A Simple Suburban Murder (5 page)

"You didn't get a chance?" I asked equally as quietly.

He shook his head. "There were too many people around. I was waiting for everybody to leave."

We sat in silence for a while. He finished the last of his French fries.

"Want any more?" I asked.

"No, thanks. I'm stuffed, Mr. Mason."

Throughout the conversation he'd been stealing glances at Scott. Now he said, "I want to be a baseball player like you, Mr. Carpenter, when I grow up."

"I hope you make it," Scott said.

"I play all the sports at school—baseball, football, everything." He was an average-size kid, maybe a little bigger. Hardly the type for football, I thought. But with his suit coat folded behind him, his white shirt couldn't conceal the broadening of teenage shoulders and hints of a lithe muscularity.

He continued. "I can't believe I'm sitting here with Scott Carpenter. The other kids will never believe this."

"It's true," Scott said.

Keith got a confused look on his face. "Did you know my dad?"

"No, I'm a friend of Tom's. I came with him."

"Keith, do you know that Phil is gone?" I asked.

He lowered his head, mumbled an answer.

"Keith," Scott said.

The boy looked at his hero.

Scott said, "If you know anything about where he is, you should tell us."

Keith looked torn. "I promised," he said finally. "It's important for us to know. He might need our help," Scott said.

There was silence. The kid looked miserable. "He told you he was leaving," I prompted. Keith nodded.

"Is he coming back?" I continued. A negative shake of the head. "Is he in the Chicago area?" "I don't know. I think so. He said he'd call me." "Did he leave because of what happened to your dad?" Now there was fear in the boy's eyes. "I don't know," he said.

"Did he murder your dad?" "No," he whispered.

"They used to fight a lot, didn't they?" I asked. "Yeah, sometimes it was horrible." "What did they fight about?"

"Everything. We all hid when they fought, including my mom. It used to scare me when I was little." "And now?"

"Usually I leave the house, go over to a friend's and stay." "Did you and your dad ever fight, Keith?" I asked. His no came too quickly. "Did your dad ever hurt you, Keith?" "No." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "He didn't, really. My dad was okay."

Scott said, "If he hurt you, Keith, it's okay to tell us." The boy sat with his eyes lowered. I looked at Keith. I tried a few other questions about his dad, but he wouldn't talk about him. Keith was like many kids with an abusive parent.

They covered up for the parent and wouldn't admit anything. I gave up and went back to Phil's leaving.

"Did Phil say when he'd call?" I asked.

"No, just that he'd call soon. And that I would go live with him. He said he could make enough money for us to live on. He said that adults only ever messed things up." He looked from one to the other of us.

We talked for fifteen more minutes. The boy gave no further information. He still wanted to see his dad, so we took him across the street to the funeral home. Mrs. Evans looked startled when she saw him. I explained the situation to her. She seemed more upset and torn.

"I want to see him, Mom," Keith said.

"But the casket is closed," she objected.

"I want to," he insisted.

With what looked like an heroic effort, she pulled herself together, took him by the hand. "All right" was all she said. Together they walked to the casket.

In the car on the way home Scott said, "I don't understand Keith."

"What don't you understand?"

"He seemed to be acting almost normal. Protecting his brother rang true. But I don't know, I expected him to be more broken up about his dad's death."

"He must have a lot of strong ambiguous feelings about his dad, if what the mother told me is true. With a home like that you can't blame the kid for reacting strangely."

"I guess you're right. You know, I bet the kid knows a lot more than he's saying about where Phil is."

"I agree. I think his brother told him a lot more than Keith told us tonight."

"Do you think Phil or Keith might have killed their dad?" Scott asked.

"I thought of that. I don't know about Phil. I haven't really talked to him in two years. I want to talk to him. As for Keith, I doubt it. He doesn't seem big enough."

"Maybe he had help," Scott suggested.

"Or maybe he helped his brother," I said. "We need to find Phil."

"For what it's worth," Scott said, "I don't think Keith did it."

