by Alan Lee
“That’s exactly what the school board thinks, Mr. August. It’s about money. But it’s also about control, and the way things ought to be, and the way things have always been. It’s about a way of life. It’s their history, a part of who they are.”
“Mr. Charlie, I think you’re more insightful than you let on.”
“Naw, not me. I teach art and drive buses and preach. I don’t get all riled. Can’t understand the anger. But there is, you know. They get so mad. Mad enough to be separated by deputies a couple of times.”
“That’s pretty mad.”
* * *
On the way home, I rolled the windows down and blared The Killers. Kix loved it when the windows dropped, and he grinned and fought the invisible rush of air until my phone rang.
“August,” I said.
“Bingham. Your favorite Los Angeles police sergeant. Whatever happened with that note?”
“The note from the killer? I don’t like thinking about it,” I said, and buzzed up the front windows. “Because then I remember I know nothing.”
“Rookie mistake. You’re an old pro making a rookie mistake.”
“The note could be anything. I don’t know what to do about it other than show it around and ask people if they wrote it.”
“So what? That always works,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you be arresting someone? Crime take a holiday in LA?”
“You got it. All the whites and blacks and Latinos are holding hands and singing in the parking lot. Do what you can about that note. That thing makes me nervous.”
“What about school boards? They make you nervous?” I asked.
“School Boards, hell yeah they do. Big power grab, getting yourself elected onto a school board.”
“Seen any violence come out of one?”
“Especially in tougher school districts. Those boards influence big decisions, like personnel, busing students in and out of nice schools, sports.”
“What do you mean sports?”
“The athletic directors work with the school boards sometimes to negotiate with other counties. I’d think in a small town the football and basketball rival games would be about as big as it gets.”
“How do you know so much about school boards?”
“I’m old and wise. Plus, I had an uncle on a School Board. Only lasted one term, he hated it.”
“You’re old? Forty is old now?”
“Thirty-nine, jackass,” he said, and he hung up.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mackenzie August had his ducks in a row, yessir.
My electric bill was paid. I kept the AC off and the windows open to reduce the cost. My cable bill was paid. I canceled the movie channels. Life’s too short. My gas bill and water bill were paid. My credit card balance had shrunk two months in a row. Next month I was going to have enough left over money to pay off an old medical bill. I drank more water and ate more fruit these days. I slept better.
Now if I could only quit making out with other teachers. Taylor had begun sending me inappropriate selfies, and they weakened my willpower. To occupy my mind I played online poker. And drank. And cursed when I lost.
Mackenzie August. Work in progress.
I threw the laptop onto the couch beside me. The house was quiet and cool. It was always quiet and cool, after my little monster went to bed. Night after night. For almost two months. I needed a hobby, otherwise I’d go crazy before Christmas. Maybe I should watch TV and play video games every night. I craved competition. Of any kind. Even competition of the mind. Like poker. Maybe I should play another game of poker. Good idea.
First, I checked on Kix. Super Dad. He was asleep on the far end of the crib, on top of both his covers and his bear. Like most nights, I ended up sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him breathe. Some nights I slept here. When I did, I had fewer nightmares.
I thought about murderers less while I watched him. I didn’t worry about Resource Officer Reed coming to throw rocks at my door at two in the morning, or about Jon Murphy seeking revenge with a bunch of drugged-out buddies. Taylor couldn’t reach me when I was in Kix’s room.
But I couldn’t stay there. I had a poker game to play. I sat back down in my La-Z-Boy and thought about Taylor and her legs. Then I pondered Roy and Roy’s temper and again talked myself out of believing he had anything to do with Mackenzie Allen’s death. Roy was mean and had access to guns, but he didn’t register as a killer to my highly fallible killer radar. Nor could I picture him using a .22. Too proud. However, if I believed that, I was left again with no leads.
Other than the school board. My conversation with Mr. Charlie had been eye-opening. After our tête-à-tête I’d done some research. Some of the richest and most powerful people in the county sat on the school board. That hadn’t taken long to discover. In fact, the collective wealth and influence sitting on the school board appeared to be significantly superior to the district members sitting on the board of supervisors. That fact had to gall both boards. I didn’t understand why prosperous and busy people sacrificed their time to sit on the school board and yell at each other. But I wasn’t from around heah.
That’s how people from South Hill pronounced “here.” Heah. I liked it.
I’d read through copies of recent newspapers; the superintendent, the school board, the board of supervisors, the irate teachers and the irate parents were making the front page every few days. The reporters from the paper didn’t do a great job at hiding their opinions: the school board members were bad people. Especially my favorite, Mr. Cummings. He and the majority of the school board seemed to be furious in most articles. They were furious with the superintendent and looking for a way to sack him. They were furious with teachers, and wished they’d shut up. Furious with the board of supervisors and with each other. Furious enough to require deputy sheriffs’ intervention on more than one occasion.
