1 Per Cent Murders

by T W Morse

  “I’ll give you my keys, and I’ll sit in the car!” Bob adds. Meanwhile the Prius is being blanketed with huge raindrops, and claps of thunder echo in the distance.

  “If I get caught with your keys, it doesn’t matter where you are, you will be implicated along with me in the breakin. And it’s not a breakin if we use keys. Also, I don’t know the combination to the alarm system,” I add, hoping he would fall for the lie. “Come on, buddy. I’ll buy you a six pack of your favorite beer.”

  “Mmm, mmh,” Bob grunts. “Okay, okay. In and out, right?”

  “In and out — I promise.”

  We quickly vacate the Prius and speed walk in the rain that was starting to lessen, making our way to the front door of Mangrove High, hardly incognito with Bob’s bright yellow tracksuit. It could probably be seen from space. We can see the deputies’ cars, but they are about a hundred or so yards away. Bob pulls out a huge key chain from his tracksuit.

  “What are you, a custodian?” I chide.

  “It’s called being a big dealio,” Bob quips as he hums the Mission: Impossible theme song.

  We hide in the front entrance of Mangrove. Large bushes block the view of the deputies off in the distance as Bob flips through his keys, frustratingly slow.

  Something just pops into my mind all of a sudden, like lightning striking in my brain. I move my hand to my temple in a brainstorm gesture. “Bob, do you have a key to the mechanical room off of the gymnasium?”

  “Dude. I got key to every door.” As soon as Bob says it, he freezes. “I won’t be a suspect, will I?”

  “Bob, you were coaching in front of hundreds of people. But who knows that you have all of the school’s keys?”

  “It’s not like I go around bragging about it!” He moves his head in a fast counter-clockwise motion, giving me attitude. I know full well that Bob is a huge bragger.

  “Do you have that key now?”

  Bob carefully examines his chain, looking at each key, telling me the purpose of each, “This one opens the locker rooms, this one the front door, oh this one opens my office.” He did this for about twelve different keys, never mentioning the key for the mechanical room.

  “Bob! You never mentioned the mechanical room key!”

  He nervously looks at his keychain again. He goes through them again and again. “Logan, it’s — it’s — it's not here! Does that mean the murderer has my key?” Bob says gulping.

  “I don’t know, buddy, but we need to report this to Detective Brute. He’s in charge of Mr. Wright's murder investigation. Bob, do you know who else has keys to the mechanical room? You know that the detective is probably already asking that question to Mr. Barron.”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. I don’t think too many. The custodian, Pedro; Principal Barron, of course; and definitely Jose.” Bob was referring to our friend Deputy Jose Diaz.

  “Would anybody else in the office have one? Like the new assistant principal?”

  “Nah. Not a key to HVAC. They don’t like giving those out. I only got one because I have to sometimes go in and mess with the A/C during after-school practices or weekend events. The gymnasium’s temperature is finicky,” Bob adds before opening the front door and quickly disarming the alarm.

  We briskly walk the dark corridor to the office, not wasting any time. The halls are empty, but the darkness quickly fades as the sun shines through the skylight.

  We get to the office door; Bob fumbles through his keys again, trying what he thought was the correct one, but it doesn’t work. I gesture with my hands to move it along, but he only nods his big head up and down.

  “Ah hah! This is the right one!” he shouts as I hiss, “BE QUIET!” through my teeth, just like Mrs. Ryan, media specialist. Back when I was in school, she would have been called a librarian, but since students rarely use books anymore, instead relying on garbage they find on the internet, the term has been changed to “media specialist.”

  When we finally get through the office door, Bob once again has to key in the code to another alarm. “How do you know the codes?” I whisper.

  “Barron gave them to me last year. When I have Saturday practice or when we have late night practices, I sometimes need to use the walkie talkies to contact the bus drivers or the phones to call parents,” Bob whispers back loudly.

  I quickly make for the giant gray filing cabinet between the office doors of Principal Barron and Deputy Diaz. This office usually has bus scanners blaring, loud typing, and whining teenagers. Having no noise is disconcerting. I grab two paper clips off of Mrs. Simmons’s desk, bending them into the lock picks I need to get into Mangrove’s personnel files.

