a gray overcoat frayed at the cuffs. He looked like his kids, job, wife, or mistress—or all four—wore him to a frazzle.

"Did you kill him?" he asked abruptly.

I expected the question. I returned his piercing look. "No," I said.

Frank Murphy walked in. He was a police detective I knew well. We'd worked together with numerous troubled teenagers and their families for many years. Even after he was transferred to homicide we kept in touch.

Robertson explained the situation. Murphy told him we'd worked together before, that I'd been helpful to the police in dealing with troubled kids.

Robertson shrugged, accepted the statement, and turned to the matter at hand. "What's the story on Evans? What was he like?" he asked me.

"I didn't know him well," I answered. "I saw him maybe once or twice a year at teacher's meetings, but I barely knew him to talk to. I had his oldest boy as a sophomore two years ago."

"What's his wife like?"

I thought a moment. "I only met her once. I remember a small plump woman, grayish and faded, worried about the kids. She didn't know what to do about the oldest boy, Phil, the one I had at the time. She said she couldn't control him. I listened, tried to give her a few suggestions. I think mine was the only class he passed that year. She was grateful for that."

"Isn't it odd that a teacher's kid would be flunking?" Robertson asked.

I gave him a grim smile. "Not really. Teachers have the same problems with their kids that any other parent does. Sometimes I think teachers with kids who aren't making it in school are more defensive."

"Was Evans?"

"I never talked to him about his kid."

"Why not?"

"Like I said, the boy passed my class. He never gave me a hassle. It was the mom who had the problem at home."

"Anything else you know about the wife or family?"

"Nothing about Mrs. Evans. I think there are several younger kids. One might be in eighth grade this year. If I'm not mistaken there are two younger girls."

"How about the kid, Phil? What was mom worried about?"

"That was two years ago. It's tough to remember. As I said, I picture her as anxious, worried. Sorry I can't be more specific."

Murphy asked, "What about the other kids at school? What did they think of Evans as a teacher?"

"They complained about him a lot, but then kids complain about most teachers. But there were some who thought he was great."

"What was the big complaint?"

"The usual, too much homework, graded too tough. He made every kid do these massive projects every year. It would count for a whole quarter grade. The slow kids could barely read the math book, much less do the projects. They also claimed he played favorites. Maybe he did. The brighter kids were the ones who tended to like him. A few said he was the best teacher they ever had." Most teachers do what we can to avoid favorites. Some kids are more likable than others. Some are jerks. You try to be fair. Some teachers are more successful at it than others.