Deer Season (5 page)

“Can’t tell you for sure. But I can say with great confidence that Clay is going to get more than a slap on the wrist. But he’s lucky it isn’t an election year. Right now the prosecutor, John Tyrrell, won’t need to go for the maximum to show he’s tough on crime.”

“How long are you going to keep Clay?”

“He may be out on bail later today.”

“So he could be in school tomorrow?” she asked, rhetorically, her grey eyes locked on Ray’s. He knew the high school kids called her theowl, and the name fit. Her thick, gray-black hair surrounded her face, and the black-rimmed glasses perched on her stubby nose magnified her unusually large eyes.

“Do I let him go back to…?” she stopped.

Ray remained silent, allowing her to muse over her question.

“Maybe I should have him go to the alternative program for a few weeks, at least until Thanksgiving,” she said more to herself than to Ray.

“Tell me about Clay, what kind of kid is he?” Ray asked.

“He’s not a bad kid, but he’s incredibly lazy. We’re constantly monitoring his progress, trying to keep him focused. It’s been a bit easier in the fall because he needs to keep his grades up to play football.”

“Is he a good player?”

“Coach Fronz says Clay could be if he worked at it. He’s big and strong, but Fronz says he never really gets in shape, he’s always carrying a gut and doesn’t spend enough time in the weight room.”

“So he’s not too good?”

“Fronz says Clay has great physicality,” Maggie paused for a moment. “I have no idea what that means. Physicality,” she repeated the word, carefully enunciating each syllable. “Fronz also says that if he could find a log as big as Clay, he’d play the log. He’d always know where the log was. He never can count on Clay. The kid doesn’t seem to follow the play or keep his blocking assignment.

“I’ve heard from some of the students that Clay was partying with a couple of friends,” Maggie continued.

“Yes,” Ray responded. “I think we will be able to identify them. Perhaps, that has happened already.”

“How about dope?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t be surprised.”

“It’s part of the ritual, isn’t it,” Maggie said. “They drink some beer, smoke some grass. It’s the complete evening. I can’t control what they do away from school, but I want to be damn sure it’s not being sold or used at school. I’m passionate about that.”

“I know you are,” said Ray. “You’re vigilant, and you’re very close to the students. You do a wonderful job with that problem.”

“I do my best,” she shot back, “but there are so many ways kids can screw up their lives. And kids like Clay, they just don’t get it. They don’t understand that there are consequences for their actions.

“Donna, Clay’s mother, she was one of my special projects early in my tenure here. And the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree. She had so much promise, but…” she stopped and looked at Ray. “You ever miss smoking?”

“Tobacco?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Sometimes,” he responded.

“Yeah, me too,” she said. “It’s almost an essential part of a good bitch session. Some smokes, some black coffee, some profanity—you feel so much better after. A real catharsis. And now I do my damnedest to make sure kids don’t touch the rotten stuff. It’s a different day.”

“And the football game?”

“Fronz and the AD at Sand River worked everything out with the league. We’re canceling the game and trying to send a message that there are things more important than football. Unfortunately, all the kids get penalized for the actions of a few.” Maggie paused for a long moment and took a sip of coffee. “What a mess. Maybe I’m getting too old for this.”

“How have the parents and students reacted?”

“For the kids, this has been a shocker. It’s sort of like when Pete Dekker ran his car off the road and hit the tree the night before graduation a few years back. This is real. A few of the ball players, especially the seniors, are very disappointed. And I appreciate their feelings, but almost everyone understands how this event is bigger than any game. Fronz has had a few angry calls, but most of the players, parents, and the community are very supportive. You were in education for many years, you know about teachable moments,” she paused briefly. “We’re having a staff meeting this afternoon to talk about how we can try to make something good come from this mess.”

Maggie got up and gathered her newspaper, “Hey, gotta run.” She stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked back at Ray. “We do what we can, all of us. Sometimes it’s just not enough.”

Ray nodded his agreement.

