Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  Goldsmith stepped into the office. The headmaster sat in a large red leather chair behind a giant oak desk with piles of neatly arranged papers placed on top of it. He saw Goldsmith and smiled, gesturing for him to take a seat.

  “Hello, Mr. Goldsmith. Has young Mr. Cooley confessed his guilt? Or have you come to explain your peculiar actions in San Angeles this morning?”

  Goldsmith remained standing. “Sir, five alumni of this school are dead and Cooley’s got nothing to do with it. There’s a sixth who’s next, and I—”

  “Stop. Slow down and explain everything in a clear, concise manner. The way we taught you.”

  Goldsmith took a deep breath and tried to get his heart to stop racing before taking another step toward the desk. “The five alumni died in different ways,” he said, reclaiming his methodical tone, “but according to their coroners’ reports, each of them had the same foreign chemical in their bodies: the same unidentified foreign chemical in the syringe that caused Mr. Riley’s death. It’s a substance referred to as ADM+5, or adamite-5. It’s a man-made biochemical toxin with no practical applications. Feel free to look at the evidence yourself. It’s all here in black and white.” He plugged his Tabula into the headmaster’s terminal and watched the screen broadcast the files, complete with Goldsmith’s notations. He looked at Latimer, gauging his reaction.

  “Where did you get these files?”

  “The dead specimens’ autopsies were performed by five different coroners, in five different districts of San Angeles,” Goldsmith continued, ignoring the question. “They had no idea the corpse in front of them was linked to four other corpses, so they weren’t looking for patterns. The mention of ADM+5 is buried deep in each file. They were drawn to the obvious physical trauma the victims suffered, and probably considered traces of an obscure chemical irrelevant. You see, sir, even in large doses, adamite-5 isn’t enough to kill a normal, healthy human being, but it’s rare enough for me to conclude that it’s a clue connected to the person who killed them.”

  “For you to conclude? You’re an eighteen-year-old boy. You’re no biochemist, nor are you a police officer. Now, listen to me—”

  “No, you listen,” Goldsmith said, recoiling a bit, as if he was ready to be struck down by lightning for interrupting the headmaster. “No cop—or security detail officer—would’ve recognized the significance of ADM+5 on a report. The violence is a cover-up, purposeful misdirection. I think the real cause of these deaths is somehow tied into the presence of ADM+5. I’m betting the killer put the corpses through that physical trauma postmortem in order to throw off the authorities. He wanted the murders to look brutal, not like the sophisticated killings they really were.”

  The headmaster took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The edges of his black suit were pristine, razor sharp. Goldsmith wondered how many dozens he had lined up in his wardrobe. He watched the old man’s face as everything sunk in and decided the silence was a signal to keep on going. “Now do you see why I don’t think Mr. Cooley is guilty? There’s no denying that these files show his bodily traces at each of the scenes of death, but those could have been placed there by the murderer. He’s the perfect fall guy to pin violent crimes like this on. He’s got a known history of violent behavior and off-campus excursions. Of all the specimens in the tower, Cooley would seem to be the ideal candidate to commit these murders, except for one thing: he’s not smart enough to turn a rare biochemical toxin into a deadly weapon. He just doesn’t have the knowledge or resources. But with such a ripe, seemingly guilty suspect, the killer didn’t think anyone would look closely enough at the details to come up with an alternate theory.”

  The headmaster put his glasses back on. They sat there as the office filled with a disconcerting silence until his desk phone beeped, yanking them back into reality. “It’s President Lang and Captain Gibson on a conference call, sir,” trilled Mrs. Elton’s voice on the speaker.

