A Simple Suburban Murder (14 page)

Finally, a response. I tried a few more questions, but the stony silence returned.

I tried a last threat. "If we tell the police what we know they'll have questions to ask you."

She called my bluff. "Tell them. I couldn't care less." She stood up. "If that's all, gentlemen?"

"But you could help us find a killer," I said.

"I don't care. It's not my problem. To me Evans is just some guy who's dead."

There really was little else to say or do. We left.

"That was a bomb," I said as we started home.

"Yeah, but you've got another one to add to your list of people who knew him but didn't hate him." Scott paused then added, "How could she be that uncaring and unemotional about the death of someone she made love to? I know it was a couple years ago, but still something's not right there."

I agreed, "I'm not sure what it is. She was almost catatonic about the whole situation."

"I wonder how she pays the bills?" Scott asked.

"Me too," I said and added, "That was a bizarre experience."

Scott nodded. "Yeah, she was weird. Are you going to tell the police?"

"I don't know."

The next day at school started deceptively normal. The morning passed without a summons to the office. I'd about decided what he'd said to Meg was an idle threat when Georgette appeared at my classroom door. She beckoned me over.

"Mr. Sylvester wants you in his office," she whispered nervously.

"Someone has to stay with this class," I replied.

"I'm to stay with them." She looked petrified.

"They're only kids," I assured her.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said.

Sylvester was in the outer office.

"You wanted to see me," I said.

He spoke stiffly. "Mr. Armstrong will speak to you in my office."

I went in. Sylvester closed the door behind me. He stayed outside.

Armstrong moved from behind Sylvester's desk. All of his fat friendliness from our first meeting was gone. Neither of us sat down.

"Well, Mr. Mason, you seem to have forgotten the directive we gave you in this office last week." Armstrong began to pace as he talked. "I thought you understood from our little chat that you weren't to speak to students and faculty about the incident, and you have."

He stopped and stared at me, seeming to expect an answer. I stared back. When I remained silent he resumed pacing. "You've questioned Mr. Vance several times. He's one of our finest teachers, head of one of our most successful departments, a prize-winning department. He's a loyal faculty member, not to be harassed by the likes of you."

I wondered if Vance told voluntarily or under pressure.

"Furthermore, you've spoken to current as well as former students, making all kinds of wild accusations about a man who can no longer defend himself."

I guessed that Sheila had called school and told about our visit. I wondered why. She didn't seem to fear any official involvement.

"How dare you talk to children who are incapable of dealing with such an issue. And I imagine you expected your little investigation to go unnoticed. It hasn't. I've been trying to get Detective Robertson on the phone. I'm sure he'll have a number of things to say to you about playing detective." He stopped in front of me, waving a finger in my face. "But worse for you, you crossed me, buddy, and you're going to pay."

He settled his bulk behind Sylvester's desk and stabbed a fat finger in my direction. "It would be far better for you if you turned in your resignation right now. In fact, if you resign in the next five minutes, I'll guarantee you a positive letter of recommendation from the district."

I sat down. "On precisely what in state law, school code, teacher contract, board policy, job description, or anything else do you choose to base this threat?"

"It's more than a threat, and I don't need any of those things. You disobeyed a direct order. That's insubordination. I don't need anything else but that."

"I have no intention of resigning," I replied. "If you wish to state your threat in front of my union representative and then follow proper dismissal procedures, go right ahead. I'd be delighted to have a formal hearing about all this."

He got pop-eyed with anger. He began to splutter. Sylvester's desktop received a heavy downpour. "Don't think I'm bluffing," he rasped.

"I don't care if you are," I said. He started to say something, but I stopped him. "What I would like to know is what you and Mr. Sylvester are trying to hide in all this?"

"We have nothing to hide," he snarled.

"I suspect you do, although I freely admit I can't prove it.

You've tried to keep a lid on me from the beginning and I wonder why."

"I told you we wanted to avoid scandalizing the public."

