Schooled in Murder (23 page)

It was late. I didn’t want to stay at my place. I wanted to be as far away from Grover Cleveland High School as I could get. We drove to the city to stay at Scott’s penthouse. As the warmth of the car spread over me, and the more I thought about the day, the more pissed off I got. Whatever was between towering anger and a stroke, I was there. I was fed up with anything remotely resembling a suburb or an administrator or a police detective.

I ranted about the vicissitudes of the world until Interstate 57 ended and the Dan Ryan Expressway began. I drew deep breaths and stared out the window from Ninety-fifth Street to Twenty-second. We inched toward the Loop in the construction traffic on the eternally-being-rehabbed stretch of road. As we eased off the Ryan onto Lake Shore Drive, Scott took my hand. That felt good.

If I was a get-drunk-and-hit-people kind of guy, I would have gone out and gotten drunk and hit people. Instead, I worked out for an hour with Scott, mostly in silence. We showered in his sunken tub.

We mounded the chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream with marshmallow sauce, chocolate sauce, and cashews and got down to serious eating. Another workout would be necessary in the morning.

As we were piling dishes in the dishwasher, I said, “I don’t know how someone gets over being this angry. I don’t remember this kind of fury.”

We repaired to the living room. We each wore jeans, white socks, and white T-shirts. I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out at the waves lapping against the lake shore. He stood next to me.

I said, “We don’t believe in conspiracy theories.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Unless it’s Republicans.”

“Well, of course.”

“River’s Edge is a very conservative area. Maybe it is a vast right-wing conspiracy. Maybe they’re all Republicans.”

“There are a lot of lies, but to be a conspiracy they’d have to be organized. You usually sneer at them for being too stupid.”

“Maybe they’re taking lessons or classes. Maybe there’s a book:
The Rush Limbaugh Guide to Concocting a Brainless Conspiracy.”

“Even for you, that’s a little paranoid.”

“Depends on which side of the conspiracy you’re on.”

“I’m on your side.”

“I know. I meant them.”

“But who would ´they’ be? And a conspiracy to do what?”

“Isn’t that one of the benefits of a vast conspiracy? You need to not be able to name specific people specifically conspiring.”

“But we do know at least some names. Frecking and Benson lied. Someone lied about where you were. The
superintendent, the head of the English department, the president of the school board, and the principal are acting suspiciously.”

“And we’ve got two dead bodies. Both of which I discovered. I am depressed and pissed off.”

Scott said, “You have every right to be.”

“I think I’m the most pissed off at Victoria Abbot, the assistant superintendent.”

“Why?”

“Because she knows better. Because she knows what people are up to–and it’s not good. And she won’t tell what she knows, but she gives fire-alarm-level warnings. Hell, she could be part of the conspiracy trying to make me more frightened. ´We’ve got the guy on edge, let’s see if we can’t make him more miserable.’ ”

“Did she seem honest?”

“I couldn’t tell. After all the lies I’ve heard today, I’m not sure I’d believe god himself if he showed up.” “And you don’t believe in god.”

“How many supreme beings can you fit on the head of a pin?”

“Not as many as I used to.”

It started to rain again. I watched Lake Shore Drive dampen. Traffic was light. It was long after midnight.

“What’s worse is that somebody I work with is a killer. Attempting to pin it on me adds excess anxiety to my life, but to think that someone who teaches in the same corridor is a killer is spooky.”

“Might be a killer. We don’t know who did it.”

“Definitely a liar.”

“The police seemed to believe you.”

“I’m afraid that was more Frank Rohde’s support yesterday than anything I said or did. That young cop is a menace.”

“We’ve got the weekend to relax.”

“Or brood.”

“You are very good at that. I’d hate to deny you the chance to enjoy something you’re good at. We’ve had ice cream and chocolate, and I’ll do what I can.” In bed he massaged my back for quite a while. We do that for each other for tension release, for pleasure, and for the hell of it. I took my turn massaging him. I wasn’t in the mood for much more. In a short while, he fell asleep. He almost always falls asleep quickly and seldom wakes up during the night.

I tossed and turned. I tried reading. I went straight to my surefire “get to sleep” book, a volume of Wordsworth’s poetry. Not a smidge of luck.

