The Principal Cause of Death

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Scott brought the kid to the table. As soon as he got close enough, Bluefield kicked out at me. I caught his leg and twisted it. He gave a yelp and stopped struggling.

  “What if he tried to call for help?” Scott asked.

  “Fine. It would be great to have the cops show up. He’ll be nice and quiet. His friends are gone.”

  I found a plastic bag filled with marijuana on the ground nearby. I looked at Bluefield and said, “Tell me about the new shipment.”

  “Fuck you,” Bluefield said.

  “I think it’s time for a manners lesson,” I said. “Let’s sit him down.”

  The kid struggled, and I was hampered by my cut arm, but eventually we jammed his ass onto the bench. We secured him to the table with our belts, then sat on either side of him.

  “What are you going to do? Molest me?” he asked.

  “Nothing that simple,” I said.

  Bluefield jerked his head in Scott’s direction. “Gonna let your boyfriend do it? Aren’t you man enough?”

  I looked over at Scott. I’d relit the candles. The flickering light certainly wasn’t enough to allow Bluefield to recognize Scott, although at this moment that wasn’t a major concern.

  Scott said, “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to shove your head so far up your ass, you’ll be spitting shit.”

  Bluefield said, “Fuck you,” and spat in Scott’s face.

  An instant later Bluefield bent over, spitting blood or teeth onto the ground. I’m not sure I saw Scott’s fist move. I did see him blowing on his knuckles.

  I grabbed a handful of Bluefield’s curls and yanked his head back. The light was good enough for me to see blood issuing from both a split lip and his nose.

  “You don’t get it yet, Bluefield,” I said. “See, the faggots have captured you, and there are no witnesses. We can do anything we want. We can make it hurt, and we can make you suffer just as much as we want. I’d bet any money your friends won’t come back. So it’s just us, and you’re like all bullies: When you’re confronted, your true coward nature oozes from every pore.”

  His defiance at this point passed the realm of stupidity: He spat in my face. I didn’t move, and this time I saw Scott’s fist. That was because it took the kid a second to turn away from me. Once again he bent over, spitting debris from his mouth.

  Again I yanked him up by his curls. I said, “They taught us a few things in the service. I got caught by the Viet Cong once. Learned a few interesting things from them before I escaped. I think we should try a few of those on you tonight.”

  7

  Casually I reached behind me for one of the candles. I held the flame an inch from Bluefield’s chin and saw fear in the kid’s eyes. That made me feel good.

  Bluefield gulped. “You wouldn’t … torture me?”

  Scott grabbed a mass of curls and yanked the head back and forth, then pulled the kid’s face an inch from his own. “You’ve bullied enough people, and we’re here in a perfect spot to get revenge for every single one of them.”

  I’d never heard the tone Scott used. Anger and towering hatred.

  I put the candle down, got up, and paced in front of the two of them. “Let’s see if we can’t get a little information,” I said. “Maybe he’ll tell us enough. If he’s real cooperative, we could let him go.”

  I picked up the candle again and held it near Bluefield’s face. I saw fear and maybe anger in it, but I detected defiance underneath. Threats and intimidation from his neighbors and their protectors might have worked in junior high, but the kid was older and tougher now.

  “Tell us about the drug shipment,” I said, putting the candle back on the table.

  Bluefield swore, then spat at me.

  Scott’s fist flicked out. Blood spurted from Bluefield’s nose. Scott grabbed the kid’s curls, yanked his head back, and twisted the fistful of hair until tears streamed down Bluefield’s cheeks.

  The kid moaned in agony. “Please, stop,” he whispered.

  Scott placed his lips an inch from Bluefield’s ear. “You’ve fucked around with your last victim, you scummy little coward.” Scott’s tone even had me a little scared. “We’re faggots and we’re going to get revenge.”

  Bluefield began to cry. Scott stared at the eighteen-year-old for a minute, then stood up and walked to the edge of the light. He kept his back to us. I could see him trembling.

