by Alan Lee
“No comment. Just in case. But tell me this. What big crime do you think he committed? Forget about me for a sec. Is there something else?”
Cars raced by on Brambleton fast enough for the slipstream to rock his truck.
Kelly Carson seemed talky for a woman who didn’t want to say anything. Like she was leading him to an answer but she’d hang up if he stepped wrong.
He said, “In my head, there’s a bunch of…not lesser crimes, but crimes society is willing to look beyond. But they all matter, Ms. Carson. People are getting hurt. Multiple people. And it adds up to…to something that should change.”
“Who is getting hurt? Do you know?”
“He’s making unwanted advances on my colleague. He’s threatening someone else’s career. He beats his kids. He hurt you.”
“That’s all you know? You’re describing most white oppressive assholes in our country,” she said.
“He molests children. Or at least one child. That in itself is enough.”
“He does a lot more than that, Dan. You didn’t research thoroughly enough.”
A shock to his system, like mild electrocution. “What else is there?”
“I’m not talking about this, remember?”
“Ms. Carson, you just told me—”
“Modern Monsters.”
“What?”
“The Modern Monsters podcast. Look it up before you decide to stick your neck out. That’s a trip down a fucking rabbit hole you might not come out of.”
Jennings repeated the name under his breath. And again so he’d remember it. Modern Monsters.
“I’m not making any accusations, hear me, Dan? We’re just chatting. You can’t use any of this against me, and I’m only letting it slip because you’re being respectful. And there’s one more thing. Find Kabir Patel.”
“Who is Kabir Patel?”
“It probably won’t do you much good. You can try. Good luck, hot history teacher. Please don’t call me again. I suffered enough for my sonofabitch step-father.”
She hung up.
Jennings’ truck didn’t move for the next hour and he eventually turned the engine off to save gas.
He surfed on his phone.
Modern Monsters was a podcast that ran for nine months, one episode per month, detailing sordid crimes that were unsolved or ‘inappropriately’ solved, calling attention to miscarriages of justice or corruption in law enforcement. Listeners also enjoyed Serial and the Casefile True Crime podcast. After only nine episodes, Modern Monsters had eight thousand positive ratings. The episodes ended abruptly three years ago. None of the episodes were about Peter Lynch or Kelly Carson.
The creator of Modern Monsters was a man named Donald Blair. He lived in upstate New York in a town called Plattsburgh and he was missing. His disappearance had been exhaustively covered by Press Republican, the newspaper in Plattsburgh. Blair vanished without a trace soon after the ninth episode of his podcast had been released. A website was built and dedicated to tracking him down, along with a GoFundMe to raise money for private detectives, but there’d been no activity on the website for over a year.
Modern Monsters and Donald Blair.
A rabbit hole you might not come out of.
Kabir Patel was easier to find. He was a journalist and his name was attached to some of the articles about Peter Lynch that had been deleted. By clicking enough, Jennings could find the journalist’s name but not the text. Kabir Patel was now writing for a newspaper in Richmond.
Jennings wrote the man an email from an old burner account.
Mr. Patel, I’m curious why many of your articles on Peter Lynch are no longer online? That’s a story that should be more thoroughly documented, isn’t it?
He clicked send without using his name and immediately after his phone blinked off, battery exhausted.
Jennings glanced around, experiencing the sensation that Peter Lynch could be leering at him through the window. But he was alone. He started the engine and the dash clock informed him he’d missed dinner at the dining hall, so he went for Chipotle.
He returned to the dormitory carrying the bag of hot food. The dark Academy walkways were dotted with landscaping lanterns. Despite the chill, boys played three-on-three basketball on the lighted outdoor court. Most students watched movies or played video games in their rooms.
Jennings unlocked his door and went in.
No warm air greeted him. His suite was cold, the same temperature as outside. He forgot to set the thermostat?
Clicked on the lights.
