4 The Killing Bee

by Matt Witten

  I turned to the page with the second-graders' scores. Since it was alphabetical, Adam Braithwaite was near the top. In English, he had scored a 98. In math, though, he only got an 89.

  It was just as Laura had predicted. Her son hadn't scored high enough, according to Meckel's rigid criteria, to make it into the gifted and talented program.

  No doubt Chief Walsh would view this as further evidence that Laura killed Meckel in her outrage over her son's academic placement. And I suppose I couldn't argue with that line of thinking. A few years back, a mother in Texas tried to kill somebody in order to get her daughter onto the high school cheerleading squad. So why shouldn't Laura Braithwaite kill somebody to get her child a good education?

  There were plenty of worse motives for murder. In fact, if our public schools get much worse, maybe "disgruntled parents" will replace "disgruntled former employees" as the most common crazed killers. Instead of "going postal," people will "go parental."

  I found Latree's test numbers right below Adam's. His name was circled. He had scored 100 in English and 96 in math, which meant he made the cut. Of course, with Meckel dead, these criteria might no longer be in effect.

  Barry's kid Justin made the cut too. He had scores of 97 and 96. I noticed Justin's name was also circled—evidently Meckel had circled the names of the kids he was planning to include in the gifted program.

  As I searched further in the folder, I noted that Susie and Elena's third-grade daughters, Christine and Luce, did not have their names circled. Both of them fell just shy of the magic 95—they got scores in the low 90s.

  I shook my head, giving my concussion a little added thrill. This whole Terra Nova business was nuts. I'd spent time with both Christine and Luce, and there was no question they belonged in a more challenging program. Why is this whole country so hopped up on standardized multiple-choice tests? All they do is teach children to give quick answers to superficial questions.

  And as for placing kids in gifted programs . . . instead of using these lame tests as the ultimate criteria, why not use grades and teacher recommendations? And what about kids who are super-gifted in one area, like English, math, art, or music, but not others? Children aren't computer statistics, and their educational program should reflect that—

  Suddenly my musings were cut off by a soft noise. A small bink. I stood still. Where did that bink come from, the hallway? Was it just a random night noise—or was it, as I feared, the front door closing?

  Then I heard a new sound. This one was unmistakable. Clomp clomp clomp—footsteps. Coming closer.

  Was the killer returning? With a gun?

  I had left Meckel's door open. I sprang up and shut and locked it, all in one motion.

  Just in time, too. Because as soon as I turned the lock, somebody rattled the doorknob. Then pounded on the door.

  "Police. Open up—now!" shouted an angry voice, which I instantly recognized as Lieutenant Foxwell's.

  Well, at least it wasn't the murderer. But the cops weren't all that much better, as far as I was concerned. Chief Walsh and his minions would sneer at my explanation of how I ended up in Meckel's office, and would take great joy in nailing my derriere to the wall. I better make tracks, fast. I dashed to the window, pushed the shade out of my way, and tried to shove the window upward—

  But there was nothing to grab onto, for me to shove. Then I realized it was one of those windows with handles. You're supposed to turn them round and round and gradually the window opens. So I tried to turn the handle—but it was stuck. I turned harder . . . and it came off in my hands.

  And meanwhile Foxwell kept pounding on the door. "Open up or we break it down," another voice yelled—Sergeant Balducci.

  Should I call out and explain there was no need to break the door down, they could simply use their AAA cards? No, maybe that wouldn't be wise. I looked down at the handle in my hands, then up at the window. Suddenly I realized I'd forgotten to unlock the window. That's why the handle didn't work. I quickly unlocked it, then started to stick the handle back on its appropriate screw.

  But I couldn't get the handle back in place. My panicked hands were too fumbly.

  Behind me, either Foxwell or Balducci was throwing his shoulder at the door. The wood began cracking and splintering. If I didn't jump out that window pronto, it would be too late.

  Finally the handle went onto the screw. I turned it, and the window began opening… but slowly. Then it got stuck. The handle was still screwed up somehow. I pushed the window hard, but that didn't help. The window wasn't open enough for me to jump through—

  Crash! The dynamic duo charged the door again, and the wood split even worse. A long vertical crack ran from the top of the door down to the doorknob. One more assault and that door was history.