  “Logan, where you learn to do that?” Bob asks as I am laying the paper clips over each other and attempting to persuade the locking pins to open.

  “YouTube, now go out in the hallway and be a lookout?” I respond as the lock pops and I open the cabinet drawer. I skim fast now to the B’s and find Barron’s personal file, pulling it out to take pictures of each page, while trying to skim for anything important as I quickly turn each page.

  I read Barron’s resume, learning that prior to becoming a principal he worked as a science teacher here at Mangrove for fifteen years. Prior to teaching, it states that Barron worked as a pilot.

  “A pilot?!” I blurt out softly.

  He also listed a GG&W law firm as one of his references, along with a professor from Rutgers University where he went to school, and another pilot from Somerset Airport. I quickly finish snapping pictures. I am just about to finish and close the file cabinet when I get an idea. I quickly flip through all the files again. Flipping to the C’s, I find Mary Clifton’s file. I don’t know why I suspect her; she seems clingy, but harmless. Her file is very thin since she’s had no observations conducted. In it I find her application, resume and references. I quickly snap pictures of each page, reading as I snap. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  All of a sudden, I hear, “pst, pst,” from Bob who’s standing in the office door.

  I quickly close the file cabinet drawer and rush over to him. He points silently up the staircase. We can both see flashlights bobbing around and low voices. I grab Bob’s arm and point to my classroom. We close the office door behind us and dash for my classroom, across the hall by the end of the massive staircase. I pull out my key, quickly putting it in the lock as the voices grow louder as they approach the stairway. I move faster before they catch us in the act of sneaking around. I crack my door open, allowing Bob to squeeze through, and I follow behind, gently closing the door behind us just as the voices descend the staircase.

  Bob and I are both panting now, completely out of breath as we tuck below the window in my classroom door, crouching in pure fear of being caught. I hold a finger to my lips as a flashlight penetrates the window of my classroom door. I look at Bob, who has sweat running down his forehead. We hold in our position, frozen for what seems like an eternity.

  The voices can now be heard clearly as they make their way towards the office after passing my classroom. I recognize one of the voices as Detective Brute, slowly speaking his Deep Southern drawl. The other voice is our good buddy Deputy Diaz.

  Detective Brute says, “Someone at this school - murdered Mr. Wright - I know it.”

  “No way, Detective! Good people work here. I can’t imagine anyone here committing murder,” Deputy Diaz retorts.

  “No imagination - Diaz! That is why-you’re a deputy - and I’m a detective! You have - no - imagination.”

  I roll my eyes at the last comment. So, Brute thinks it was an inside job, too. He may be smarter than he looks; he’s still an ass though. They are both searching the school methodically, trying all the doors. Hopefully they won’t get an idea to come in here. It doesn’t get more incriminating than Bob and I hiding in a classroom on a Sunday afternoon.

  We hear them try the office door and then move down the corridor to the science wing. I wait a couple of minutes more, draw in a big breath, say, “You ready?” to Bo
b, and we are out of my classroom in a dash sprint for the front door. I’ve never seen Bob run so fast. His banana tracksuit would make the whole situation comical if we weren’t running for our freedom. We bolt through the door and rearm the alarm. We then look down the long length of the building, making sure the coast is clear. We wait a few seconds before we start our sprint for the Prius, beeping to unlock with my key fob as I run.

  I start the silent engine of the little car, putting it in drive and heading out of my parking space for the exit gate.

  “We made it!” Bob prematurely bellows.

  As soon as he speaks, we see a deputy squad car at the gate, directing us to pull over.

  The deputy talks into his walkie talkie as I explain to him that Bob and I teach here, and I wanted to grab some of my students’ papers to grade.

  He nods in disbelief rasping, “Y'all are goin’ to have to wait for Detective Brute.”

  Bob’s leg starts to shake uncontrollably and his face starts to twitch. “Logan — I can't go to jail!” he hisses in my ear, spraying me with his spit. “Do you know what would happen to me in prison?” Bob squeaks.

  “Be cool, Bob,” I hiss back.

  Several minutes later, Detective Brute and Deputy Diaz pull over to us, rolling down the passenger side window and speaking loudly between both cars.