His bedroom window was smashed, letting in the atmosphere through the jagged wound. Dammit. Shards of glass glinted on his bed. He stepped closer and kicked something with his shoe.
Jennings set down his food, feeling ill.
He’d kicked a brick. On one side of the brick, a note was attached. On the other side was a dead animal. Both the note and the animal were held in place with rubber bands.
He nudged the grisly thing with his toe. The squirrel’s neck and skull looked crushed, like it’d been stomped to death. Jennings fetched two trash bags from the kitchen and used them as makeshift gloves to detach the squirrel, still fresh. Bulging eyes watched him do it. He sealed the carcass inside a bag and washed his hands.
He pinched the note’s edges with his fingertips to open and read it.
I saw you at the football game.
Standing with the lonely and lovely Ms. Hathaway.
She does NOT belong to YOU, Staff Sergeant
Time to find a new career, DANIEL, or you CAN GO TO HELL.
No signature. The note was penned in blocky handwriting. By the end, the letters were slashes and hard to read, like the author grew more and more agitated as he wrote.
Lonely and lovely Ms. Hathaway.
Daniel.
Peter Lynch threw a dead animal through my window to warn me away from Daisy Hathaway. Good grief.
The man was insane.
Jennings laid down the note, carefully. The author would have left fingerprints.
Do you believe in evil, Dan? Is a person evil?
Craig Lewis in his ear. He’d been warned.
He returned to his truck. He looked in every direction to ensure he was alone and he reached into the rear of the cab for the bag. He ran back and closed the door to his suite.
He set his grandfather’s shotgun, the Browning, in the corner. Unloaded, still zipped up. Two boxes of shells—one box of target loads, one box of 00 buckshot for hunting—he put into his sock drawer. As soon as he cleaned up the glass shards he’d decide where to stow the weapon. A shotgun on campus wasn’t ideal. But Jennings wanted to play it safe.
He’d attracted the attention of a madman.
12
A maintenance crew measured Jennings’ window the next morning while he reviewed camera footage in the security office.
The Academy had cameras aimed at each building and parking lot. Sitting in the glow of five screens, Jennings scrolled backwards in time until dusk fell yesterday evening. He located his dorm, Moffett Hall. He didn’t understand the software well enough to transfer that camera feed to the largest monitor so he leaned in and clicked 4x speed.
What would Lynch have done if I’d been home? Did he know I was out?
At 7:15, Jennings spotted the prowler. He rewound and watched again from all angles but couldn’t determine from where the guy had arrived. The vandal hadn’t walked from a campus parking lot, that was obvious. Was it Lynch? A big guy. But it could have been any big guy. The lighting wasn’t good.
The prowler crept to Jennings’ window. Looked like he was dressed head to toe in black, including gloves. Maybe a beard? Maybe not. He threw the brick sidearm but the window held. It took him twice. Jennings leaned in further, watching the second throw. The vandal ran. Jennings searched every monitor but the guy vanished. He watched it again and made a note of the exact time.
That might be Peter Lynch.
Or it might be Benji Lynch obeying orders.
Slipping back to his dorm, Humphries Hall.
Jennings would report his findings to Dean Gordon but nothing here was conclusive—he wouldn’t mention the note or squirrel, not yet. He wasn’t ready for that firefight. He slumped backward in the swivel chair and checked his iPhone.
A message waited in his old email account. A message from Kabir Patel.
Tell me who you are and perhaps I’d be willing to discuss my articles over a phone call.
-Kabir
Jennings’ skin prickled. Kabir needed to vet him first. Everyone was terrified they were walking into a trap. That fear had a source.
He returned to his suite. The maintenance crew was gone, having replaced his makeshift cardboard window covering with a wooden plank. They left him a note—the new window should arrive Wednesday.
Jennings opened his laptop and replied to Kabir Patel.
