The Principal Cause of Death

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Longfellow alternately stared at the machine in front of him, whapped it with a foot-long gleaming metal wrench, and sipped from a can of beer.

  “Mr. Longfellow?” I asked.

  He spun toward me. The beer can was gone before he turned fully around. I hadn’t seen what he’d done with it. He must have been practiced at sneaking a snort or three on the job.

  He squinted toward me. “What the fuck do you want?”

  I explained that I wanted to talk to him about what happened after school yesterday.

  He said, “I already talked to the police. I got nothing to say. Aren’t you the English teacher that they think did it?”

  “I was here yesterday, just as you were,” I said.

  He reached behind him and came back with his beer. He took a sip. “I got work to do, and I don’t want to talk to you.”

  I heard the bell ring in the distance. I left the roof and walked back to class.

  3

  After school I found Meg. I needed to talk to an adult. In class most of the kids had talked more softly than usual when answering questions. Very few of them volunteered answers today. I wasn’t sure whether it was because of what I did to Dan Bluefield or what happened to Robert Jones. On top of that, I was depressed because of the lack of cooperation I’d gotten in asking questions. I needed a friendly face and some information. I got both in Meg.

  In her office she moved stacks of books from two beige imitation-leather chairs. We sat.

  She said, “I hear you’ve tried questioning a few people.”

  “Without much success. I thought they’d want to help out a fellow teacher with a problem.”

  “Rats deserting a sinking ship, my dear. You’re in trouble and they don’t want to be bothered. Besides, some of them are genuinely upset that Jones is dead. Many administrators are hated. He did some good things that a lot of people liked. He streamlined the supply-ordering system, so you didn’t have to wait half a year for a piece of chalk. He cut down on the number of after-school meetings. He tried a lot of new ideas that many of the younger teachers really liked him for, but he kept many of the older ones happy, too. Most of the time he let them alone.”

  “Not Al Welman.”

  “The man should have retired a century ago, and we all know it. Even Al knows it, I suspect.”

  “Did Al hate him enough to kill him?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. Tell me what you’ve found out. I got a little bit from the gossip grapevine. We can compare notes.”

  I told her which other teachers had been around the night before and asked what she knew about them.

  “The football coaches, the team, the cheerleaders, and their teacher sponsors, I don’t know much about,” she said. “It should be easy enough to see who went into the building from the practice field. You could check after school.

  “Now, Fiona is a strange case. She attended Grover Cleveland as a kid, went away to school, and came back elegant and above us all.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s why you asked for my help. I find things out.” She poured some diet soda into a mug with bright red letters that said, LET’S PARTY.

  “Ever notice how the way she dresses?” Meg asked.

  “I thought she wore nice clothes,” I said.

  Meg sighed. “I forgot. You have the fashion sense of a dead buffalo. Her outfits are perfect. She doesn’t wear spike heels or see-through blouses. No gobs of makeup or tons of jewelry. That’s passé. It’s the way she leans over a bit more than necessary, so that you can see a bit of cleavage, or that one extra button is undone on a blouse or skirt. Subtle things that say, ‘I’m available.’”

  I shrugged. “I never really noticed.”

  “Well, anyway, Fiona makes the term ‘clotheshorse’ obsolete. She’s a whole herd dressed to stampede. She’s dating a young man she met in Tahiti. They live together.”

  “Nothing there to make her a suspect in a murder.”

  “I uncover gossip, but I don’t know all the secrets about people’s grubby little lives like I used to.”

  I asked her about Al Welman.

  “As his union rep you’ve gone through the worst with him in the past couple of years. I know he just got divorced a year or so ago after forty years of marriage.”

  I gave her a surprised look. “I never knew that.”

  “Most people don’t. My source didn’t know anything beyond the fact of the divorce. I don’t know what happened. Only met her once or twice.”

  I told Meg about Al’s reaction to my questions.

  “You aren’t surprised, are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’ve got to remember, besides what I said earlier about rats deserting a sinking ship, Jones was generally well liked. He was one of the few good administrators in the recent past, not counting Carolyn Blackburn, who I think is dynamite. She’s the first competent superintendent we’ve had in over twenty years. But Jones … Sure the guy made tough decisions. He had visions and ideas. He was young and idealistic. He wanted to make a difference, and quite often he showed he knew what he was doing. Sure a few old dragons who’ve taught here from the year one didn’t like him, but most everybody else did.”

  “Tell me about Marshall Longfellow,” I said.

  “An alcoholic. Couldn’t find the right end of a hammer even if you held a gun to his head. Been around for thirty years. One of the ones your buddy Jones wanted to fire. Might have been able to make that one stick. You’ve got a good suspect there. He and Welman were good friends.”

  “You get anything on Dan Bluefield?” I asked.

  “Only a little, and it was strange. This year you’re the only one who’s reported trouble with him. His past record is atrocious, but if you just looked at this year, you’d think he was a little saint.”

  “Hard to believe,” I said.

  We talked a short while longer, but I learned nothing new about possible suspects.