I’d seen similar wars within LA gangs. What appeared insignificant to outsiders was huge to the powerful and proud members of gangs. Small things became worth killing over, because small things were their life. In fact, considering how unimportant and insignificant the cause of gang violence often was, the school board rage became almost understandable. A hit ordered by a territorial, proud, rich business proprietor on the school board who’d attended Gaston Elementary as a youngster and whose wife still worked there became reasonable. Almost.
Three problems, though. One, did the whole school board order the hit? Probably not. So which one? Mr. Cummings? He’s the only one I knew. Pretty amateurish reasoning. Two, individually or corporately, the school board members were weak suspects. I mostly considered them because I had no better suspect. That would change, however, if I could find a money trail. The love of money is the root of all kinds of nasty stuff. If you have five thousand dollars then you can get someone killed, but the risk was enormous. Not worth a few teacher salaries. But there could always be more cash hidden beneath the surface. The cash wouldn’t, however, explain the note left for me by the killer.
The third problem was my biggest. Even if I felt really strongly about the school board suspect, or any other suspect for that matter, where did that leave me? I didn’t have a badge. I couldn’t haul them in, couldn’t interrogate them. I couldn’t go bother them at work, I had my own job. I had never investigated without a legal mandate, without a car and gun provided by the state for only one reason. I didn’t know how to proceed. That thought left me frustrated and tired. Too tired for poker. I went to bed.
The last thing I thought about before falling asleep remained the same as previous nights: a killer still stalked South Hill. I could imagine him walking my lawn. The note lay in a drawer inside my classroom, but I carried the weight of it with me. The killer was interested in me and I was easy to find. On nights like tonight, Mackenzie Allen’s murderer always stood right outside my window.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The bell at South Hill Middle rang at 3:25 to end the day. The students, who are
useless beginning at 3:20, had piled at the door and filtered out. The room went silent.
I spent thirty minutes grading papers. Math teachers have it easy. Students either get the right answer or they don’t. English teachers have to decipher pages of handwriting. I bet English teachers buy more aspirin than math teachers.
A knock at the door, and Mackenzie Allen’s mother walked in. This was the first time I’d seen her professionally dressed. She was a short woman, probably not five and half, and her hair was rich brown with silver streaks. She wore a dark khaki skirt suit that came to her knees. The collar was a cream color that matched her heels and her shoulder bag. She was attractive in a natural earthy sort of way.
“Mr. August.” She smiled.
“You teach in that?” I stood from my desk.
“No. But thanks for noticing.”
“My pleasure,” I said, and we shook hands.
“Can we talk?”
“Certainly. Unless you’re a reporter in disguise.”
“I’m not. That’s an odd qualifier.”
“I’m an odd guy.”
We sat down at the long worktable. She set her bag on the table and crossed her legs.
“I read through a few old newspapers to catch up on the world. I read about you,” she said.
“Which occasion did you read about?”
“The drug raid.”
“Ah. You can’t prove that was me,” I said. “The paper reported that allegedly the teacher who found your son’s body also helped the police during the raid.”
“So. Was it you?”
“Allegedly,” I said.
“Are you afraid of repercussions from the…underbelly of South Hill?”
“No. Maybe a little. Mostly, though, I’m tired of students asking questions during class.”
“You don’t look like a man afraid of repercussions,” she said.
“I bruise easily.”
She laughed.
Still got it.
“How you holding up?” I asked.
Her face clouded and she said, “Okay. I’d be better if Mackenzie’s killer was behind bars. Is the investigation at a standstill?”
I drummed my fingers on the table between us and thought about how much to share. No one on the East Coast knew about the mysterious note on my keyboard. That would need to change soon, however, but not necessarily with Ms. Allen. I decided to stay with safer topics.
“Did you recognize the drug dealer you read about?”
“Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately. Jon Murphy. Mackenzie was friends with him. Was Mackenzie still into pot?”
“You knew?”
“I knew he used to. Caught him with it in high school. He and Jon Murphy were in different grades but they both went to Blue Stone High. I’ve never trusted Jon.”
“I think Mackenzie Allen smoked socially. Not much. Did you tell the sheriff that?”
“No,” she said and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“What else can you tell me that you didn’t tell the sheriff? It could help.”
She leaned forward and rested her forehead on the heels of her hands, elbows sitting on the table.
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I felt like I told them everything. I guess not.”
“Did Mackenzie ever go places that he wouldn’t talk about? Friends he wouldn’t discuss?”
She shook her head without removing it from her hands. “No.”
“He came up really clean. Nothing suspicious or strange other than drugs, which I’m pretty sure had nothing to do with his death. So I’m left with chasing down small leads. Anything small could be significant.”
She nodded.
“What about Roy? Do you know Roy?”
“I know of him, yes. He teaches here, grew up in the county. Mackenzie mentioned him a couple times.”
“What’d he say about him?”
“That they both liked the same girl, even though Roy was married. However, I heard, Mr. August, that you ended up with that girl.” She raised up to look at me.