Mr. Patel, my name is Dan Jennings. I teach history at the Valley Academy. Benji Lynch is one of my students. I was given your name from a reliable source and I understand your need for discretion. For various reasons, I’m looking for information on Peter Lynch and on Modern Monsters. I’m happy to chat by phone at your convenience.
Jennings listed his phone number and sent the email.
The sheet of plywood over his window blocked out the sunlight in his bedroom. He sat looking at it a long time, and at the brick beneath it, and at the note pinned beneath the brick.
13
As students filed out of Jennings’ classroom Monday afternoon, Dean Gordon walked in.
Gordon looked great on television. He had the gray hair and wise face of a winning politician, good for fund-raising. Today he looked tired.
“Good day, Mr. Jennings?”
“Yessir, they usually are.”
“Glad to hear it. Come step outside with me.”
“Sure.” Jennings felt less of the nerves most instructors did around an almighty head of school. He was inured from the military. The hallway was vacating quickly as they walked through.
“How did Benji look today?” said Gordon.
“He’s somber. Benji’s never been chatty but today he looked like he was carrying extra weight. Wouldn’t look at me during class.”
“That young man has a lot on his mind, I expect.” Gordon reached the exterior doors first and held them for Jennings.
“Everything okay, sir?”
“I have some bad news, Mr. Jennings, and I thought you’d like to see it yourself. Your truck was vandalized last night.”
The Tacoma’s windshield was splintered and the driver’s window entirely shattered. The letters RIP were spray painted in bright red across the passenger side. The seats were slashed, probably by a knife.
Some fear and anger churned in Jennings. He didn’t say it but he was glad he’d removed the shotgun.
“It was reported during lunch. No one saw it this morning. First your window, now this. A crummy few days, Mr. Jennings.” Dean Gordon’s voice sounded commiserative, soldiers discussing wounds. “My car was vandalized once. Unfortunately it comes with the job if you anger enough students.”
This wasn’t because I angered a student, Dean.
“I viewed the security footage already. You’re welcome to do the same. It happened this morning around four. I can’t determine the culprit from the silhouette. Big guy, whoever it was. My eyeballs say he’s the same person who broke your dorm window. Do you have any educated guesses?”
Jennings didn’t answer. He was angered by the rips in his car seat, ugly cuts.
“I reviewed the logs from last night,” continued Gordon, referring to the dorm locks. After lockdown, students couldn’t get in or out without using their electronic keycard. “The doors weren’t opened. Which makes me think it wasn’t a boarding student.”
“It wasn’t a student.”
“You know that definitively?”
“Did you call the police already?” said Jennings.
“They’ll be here soon. Plus a tow. You have insurance, I assume, as does the school. You won’t pay a dime.”
“I’ll talk to the police about this. And fill you in as soon as I can.”
“You can talk to the police but not me?”
“That’s right, not yet.”
Gordon was taken back. It was his job to know and he didn’t. Gordon regarded him, hands in pockets, and Jennings quickly felt like a student who’d broken a rule. The man was good at silence.
Then, “Mr. Jennings, I hesitate to pry into your private affairs. But are you in some trouble? Perhaps I can help.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m able. And I say that with all due respect.”
“The two attacks strike me as personal.”
“They’re school related.”
“Hell, Mr. Jennings, I should—”
“You should trust me.” A pause and Jennings wondered how quickly the titans would find out about this, whether or not he confided his suspicions with Gordon. The dean of a school was beholden to his board of trustees, but was he also terrified of them? Completely in their pocket? Lynch had broken the rules by playing dirty, by sneaking around in the dark. He hadn’t gone to the trustees so Jennings wouldn’t either. If Jennings tried to drag the thing into the light, he might get fired more quickly. “You have responsibilities and obligations that I don’t. As soon as I can, Mr. Gordon.”
“Mr. Jennings. I’m at a loss.”
A police cruiser pulled into the lot and parked.