  “Mr. A - dair!” Brute drawls condescendingly. “My - my this is a - pleasure. Who's your - little friend?”

  I think to myself that Bob has probably never been called little in his life. He’s probably thinking this is more of a compliment.

  “I’m, um, Bob Nelson, the basketball coach and gym teacher,” Bob answers nervously.

  “Yeah, we were just trying to get into my classroom. I’ve got some papers to grade.”

  “Really? On - Sunday?” Brute says unconvinced.

  I hit the palm of my hand to my forehead. “I can be quite the absent-minded professor sometimes.”

  “I can vouch for these guys; they’re good people,” Deputy Diaz adds to the conversation, while Detective Brute shoots him a disapproving look.

  “Have you found any connection between Principal Barron and Donald Wright?” I ask quickly, trying to change the subject from.

  “Is there one?” Brute asks, puzzled.

  “I’m not a detective, but I believe they must have had a connection if they were getting in shouting matches the day before Wright turns up murdered. Something is going on there. Something maybe from Barron’s past. Don’t you think?” I respond.

  “Mr. A - dair, why don’t you keep policing - to the police - run along - go sharpen your pencils,” Brute says grinding his teeth as he rolls up the window and drives back to the school. The other deputy at the gate waves us forward, and the Prius is free.

  “Damn, Logan. That was close! I don’t want to do that again. Didn’t you want me to tell the detective about my lost key?”

  “Not yet. We’ll hang on to that one for now. It was all good! Like I said,” I say, smiling at Bob. Bob shakes his head in disbelief; we both know that did not go as planned. “Dinner at my house? I’m making spaghetti and meatballs! Hannah is coming over, too,” I add, smiling.

  “Dude, you know that’s right!”

  CHAPTER 24

  - ULYSSES -

  IT'S A MEATBALL CONCERT

  “H

  ey, Dad! What’s up, Mr. Nelson?” I say as Hannah and I squeeze into the back of the Prius.

  “Ulysses, you and Hannah can call me Bob. We see enough of each other outside of school,” Bob says.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Nelson,” Hannah responds.

  “Yeah, we don’t want other students to think we’re receiving any favoritism,” I add.

  “I gotcha. I gotcha,” Mr. Nelson says as he turns back to us, giving me and Hannah fist bumps.

  “You guys have fun, hanging out at the cafe?” Dad asks.

  I look at Hannah nervously. Hannah returns the look. Dad must have seen one of our expressions because he knows something is amiss, right away.

  “Dad, you’re going to be pissed,” I explain nervously.

  “Why?” Dad curiously asks.

  Hannah interrupts, probably thinking Dad couldn’t be mad with her, easing the blame from me. “Mr. Adair, we went to the Gallant house. It wasn’t Ulysses’ fault. I convinced him! It was all my fault.”

  Hannah proceeds to relay our little adventure in its entirety to Dad and Mr. Nelson. Including everything from the mysterious holes and the guy dressed in black, to me swiping the picture that hung on the wall. She even includes the online article about the Gallant murder and how we thought we were being watched back at Penny University. Although we can’t corroborate this last part.

  Bob turns to Dad pursing his lips together, “O’Leary? Like math teacher O’Leary? Gallant? What they talkin’ about, Logan?”

  Dad reminds Bob of the fight between Wright and Barron that mentioned the name Gallant, and how Hannah overheard O’Leary was renovating an old house, previously owned by a Gallant family, making Principal Barron very interested in anything he found there.

  Dad’s explanation takes some of his initial anger away from me and Hannah.

  “Ulysses, you know better!” he says as his anger is redirected at me. “Why did you put yourself and Hannah in that danger? I’m disappointed!” Dad says, staring at us intensely through the rear-view mirror of the Prius.

  “Like father, like son,” Mr. Nelson jokes with his huge Jack O'lantern smile.

  “Bob!” Dad barks at him.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Nelson?” I ask as I look at Dad’s eyes and back at Hannah confused.

  “Well — Bob and I did some investigating work as well.”

  Hannah and I lean closer to the front seat as Dad relays his earlier adventure with Mr. Nelson at Mangrove High School, taking pictures of the personnel files and having to hide from Detective Brute.