“Been listening to gossip?”
“Have you been kissing a girl at Kahills?”
“Allegedly.”
“So it’s true. I bet she fell for your Cajun accent.”
“It was a mistake. Won’t happen again.”
“Why did you ask about Roy? Is he a suspect?”
“I heard that he and Mackenzie didn’t get along. That’s it. I’m chasing rumors.”
“It’s not Roy,” she said, and shook her head. “Even if it wasn’t a friendly rivalry, they were only boys being boys. Even though one of them should be acting like a grown man with a wife.”
“What could Mackenzie Allen have been doing at the school so late?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. I never did.”
“You never knew what he did at night?” I asked.
“He was a very independent boy. Man, I guess. He didn’t offer up many details.”
“What about the school board?”
“Ugh,” she said. “What about it?”
“Did he have beef with the school board?”
“Of course. Don’t we all? He was so mad after that meeting he could barely speak.”
“He went to a meeting?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Don’t you read the paper?”
“When was it?”
“A week or two before he died. That was probably the same meeting at which you were officially hired, incidentally. The school board has to vote on all new hires.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He went to request funding for instruments, copyrights for sheet music, basically an increase in the music department’s budget. He hates band boosters. He asked last year, too, but they turned him down. He and a few of the board members got into a fight this time.”
“Yelling or fists?”
“Yelling.” She smiled sadly. “He was never violent, but he always spoke his mind.”
“Who was he yelling at?”
“I don’t remember. When he loses his temper it doesn’t matter. Anyone close enough. Is this important?”
“Maybe,” I said. “He had a bad temper?”
“Very bad. From his father.”
“So what’s the connection between the school board blow up and him being at the middle school so late?” I said.
“Mr. Charlie might know. He usually goes too.”
“Goes? Goes where?”
“To the school. For their work nights, whatever they do,” she said.
“Work nights? I haven’t heard this before.”
“I don’t know much about them. I assumed it was a school-wide thing. The school system is short on custodial staff, so I think every once in a while they get together, buy pizza, sodas, beer maybe, and clean and paint or whatever needs to be done.”
“Does the sheriff or Andrews know about them?”
“I assume so,” she said.
“Ah hah.”
“Ah hah?”
“This could be a clue. How often would you say Mackenzie was at the school late?”
“Once a month. Maybe more. There’s not much to do around here and schools are a big deal. Wait until the end-of-the-year eighth-grade graduation. It’s an enormous event. So, improving the school with your friends begins to actually sound fun.”
“Who goes to the work nights?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Ask Mr. Charlie, he can tell you.”
“I plan to.”
* * *
I told Stephen, the eighth-grader in my class and on my golf team, that I’d take him to dinner anywhere within thirty miles. Any restaurant he wanted. We ended up at McDonalds a few miles from the school on Main Street. High class. Kix, however, liked Stephen’s selection. He’s a sucker for fries.
“Mr. August, have you seen Band of Brothers?” He wore the same beat-up white sneakers, jeans and red T-shirt he wore almost every day.
“Even
better. I read the book and saw the movies.”
“I saw them on the History Channel. What’d you think of them?”
“Those movies will make a man out of you.” I dunked a chicken nugget into the small, plastic barbecue cup. Eating chicken nuggets was not an arbitrary process. Generally McDonalds let me down and didn’t provide me with an adequate supply of sauce. In other words, I didn’t get quite the coverage I’d prefer; I had to eat the nugget in one bite, instead of two. Two is optimal.
Perhaps I should focus.
“What’s that mean?” he asked.
“The book is real, you know. Those stories actually happened to actual people. You can learn about loyalty, bravery, honor, courage, discipline, friendship by reading them. Or watching them.”
“Yeah,” he said. He’d gotten a large-sized Big Mac combo and a milkshake, and had already gone through three napkins.
“Can we talk about your dad?”
“Sure,” he said, and he took a hard pull on his milkshake straw.
“When did he die?”
“A year ago.”
“Cancer?”
He nodded, and said, “The death disease. That’s what kids on my bus called it.”
“And then Mr. Allen died too.”
He nodded again. Kix watched us, quietly grabbing handfuls of fries and getting most of them in his mouth. He also had finished half a nugget I’d given him, out of my benevolence.
“And you’re only thirteen, right?”
He nodded and took a bite of his burger.
“That’s some pretty rough cards for a kid your age to be dealt.”
“And Mom works, like, every night. Sometimes I don’t see her for days. She’s gone when I get home some, and asleep when I go to school.”
“Where’s she work?”
“The Holiday Inn. I hate that place. We can’t even stay there for free.”
“So what do you do at home?”
He shrugged and said, “Play video games. Do homework. Watch TV. My stupid sister won’t let me use the computer, and I don’t live near any of my friends.”
We sat chewing for a while. I got us all refills, including Kix’s milk, and when I sat back down I took a deep breath.