"Yeah, my suspicions are with Phil and the adults. Mrs. Evans sounds like a great suspect. I bet the police think so too. She couldn't hide that much hate from them. They'd find out from the neighbors, if nowhere else."

"From what you say she's too much of a mouse to have done it."

"At times, but pushed to the edge, who knows what she might be capable of?"

"That's true. Who else?"

"I don't trust Sylvester and Armstrong."

Scott looked surprised. "Not trusting them is one thing. Linking them to murder sounds a bit of a stretch to me."

"Those two are up to something. Maybe they were in cahoots with Evans, mixed up with him, something. They acted awfully suspicious to me. And more important, they'd have access to the school, something neither Mrs. Evans nor her kids would have. I'm not ready to accuse them of murder, but I'd bet money they've gone beyond simple administrative incompetence."

"You're prejudiced," Scott said.

"I guess." I pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. "This leaves out people we don't know. We have no idea what Evans's life was like outside of school. Hell, I've only talked to Vance in the math department, although I trust him pretty much. I've got people to talk to tomorrow."

* * *

At noon the next day I started with the school social worker. I hoped she'd give me more background on the Evans family. What Nancy Lacey said was "I'm sorry, that information is confidential. I am not at liberty to discuss the situation." Her November tan was from the same place she got a size-4 figure, a health club. She was twenty-four years old and gorgeous. This was her first job after college.

I explained my reasons for inquiring.

"You're wasting your time. All records, conversations, any dealings with students through this office cannot be discussed with outsiders."

She'd early on caught the disease of many school social workers. Its basic symptom—don't trust the teachers.

"Aren't we supposed to be working together to help children?" I asked.

"I don't think you understand how the guidance and counseling office works." Her tone was that of those who condescend to the poor stupid teachers—you don't have counseling degrees so you don't know how to handle kids.

I cut her off. "Save your condescension for someone who will put up with it."

"Mr. Sylvester has given me strict instructions. I intend to follow them. I want you to leave my office now."

"What instructions from Sylvester?" I asked.

She clamped her mouth closed, stood up, and pointed to the door.

I left. She probably would report me to Sylvester. I could expect a visit from him before the day was over.

During the tutoring session after school I talked to Greg. I got right to the point. "Greg, several people have told me that you're a good friend of Phil Evans."

"Well, yeah, sort of," he said. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Did you know that he's missing?"

He shook his head. "I didn't know that." "It's true. I'm trying to find him. Do you know where he might have gone?"

"Look, Mr. Mason, you've got to understand about me and Phil. We were buddies for years. I've known him since first grade, but like, I don't want you to think that maybe I, you know, like what Lee said yesterday."

"That you and he were friends, but you never had anything to do with him sexually." "Right."

"You seemed surprised yesterday when Lee told. Did you know Phil was gay?"

"Not really. I only heard rumors this school year. I kind of stayed away from him when I started to hear them. I didn't want people to start talking about me too. I started hanging out with a new crowd."

"Before you drifted apart, did he ever talk about running away?"

"Sure, yeah, all the time, because of all the hassles he had with his dad."

"Did he say where he might go?"

"He always talked about going to California and getting a job in a rock band. We went to all the big concerts together when they came to Chicago."

"If he wanted to stay somewhere closer for a while, which friends would he go to?"

"I was it. He was a loner."

"When you guys used to hang around together, did you go anyplace special, or did he mention anyplace he might stay? Anything that gives you an idea where he might be hanging out?"

He thought a moment, then spoke reluctantly. "Well, sometimes he'd talk about hanging around the north side of the city, like he knew stuff that went on there."

"What stuff?" "Like places to go, people to talk to. Then he'd get real secretive. He never said exactly who or where. I ignored him. I figured it was all bull."

"Nothing specific about the north side?"

"Nothing," he reiterated. But I got the impression he was holding back. I tried another angle.

"Where would he get money for running away?" I asked.

"Cash? None of us ever had much."

