Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  He was nodding before I finished the sentence. Then the nod shifted to head shaking. “Hope Christian Academy,” he said slowly. “Came to be known as Hopeless High. Of course, it wasn’t a high school, but apparently whoever coined the phrase was big on alliteration. The sad part is, there was some truth to it. Too bad really, there were some good people there, especially early on. But academically there were problems. The staff and principal at the school were pretty fundamentalist, and they butted heads with Alberta Ed right from the beginning. Teaching creationism, circumventing most of modern science, minimal attention paid to the arts — pretty much what you’d expect. Then later there were some what you might call irregularities on the financial side. Some of the parent group and at least one of the administrators, a guy named Coyle — can’t recall his first name — were accused of misappropriating funds, maybe even skimming some for themselves.

  “Anyway, it all came crashing down. Coyle dis­appeared and so did some of the school’s more prominent families. Moved away en masse. I don’t think anyone was ever charged with anything, but it was a pretty dark time for the charter-school movement in this part of the world.”

  “You know anybody who worked there … teachers, administrators, anybody I could talk to?”

  He thought for a minute, picked up his coffee cup, but didn’t take a drink.

  “Yeah, a couple of people. Teachers. I didn’t know any of the administrators except for Coyle, and that was only through the media. Let’s see … Moira Chadwick, I met her a few times at conferences. Seemed like a pretty good gal. I tried to hire her a couple of years ago, but she was back in the public system, happy and doing well. Didn’t want to leave. Then there was a phys. ed. guy. I didn’t know him very well. Cooper something. Cooper Webb maybe or something like that, I’m not sure.”

  “He still around Calgary?”

  “I think so.… Weir, that was it, Cooper Weir. I don’t think he’s teaching anymore, but last I heard he was still around, doing something, I’m not sure what. I imagine a person could find him, though.”

  “What about Moira Chadwick? Any idea where I might find her?”

  “Last time I talked to her — when I was trying to get her to come here — she was teaching at Langevin.”

  Langevin Junior High School. About six blocks from my apartment. Trouble was, she would be away from the school for July and August.

  “Any idea where she might live?”

  Deckard’s brow knitted as he thought. At last he shook his head. “Sorry, Adam, I don’t think I ever knew that.”

  “You didn’t happen to keep her number around — after she declined the job offer?”

  Another head shake. “Sorry again. I really had no reason to hang on to it.”

  “No problem. Listen, you’ve been very helpful and I appreciate it. One last thing. Buckley-Rand Larmer was a student there.”

  “Mr. Right-Wing Radio? I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah. So you probably didn’t hear anything about him as a student.”

  “Can’t recall anything. I don’t think I heard of him at all until he got big on the radio.”

  I swallowed the last of my coffee and stood up. “Sorry, I have to run, but I’ve got a couple of appointments and, besides, you’ve got stuff I’m keeping you from doing.” Again I said, “I appreciate this, Richard.”

  “Hey, no problem, wish I could have been more helpful. And … uh … you can call me Rick. I got over that whole thing with the movie once I got through school.”

  I smiled and nodded. As I started toward the door, Deckard moved ahead of me to show me the way out. “So why the interest in Larmer? He do something dastardly as a student?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I’m researching a possible story, but he’s a hard guy to get a read on.”

  “Yeah. Listening to the guy, he sounds like someone who might’ve set fire to cats when he was a kid.”

  I gave Deckard my noncommittal smile.

  He suddenly looked aghast. “Damn, I shouldn’t have said that! I mean, you might be a fan or something. I didn’t mean to —”

  I held up my hands.

  “It’s okay, I’m not a fan. Trust me.”

  “Okay … uh, listen, Adam. There’s something I’ve been wanting to say. I … uh … I want you to know how sorry I was to hear about what happened to your wife. That must have been awful for you.”

  “It was pretty tough.”

  “Good that you got the person who set that fire. Hard to figure why someone —”

  I held out my hand. “Thanks again, Rick. Have a great summer and take care.”

  We shook hands and I headed out the door into a day that seemed that much hotter set against the air-conditioned building I’d just left.

  I slid into the Accord and pulled out my phone. Dialed up the Calgary phone book and stared at twenty-one Chadwicks, none of them Moira.

  “Hell, if this being a detective was easy, everybody’d be doing it,” I said out loud.

  It turned out to be easier than I’d anticipated. Sixth call, this one to G. and M. Chadwick, I struck gold. When I asked for Moira Chadwick, the pleasant-voiced woman who’d answered the phone said, “This is Moira. How can I help you?”

  I told her who I was and that I was hoping she might have a few minutes to talk about Hope Christian Academy to help me with some research I was doing for a possible story for the Calgary Herald. I’d found that throwing the Herald’s name out there often helped break the ice when I was cold-calling people.

  Except that Moira Chadwick did know me … or at least she said she knew of me. Which is maybe why she agreed to meet me at a Second Cup not far from her home. It was in Cedarbrae, a long but pretty easy drive from North Haven.

