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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

BOOK: The Principal Cause of Death
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We entered Donna's office. She wore a rust-colored corduroy pants suit over a white blouse and kept her hair swept back from her face in a ponytail. She'd been in the district three years and had alienated nearly every teacher at some point or other. Her basic attitude was that “you poor teachers haven't the faintest idea how to handle these children—only I, a trained specialist, should be allowed to speak to them and deal with them.” I generally avoided talking to her.
Nearly every social worker we've had has been a complete gem, brilliant and compassionate, a true miracle worker with troubled children, but according to the rules at Grover Cleveland, the social worker had to take second place to the psychologist.
She tossed the manila folder she'd been carrying into the center of her desk, then faced me with hands on her hips and eyes blazing.
Her office had only interior walls, so no windows gave hope of a world outside. On the cinderblock walls she had posters of rock groups and hot cars. Maybe these made the kids think she was with it and relevant.
She said, “What was the meaning of your attack on Dan Bluefield?”
“I just went through this with Jones.”
She rapped her knuckles on the desk top. “You may have destroyed that boy for the rest of his life.”
My guilt at what I'd done fled, and total anger returned. I said, “That ‘boy' is nearly a man, and he's had far worse happen to him than I just did.”
“He's turned his life around. He's reformed. Everybody but you seems to have noticed. What's your problem?”
“Dan is the one with the problem. I can't believe he's convinced everyone that he's now a model citizen.”
“I intend to see if we can't file abuse charges against you.”
I showed her my arm. “Your little angel attacked me right after he beat up one of the teachers. You believed his story without checking it out.”
“I trust him.”
The whole scene seemed unreal. I wanted to find that student teacher, if only to burst their bubble of trust in a teenaged delinquent.
“I've been in touch with the parents,” she said. “They'll be in first thing in the morning. You'll be lucky if they don't swear out a warrant for your arrest.”
I walked out on her. I had no patience for someone incapable of connecting with reality. I had my own emotions to deal with about what happened, and she wasn't helping.
As I walked through the gloomy corridors, thinking about my meeting with Jones, my fury increased. I didn't think the district could do much of substance, didn't think I had much to worry about. A glance at my watch told me I'd be late for the game. I needed to make a call to the ballpark in case the game ended before I got there, so that Scott would know I'd been delayed. The nearest phone was in the office, so I grabbed my briefcase and walked back in that direction.
First I stopped in a washroom. With all the activity I hadn't had time to try and get the blood out of my shirt. I took it off and examined the stain. Probably too dried by now, but I'd give it a try. I ran cold water from elbow to cuff on the left sleeve. Some of the blood washed out. Of course the sleeve was soaked, and I'd have to wear the shirt home wet. Not a bright move.
I trudged down the darkened corridors. The last rays of light from the early October sunset streamed through a few opened classroom doors that faced west. It gave the old place an almost golden glow that for the moment hid the peeling plaster, defaced lockers, and blackening tile. The wood paneling seemed soft and welcoming. The dust
motes drifted in around me. I breathed in that old school smell of chalk and kids.
As I entered the office, I noticed the door to Jones's office was open. I picked up Georgette's phone. The glass windows of the office let me look out on the darkened corridor. The sweep of the headlights, from a car pulling up in the school's circular drive, gave occasional light. In the dimness I had to lean my head close to the buttons on the phone. I glanced up. A car's headlight beam swept past the windows in Jones's office. I caught my breath.
At the edge of Jones's desk I saw a hand, a white shirt cuff, and the beginning of the sleeve of a suit coat. A few steps closer, and I saw Robert Jones with a knife sticking out of his back and massive quantities of blood soaking through his clothing.
I hurried toward him and felt for his carotid artery, hoping for a pulse. I felt cold flesh and not a trace of movement. I hurried from the room, being sure to touch nothing, and dialed the police from the phone on Georgette's desk.
The beat cops arrived in eight minutes. Soon, the crime-lab people, along with detectives and captains, joined the fray. Murder in River's Edge isn't unheard-of, but it's rare. This would definitely cause headlines.
I listened to the cops exchange pleasantries, explanations, and theories, a few of which had to do with the murder and most with who was playing golf with whom and whose turn it was to buy lunch. The beat cops interviewed me and took a statement. The few people still in the building got called in. The police found custodians, and the football team coming in from practice, but not much else.