  I wanted to talk to people from the football team and the cheerleaders. I made my way through the hallways to the gym. As it did yesterday, gloom infested the corridors. Fewer lights than usual beamed from inside classrooms: Teachers were clearing out early in case a murderer still lurked in the halls. I decided to check in the locker room first for any coaches who might be around. I could save myself a trek out to the practice fields.

  To get from the gym to the locker room you passed through a tiled passage crammed with racks filled with footballs, basketballs, and volleyballs. Mounded in corners and scattered on the floor, other gym paraphernalia provided dark shadows to the already underlit hall.

  Inside the close and humid locker room I heard faucets dripping while I stumbled over loose tiles in the floor. The gym was part of the original school complex and needed repair more than anyplace else. The smell of rotting jockstraps brought me back to my own high-school and college days, when I played football. I hunted for a few minutes, but the locker room was empty. As I stepped out the door back into the darkened hallway between the gym and the locker room, a sixth sense warned me of danger. I thought of retreating to the locker room, but this was the only exit. I inched carefully into the hallway. In the darkness, I thought I saw a dimness I hadn’t noted on the way in. An instant later something flew toward me.

  I flinched and heard an object race an inch past my right ear. I faced my attacker while I backed slowly toward the gym doors and more light.

  Seconds later I recognized the permed hair: Dan Bluefield. Despite being suspended, he must have sneaked into the school. He wore a nasty smile along with a large cast on his right arm.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Dan,” I said quietly.

  “Fuck you, faggot,” he said.

  I prattled to him with the usual “This isn’t going to get you anywhere” clichés. My arm still ached from being stabbed, and I didn’t want another encounter. His cast actually gave him more leverage.

  I backed away slowly and he followed. My shoulder br
ushed against a metallic shelf. Quickly I swept my arm along a row of basketballs. They tumbled between us. I leaped through the doors into the gym.

  He followed after me moments later. Facing him in the this light, I could clearly see he didn’t have a weapon. His initial swipe at me must have come from the hand with the cast. He’d counted on surprise for his attack to work.

  “Did you kill Mr. Jones?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t tell you shit.” He moved closer and I backed away.

  “You don’t want to try anything, Dan, do you?”

  “Not here. Not right now.” He moved closer and this time I didn’t back off. I smelled alcohol on his breath. He said, “You’re going to be sorry, faggot. I know where you live and I’m going to make your life miserable. You will be so sorry you ever fucked with me.”

  I gazed into his dark brown eyes. I said, “I wish I knew how to help you.”

  He said, “Fuck you,” and began walking away. By the time he got to the other side of the gym, he was running.

  I decided to delay my trip to the field outside and detoured for a stop at Donna Dalrymple’s office. She might have some insight into the kid’s behavior. I didn’t like her, but maybe there was something she could tell me that could help. Our encounter yesterday had been a disaster, but I couldn’t believe that I was the only one having trouble with the kid. I’d give talking to her another try.

  I found Donna on the phone in the counseling office. She nodded for me to sit down, spoke briefly into the phone, and then hung up.

  Donna had been at Grover Cleveland for three years, and until yesterday, I’d had minimal contact with her. The counselors, social workers, and psychologist at Grover Cleveland divided up the kids by grade level and type of assistance needed. Most were college counselors or helped kids with schedules. A few concentrated on the problem kids, who, if they didn’t drop out by senior year, were almost invariably in my Life Skills English class.

  Donna had her ponytail swept into a bun on the back of her head. She wore a brown blazer with a yellow blouse and slacks that combined the two colors. She glared at me.

  First, I tried to make peace. “I’d like to do what I can to help Dan Bluefield,” I said. “I think the family is in trouble. I’d like to work with you to help them. Yesterday everybody was under a lot of strain.”

  Her response was to continue staring at me angrily. I explained my most recent encounter with Dan Bluefield.

  Finally she spoke, “Half an hour ago, before this attack you claim happened, he told me you tried to molest him yesterday, and that’s why he attacked you. I’ve been on the phone since then to find out what I can get done to you legally.”

  “What Dan says occurred and what did happen are two very different things,” I said. “Did you think to come and ask me about it?”

  I got a haughty stare for such a ridiculous suggestion.

  I said, “It would seem to be a logical thing to do. Why would you take a kid’s word without consulting the teacher?”

  For a moment I thought she got a guilty look on her face, but a second later she spoke angrily. “I would thank you not to tell me how to do my job. I’ve already spoken with Carolyn Blackburn. She refused to take any action. You are lucky she trusts you. She told me I had to come up with some concrete proof. Don’t think I won’t try.”

  I realized how lucky I was to have a solid relationship with Carolyn Blackburn, but Dalrymple was still talking, “Beyond that, I’ve spoken with Dan’s parents. You had the older sister in class five years ago. You picked on her too.”

  “I caught her selling drugs in school,” I said. “I turned her in. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but she had Dan’s same basic attitude, which is ‘Screw you and stay away from me.’ She gave me little choice.”

  “Nevertheless, the father told me you’ve been unfair and after his kids for years.”