  I jumped onto the radiator by the window. Then I squeezed my body through the narrow opening and dove down onto the ground outside. Luckily my hands hit the ground first, not my head.

  Behind me there was a huge violent crash as the door burst open, then more crashes as it fell down and smacked into the desk and floor.

  I did a quick roll, leapt to my feet, and ran off through the bushes to my left. My adrenaline must have been pumping big time, because I no longer felt the pain in my skull. I did feel a stabbing pain in my left shoulder, though, when I tripped on a tree root and landed hard on the shoulder as I went down.

  I scrambled back up and looked behind me. Foxwell had figured out some way to get the window wide open, and now he was tumbling outside. Meanwhile Balducci was running out the front door of the school. They must have decided to split up.

  I took off again. I tried to run quietly, but I snapped some twigs. Balducci shouted, "He's over there!"

  I turned the corner and tore down Walworth Street, with maybe a fifteen-yard head start. Foxwell shouted, "Stop! Or we'll shoot!"

  How clichéd. I kept on running. Of course they wouldn't shoot—

  BANG!

  Damn. I zigzagged left into Marvin Alley. There was a van right near the corner, and I hit the ground and rolled under it. My shoulder was killing me. Seconds later the cops raced up to the corner too. Then they halted. They breathed heavily as they looked around. I tried to silence my own breathing. From underneath the car, I could see the dark outlines of their legs. They were so close, if I were a gorilla I could have reached my arm out and touched them.

  "You see him?" Foxwell said.

  "No," said Balducci. "Could be in one of these backyards."

  "You get a good look at him?"

  "Not good enough."

  My heart leapt. So they didn't know it was me! I had a fighting chance to make it out of this mess.

  "Go back to the car, radio for backup," Foxwell said. "I'll try down the alley."

  I watched Balducci's feet run off in one direction and Foxwell's feet run off in another. That backyard idea didn't sound half bad. I waited about twenty seconds, then crawled out from under the van and scuttled behind a hedge. From there I crab-walked through backyards and side streets, managing to wake up about five sleeping dogs before I made it even halfway home.

  More frightening than the barking dogs were the police cars that began streaming into the West Side. There must have been ten of them. They kept their sirens off, but I could hear their tires squealing and see their headlights flashing as they rushed to the scene.

  On Ash Street, I came out from behind some juniper bushes and started across the street. But then two cops on foot rounded the corner and headed up the sidewalk. They must have heard me, because they shone their flashlights in my direction. I dove back into the junipers.

  "Who's that?" one of the cops called out.

  I crawled around to the other side of the bushes, silently cursing every dried leaf that crackled under my knees.

  "You hear someone?" the cop asked his partner.

  "Yeah. I think he's behind those bushes."

  I couldn't see the cops. But I could feel them approaching, and I could see the lights from
their flashlights sweeping through the bushes in front of me.

  I thought about running. But the cops were too close, and except for the junipers, the yard I was hiding in was way too open to give me good cover. Maybe the other cops had been shooting in the air, but maybe not, and I was in no mood to get shot at again.

  Their feet crunched the sidewalk gravel as they came my way. I was doomed.

  But then I got a last-ditch inspiration.

  "Meow," I said. But loud, and with feeling.

  The footsteps stopped.

  "Meow," I said again.

  "Hell, if s just a cat," the first cop said.

  "Great. Let’s try Hyde Street," the other one said, and they took off.

  I waited the obligatory twenty seconds and took off myself. I scrambled across Ash and veered left, avoiding Hyde. Then I hit another couple of backyards, woke up another couple of dogs, climbed a fence, and plopped down into my own backyard. I ran up to my back door and let myself in.

  Hallelujah. Safe at last. I felt exhilarated and incredibly macho—

  "Honey, is that you?" Andrea called from the front of the house. She must have had trouble sleeping and come downstairs.

  I walked toward her voice. "Yeah, it's me—"

  But then I stopped.