Georgette came in at seven. She left a half-hour later, giving a fearful look at the cops and sneaking a tender pat to my shoulder as she swept by. The school superintendent showed up at eight. They hadn't been able to reach her because she'd been out to dinner for her wedding anniversary.
About eight-fifteen the cut in my arm began to throb.
At eight-thirty two detectives interviewed me.
The tall ugly one was Hank Daniels. The good-looking young guy with the earring was David Johnson. I'd realized early on it didn't look good: I'd had a fight with Jones. But I didn't know, until they told me, that I'd been the last one to see him alive. Plus I'd found the body, and the dank sleeve of my shirt reminded me that I had bloodstains on it. Not a good combination for establishing my innocence.
Daniels began the interview. “We've heard about you. Dead bodies seem to show up when you do.”
Johnson said, “The swish teacher who's always sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong.”
Not your basic charm-school interrogation. No matter how hard they pressed, I held my temper in check. I'd been captured by the Viet Cong and held captive for two days. I'd managed to escape, but the memory of the interrogation at that time helped me stay calm now.
Around nine Frank Murphy strode in. They'd kept me in the nurse's office. He sat on the couch they keep for the kids to lie down on. I stayed in the swivel chair behind the desk.
“You're in deep shit,” he said.
“Daniels and Johnson were no sweat,” I said.
“Sweat is not the problem. You are prime suspect number one. Did you do it?”
“It's bad enough you've got to ask?”
He gazed at me levelly.
“It's that bad,” I said.
“Yeah, Tom. I know you didn't do it, and our friendship will probably get you home tonight without a trip to the station, but it's touch and go. The two of them want to arrest you.”
“They've got nothing definite. Did anybody see anything?”
Frank shook his head. “According to the interviews, nobody was near this office after you and Georgette Constantine left.”
“I wouldn't bet on Georgette,” I said. “She's the last one I'd pick as a knife-wielding maniac.”
“Somebody around here is,” Frank said.
I sighed. “Do you know when I'm going to be able to go? I'm supposed to pick Scott up at the game tonight.”
“I'll check.” He came back a few minutes later to say I could leave, and added, “We found that student teacher. She looks pretty bad. She was pretty uncommunicative, but I'm sure she'll back up your story. You shouldn't have to worry about the incident with the kid.”
I accepted his reassurances and left.
Because of the bloodstains, the police had confiscated my shirt, so I had to stop at home for a new one. I took an extra pain pill to deaden the throbbing in my arm. In my gleaming black four-wheel-drive truck, I opened the window and steadied my arm on the opening.
A few minutes later I was on I-80, heading toward I-57 and the Dan Ryan Expressway. I'd called ahead to the ballpark to make sure my ticket was still saved. Fortunately, what with all the folderol of the last game of the season, they'd started late. I arrived in time for the eighth and ninth innings.
The pecking order for tickets was the same as it is in many major-league teams. The wife of the starting pitcher got seat 1-A in the family section. Scott, not being attached to a woman, used to just give up his ticket. As the years of our relationship went on and he became less closeted, he'd simply give me the ticket. The only problem was that I could rarely get to the games because of my own busy schedule. I like to see him pitch at least four or five times a year. It's fun watching him out on the mound in his tight pants, fantasizing about all the things I'd done or planned to do with his body in our bed. My semiregular presence in the family section caused barely a ripple among the relatives and friends. Scott's teammates liked him and he was popular among the wives. Even when he started giving
away seats to people with AIDS who wanted to attend games, it wasn't a hassle.
I settled into my seat, saw him notice me as he entered the dugout after the bottom of the eighth. In fairly typical Chicago tradition, the team managed to blow the lead in the ninth, and Scott lost the game. This was the first time in five seasons he hadn't won twenty games.
I waited in my truck outside the ballpark. Scott was one of the last players to walk out of the clubhouse. Kids and adults swarmed around him for autographs even at this late hour. Patiently he signed every program and slip of paper. As one of the few stars in a championship-starved town, he was immensely popular. Finally, he made his way to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door, and plopped himself onto the seat. He wore khaki bermuda shorts that clung to his slender waist and hips, along with a plain white T-shirt over his muscular frame.
“Where were you until the eighth inning?” Scott asked. “I got a little worried.”
