The Principal Cause of Death

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Scott padded up behind me in his stocking feet. He placed his chin gently on my shoulder. “Come to bed,” he said.

  “In a minute,” I said.

  He put his arms around me. I felt his chest, thighs, and legs against my back. He rubbed his five o’clock shadow gently against my cheek.

  “Don’t let it get to you,” he said.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” I said.

  “We both know that. So the cops were a little gruff. It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s only because of Frank that I’m not in jail,” I said.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

  I began to turn toward him when a sudden flash from the fields caught my eye. I swung back.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Something’s out there,” I whispered.

  He stared out the window. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Hush. Let’s move away from here slowly. We probably can’t be seen, because there’s no light behind us, but let’s be careful.” We edged away from the window.

  “Your imagination’s getting the best of you,” Scott said.

  Carefully I positioned myself so I could see over the windowsill.

  4

  I scanned the cornfield carefully, left to right and back. No sign of life. I hurried to the bedroom, slipped on some shoes, stopped in the kitchen for a flashlight, and marched into the front yard. The light I threw on the fields barely penetrated the dark.

  Gentle rustlings from the wind moved the stalks in random bursts. Excellent cover for any skulking attacker. Scott came up behind me.

  “I’m going out there,” I said.

  “Are you nuts?” Scott said. “If you really think somebody’s ready to attack us, then call the police.”

  “I’m not calling the police. This is my home and I’m not going to put up with any bullshit. If someone is going to threaten me, especially that stupid fuck Bluefield, they’re going to know they picked the wrong faggot to fuck with. I’m not afraid of some screwed-up teenager.”

  “How about if I feel frightened enough for both of us? I don’t want you hurt,” Scott said. “Don’t do something stupidly macho just to prove a point.”

  I glared at him. “This is my home, our home. If we aren’t safe here, secure here, then it’s for shit and we might as well pack up our tent and surrender. I will not live in fear. I better be able to go out into my yard on a peaceful autumn evening.”

  “You’re the one who said he thought he saw something,” Scott said reasonably.

  I was feeling unreasonable and petulant. I watched the lights of cars passing on Wolf Road a hundred feet in the distance at the end of the driveway. I walked to the edge of the cornfield and stood poised uncertainly.

  Lights flashed down at the road. A car turned up the driveway. Probably someone who missed a turn in Mokena, finally realizing they’d come the wrong way and needed to go back. One or two cars a day used the driveway for a U-turn.

  This car kept coming up the driveway. “What the hell?” I said. It was just after midnight, no time for visiting.

  The car was a four-year-old Oldsmobile. We walked over. Al Welman’s head popped out of the car. His wispy gray hair seemed more disorganized than usual.

  He said, “I’m sorry it’s so late. I talked to Meg. I’ve been feeling awful about what I said to you. I was driving around. I turned in to see if any of your lights were on. If you weren’t up, I was going to talk to you tomorrow at school.”

  We invited him in. He apologized several more times for the lateness of the hour and for his rudeness to me earlier that day. “I feel such guilt,” he said. “You’ve been awfully good to me. I’m sorry.”

  I told him to forget it. I introduced Scott to him. He recognized the name.

  “You live here?” Welman asked him.

  “We live together,” Scott said.

  “You’re lovers? You’re g—” Welman stopped. “The things you see today.”

  “I appreciate the apology, Al,” I said, “but it is pretty late.”

  “I came for another reason,” he said. “I”—he paused—“I … I saw something. I may have made a mistake.”

  We waited for him to continue.

  “I was near the office at ten after six,” he said.

  “What were you doing there?” I asked.

  “I … I was going to talk to Jones. We didn’t have a scheduled meeting. I wanted to appeal to him without anyone from the union around. I thought he might be less threatened. I know that might sound stupid to you, but I can’t teach that biology class next semester. It’ll kill me. So I was willing to try anything.”

  Including murder? I wondered.

  I let the silence lengthen beyond the uncomfortable. Finally Welman whispered, “He was dead when I walked into the office. I saw the light and knocked on his door. It was slightly ajar, so when he didn’t answer, I peeked in. I saw the knife and I ran.”

  He twisted his hands together and continued, “I should have done something. I know I should have, but I knew everybody would suspect me. I would be the one to find the body, a natural suspect, and I hate him so much. The police have talked to me several times already. If you weren’t such a good suspect, they probably would have come after me. You won’t tell the police I was there, will you?”

  I said, “Did you see anyone in the hallway?”

  “As I was walking to the office I saw that Fiona person at the far end of the east hallway, walking away from the office, and I think I saw one of the custodians way down the north hall. He was moving away from the office, too. I couldn’t tell if either one had been inside.”

  Fiona or the custodian could have been simply walking from one end of the complex to the other, but I’d talk to them.

  “Could you tell who the custodian was?”

  “Whoever it was had a uniform on. It could have been Longfellow, but he was too far down the hall for me to be sure.”

  “Did either of them see you?” I asked.

  “No, I was coming from the new section of the building. They were already at opposite ends of the halls they were in.”