  We ended the call and I dialed Jill’s number and again got her machine. I thought about just dropping in — it was more or less on the way, or at least I could make it on the way, but I remembered what Jill had said about Kyla’s being embarrassed by the manifestations of whatever it was she had and decided against dropping by. I set the phone down and pulled out into next-to-no-traffic, planning to retrace my steps as far as McKnight to Crowchild and head south from there.

  I glanced at my rearview mirror as I moved away from the school, watched a small, dark-blue car — a Jetta — pull away from the curb maybe half a block back and fall in behind me. What was it someone said? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t after you … or words to that effect. Except there was no reason on earth for someone to be after me. I hadn’t dug up anything remotely meaty in my investigation of Larmer; in fact, “floundering” might best describe my efforts to date. So I turned my attention to Calgary’s all-sports radio station and drove on.

  At some point I realized my stomach and I were seriously at odds and decided to stop for a bagel. I exited Crowchild at 33rd Avenue and found a promising place in Marda Loop. The stop took three or four minutes at the most and I was back on the road, New York bagel and orange juice making their way toward the abused party.

  It was when I was pulling back onto Crowchild that I again noticed the Jetta. Pretty sure it was the same car, three vehicles behind me and one lane over. I set the bagel down and decided to see if I could determine if I was being followed. Hoping that my time with Cobb had taught me something, I eased my way into the right lane heading off onto Glenmore, connected to 14th Street West, and watched my rearview mirror. The Jetta moved one lane to the right but was still one over from me. I sped up, then braked hard, and made a sharp right turn into the entrance to Heritage Park. The Jetta sped by and I saw the driver’s head bobbing to music, only a shirt collar and toque visible. I was fairly sure it was a man, and he seemed to pay no attention to me.

  I tried to be the kind of observer Cobb had instructed me to be, but all I saw was a blue Jetta with a male driver. Not much. I decided I was paranoia personi
fied and rolled slowly back out onto 14th Street and completed my journey to the rendezvous point for my meeting with Moira Chadwick.

  Another coffee place, my third of the day, and it was just past noon. And next to no food so far. Half my bagel had found its way to the floor of the car, face down, courtesy of my evasive action to escape the following — or not following — Jetta. If I kept up my current caffeine-to-food ratio, I’d soon be reduced to a ninety-pound mass of vibrating urinary disease.

  She was already there when I walked in. She apparently recognized me — another byproduct of all that had happened the year before — and waved to me from a table near the back of the customer area. I waved back and, seeing she was already working on a drink, I headed for the counter, ordered a caffè latte and three butter tarts. I knew three tarts was saying to Moira, You can have one but I’m eating the other two, damn it, but I thought if I smiled a lot she might not recognize my urgent need for calories—a lot of calories.

  I joined her with the tarts in hand and waited to hear my name to announce the drink was ready. We shook hands and I thanked her for taking the time to chat with me.

  I liked her right off. She was mid-forties, with short brown hair, kind of a medium-plus build — unlike some, it seemed, she actually did take time to eat from time to time — and soft, friendly features that broke into a warm smile at the slightest provocation.

  “You’re doing me a favour.” She chuckled. “The first two weeks after school ends I usually park myself in front of the television, eat potato chips, and watch bad TV. So this is, as the kids like to say, epic.”

  I’d explained on the phone that I wanted to talk about Hope Christian Academy and she was apparently up for the task.

  “So what exactly did you want to know about Hopeless?” She chuckled again.

  “I just learned today about the nickname. How did it become known as Hopeless High?”

  “Just so many things went wrong, some of them stupid things. One year a teacher lost all of her class’s final math exams. Never, ever found them. Then there was the time we had two boys break their arms in the same basketball game. Even the same arm. Do you know what the odds are for that happening?”

  “Probably even higher than for a whole set of exams going AWOL.”

  She nodded and was about to continue when we heard my name called. I stood up. “Did you want anything else?”

  She shook her head. I retrieved my drink and settled back down opposite Moira.

  “Tart?” I asked, hoping the insincerity of my offer wasn’t too apparent.

  “Thank you,” she said and took what appeared to be the smallest of the three. I liked her even better at that moment.

  After one bite, she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and said, “We had a flood one year — broken pipes — and the furnace quit the next year. It was like the school was jinxed. But, of course, there were other more serious things that happened, which is why Hope Christian Academy is no more.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Eleven years. I came in the second year of the school’s operating and was there to the bitter end. And ‘bitter’ is the operative word in describing the end of the school’s life.”

  “Administrative issues?”

  “You heard about that.” She nodded, then sipped what I guessed was a tea of some kind.

  “There was a parents’ council, which was not unlike the parent-teacher groups in public schools. Except that this parents’ council had tremendous power — essentially ran the school, hired the principal and even some of the teachers, controlled all the finances. Things were okay for a while, actually for a number of years. Then a guy named Coyle, Milton Coyle, rose to the top of the parents’ council and things went sideways pretty fast. He had two kids in the school and he was an architect, or so he said. Not long after he took over the leadership, things began to go badly, lots of cutbacks, then paycheques were late, then still later, and we all knew it was just a matter of time.”