  “I’m occupied. Please hold all calls until I direct otherwise.” He clicked off and looked at Goldsmith. Goldsmith could see it in his eyes: he was starting to believe. “My colleagues are anxious to have this matter resolved,” said the headmaster. “Evidently Senator Arthur Bloom is hell-bent on seeing the Stansbury bill fail in committee before it gets a chance to reach the Senate floor. President Lang suspects—not unreasonably, I might add—that he would stop at nothing to make this happen. She’s also worried about the news reporter. He threatened to publish an innuendo-laced exposé about us if we did not cooperate and grant him access, so we took a gamble and let him inside the tower. Now, the president is certain that he is on Bloom’s payroll. She assigned you to be his tour guide because she thought you might pick up on this and find some evidence proving it.” The headmaster paused for effect. Goldsmith felt his gut tighten. He suspected Pete might have wanted to manipulate him, but never thought he’d be tied to Stansbury’s worst nemesis. “In fact,” he resumed, “there’s not one member of this school’s administration who isn’t concerned about the supposedly coincidental timing of the strange events of the past twenty-four hours somehow affecting the Senate committee’s vote.”

  “Senate vote?” Goldsmith said, raising his voice. “Senate vote? We’re talking about an innocent specimen—”

  “Do not cut me off, young man,” he rumbled. “I was about to agree with you. Now, tell me what you suggest as a next step.”

  “I’m positive that Miss Stella Saltzman is next on the killer’s hit list.”

  “Why?”

  “Her photo was included in a collection of yearbook pages found in Riley’s apartment that showed each of the other dead alumni. Five of her possible known associates have been systematically killed off. She’s the only one still alive. I don’t know any more than that, but I’m positive she needs to be warned if she doesn’t know already.”

  “And?”

  “And I have her home address in San Angeles, twenty minutes away from here. I need to get to her before anyone else and make sure she’s safe. I’m also betting that she has information that will fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle.”

  The headmaster shook his head, sighing in what sounded to Goldsmith like disbelief. “Your journey here is almost finished,” he said. “The world will be yours after you graduate in just a few days. Why get tangled in this mess?”

  “Because progress depends on the unreasonable man.”

  “Miss Saltzman is not like the others. How does she fit in?”

  “That’s what I need to find out. Sir, I’m requesting your authorization to leave campus and get to her before anyone else does.”

  “Oh, is that all?” he quipped. The headmaster gave him a wry smile.

  “No. I also need you to ensure that the security detail won’t interfere with my business.” Goldsmith paused, taking a deep breath. “And I want to take Mr. Cooley with me. If my theory about the adamite-5 is correct, he’s being framed by someone who has an intimate knowledge of Stansbury and its inner workings. It could be Senator Bloom, or it could be…” He stopped short, not wanting to vocalize any more sacrilegious thoughts than necessary. “Well … you can see why I don’t think Cooley is safe inside the tower.”

  The headmaster fixed him with a stony gaze before turning around and grabbing the glass case that contained his old pipe. He set it on his desk, reached into a drawer and pulled out a key, which he used to unlock the box. He cradled the pipe like it was a small child and reached into another drawer, coming back with a bag of brown tobacco. He packed the pipe and struck a match, lighting it. Goldsmith watched the smoke billow up from the mother-of-pearl as if it were a chimney. He smelled something sweet, maybe nutmeg, and tried to read the headmaster’s eyes through the fragrant fog, but the old man was nothing if not inscrutable.

  * * *

  Cooley leaned down and splashed warm water on his face, rinsing off the blood with the facial scrub Oates had left behind in his bathroom. He looked at his reflection: he didn’t resemble a horror movie reject anymore, but
his nose was swollen and bent just a tad to the left. It occurred to him that it would probably be like that for the rest of his life. His lips were still split open but no longer bleeding. He dried his face with a towel and glanced over toward the dorm room’s living area. Right outside the bathroom was the steel study table. On the other side of it sitting in a chair with her legs crossed was Camilla, looking like Little Red Riding Hood’s evil twin, with that dark blue Stansbury cloak wrapped around her. Cooley noticed that her back was to a corner, probably so he couldn’t sneak up on her. She kept her eyes on him from that safe distance, as if she was worried close contact would infect her with whatever he had.