  She wasn't alone. Two men were standing with her in the front hall.

  Foxwell and Balducci.

  "Have a nice little walk?" Foxwell asked pleasantly.

  I was dumbfounded. "How'd you find me?"

  Balducci snorted. "Wasn't hard. Who else would be dumb enough to do what you just did?"

  Andrea watched me, frightened. She was dying to know what it was I'd done, but she couldn't very well ask me with these servants of the law around.

  "Let’s go, pal," Foxwell said.

  "Where?" I asked.

  "Where do you think? We gonna need handcuffs?"

  I went over to Andrea and gave her a kiss. "See you soon, babe. Don't worry, it’s nothing serious."

  "But I wouldn't hold breakfast for him if I were you," Balducci said.

  7

  By eight o'clock that morning, I'd spent an hour in the police station interrogation room giving my story about fifteen different times to Foxwell and Balducci. I'd used my one approved phone call to reach the trusty Malcolm Dove, and I gave him the story, too. Then I passed another two hours sitting around various waiting rooms, being thankful they hadn't thrown me in the clink—yet. Now I was sitting in Chief Walsh's office, telling my tale yet again. The more I repeated it, the more preposterous it sounded, even to me.

  My adrenaline was long gone and the pounding in my skull was back. My shoulder was aching too. I'd asked for aspirin, but they hadn't brought me any. They did bring me coffee. If anything it made the pounding worse.

  "So you just happened to be hanging around outside the school at two-thirty in the morning," the chief said sarcastically.

  "I told you, I was hoping for inspiration."

  "And then you just happened to get knocked out without seeing who did it. How convenient."

  "The guy bashed me with a heavy flashlight!" I was shouting with frustration. "How else do you think I got this big bump on my head?"

  "Running from the police."

  "I swear, that's not how it was." I stomped the floor for emphasis. "Don't you get it? Laura Braithwaite didn't kill Meckel, somebody else did. And that person snuck back into Meckel's office last night to cover it up."

  The chief pointed an accusatory finger at me. "You went to see Laura yesterday. In jail."

  "Yeah. So what?"

  "What did the two of you talk about?"

  "She told me she was innocent."

  "Oh, did she now?" He flashed me a knowing grin.

  "Look, what’s your point?"

  "This." The chief lifted a manila folder out of his Inbox and held it up for me to see. It was the Terra Nova folder. "You left this on Meckel's desk."

  "Yeah, I was reading it."

  "Why?"

  I tried to recall. "I don't know, I was curious."

  "Don't play your idiotic games with me," the chief snapped angrily, stepping into his alternate personality. I seemed to bring out the worst in the guy.

  "I called Hilda Helquist this morning," the chief continued, his perfect white teeth bared. "She told me all about these tests, and how Meckel was using the preliminary scores to decide who got in the gifted program." He came around the desk and got in my face. "Laura knew about the test scores, didn't she? She knew they gave her a murder motive. So she asked you to break into Meckel's office and get rid of them."

  "But—"

  He leaned in even closer. I could smell the mint-flavored toothpaste on his breath. "Admit it. You broke into that office."

  "No—"

  "There was a coverup last night, alright. You were covering up the murder yourself."

  Enough was enough. The toothpaste smell was getting on my nerves. "Don't be a damn idiot," I shot at him. His head snapped back. "Laura already told the police she was pissed off at Meckel. That’s your so-called murder motive, right there. So why would she care about some stupid folder? It doesn't add anything new to your case."

  "Sure, it does. It’s the icing on my cake," the chief said triumphantly, waving the folder at me. "These test scores are what sent her over the edge. See, Laura admits she talked to Meckel the night before. Logical conclusion is, he told her about Adam's scores being too low for the gifted program. So the very next morning she goes berserk and kills him." He shrugged his shoulders, smiling. "Makes a nice simple story that even the most dim-witted jury members will be able to follow, don't you think?"

  Unfortunately I agreed with him, but I kept that to myself. "Laura says Meckel didn't tell her Adam's test scores. And anyway, the scores still don't prove a thing. Susie and Elena's daughters scored too low, too. So why not suspect Susie and Elena?"