I told him the story on the way to Ann Sather's Restaurant on Belmont. When I finished, I glanced over at him, then back to the road. In a gesture I knew well, he used his left hand to knead the muscles of his right shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“It's still not real to me yet. I've never been accused of murder before.” Over dinner we talked of possible explanations and suspects. We managed the meal without Scott being recognized, an accomplishment in itself. Sometimes we can dine out in total anonymity, and other times we've had to flee from overzealous fans. It seems to be the luck of the moment that determines his recognizability.
I drove to his place. He owns a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive. Once there, we performed our postgame ritual. Every time he pitched in Chicago, we went back to his place and had a postmortem so he could depressurize. Lying on the floor, our backs against a white leather couch, we'd talk about the game, pitches he should or shouldn't
have made. We wore similar outfits: white jockey shorts and athletic socks.
Tonight we talked mostly about the events at school. He was equally concerned about the Bluefield incident as he was about the murder. As I told him about it, my feelings of guilt returned.
We continued the discussion as we performed the next stage of the post-game ritual on the couch we'd been leaning against. He lay on his stomach while I straddled his torso. Normally, for half an hour I would gently massage all the muscles in his body, spending at least fifteen minutes ministering to his right shoulder. Then we'd have wild hot sex with only the lights from the city below illuminating the room. Afterward we'd have cookies and milk in the breakfast nook, which looked out over Lake Michigan. Sometimes these evenings didn't end until past three or four in the morning.
Tonight, becuase of my arm, we had to make do with the sex and Oreo cookies and milk. Scott still pulls the cookies apart to lick the middle off before eating the rest. We kept talking about the murder.
Halfway through he said, “You seem pretty calm about the whole situation.”
“I know I didn't do it, and I assume they'll find some evidence of whoever did.”
“But according to you, the guy didn't have a lot of enemies. It could be anybody, including the Bluefield kid. I can't believe others haven't seen through him.”
“Thanks for your faith in my insights. The kid is clever, but I don't see him murdering Jones. The principal was his friend. Jones didn't have a lot of enemies I know about, certainly no one I would consider a murderer. But you're right, it could be anybody.”
“So, the police could try and save themselves a lot of hassle and just pick you. No more investigation, and a murder solved.”
“Frank Murphy won't let them get away with that.”
“Look, lover, I wouldn't put too much faith in Frank's
friendship. This is murder. They'll want somebody and quickly.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Are they going to let you teach tomorrow?”
“Why shouldn't they?”
“Earth to Tom: You are a suspect in a murder investigation. So you're hardly someone they'd let be in front of a classroom, are you?”
“Innocent until proven guilty—at least on this part of the planet. Besides, the superintendent didn't say anything to me. I don't think she'd try to stop me.”
He shook his head. For the moment I just didn't think I had that much to worry about. We finished our dessert without coming up with any solutions.
Later, in bed, he lay with his arms around me, snuggled close. I listened to the hum of the digital clock on the nightstand next to the bed, heard his breathing, felt the down on his chest against my back.
I found I couldn't sleep. It wasn't the sight of the knife sticking out of Jones's back that kept running through my mind, although that was part of it. The incident with Bluefield replayed itself over and over. I felt monumentally guilty and depressed. I heard Scott's breathing become regular and even. I moved away. I tossed and turned, refusing to look at the clock to see how late it was. I felt myself coiled and ready to spring.
Very little can waken Scott, but when I'm restless and unable to sleep, somehow he senses it. It seemed like hours later when he murmured, “Something's still bothering you.”
I mumbled that I was okay.
He turned on the light on his side of the bed. I flinched from the brightness. I turned over and saw him sitting up.
“Want to talk about it?” he said.
“What ‘it'?”
“You're tense enough to wake me up. You're ready to explode. Tell me I'm wrong.”
“I'm not ready to explode,” I said. “It's just …” I got up,
picked up a pair of my jeans from the floor, and pulled them on. I walked to the windows and looked down on the cars still streaming by on Lake Shore Drive this late at night.
I turned back to him. He sat up in the bed, knees raised, one hand draped on each. The blankets still covered him to his stomach. His blue eyes caught mine, but he said nothing. The man is a master at waiting for me to say something.
I turned the rocking chair next to the window to face him and eased into it.
“I wanted to hurt that boy.”
He nodded.
“I wanted Bluefield to never taunt another teacher again. I wanted to make sure he'd never harass another fellow human being. I wanted him to feel enough pain to change his fucked-up life.”