  “Do as I say, not as I teach. Right, Dad?” I say sarcastically. Both Hannah’s and my eyebrows raise sternly, as Dad looks at us through the mirror.

  Dad coughs, clearing his throat before saying, “You’re right. I was wrong to judge. I just can’t lose you. I don’t like the idea of you creeping around, especially at your math teacher’s house!”

  “I know. But I think Mr. O’Leary had something to do with Mr. Wright’s murder. He wasn’t at the game last night. What’s his alibi? He’s connected somehow, maybe even working together with Mr. Barron,” I add.

  “What's with the dude digging holes in his yard?” Mr. Nelson adds. “That’s just messed up! You know?”

  “I’ll try and bring that up during our carpool tomorrow morning. I can tell him the truth. Hannah Reyes mentioned it to me yesterday, and she was concerned.”

  “So, we are going to team up then?” Hannah adds excitedly.

  “What do you mean?” Dad says.

  “It means, we’re going to investigate this mystery. We’ll find the connection between Terry and Jack’s frame job and the murder of Mr. Wright. We’ll also discover how the Gallant family and their house are connected to it all,” I say.

  “Wait a minute. We cannot investigate a murder. Bob and I could get fired, and you kids could get in harm's way. You already said someone was eavesdropping on you,” Dad cautions.

  “All of those mystery books we read are leading us to this path. We should do it for Conrad,” I add.

  “I’m sure the eavesdropping was all in our imagination. What could happen? Nobody knows we’d be investigating. Also, I don’t think Detective Brute is going to solve this,” Hannah says.

  “This is goin’ to end badly,” Bob sheepishly predicts.

  “Alright, we can do some investigating, but at the first sign of any danger we’ll take what we know to Detective Brute. Capeesh?”

  Hannah and I smile. “Capeesh, Dad.”

  “Capeesh, Mr. Adair.” Hannah smiles as we pull into home at River Creek. Our old sign is lit up with large flood lights.

  We fil
e out of the car, passing the Hernandezes’ apartment, hearing their crying baby as we ascend our stairwell. Hannah and I walk behind Mr. Nelson. I gesture her to check out his bright yellow tracksuit, and we both start giggling.

  “Hannah, you're going to love my spaghetti and meatballs!” Dad says as we walk over the threshold and Ortiz starts barking.

  “They are good! They’re the size of your fist; a meal on their own,” I add.

  “Ulysses, could you get Ortiz out and feed him, please?”

  Hannah had never been to our apartment before. Slowly taking in her surroundings, she examines every photo on the wall in wonderment, while I release Ortiz into the living area. Hannah is studying an old picture of Dad, Mom and me at the summit of Mount Washington while we were on vacation in New Hampshire.

  “She was very beautiful,” Hannah states solemnly.

  “We miss her a lot,” Dad adds.

  Their discussion is broken up when Ortiz finds Hannah, jumping up in greeting.

  “Oh, is this Ortiz?” She laughs. “You’re so adorable!” She proceeds to scratch his tummy, with his four paws straight in the air in pure enjoyment.

  “He likes you. He usually only allows the tummy scratch from me and Dad. I think Mr. Nelson is more of a cat person,” I say half whispering. I clasp the leash to Ortiz’s collar and Hannah and I take him for a walk, leaving Dad to start dinner and Mr. Nelson to start on his new six pack of beer.

  When we come back in from Ortiz’s walk, I quickly feed him and then join Hannah at our kitchen table. Mr. Nelson is catching up on sports, watching ESPN. Dad is busily creating his culinary masterpiece.

  “Dad, you mentioned you took some pictures of the files. Can I see them?”

  “I’m not sure if you two should be looking at your principal’s personnel file,” Dad says sternly.

  “How are we going to solve this then?”

  “Kid’s got a point, Logan,” Mr. Nelson chimes in from the couch between sips of beer.

  “Alright, here,” Dad says, passing his phone to me.

  Hannah moves her seat closer to mine as I wake his phone, find the picture app, and start to swipe to find them. We open to my cross-country victory, followed by a picture of Dad, Mr. Nelson, and Deputy Diaz all sweaty and happy after their adult league soccer match. We smile at this picture, and then swipe again, but our smiles disappear. Hannah gasps because we are looking at a picture of the dead body of Mr. Wright.