  As soon as I said that, I realized I actually meant it. Both Susie and Elena could get pretty intense when their children's welfare was threatened. And neither of them had totally ironclad alibis.

  But the chief wasn't interested in my insinuations. "I'll be glad to inform them you said that," he said sarcastically. "But luckily for them, they weren't found next to the dead body holding the murder weapon."

  "Listen, Chief," I began, in a pleading tone.

  But he cut me off. "Look, Burns, Laura Braithwaite is going down for this. The only question is: how far down do you want to go with her?"

  I got a powerful desire to bash Chief Walsh right in the middle of his arrogant face. Where was that spelling bee trophy when I needed it?

  "Here's the deal," the chief said. "You drop your ridiculous little fairy tale about what happened last night, and you confess to the break-in. Then I'll let you cop to a misdemeanor. Otherwise it's felony B and E, to say nothing of obstruction." The chief broke into a sudden twisted smile. "So what do you say?"

  I gritted my teeth. I'm far from the world's most courageous guy, but after hours of listening to all these bozo cops with bad breath giving me crap, it was time to satisfy my inner reptile. "You sure you want to play it like this, Chief?"

  "You kidding? I'm enjoying every minute."

  "Yeah, but throw me in jail and guess what? The entire upstate New York media rehashes our whole history. How we tend to have little disagreements from time to time, and how I tend to be right and you tend to have your head so far up your ass it's looking out through your belly button." I clicked my tongue sadly. "I'd hate to see you go through the shame, the embarrassment, the public ridicule. . . ."

  "Hey, it goes with the job." The chief pushed a button on his desk. Balducci entered.

  "Read this guy his rights," the chief told Balducci. "Then throw him away."

  Maybe I should have kept my inner reptile locked up.

  The jail was just as ugly, smelly, and all-around gross as I'd remembered. The good news was, I was only there for half an hour before all of us heavy-duty criminals were taken
upstairs for arraignment. In addition to myself, there was an elderly gentleman who'd walked backward down the middle of Broadway after the bars closed, urinating on the yellow stripes as he went; a skinny kid who'd shoplifted some condoms and chocolate bars from CVS; and a Peeping Tom who'd made the strategic error of peeping a policeman's wife.

  Just another fun Tuesday night.

  But then another inmate joined us on our way up the steps to the courtroom. It was Laura, fresh from the women's section of the jail, which consisted of exactly one cell. Being a suspected murderess, she made our motley little crew a lot more interesting. We stood taller and walked with more pride once we had her with us.

  Laura did a double take when she saw me. "What the hell happened to you?"

  "Had a bit of fun last night," I said, and repeated the whole saga yet again—or at least the broad strokes, since we only had a minute before we hit the courtroom and the judge gaveled us into silence.

  "God, I feel terrible. I got you in trouble," Laura said. But her face glowed with excitement, not remorse. I didn't blame her. Finally, she had at least one other person in the world who believed in her innocence: me.

  Now if only I could convince Chief Walsh and his mighty minions.

  Heck, if only I could convince them of my own innocence, I thought as we filed into court and took our seats in the jury box up front, with three cops standing guard over us.

  The joint was jam-packed with spectators and media creatures from as far away as Albany. They were buzzing whispering and wiggling their finger bones at me and Laura. I felt like an animal in a very cramped zoo.

  I turned to Laura. "Shall I treat them to my stoned chimpanzee imitation?"

  She didn't respond. She was rigid with fear. I put my hand on her arm. "It’s okay, Laura," I said gently. "We're not alone. We have lots of support."

  "Oh, is that what all these cops are doing here—supporting us?"

  I pointed to the front row. "Look over there: Andrea, Susie, Elena, Barry . . . and last but not least, our fearless attorney—"

  "All rise!" some courtroom factotum declaimed.

  We all rose, and the judge entered. He was a short bald man who looked rather goofy in his long black robe. But he made up for it with a commanding bass voice. I'd encountered this Little Napoleon before, and I knew you messed with him at your own peril.