"I don't buy that crap. You don't work this hard at covering up if there isn't something to hide. This meeting confirms that. I think the police would find this very interesting."    \

"You bet they will," he slid, "when they hear what you've done."

I shrugged unconcernedly.

He got a mean, piggy look on his face. Suddenly his tone shifted. He tried to mix menace with cruelty. "Well then, listen to this. If the police aren't enough to stop you, then maybe this will." He harumphed loudly then said, "If you don't resign now, I'll spread it all over this district that you're a faggot."

I raised an eyebrow at him quizzically.

"Don't think I won't. I know exactly which religious fundamentalist parents to call. It won't be me trying to get rid of you. It'll be community pressure that you won't be able to stop."

"Whatever you're hiding must be awful big for you to make threats that you think are enormous."

"I'm not bluffing," he said.

"Why did Sheila Davis call you?" I asked.

"I don't know any such person," he said quickly.

"What is it you've done, Mr. Armstrong? Molest children?"

"How dare you suggest such a thing?"

"Murder Evans yourself?"

He was inarticulate with spluttering. The desktop might float away if the deluge kept up.

"Rob the school district blind?" I added.

Flinging himself out of the chair, he leapt halfway across the desk at me. "Get out," he roared.

I remained seated. He looked like a beached whale. I enjoy it when administrators lose control.

Still leaning across the desk, he shook his fist at me. "I said get out," he bellowed.

"Sit down, Mr. Armstrong," I said.

He lowered his arm. His eyes blinked as if astonished to see me still there. He must be used to people cowering before his bullshit.

"Don't sit if you don't want," I said calmly. "You've made a mistake somewhere along the line. I don't know what it is. I doubt if you killed Evans. I suspect you made some slip-up and Evans caught you at it. Maybe he was a threat to you in some way, which would be typical of the man. You hoped with his death the threat would end. However, when they find the killer, or in the midst of the investigation, you're afraid it'll all come out. It would be best to tell the police yourself. Or if you want, tell me, and I could try to help."

He stood with his fist scrunched into the saliva on top of the desk staring at me. While I spoke he hadn't moved. He wasn't threatening or yelling now.

"Get out," he whispered.

I stood up. "I feel sorry for you," I said.

Outside my classroom, Georgette stood as far out in the hallway as she could while still keeping an eye on the room. I glanced inside. The kids talked quietly. "Did they behave?" I asked.

She took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and mopped sweat off her brow. "Yes, thank God. Some of them wanted to go to the bathroom." She added fiercely, "But I didn't let them."

"That's the spirit," I said. "We'll make a teacher out of you yet."

"Not me," she said, and left.

I resumed teaching. To me it was beyond obvious that Sylvester and Armstrong were up to their armpits in deep shit, somehow connected to Evans. Armstrong's threats I chose to ignore. He couldn't fire me for the bullshit reason he gave. As for trumpeting my gayness around—I'd long ago vowed I would never live in fear because of my sexual orientation. I doubted if he'd try that option. It would take too long to organize a campaign. If he did anything I suspected it would be to tattle to the cops.

Perhaps my calm reaction had blunted his bluster. If he was going to try something, there was no point in worrying about it.

When Scott picked me up that night, I told him what happened. I finished, "My guess is Sheila made it with Armstrong. That's the only reason I can think of for her to call."

"You're sure it was her?"

"Who else could it be?"

"You're right," he said.

"Are you worried about Armstrong's threats?" he asked.

"I don't think he can do anything to really harm me."

He looked at me as he waited for the lane to clear so he could pull into the driveway. "I sure hope not," he said.

I pointed toward the house. "We have visitors."

He followed my gaze to the police car sitting next to the house at the end of the fifty-foot drive.

The two cops who met us were very pleasant. They told us Detective Robertson wanted to talk to us. We weren't under arrest, but would we accompany them to the police station? They didn't know about what or wouldn't say. They were polite but firm. They said they would follow us in their car.