Dean Gordon shook the officer’s hand and introduced himself and outlined what he’d learned from the security footage. While they talked, Jennings opened the glove compartment of the Tacoma and withdrew his insurance card. Snagged his dog tags too. He called his local agent and requested a rental as a crowd formed. He existed in the miserable scrutiny of a microscope, the faculty and students watching, wondering what was wrong with him.
His phone buzzed as soon as he hung up with his USAA agent. Coach Murray calling.
“I heard about your truck, Jennings. You make enemies real damn fast,” Murray said into his ear.
“So did Genghis Khan. I’m in good company.”
“You need a lift?”
“I’ll figure it out. Aren’t you at practice?”
Murray chuckled. “You didn’t hear? The titans are calling for me to get sacked. So Dean Gordon says.”
Jennings cast an eye at Gordon, chatting with the officer. He strolled to the far side of his truck, out of ear shot.
“That’s garbage. Our team won. We’re headed to the championship. You don’t fire the winning general.”
“White guys get their feelings hurt quick. Gordon said I should sit out one day to appease the powers that be while he investigates. To make the rich guys happy, he means.”
“Probably only one rich guy. One rich hairy white guy, whose son got benched. Same guy breaking my windows.”
“You think it’s Sasquatch? I mean, Lynch?”
“He left me a note, Murray. It was unsigned but he gave me clues. He knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Knows I’m after his ass,” said Jennings.
“You gonna get fired, is what you gonna do.”
He grinned. “So are you.”
“Maybe but I ain’t running straight at it.”
“Lynch will make sure I’m not here next year, if I even last that long. So I’ll head him off at the pass. I’m talking to the police about it in a minute.”
“Shit. Jennings… Sure you don’t need a lift? Or some damn common sense?”
“I gotta go.”
He hung up and Officer Thornton came to take his statement. His clipboard and pen ready.
“Dan Jennings? Tell me what you can.”
Jennings said, “I’d like to make my statement at your office. At the police department.”
Thornton was his age, still arrogant about the shield and the power. “That’s a new one. Why’s that?”
“Because it’s complicated.”
&n
bsp; The tow truck arrived and Dean Gordon used his radio to call for faculty cars to be moved.
Officer Thornton said, “Well, I guess that’s fine. It’s up on Cove Road, you know.”
“Need a ride, Mr. Jennings?” said Daisy Hathaway. She’d arrived at the parking lot.
“That’s okay, I’ll figure something out.”
“Would it make you feel better if you drove my car? Is it a guy thing?”
“Thanks, but…” Jennings paused. Daisy smiling and hitching her bag higher. Officer Thornton whistling softly under his breath. “Yes ma’am, I need a ride. But you can drive.”
14
Daisy’s Lexus convertible was kept neat, as Jennings knew it would be. The atmosphere they occupied smelled like lotion and perfume, and Jennings stressed he was ruining it.
She drove like a wild woman, a thin cross pendant swinging from her mirror.
“I’m telling the police about Lynch,” he said.
Her grip tightened on the wheel. “What exactly?”
“That he threatened my job. That I was told he beats his children and Benji confirmed it. That he broke my window and vandalized my truck.”
“Can you prove any of that?”
Jennings held up the letter that’d been packaged around the brick. “I hope.”
“What is it?” She eyed it like it could bite.
“He wrote me a note. He didn’t sign it but I’m hoping for fingerprints.”
“Read it to me?”
He did and his face grew hot.
She does NOT belong to YOU, Staff Sergeant.
“That creep was watching us at the game! What the hell is wrong with him? It’s not like we were touching or making out.”
“You should be flattered. He’s rich and seems genuinely interested in you.”
She hit him in the shoulder, like she’d done at the game, and the car swerved.
“That’s not funny.”
“Yes ma’am. I mean, yes Ms. Hathaway.”
“Daisy. I’ll talk to the police too. He mentions me in the note. Ew. I’ll tell them how he hits on me, propositions me.”