  I turned back to Bluefield. He sobbed uncontrollably eventually mixing words with his blubbering. “Don’t hurt me,” he repeated over and over. At one point he choked on his own tears and snot, coughing violently. It took nearly ten minutes for him to get himself under control. I left him to pull himself together. I walked over to Scott. I murmured, “You okay?”

  He shrugged his shoulders slightly and moved out of the light to the edge of the clearing, where he sat with his back against a tree. Moonlight shone on the right side of his face. I saw the glitter of tears.

  I turned back to Bluefield. Except for an occasional sniffle, he had himself under control. Taking out my hanky, I sat next to him and wiped snot, tears, and blood from his face. I didn’t untie him. I wasn’t taking any chances. I held the hanky so he could blow his nose.

  Several minutes and a few sniffles later I said, “Dan, I need you to tell me all about the drugs.”

  And he did. Today he and his dad had gone to their distributor in Chicago with a couple of friends. Dan had left with a buddy while his dad stayed in the city. They’d come out here to party. They knew of a little-used, unchained entrance to the forest preserve. It was only a dirt road and not kept in repair, but that made it all the better for teenagers, since discovery was highly unlikely. He told me about the drug operation, adding details about the dealing at school, about how deliveries were made, about where the stash was hidden in the house so the police could never find it when they searched.

  When he finished he drew a deep breath and looked at me and said, “I’m really messed up.”

  “Why did you burn my house?” I asked.

  “Huh?” he said. “I didn’t. The alarms scared me off. Last night I was at home. I didn’t do it, Mr. Mason.” He began to cry softly.

  I looked toward Scott. He hadn’t moved from the tree. The moonlight had shifted. His face was now in shadow, but I could see his hands quietly resting in his lap.

  “Let’s take you home,” I said to Bluefield.

  Scott slowly rose to his feet and joined us. I couldn’t read his face in the flickering light. I listened to the now murmuring sniffles of the teenager. I heard the movement of Scott’s body. Felt the occasional breath of wind.

  Dan accepted our offer of a ride.

  We worked it out. The Porsche didn’t have a backseat. Scott would go back to the road, take the Porsche to my place, and come back with my truck. Bluefield gave him directions to the secret entrance.

  While we waited, Bluefield hung his head in silence and barely made any movement. I untied him, but he didn’t try to run away. I gave him my hanky so he could clean himself up. A half-hour later, I heard the rumble of an engine. Moments later Scott stepped into the light.

  We drove with Bluefield between us. The boy didn’t say a word. I looked at Scott in the light from the dashboard. His blank expression worried me.

  In the truck I asked Dan about his relationship with Jones.

  Dan said, “He was a joke. They all were. You were the only one who didn’t buy my change. I’ve done more illegal stuff in the past couple months than in the past four years combined. Jones played like he was my big buddy. Always wanted to do me a favor. Always wanted to talk over everything. He’d talk and be reasonable, and all I had to do was look sincere. Then I’d laugh behind his back, but he was easy to get along with. He never punished me, so I let him be.”

  “Did you kill him?” I asked.

  “No,” Dan said.

  “Did you see anybody that day after school? Did you go in to talk to him?”

  He said he hadn’t. He’d come back to tal
k to Donna Dalrymple.

  From the gas station at the corner of LaGrange Road and 191st Street, I called the River’s Edge police station. Neither Daniels nor Johnson was on duty. I convinced the guy at the other end of the phone to call one of them at home and have them call the pay phone back. A few minutes later Daniels returned the call. I explained what Dan had told us and where they could find the drugs in the Bluefield house. I told them we’d meet them there.

  We arrived before any of the police.

  Dan simply opened the door and walked in. Mr. and Mrs. Bluefield sat on a couch in the living room watching television.

  All the furniture was new and in prime condition; the television set measured fifty-four inches, the rug was deep and almost sensuous. They jumped at our entrance. Mrs. Bluefield rushed over to Dan. She was a thin woman with hair in a frizz that looked like it had been done by the Wicked Witch of the West. She wore a fringed and beaded deerskin shirt and pants with Day-Glo red moccasins. Dan stood stoically while his mom fussed at him. His dad rushed at us.