  “So … looking forward to graduation?” he offered, standing in the bathroom’s doorway. A silent gaze was her response. “I am, I guess. I’m not going to some fancy college or anything, though. I’m just gonna go find my mom.” He looked at her and, sensing that she was listening to him, smiled. “I mean, she’s probably dead, at least that’s what I was told when I was a kid … but I’ve got find out for myself, you know?” Camilla 2.0 remained still, like she was just another inanimate object decorating the room. “Hey, Camilla,” he said. “You always told great stories in creative writing progressions when we were kids. I remember the way your handwriting looked when we were young, like eight years old. It was … it was really beautiful, the way it looped and flowed so gracefully. Made everything you wrote look just like a fairy tale. I guess … I always just wanted to tell you that.”

  Camilla started to open her mouth to speak, but just as she did, the door to the room swung open. Two security detail officers stepped in, shutting the door behind them. One of them aimed a ThermaGun at Cooley. Cooley froze. Camilla jumped up, stepping in between them.

  “Mr. Cooley is with me,” she said. “State your business.”

  “Get out of the way, Miss Moore,” responded the gunman. “Or face arrest for harboring a suspect. We’re taking him to the disciplinary level. Captain’s orders.”

  “I’m operating with President Lang’s sanction in coordination with Mr. Goldsmith.”

  “The Captain told us you’d say that,” said the other officer. “And he told us it don’t mean a thing. Do what you want, but we’re not leaving here without Cooley.”

  “Camilla, move!” shouted Cooley. He sprinted out of the bathroom and threw himself down onto the smooth marble floor, sliding across it toward the study table. Camilla leaped to the side. The gunman aimed at him and pulled the trigger. Cooley kicked the steel table up into the air in his direction and it took three bullets, leaving small indentations in its surface. The flying table knocked the officer backward and crashed against the wall, upended. Still on the floor, Cooley tripped up the gunman. He pulled him to his feet and kicked him in the groin before slinging him headfirst into Goldsmith’s Nature & Co. window on the far wall. The officer’s helmet slammed into the glass screen, shattering it, sending sparks flying. A couple stray ones burned holes in Cooley’s blazer. He slammed his knee into the officer’s face and bent him over, reaching for the arm that still held the ThermaGun. The other detail man grabbed Camilla and put a pistol to her head.

  “Step away from the detail officer!” he yelled.

  Cooley aimed the ThermaGun strapped to the gunman’s limp arm and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out loud, leaving Camilla standing over the crumpled body of her would-be assailant. She calmly stepped over him and brushed herself off. Cooley slammed the other detail officer’s head against the wall one more time for good measure and let him fall to the floor, unconscious.

  “Thanks for the helping hand,” Cooley mumbled dryly, gasping for air.

  “Did you kill him?” she asked, pointing to the man Cooley just shot.

  “No. He got hit with a heavy-duty tranquilizer. They used the same thing on me last night. Look. He’s still breathing. The wound’s only superficial, just enough to pierce the skin and transfer the sedatives to the bloodstream.” Camilla looked down and saw the man’s chest moving up and down steadily. “Killing a Stansbury employee wouldn’t help me prove my innocence, now would it?”

  “How did you know the gun wasn’t loaded with real bullets?”

  “Because they need me alive. Otherwise, they couldn’t pin Stella Saltzman’s death on Mr. William Winston Cooley.” Cooley collapsed into a chair, catching his breath. He felt his heart rate slow down and thought it must have been a trip to be on the med cycle and never have your pulse rise above one hundred. But it was a trade-off: trained detail officers got spoiled rotten keeping doped-up specimens in line. The kids’ aggression got tamped down; their adrenaline never started flowing. When they had to deal with a real, live, scared-shitless guy like him, it was like they were bogged down, moving underwater, their reaction times dulled. “Goldsmith won’t be gone long,” he said to Camilla. She nodded in agreement. A moment passed. She pulled over the chair from her safe little corner and sat down next to him.

  “What were you gonna say,” he asked, “before they came in here?” Cooley looked at her and saw Camilla smile for the first time he could remember.