  “The father has attended numerous court proceedings with both kids, and he continues to excuse them and blame everyone else. He’s out of his depth in dealing with kids who are out of control. You ever met the mother?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Neither has anyone else, although she’s listed as living in the home. I know they aren’t divorced. Why is she never brought into these situations? You and the father have been bamboozled by some kid. I blame both parents, one who doesn’t seem to care and the other who can’t control his kid.”

  “You can blame everyone else for your own failures to cope with him.”

  “I admit I failed with him in class. I’m sorry I hurt him last night, but I know the good I can do with difficult kids. If you don’t know that, you should.”

  “I’ve talked with one or two of the other support staff. They say you’re wonderful. I have yet to see any evidence of it. The point is, Dan hates you and it’s your fault.”

  “Did you ever ask him why he hated me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he said?”

  “You pick on him.”

  “Try again,” I said. “He walked into that classroom at the end of August hating me. I didn’t even remember his sister. It’d been five years. I’ve been teaching so long that once they graduate most of the kids begin to blur in my memory. If they don’t do something astonishingly memorable, I forget them.”

  “And turning a kid in for drugs isn’t memorable?” she demanded.

  “Do you have any idea how many busts we have here? Can you guess how many kids are selling drugs, much less doing them? If you don’t, you should, especially someone in your position.”

  Her face hardened into a nasty sneer and she said, “You are harmful to children.”

  For the moment I kept my temper. I said, “I’ll tell you why he hates me. He figured out I’m gay, and he’s excessively homophobic.”

  “He’s had sex with girls. He’s not gay. Why should he hate you for that?”

  I gazed at her evenly. “Maybe you’re not prejudiced,” I said, “but it is unfortunately far too close to normal in this society, for teenage boys especially, to be homophobic to the point of violence. I can’t believe you don’t know that. What I find truly incredible is that you and almost everybody else around here has bought his current performance.”

  “You aren’t a psychologist, so I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not sure having a gay person for a teacher is good for him.”

  I laughed at her. “Ask his other teachers before this year, most of whom are straight, how they got along with him. It’s the same story as mine, usually worse. I have no idea why Dan thinks I’m gay. I’m not sure I care. Kids can hear rumors, and I don’t make a secret of it among the faculty.”

  “You’ve been unfair to him, and I believe him. This latest outburst that you claim happened is coming out of your hatred for him.”

  Why I didn’t lose my temper, I’m not sure. I said “You know what happened to the student teacher, and you still believe Bluefield?”

  She said, “Dan explained all that to me. He said that she was after him to have sex. When he turned her down, Clarissa went crazy. My understanding is that she isn’t going to press charges, which would seem to bear out my contention. Dan says Clarissa was afraid he might turn her in and ruin her career.”

  “You really bought all that?” I asked.

  “Yes. And you’d better understand that I hold you responsible if he returns to his previous behaviors. We’ve had him in a fantastic drug rehab program. He’s been clean for six months, on his way to overcoming child abuse and a negative home environment. It’s your fault if all that hard work comes to nothing.”

  I stood up, shook my head at her, and left. I felt even more sorry for her. I’ve seen people get twisted and screwed up about a kid, but I’ve never understood it.

  I trudged out to the practice field. Kurt Campbell blew a whistle at a mingling group of kids. He called them over and spoke to the huddled mass for a moment. They returned to their corner of the field and lined up opposite each other. In various oth
er corners teenagers clad in red-and-white football uniforms participated in various drills, observed by adults carrying clipboards and whistles. On the baseball field in the distance, the cheerleaders bounced and twirled.

  Kurt saw me and motioned me over. Besides his duties as teacher and union president, he’s one of the assistant football coaches.

  I thanked him for being there in the meeting with Mr. Bluefield.

  “How was your day?” he asked. “I assume there’s no word on the killer.”

  “No. I need to talk to you, or to whoever knows if anybody went into the school during practice yesterday.”

  “Probably not a lot of people,” he said. “I should have thought of it when I talked to you this morning. The best person to talk to is probably Herman Matusi, a senior. He’s the team manager. Runs chores for the coaches. Watches the equipment. He’s the brightest kid out here. Too bad he weighs a hundred and ten pounds. I don’t remember any of the coaches going in. If anybody would notice, he would.”

  I talked to Herman. He reported that none of the team had gone in.

  “Don’t they have to go to the john?” I asked.

  He pointed to the concessions stand under the bleachers. “We just use that. It’s got a water fountain too.”

  Out to the cheerleaders I roamed. The weather held beautiful. I hoped it would be this good in a week and a half for Scott and me. For now it was perfect for long walks in the woods, making love, and enjoying the peace and quiet.

  I got the attention of the cheerleading sponsor. She gave me a sour look, issued a few commands to one of the senior girls.

  “We’re busy,” she snapped when she got near me.

  I remembered her as Denise Flowers, a teacher of classical languages who had been in the district two years. She looked tan and athletic in sweat shirt and tight spandex shorts. She had long red hair and a figure I think nongay men would find very sexy.

  “I wanted to ask—” I began.

  She cut me off. “The police asked questions. We quit practice at five yesterday. The girls showered and then I waited for the last one to leave on the bus, the way a faculty advisor is supposed to. None of them left my sight. I was there all the time.” She turned her back on me and marched back to the kids.