  He shouted, threatened, and told us to leave.

  I said to him, “Aren’t you concerned about Dan?”

  He glanced at his son. “Kid’s a mess. What else is new? I want you and your fruitcake buddy …”

  He looked at Scott closely for the first time. The silence drew the attention of Dan and Mrs. Bluefield. Mr. Bluefield walked up to Scott. “You’re Scott Carpenter, the baseball player.”

  Scott asked, “Did you burn down our house?”

  Mr. Bluefield laughed and sneered. I wasn’t ready to beat up another homophobic creep. Scott just looked tired.

  I asked, “Did you kill Robert Jones?”

  Mr. Bluefield swung toward me and raised his fists. He shouted, “Faggots got no right to ask questions.”

  The doorbell rang. We all looked at each other. Mr. Bluefield finally moved to answer it. We heard Johnson’s voice. Bluefield slammed the door and didn’t let him in.

  He rushed into the living room. “Cops,” he said to his wife. Forgetting us and their son, the two instantly sprang into action. They weren’t quite quick enough. Scott dashed to the doorway that led to the rest of the house. Bluefield and wife advanced on him.

  Scott crossed his arms in the doorway, his blue eyes radiating cruel ice. The Bluefields hesitated. I heard the cops pounding on the door. I came up behind the Bluefields. “It’s over,” I said.

  Bluefield launched himself at Scott. He never got halfway there. I tackled him, none too gently. We used his own belt to secure him to one of the living-room chairs.

  Half an hour later the cops hustled the Bluefields away. Mr. Bluefield had accused us of numerous crimes, but the discovery of the hidden stash silenced him. Turned out the entire ceiling in the bathroom was fake, held down by spring locks controlled by innocuous little buttons in the kitchen.

  Johnson and Daniels talked to us in the living room. Daniels said, “They made a lot of accusations. You’re real lucky we’ve been trying to bust them for a long time.”

  Johnson said, “The kid was awful quiet and subdued. Looked kind of a mess too. You guys do something to him?”

  We gave minimal answers and little information. They didn’t press the issue. The police had the biggest drug haul in River’s Edge history to deal with. Plus they weren’t that fond of the kid in the first place. We parted tight-lipped, with the cops warning that they were watching us.

  Scott drove the truck back to the city. We didn’t speak until we were in the garage under his building. He shut off the engine and dropped the keys into my hand, but he didn’t move to get out. He slumped in the seat, spread his legs wide, crossed his arms over his chest, rested his head against the back cushion, and closed his eyes. He spoke without opening them.

  “I just … I guess I lost it. I just hated him so much, and I wanted to hurt him. Listening to him describe how he put that stuff on your desk and not caring how it affected you.” He opened his eyes and stared out the window at the lines of parked cars.

  “Dan Bluefield can bring out that kind of reaction in people,” I said.

  His hands reached out to grip the steering wheel. “The rush was incredible. I could have ripped his hair out from the roots. I don’t know what kept me from banging his head to a pulp. I enjoyed it. I was glad I hit him. Now I feel awful, like you the other day.”

  I put my hand on his arm. He looked at me. “I guess I really know how you felt the other night,” he said.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I said.

  “I thought revenge was supposed to feel better than this,” he said.

  We didn’t say much to each other that night. We worked out for over an hour on the machines, Scott still being careful of his pitching arm, me of my wound from Bluefield’s knife. He showered first. After I finished, I found him in the electronics room with all the lights off, watching Casablanca. The movie was at the scene where they arrest Peter Lorre, and Humphrey Bogart does nothing to help him.

  Scott made room for me on the couch. He murmured, “I wanted to lose myself in somebody else’s problems for a little while.”

  We settled into our movie-watching position: pillows propped behind us, legs sprawled on the coffee table, leaning against each other. Usually we have a bowl of popcorn between us, but neither of us was in the mood. I let my mind wander among the characters in the Moroccan desert. For a few minutes I forgot my own troubles. Finally my lack of sleep caught up with me. I woke up with Scott gently nudging me awake. I stumbled into bed and slept ten hours.