“Passionate, as always,” Ray responded. “And upset. And wanting to make something good come from something bad.”

“She’s an amazing woman; that’s who I want to be when I grow up.” Sue paused, her tone changed. “Did you get some sleep?”

“More than most nights. You?” he inquired.

“I’ll catch up tonight.”

“What did I miss?” asked Ray.

“Lots,” Sue responded.

“Are you going to tell me about it or just give me that Cheshire cat grin?”

“First, the crime scene. We found two spent shells buried in the snow. Sure glad we bought that metal detector. They were tossed in the ditch at the side of the road. And Clay’s blood alcohol was 0.15, and his hands and arms were covered with gunpowder residue. You know,” Sue said, “he didn’t act too drunk; the kid can hold his alcohol.”

“He’s got a lot of bulk to absorb it. And the other kids?”

“Dirk got the names. And he gave them to me when I got back. I waited till 5:00 a.m. before I called the parents. They live in the village. Both sets of parents came in, each with a scared kid in tow.”

“What did you learn?”

“I had an informal interview with each boy, their mom and dad sitting at the table with them. The gravity of the situation really hit when I told them about the injured boy from Sand River. I questioned Drew Chappone first. He readily admitted to being at Clay’s. He says he drank too much and fell asleep. His buddy Zack drove him home, dropped him on the front porch, rang the bell, and took off. That’s how his parents found him. So he was already in a lot of trouble with them before he got here.”

“Does he have any priors?”

“None,” said Sue. “He seems like a nice kid with two very concerned parents. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” “Who’s the other kid?”

“Zack Jacobik. He was a bit more edgy and defensive than Drew, and his parents looked like they were ready to kill him.”

“What did you learn?”

“He substantiated Drew’s story. They went over to Clay’s after football practice, both boys had told their parents they were studying for a chemistry test. They ate pizza and drank beer. Then they watched a Rambo film. Sometime during the film, Zack didn’t remember when, Drew fell asleep.”

“How about drugs?”

“Zack was a bit elusive about it. Finally his father said, ‘Tell the lady what you know.’ Dad’s got a great gravelly voice; he sounds like Brando in The Godfather. Zack admitted they had shared one joint, but even when pressed he wasn’t about to tell me the source. I let that go, I was more interested in getting his version of what happened.”

“And his version?”

“Like I said, they were partying and watching a movie. Suddenly Clay was running out of the house with a gun, there was an explosion, and Clay was out in the road waving the gun. This car almost ran over him, and he fired at it as it drove away.”

“How many shots?”

“Zack only remembers one. Clay probably pulled both triggers at the same time. Zack initially said he didn’t think Clay was shooting at the car. He thought Clay was shooting over it. But when I pressed him on that point, he wasn’t sure.”

“Did you ask him about the vandalism last weekend in Sand River?”

“Yes. At first he said he didn’t know anything about any vandalism, but again his father admonished him to tell the truth. He said the three of them painted the sidewalk in front of the school, did some spray painting at the stadium, and blew up a few mailboxes. His memory seemed to fail him on the actual number.”

“Anything more?”

“With his parents’ permission we checked him for gunpowder residue; there was none.”

“And then what?”

“We sent both kids home with their parents. I told both sets of parents that we would be in touch. And it’s interesting, they each thanked me as if I had done something important for their kid, the anger was directed at their sons, not at me, not at the police. But that situation didn’t last long.”

“How so?”

“No sooner had they left than Donna Bateman arrived with Mr. Smiles, the friend of all victims of police brutality.”

“How was he today?”

“A real poster-boy for Vitalis, Aqua Velva, and the blinding effect of bleached white teeth. I was afraid he was going to kiss my hand. That dude gives sharkskin suits a bad name. And I think he was wearing the last pair of spit-polished wingtips in the north.”

“Enough,” interrupted Ray. “Just tell me what happened?”

“I took them into the interview room and asked that Clay be brought down. In the few minutes we had before he arrived, I told them we had the weapon, matching finger prints, the brass, and Clay’s hands and arms were covered with gunpowder residue.”