  “I was going to thank you for what you said about my writing. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire life.”

  * * *

  Goldsmith remained standing before the headmaster at his desk, watching him puff away at his pipe, his eyes scanning the alumni files before him. Just as he was about to remind him that time was running out, the headmaster reached into a drawer and brought out a crisp sheet of Stansbury letterhead. The paper was slightly yellowed and heavy, crafted to seem like ancient parchment. At the top was the school’s emblem in navy blue. The headmaster pulled a heavy black fountain pen from his inside pocket and began to write.

  “I hated what Captain Gibson did to you in the elevator pod today,” he said. “When you returned from San Angeles. The way he bullied and put his hands on you. He must have forgotten he ordered the surveillance system to be activated for the duration of the Cooley debacle. I saw the whole thing on the playback. This is the man I have entrusted with my specimens’ security? Not when this is finished. Frankly, I trust you more than him and his security detail.”

  Goldsmith watched as he scrawled the words: “I hereby authorize Mr. Thomas Oliver Goldsmith, Valedictorian of 2036, and Mr. William Winston Cooley (at Goldsmith’s discretion) to come and go from the tower without impediment on this day, March 30, 2036. Mr. Goldsmith travels on Stansbury business of the highest order at my personal request. His actions and words are backed by the full faith and support of the headmaster of Stansbury School.” He sheathed the fountain pen and engraved the document with his personalized seal. The headmaster handed him the paper and smiled. “He’s in quite a bind at the moment,” he said, “but I feel better knowing you’ll be traveling amongst outsiders with Mr. Cooley by your side. Someday you must regale this old man with the tale of how the first specimen to befriend my lonely valedictorian was the last one anyone thought it would be. Be careful, son. And come home soon.”

  “I will, sir,” Goldsmith responded, placing the parchment inside his blazer pocket. “It’s been an honor serving you this year.” He turned to leave.

  “Mr. Goldsmith?” came the headmaster’s voice. “Please send my best to Miss Saltzman when you find her. She was always one of my favorites.”

  “Of course, sir.” Goldsmith disappeared down the corridor. The headmaster waited for a few moments before picking up his desk phone and dialing.

  “Madam President?” he said. “Please come to my office immediately.”

  * * *

  Goldsmith opened the door to his bedroom suite, saw the bodies of the two detail officers on the floor, the shattered Nature & Co. window, and put it all together, not even bothering to ask Camilla or Cooley what had transpired. “What did the headmaster say?” asked Cooley.

  “He’s on our side. He gave us his authorization to find Miss Saltzman and warn her. I just called Universal Taxi. There’s a gyrocab waiting for us
outside right now.”

  Cooley stood up and walked out of the dorm room and into the hall. “Go ahead,” he said, nodding back in Camilla’s direction, “say what you need to say.”

  Goldsmith looked at him for a moment and then walked into his room, closing the door behind him. Camilla stood up.

  “What’s your theory, Mr. Goldsmith?”

  “I’m not sure. Things are … convoluted at the moment.”

  “You must have some educated guesses.”

  “How’s this? The headmaster thinks Senator Arthur Bloom might be behind everything.”

  “That’s not as far-fetched as it sounds,” she said. “Bloom has had it in for Stansbury since day one. He thinks we’re no different than doped-up Olympic athletes.”

  “I know. Apparently President Lang believes Pete is on his payroll.”

  “That could answer the question of how the killer knew so much about Stansbury history, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” he said, looking down as his hands started to fret the edges of his tie. Camilla watched him fidget.

  “You don’t think the school could be—” She stopped when she felt his hand on her arm, clutching it softly.

  “If for some reason we don’t come back,” he said, faltering, “… I know you’ll give a beautiful speech on commencement day.” He took a step closer and touched the stray lock of hair that hung down along the outline of her face, wishing he could bring it along as a good luck charm. He felt tears filling his eyes and a single drop rolled down his cheek. Camilla stopped its trail, gently pressing her index finger against his skin, and looked up at him.