"His mom said he had a lot lately."

"I wouldn't know. Like I said, we weren't buddies anymore."

"Was he dealing drugs?"

"I don't know. Can I get back to work?"

"In a minute. Don't you want to help find him?"

"Well, sure, but I'm telling you all I know."

"What else would someone your age do to make money?" I mused aloud.

"Get a job," Greg said.

"Did Phil have a job? His mom didn't say so."

"Him! A regular job! He hated work. It's one of the things he fought about with' his dad. But I tell you his dad hated it worse when—" he stopped abruptly.

"When what?" I asked. "If not a regular job then what kind did he have?"

Greg became even more nervous. "How do I get into this stuff?" I waited. Greg sighed disgustedly. "Okay. I don't know any of this for sure. That's the part that drove his dad nuts. When he started bringing home money, his dad would demand to know where it came from. Phil wouldn't tell him."

"And he told you?"

"Not really, but I think he used to do it with guys." Greg's face turned red. "According to Phil, the friends he used to brag about 'gave' him cash. I never really believed him.

Then when Lee said that stuff yesterday about Phil and the guy, I figured maybe he wasn't lying."

"Did he talk about these friends?"

"Nah, that's when he'd get all secretive. I figured he was probably dealing drugs. But I wasn't lying before. I really don't know for sure. Selling sex to adults is one way a kid can get lots of money. Some other kids do it too." Greg shook his head. "I shouldn't be telling you this stuff."

"Why not?"

"You're an adult. This can only lead to trouble."

"I'm trying to find the boy." I tried to think of what else to ask.

I was about to give up when Greg asked, "Mr. Mason, do people think Phil murdered his dad?"

"I don't know. The police talked to him once. When they find out he's gone, if they haven't already, they'll be suspicious. You realize he left only after his dad was murdered."

"This is some kind of hassle."

"Even without the death I would be concerned about the disappearance."

"He's almost eighteen. What's the big deal?"

"The deal is, Greg, that people care about him. His mom is worried." I tried a few other questions, but I'd gotten all I could out of him.

Half an hour later the kids were gone. Sylvester walked into my room. His hand shook as he raised it to adjust his glasses. Every time I saw him he looked more pasty white and nervous.

He started out all bluster. "I've had complaints about you bullying staff members. I won't have that, Mason. Plus we told you not to involve yourself in the Evans situation. We gave you a direct order about that."

I walked over to where he stood near the door. "You're my boss here, Sylvester, and anything connected to teaching and working conditions I will listen to, but neither you nor Armstrong have any say about my private conversations or activities. You never had. You never will."

His body sagged. Although the building was cool, sweat appeared on his upper lip. He moved to a student's desk and plopped his body into it. He wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief. When he spoke his voice was a pathetic whine. "Can't you for once see this from my point of view?"

"And what is that?" I asked in a neutral tone.

"I'm not an evil human being, although I'm sure you think so. I'm getting pressure from everyone constantly asking for answers I don't have. Why did this have to happen while I'm principal? I should never have quit teaching. I was happy in the classroom." He stood up abruptly, waved his arms dramatically. He said, "Do what you want. I don't care. It doesn't make any difference." He tottered to the door. Before he went out he turned back and said, "You'll be sorry, Mason."

I didn't bother puzzling about this threat.

Scott picked me up fifteen minutes later. He dropped me off at my place and went out to pick up dinner. We rarely cook for each other. Neither of us is good at it, although on special occasions he makes fabulous meals—Thanksgiving being one of his best. He's not bad at breakfasts either.

The doorbell rang while I set the table.

The cop, John Robertson, was at the door. I hesitated about letting him in. Scott would return any minute. I wasn't sure how Scott would react to the cop's presence. Depending on Robertson's intelligence and discretion, it could lead to Scott's being involved.

We sat in the living room. He began friendly enough, but all the same there was a note of menace underneath. "I checked into your background, Mr. Mason. You're an ex-marine. Did a tour of duty in Vietnam."