  Her cellphone buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse, looked at it, hit a button, and dropped it back in.

  “Sorry. Anyway, we stumbled our way through the last few months until June 2003. I think most of us knew it was over. And it was. They announced the school would be closing and everybody just scattered to the four winds. Some, like me, got other teaching jobs; some left education, went down different roads, and some I have no idea because they just disappeared. Including the charming Mr. Coyle and his family. I heard they went to Europe, but some people said Texas. If I were a gambler I’d bet Texas — Milton seemed a lot more Texan than European. And that’s it. Sorry if I rambled, but get me started about Hope Christian and it’s hard to get me stopped.”

  I let her catch her breath and take a couple of sips of tea. “I appreciate the overview,” I said after a couple of minutes. “That helps me. I’m wondering if you recall Buckley-Rand Larmer when he attended Hope.”

  “Ah, the famous voice. Of course I remember him. Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”

  “It is,” I admitted. “Are you okay with that?”

  She paused. “I think so.” She nodded with a half smile. “But you’re going to be disappointed.”

  ”In what way?”

  “If a journalist is asking about a celebrity’s student life, then clearly you’re hoping for something good, maybe juicy. I’m afraid I don’t have much of that for you. Nothing salacious … or even all that interesting, really.”

  “Did you teach him?”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. Had him for English one year and social the next. And you’re going to ask if I remember anything remarkable about him, and I’m afraid my answer’s no.”

  “What do you remember about him?”

  “Before I answer that, maybe you should tell me what exactly it is you want this information for.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough. You said you know me, so you may also know I’m a writer … a journalist. Freelance mostly. I’m thinking of writing a piece on Larmer and I’d like it to be in depth. A look at the past, the present, maybe even the future — will it be politics, a big TV gig on Fox News, who knows? The man is not without certain talents.”

  I hated lying to her, but I justified it by telling myself it was not inconceivable that sometime I actually could write something about Larmer.

  She pursed her lips and the corners of her eyes wrinkled a little as she thought. Took a long minute before she responded. “I guess the easy answer is that he didn’t show any of that in school. Or at least not much. But you have to remember this was junior high. Lots of kids don’t really start to come out of themselves until high school. But if I look back at it, I suppose there was the odd sign that this was a young man who kind of had a plan. You remember Alex Keaton in Family Ties, the Republican kid?”

  “The Michael J. Fox character?”

  “Right. There was some of that in Buckley-Rand. Even the name itself. He insisted on being called Buckley-Rand. Buckley didn’t cut it. The teachers complied; I’m not sure about the students. And I remember him wearing ties, even a blazer or a suit once in a while. I mean, there were lots of times he was in sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers like the other kids, but every now and then, maybe one day every couple of weeks, there he’d be, looking like he was leaving for a funeral — or a business meeting — partway through the day.”

  “Anything besides the clothes?”

  She looked disappointed that I hadn’t thought the attire was significant. Actually I did, but clearly I hadn’t shown it.

  “I don’t think I ever heard anything about his being politically active, you know, making speeches in the hall, handing out pamphlets to the other kids, or anything, but again, this was junior high.”

  “What about his reading? Anything significant there?”

  “You mean, what kind of reading did he do?”

  I nodded.
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  “I remember him being a reader. Lots of junior-high boys aren’t. But Buckley-Rand always seemed to have a book with him. I can’t say I recall what kinds of things he read, though. My guess is he’d have been more of a non-fiction reader than YA novels and so on, but I really can’t say that for certain.”

  “What about his grades? Was he a pretty good student?”

  “Pretty good is the perfect description. He was one of those kids who got the ‘Buckley-Rand isn’t reaching his potential’ note on his report card. He made just enough effort to get decent grades — grades that would keep the school and his parents off his back. But he was a smart kid, that was obvious. A smart, bored kid.”

  “How about trouble?”

  “I don’t know of any. It’s strange — he didn’t give the teachers any problems that I know of, or any of the kids for that matter. Yet he wasn’t well-liked. By anybody. He was a loner and I suspect it was by choice. Not shyness so much as he maybe thought none of the other kids were worthy of his company. But again, that’s a perception, not a fact, so please take it as such.”

  “Not well-liked by the other kids,” I repeated. “What about Jaden Reese? After Larmer rescued him from a pack of bullies, surely he thought the guy was all right.”

  Again she paused, this time a little longer. I started to wonder if she’d heard of Reese and Larmer’s intervention. “Oh God. Jaden Reese. It’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten …” She paused, then added, “That whole thing was weird.”

  “Weird as in …?”

  “I don’t know. Usually something like that happens, it’s all over the school. There were whispers, but that was it. And what you asked about … I never saw Jaden Reese and Buckley-Rand Larmer talk to each before or after that day.”

  “Almost like it hadn’t happened.”

  “Almost, yes.”

  “Which is, as you say, weird. You’d think Jaden, out of gratitude, might have wanted to at least talk to the guy who saved him.”

  “And I’m not saying that didn’t happen. I’m just saying I didn’t see it happen.”