  That morning we divided up some of his clothes so I would have enough to wear. He hadn’t dropped off any of his laundry for the week so I decided to do a couple of loads. I had had an old washer and dryer at my place, which Scott kept in excellent condition and which I used frequently. His utility room contained two gleaming units fit do the work of a family of ten. He rarely used them. Early in our relationship he did a load of our wash together. My underwear came out pink. This I could forgive, but the next week he shrank three of my favorite sweatshirts to unwearability.

  I read the paper, drank coffee, and monitored the tumbling clothes. He thumbed through art catalogues, occasionally showing me paintings and asking my opinion. This was one of his methods of finding out what he could get me for Christmas. I didn’t let on that I suspected this and made sure I expressed extreme liking for my favorite ones.

  A little after noon Sunday we drove out to River’s Edge. We had an appointment with Daniels and Johnson at one.

  Daniels greeted us with “What the hell did you guys do to the Bluefield kid?”

  “He pressing charges?” I asked.

  “For what?” Daniels asked.

  “What did the kid say?” Scott asked.

  Daniels said, “The kid retracted what he said about seeing you, Mason, in the corridor the night of the murder. Said he lied. We were not nice to him about that, by the way. But he looked a little the worse for wear. That social worker showed up. Dalrymple? We left him in her hands.”

  “Mom and Dad still in jail?” Scott asked.

  “Got bailed out early this morning.”

  “What!” I said.

  “Drug money can cover a multitude of sins,” Daniels said. “Obviously these two have some connections. The captain told me some fancy lawyer got here an hour after we arrested them. They made bail early this morning. We had to let them go.”

  A few minutes later we were back on the topic of the murder. “You’re still on the front burner on the stove of suspects, but it’s not quite as hot as it was. Still …” Daniels shook his head.

  “What can you tell us about the investigation?” I asked, not expecting much of an answer. But he told us more than I thought he would.

  “We’re pretty sure the knife came from the school cafeteria,” Daniels said. “We checked the brand and it matches the kind they have. Most of the other knives we examined were fairly blunt. This one had been honed. Somebody planned to kill Jones.” He told us th
at nothing in Jones’s office had been disturbed, that Jones hadn’t been robbed, that according to a careful examination by Carolyn Blackburn and Georgette Constantine nothing was missing or out of place. Neighbors and friends said the Joneses were a good couple, fought perhaps a little less than most. No evidence of extramarital affairs, no abuse, no alcohol, no money problems.

  Daniels concluded, “Usually in these cases you count the wife as a major suspect, but this seems almost definitely connected with school.”

  We nodded agreement.

  Daniels said, “We haven’t been able to dig up many problems at school. I thought most administrators were assholes. From the way the faculty talked, the guy was a saint.”

  “He was a good administrator,” I said. “We just had disagreements once in a while.”

  Daniels said, “We checked with your buddy Kurt Campbell to see if there’d been any particular union problems. Nothing out of the ordinary. We did talk to Al Welman, since you and he met with Jones on that grievance, but the old man claims he doesn’t know anything.”

  I hesitated to tell Daniels all we knew. I was still ticked off about the way he and his partner had been treating us. We finished up at the police station, and in the truck Scott said, “Now what?”

  I said, “You know what’s odd?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “None of our suspects has an alibi for the time the murder could have been committed, but they all have great alibis for burning down the house.”

  “So none of them did it,” Scott said.

  “Or somebody’s doing a good coverup … . I’m pretty convinced Bluefield didn’t do it,” I said.

  “Bluefield dad or kid?” Scott asked. “And are we talking about murder or arson?”

  “Arson. The ki—Wait. If the kid didn’t burn it, why not the dad?” I explained my reasoning to Scott. “The guy hated me. The kid had to get his homophobia from somewhere, obviously at home, where the idea could be cemented into his head. We didn’t ask the father where he was the night of the fire.”