I returned to the living room. Got a blanket and a mound of pillows and cushions and sat them in the middle of the couch. I made a snug spot for myself, and I watched the rain. I must have slept. I awoke and it was dark. Scott had my head in his lap. His head was wedged against several pillows and cushions. He was snoring softly. I snuggled close and made sure the blanket was covering us both. I slept again.

32

Saturday we did our grocery shopping online. It’s a pain in the neck to try to go out shopping with Scott. If he’s recognized, it becomes a madhouse and can get dangerous. While a cap pulled far down on the eyes and sloppy clothes are often enough to throw off casual observers, as they did the night before, use his credit card and all anonymity goes out the window. I switched sites and ordered a few things for my nephews for Christmas. Saturday night we put in our latest NetFlix DVD,
Secondhand Lions,
a great movie. Saturday night I finished the Agatha Christie and managed to get a little sleep.

Late Sunday morning Meg called. I was doing some laundry, mostly socks and underwear.

She said, “The assistant superintendent wants to meet with you. I talked to her again. She said she felt bad for the way she treated you.”

I said, “This isn’t going to be one of those ´I’ve got something to tell you’ moments and ´Meet me at three,’ and I go to the appointment and the person I’m supposed to meet is dead.”

Meg said, “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

We agreed to get together late that afternoon.

I called Todd Bristol, our attorney. We’d played phone tag most of Saturday. Todd said, “Do not confront those people. Do not say anything to them. If they come talk to you, take out your cell phone. Call me or get in touch with your union representative. Do not be alone with any one of those people. If there are two or more, turn around and walk away immediately.”

“Do I have to be paranoid about walking down the halls?”

“Yes. Look to see who is where. You might want to get in touch with your friends and see if they can provide escort service.”

“This is absurd.”

“You’re the one who called me for advice.”

“I didn’t mean the advice is absurd. I meant having to follow your sensible advice is absurd. An escort in my own building? That’s nuts.”

“That place is dangerous to you.”

“Should I quit?”

“It’s going to be nerve-wracking for a while, but my advice is not to quit. You need to take precautions. So, take them.”

Scott nudged me. “Ask him if anything these people are doing is specifically illegal.”

I asked.

Todd considered. “It’s complicated. Partly it depends on what you can prove, and you can’t prove anything. It doesn’t sound like you can count on Victoria Abbot. You’ve got proof on that one grade-changing mess, but that’s not a major felony. They’ll never admit to a conspiracy to get you. Giving false statements to the police is a crime, but how often do cops prosecute that?” He answered his own question. “That depends. Saying negative things about you to the police is not illegal.”

I said, “They’re masters of innuendo and character assassination.”

“You have my permission to talk to your friend on the police department. He might know what’s going on.”

I asked, “Are you saying that if I didn’t have a friend on the police force, I’d be in more trouble?”

“You’re not actually in trouble. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

I promised to fill him in if we found out anything. We called Frank to set up the meeting for early Sunday evening.

33

Much as I hated to return to the suburbs before Monday morning, we hustled out for the meeting with the assistant superintendent and Meg. We met at a Brew-Ha-Ha coffee shop in Park Forest, far from the River’s Edge school district.

Victoria Abbot wore dark glasses, a black sweatsuit, and a beret pulled down low over her eyes. She clutched her car keys in her right hand. I only recognized her because she was with Meg.

When the assistant superintendent took off her sunglasses, I could see that red lines shot through the whites of her eyes, which had big bags under them. Her face was pasty gray. She said, “You can’t tell a soul about this meeting. Only Meg can know. I’m almost sorry I talked to her. I’m probably going to regret talking to you, but I’ve done wrong. I should have told you everything Friday morning. I’m going to tell you everything I know or have surmised. I can’t take the pressure anymore. I can’t take the lies and deception. I can’t stand this nonsensical secretiveness. I can’t stand the cruelty. This madness has gone on long enough.”

I said, “I appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Help?” She leaned close to me. “What you need is a tank battalion.”

“What the hell is going on?”

She glanced carefully around, taking her time examining all the patrons. Then she leaned within inches of my face and said, “It was their idea to try to accuse you. Bochka, Towne, Graniento, and Spandrel, especially Spandrel. They made one of the teachers go to the police and lie about seeing you. I don’t know which one.”

I got the same chills I had on Friday when the police had first told me the news.

I said, “They’re insane.”

“Very desperate and very determined and very angry.”

I made a guess. “They threatened to keep the teacher from getting tenure.”

“Oh, dear, yes. They are willing to go quite far to make you miserable.”