“His reaction,” pressed Ray.

“I think he’s beginning to mellow. He didn’t fall into his usual tough-guy persona. He let me interview Clay with few interruptions. Donna was more of a problem.”

“And Clay’s story?”

“His account was remarkably like Zack’s until we got to the part with the gun. First he said he didn’t know it was loaded; he contended that he only took it out to scare the kids in the car, but when they tried to run him down he used it in self-defense. When I pointed out that the vehicle was hit from the rear, he changed his story, saying the gun went off accidentally. And that might have been caused by Zack trying to pull it out of his hands. When I mentioned that we didn’t find any powder residue on Zack, Clay said everything happened so fast, that Zack might have caused the accidental firing but wasn’t next to him when it actually fired.”

“Sounds like he had enough beer not to be clear on anything, and then he’s also trying to cover his ass.”

“That’s my take. And I don’t think Clay would hesitate to move the blame to his friend Zack if he could think of a way of doing it,” Sue observed. “Anyway, my report is typed up, and the transcripts of the interviews are being keyed. They should be available for you to review later this afternoon.”

“Thank you for doing this,” said Ray, feeling a bit guilty that he had gone home to bed and left Sue to complete the investigation.

“One question. How do you know about Vitalis and Aqua Velva, those old-time brands?”

“Isn’t that what you use?” she asked, giving Ray a wry smile.

Ray had called earlier, saying he was behind schedule, which was often the case when he was invited for dinner. And since Marc, the one who did the cooking, was always running late with his culinary experiments, Ray’s pattern of belated arrivals seemed fortuitous rather than an irritation. Ray parked near a small SUV covered with a thin dusting of fresh snow that stood near the back door of the cottage.

Without knocking, Ray entered through the door into the small mudroom at the rear of the kitchen. Like most of the old cottages, the more formal entrance, the one that opened to the living room, was at the front of the house on the lakeside, seldom used during much of the year. He hung his coat on one of the wooden pegs that lined the back wall of the room and opened a second door into the kitchen.

“Ray’s here,” announced Marc, working at a chopping block at the side of the stove.

Lisa and Sarah James came to greet him. Lisa—thin and athletic, dressed in her usual uniform of jeans, a navy t-shirt, and one of Marc’s chambray shirts, worn out and hanging like a jacket—slid under his right arm for a quick embrace.

Sarah followed, in a black sweater and skirt, her work clothes, the dress of a private school administrator. Her embrace was slower, softer, and extended. Ray held her for a long moment, enjoying the intimacy. He had been looking forward to seeing her all day.

Sarah was a recent acquaintance. He had met her earlier in the fall, within hours of beginning the murder investigation of a young faculty member from Leiston School and her lover, an event that had profoundly shaken his life. During the course of the investigation he was in almost daily contact with Sarah. And after he had been seriously wounded, she was a frequent visitor at his hospital bedside and later at home when he was recuperating.

“What took you so long?” Marc asked, briefly looking up from his work.

“Phone calls,” Ray answered. “I was just trying to respond to any message that looked urgent before the beginning of the weekend.”

“Well, the women are way ahead of you. They’ve already gone through part of a bottle of that lovely wine you dropped by yesterday. I imagine you’re curious about the menu.”

“I can smell the lamb,” Ray said. “What’s the rest of the fare?”

“A medley of locally grown root vegetables, slowly roasted in olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. A salad of mixed greens with walnuts and dried cherries, and an apple tart.” Ray leaned against a counter, watching the two women in a lively conversation and his friend Marc putting the finishing touches on dinner. He felt much of the tension for the last few days beginning to drain away.

“There is also this peasant bread,” said Marc, lofting a large loaf like a football. “I’ve been trying to turn a large Dutch oven into a steamy environment where I can bake crusty bread.”

“How did it work out?”

“You be the judge.”

With little further conversation, Lisa guided the four of them to the table.