Scott watched me carefully.
“I wanted to make up for every bit of frustration he's caused me. I wanted him to know that I was a mean tough powerful bastard who he'd better never fuck with. I wanted him to know what revenge feels like.”
Scott's eyes bored into mine.
“I feel like shit. I lost control with a student. I hurt a kid and I feel enormous guilt, and I'm angry at myself for feeling the guilt. I had no business trying to hurt the kid, and that's what I was trying to do once I got the knife away from him. Hurt him and cause pain. And it felt good to hit him. I thought, This is for every teacher everywhere who is made to suffer because of rotten kids. I enjoyed it and I feel guilt about enjoying it.” I sighed and repeated, “I feel like shit. On top of all that, it's the last game of the season. We haven't talked about it for more than two minutes and I know how difficult this time can be for you.”
For two or three days after the season ends Scott usually goes into a minor depression. He goes from a world of huge crowds, center stage, and racing adrenaline to one of relative calm and placidity, and it takes him a while to
adjust. To help his reentry to a more staid life-style, we go to a cabin on the shores of Lake Superior for a weekend so he can totally depressurize. I looked forward to those days with him.
Silence lengthened between us. He gazed at me quietly. Finally, I said, “Say something.”
He said, “I'm waiting for you to get to the part you need to feel guilt about.”
“I told you …”
“I listened carefully to all you've said.” His soft voice thrummed. I could hear the traces of his Southern drawl. “You're honest with yourself. You understand yourself. You wish you could make go away a lot of the things that happened today.”
I nodded.
“And I wish I could take them away for you,” he said. “And maybe you saw parts of yourself that you don't like, or wish were different. I listened to a man who I've seen sacrifice himself for kids for the ten years I've known him. Who I've seen do more than any twenty teachers put together to help troubled and despairing children and families. I think you reacted to a threatening situation in an appropriate way. You wish there was another way to have handled the situation?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And what would that have been?” he asked.
“I should have been able to stop him some other way,” I whispered.
“You're being stubborn,” Scott said, “and you're not listening to me.”
I folded my arms over my chest, stared out the window at the velvet night over Chicago, and said through clenched teeth, “I am not being stubborn.”
“Look,” Scott began reasonably. “It's late. You've got school tomorrow, and you need to let yourself off the hook. I think you need to be a little more honest and fair about what happened.”
He got out of bed, grabbed a pair of jeans from the
closet, tugged them on, and came over to me. He sat on the ottoman next to the rocker, took my hand, and said, “There wasn't anything else you could have done. You lost control. So what? The first time in eighteen years. You can punish yourself for that if you want. If you need to feel guilt, go ahead, but I know I love you as much today as I did yesterday. That you're the same kind, gentle man I knew then. You're human, with faults—but I already knew that.” He smiled. I felt the tug of a grin at the corners of my mouth.
“As for talking about the game, you're more important to me than any other person or thing in this world, and I know we'll have time together in the cabin in a week and a half.”
We crawled back into bed.
“Thanks,” I murmured as I drifted off to sleep.
 
The next day at school was chaos unlimited. At seven-thirty, before they let the kids in the building, we had a full staff-and-faculty meeting with a crisis team. Nowadays, when a member of a school community dies, a crisis team is brought in. This is a group of psychologists, therapists, social workers, and others who are trained in handling emotional upheavals. They travel from school to school bringing their expertise with them.
At the meeting Donna Dalrymple glared daggers in my direction. Kurt Campbell, the union president, and Meg sat on either side of me. As Scott had that morning, they asked if I felt okay enough to be at school. I told them I was fine.
The crisis team informed us that we should try to hold our classes in a normal fashion, to speak about the death if kids brought it up, and that any student who showed signs of stress should be sent to them immediately. They had taken over two classrooms in the old section for conferences with individual students too upset to attend classes.
Carolyn Blackburn, the superintendent, caught up with
me in the hallway after the meeting. Kurt materialized at my elbow.
Carolyn looked annoyed. She said, “I need to speak with Mr. Mason.”
Kurt said, “I think a union representative should be present.”
She frowned at him, but didn't comment. She led the way to the office next to Jones's, where she sat behind a cheap metal desk. We took plastic-cushioned chairs in front of her. Carolyn had until recently been the principal of Grover Cleveland, and was one of the few administrators I almost trusted.

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