  “Opposite ends?” Scott asked.

  I explained the school’s geography to Scott. The south wing ended at the far west end of the main hall. At the office the main hall continued but was officially called the east hall. Just before the office the north hall branched off to the left if one was walking west to east in the main hall. The school’s geography was screwed up because it had been built in sections starting just before World War I. The newest section, tacked onto the far end of the old south wing, made the place so spread-out that any kid going from a class in the new section to a class in the far end of the old north wing couldn’t possibly make it in time.

  “Why didn’t you tell this to the cops? This makes them suspects.”

  “I told you why. It makes me a suspect, too, and as far as I know those two have no reason to murder him.”

  “Did you see Dan Bluefield?” I asked.

  “No. Was he around?”

  “He claims I was there.”

  “I didn’t see you,” Welman said.

  “Could any other people have been around?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see any,” Welman said. “Are you going to tell the police what I told you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Scott said, “We won’t tell.”

  I gave him a startled look. Scott said, “Mr. Welman, how could you leave him there like that? Maybe he was still alive when you got there. It couldn’t have happened much before you arrived on the scene.”

  Welman gulped. He rubbed his hands through his thinning hair. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ve thought about that. I may have let a man die. I … I guess I was more worried about myself, and I … I was, I was so glad to think he was dead, that the idea of helping him didn’t cross my mind. Until later, that is. Then I felt awful. At the moment I only thought that the person being cruelest
to me was dead, and I was glad. I know that sounds awful, but it’s true.”

  Scott said, “I understand. Tom’s told me about the hard time you’ve had this year. We won’t make it tougher for you.”

  The old man left a few moments, later shaking our hands gratefully and saying he hoped his information would lead me to find out who did it.

  I wanted to go back outside to examine the cornfields for evidence of skulking watchers. Scott’s grumbling about hunting around in the dark annoyed me, but his logic convinced me that stumbling through six-foot-tall corn in the dead of night with only a flashlight was dumb.

  After we crawled into bed, Scott turned off his light and rolled over. I asked, “Why aren’t we going to say anything to the police about Welman?”

  Scott mumbled into his pillow, “He didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  He turned his head to me. One eye peeked from the depths of the pillow. “I think he was telling the truth. Don’t you?”

  “I’m not ready to cross him off the suspect list.”

  “Okay, don’t. But I guessed if he thought we trusted him after he confessed, it might help him. He must be feeling awful guilt about not doing something to save the guy.”

  “Jones probably died instantly,” I said. I’d seen stab wounds before, and this one had looked as nasty as any I’d come across in combat.

  “Tell Welman that next time,” Scott said.

  “Let him feel a little guilt,” I said.

  Scott turned on his side to look at me. “You okay, Tom?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not okay. The bastard is here practically confessing to murder, and you bid him go on his merry way, and we decide to keep quiet about it. I don’t understand it.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Scott asked.

  “I don’t know. If I wasn’t so pissed about the police interrogation, I’d call them right now and tell them. That’s the only reason I’m not going to. But let me tell you if they try an arrest, I may have to break your promise.”

  “You didn’t do it,” Scott said. “You don’t have to worry.”

  “Well, I am worried.” I paused. “I guess I’m more shook up about that inquisition than I thought. Sorry. If I weren’t so pissed off I’d agree with you.”

  “’S okay to be angry,” Scott said.

  We talked for a while longer, but it was late and slowly we drifted off to sleep.

  It seemed like seconds later that crashing sirens and flashing white lights blasted me awake. I reached for Scott, who was mumbling himself awake. I rushed to the center of the house. Threw open the doors to the other rooms. No fire. No intruders. I tore open the front door.

  Light as bright as day flooded the perimeter of the house from lamps Scott had installed on the roof. Caught in the middle of the front lawn was a figure staring toward me. Seconds later it was gone. I ran across the grass, realizing after a few steps that I had no shoes on. I was surprised to note I’d thrown on a pair of pants. A few steps into the corn told me pursuit was impossible. No shoes, and the enemy had a million places to hide.

  I trudged back to the front porch. The alarm cut off and moments later Scott joined me. Seconds later, we caught a brief glimpse of a car, tires squealing, pulling around the corner onto 179th Street.

  “Did you see the guy on the lawn?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Could have been Bluefield. I don’t know. What time is it?”

  Neither of us knew. We examined the perimeter of the house. At the back door we found evidence of where the visitor had tried to insert something, maybe a crowbar or a screwdriver, between the door and the jamb. He didn’t get far, because the alarm had tripped.

  Back inside I paced the living-room floor and ranted about Bluefield.

  Scott sat on the couch. When I paused for breath he spoke, “You said you couldn’t be sure who it was.”

  “The fucking kid is out to get me. I am not in the mood to be reasonable.” I glanced at the time on the VCR display. “It’s three in the morning and I don’t give a shit about proof or evidence. The little bastard will not frighten me out of my home.”