This visit to the police station was far more subdued than the last. There was only one person at the desk, a sergeant pecking at a typewriter. She ignored us.

One of the cops who'd been at the house led us down to a barren little room. It contained a table but no chairs. There were no outside windows, but along one wall was a mirror a fourth grader could guess had a viewing room behind it. Scott's first action was to wave through the mirror at whoever may have been watching. The cop told us to wait. We were left alone for over two hours. Neither of us said much. We waited in growing irritation. We'd had no dinner. Finally Scott said, "Maybe they intend to starve us into submission."

At that moment Robertson and Murphy walked in. Frank had a sour look on his face. Robertson was beet red and ready to explode.

Robertson started, "You two fucked me over the other night when I came over. I got suckered in by Mister Baseball Hero. Jesus, was I an asshole. Then he brings autographed baseballs for my boys. If it wouldn't break their hearts I'd throw them away when I got home. I may anyway."

Unwisely I asked what happened.

"You want to know? Let me tell you." His voice grew louder as he gathered steam. "You've talked to all kinds of innocent people and upset them no end. You tried to conduct official police business. You concealed knowledge from the police in a homicide investigation. You obstructed justice. You fucked up just about everything. I'll probably have you both arrested." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Besides which, you lied to me."

"That we never did," I said.

He yelled, "You find a kid that half the police in the state are looking for and you let him get away. Not telling us is as good as a lie in my book." He slammed his fist on the table. "I hate liars."

"If we'd brought police we'd never have got to him."

"That wasn't your decision to make," Robertson snapped.

"You must have found out from Mrs. Evans," Scott said.

"No, it was the younger boy. He told us, or we still wouldn't know what you two were up to."

"Keith told?" Scott said.

"Oh, don't worry." Now he was loud and sarcastic. "He didn't turn you in. It slipped out when we went over there around three today for some regular checking. After the slip we got the story out of both of them. By four we were looking for you."

"Oh," I said. They must have just missed us at school.

"Yeah, oh. What if the older kid had gotten himself hurt or killed after you let him go? What if he killed his old man? What are you guys, God? One overpriced ballplayer and a nosy schoolteacher. Shit." His temper spent, he sat on the edge of the table with his back to us.

From near the door Frank said, "You should have told us, Tom." His voice was calm but reproving. We looked at him. Silence seeped into the tiny room.

"Do you want all we know?" Scott asked. I wished he hadn't.

"What for?" Robertson snapped. Silence descended, stretched.

Finally I asked, "What's going on here?"

"We arrested the murderer this afternoon," Frank said.

"You've kept us like this and you already had the killer." Now I was angry.

Robertson threw a snarl in our direction. "We wanted to finish up all the paperwork so we could bring a completed case to our amateur detective friends."

"Who did it?" Scott asked.

"Who killed Evans?" Robertson sounded insufferably smug and sarcastic. "We shouldn't have to tell you amateur geniuses."

Frank said, "Leonard Vance, the head of the department."

"He told me some negative things about Evans, but it never struck me that he hated him," I said.

"He may not have said anything to you, but he said enough to us. We have witnesses who say the departmental jealousy was incredibly fierce. It finally came to a head. We've talked to numerous school personnel who confirmed that they hated each other."

"That's not what he told me," I muttered.

Robertson heard. "That's why you should leave these things to the police. We know how to ask questions and get answers."

"Who told you they hated each other?" I asked.

"You're off the case," Robertson growled.

"At least tell me, did he confess?"

"No. He didn't need to. He has no alibi for the time of death."

Frank said, "It's safe to tell you that he was seen with Evans around midnight that night. He didn't deny that when we confronted him with it. He was the last to see him alive. We traced Evans's movements. At midnight he was in the Denny's restaurant in Orland Park with Vance. The waitress remembered them because of their loud arguing."

"How'd you trace them?" I asked.

Robertson said, "Solid police legwork. Following up leads and tips. Not running around like know-it-alls in over their heads."