  “Fine,” Scott said, “you’re going to go over to his house and beat him to death. In the meantime I’m scared. For you. I agree he probably did it, but we have no proof and you know as well as I do that there isn’t a thing we can do. Tom, do you understand? I’m scared. I don’t want you or me hurt, and somebody wants to hurt you. We’ll be safe in the city. My building has good security.”

  I picked up the book I’d been reading from next to the battered old chair I usually read in. I hurled it across the room. Scott didn’t move. With my foot I slammed a chair against the wall. The pictures on the wall rattled. The one of him and me with both sets of parents fell to the floor. Scott jumped to his feet.

  “Tom.” His low voice soothed and thrummed at its deepest level. After a few minutes under his penetrating gaze, I eased myself down onto the edge of my favorite chair and hung my head. He came over and rested a hand on my shoulder. After a couple of minutes of silence he murmured, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I nodded without looking up at him.

  We said little to each other as we made our way to bed for the third time that night. I’d picked up the book and carefully placed it on the coffee table. He’d rehung the picture.

  I stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, listening to him breathe. I could tell he was still awake. I thought about the day, kids, murder, and fear. A long while later, almost in spite of myself, I felt sleep coming on. As I drifted off, Scott moved close and placed his arm gently on my chest. “I love you,” he whispered.

  Early the next morning Scott drove me to school. He would pick me up later. I took my cup of coffee and trudged up the stairs to the library to talk to Meg.

  The first thing she said was “You look like hell.”

  I told her about the previous evening’s activities, including what Welman told us. I thanked her for convincing the old man to come talk to us.

  “He’s susceptible to my charms,” she said.

  “And you have many,” I said. “The worst part of all this is I feel rotten about being mean to Scott. He’s trying to be calm and helpful. I just get more angry, and feel rotten about being angry, and on top of that I’m torn between guilt and anger with Bluefield.”

  “Scott loves you and understands,” Meg said. “He knows you’re not a saint. As for Bluefield, why are you still feeling guilt about hitting him and hating him? After what he did last night, I’d be ready to consider murder.”

  “Last night I wanted to hurt him. Now, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I know it doesn’t make much sense.”

  She said, “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t there last night, but I think it was the kid attacking your house. Good thing you have the alarm system to scare people away. You’ve got to solve this murder nonsense. You get that out of the way and you’re in good shape. I can’t believe the police were so rotten.”

  “They were.”

  “I didn’t mean I didn’t believe what you said. I guess I meant I didn’t believe they would act like that.”

  “The interrogation was nothing compared to what I’ve been through before. I guess it upset me so much because they seemed to believe the kid, and I know he’s lying.”

  “If they really believed him,” she reminded me, “they’d probably have arrested you already. Are you going to tell the police what Welman told you?”

  “I promised Scott. I won’t unless I have to.”

  Switching topics, Meg said, “I’ve got something that may help when you talk to Fiona.” It turned out that Fiona’d had sex with a large number of the men on the faculty.

  Meg read my mind. “If she were a man, you’d all congratulate him on his conquests. Because she’s a woman, she’s a slut.” She continued her story. Supposedly, Fiona had bragged that she’d had sex with over half the men on the facul
ty sometime in the last ten years.

  “She never approached me,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t have noticed,” Meg said. “You are one of the least susceptible men to feminine charms that I know, and we both know the reason.”

  “Anyway, why would she open up to me? If the gossip line knows about it, and she brags about it, what’s to threaten her with?”

  Meg said, “A good portion of her conquests have been here at school. In classrooms, broom closets, anywhere you could lock a door and not be seen. Push her on the issue. I’ll bet you get something.” I shook my head dubiously, but said if I had to, I would use the information.

  The bell rang for class. Meg gave me words of encouragement as I left to teach first hour. Being in front of the kids that day was worse than it had been the day before. I was tired from lack of sleep, my arm hurt, and more of them had heard about what Bluefield had said and done the last couple of days. I found myself disciplining more than usual. Even if the kid who tries something is an asshole, the other kids get restless. The cycle of respect is broken. The relationship you’ve built up with them changes.

  At noon, weary but determined, I set out to ask more questions. Yesterday there hadn’t been enough time for me to get to the last person on the list Georgette gave: Max Younger, the debate-team coach. I needed to talk to Marshall Longfellow, and I had another reason to speak to Fiona Wilson, besides the fact that Welman had seen them both in the hall yesterday.

  I greeted people in the teachers’ lounge and found Younger pounding on the pop machine. I tapped it just above the coin-return lever; a coin clinked inside the machine, and a can of diet soda fell into the bin. I asked him if I could talk to him outside.

  “I need to eat my lunch,” he said.

  “This won’t take long,” I said.

  He grumbled about not having enough time, but he accompanied me out to the hallway.

  Max Younger wore a beard on a pinched and narrow face. I knew he starred in all the local dramatic productions at the River’s Edge Community Center. He was in his late twenties, with an attractive wife whom I’d seen once or twice at faculty parties. I’d heard he had quite a temper while putting together the school plays. The ones I’d gone to had been excellent productions. Perhaps his standards required him to pressure the kids extra hard.