by David Chill
"Marcus ... ?" Gail said. "What else?"
"I don't remember."
I shook my head. In thirteen years on the police force, the "I don't remember" line was quite possibly the one uttered the most. Hardened criminals knew there were few benefits to cooperating with police, and they usually disseminated as little information as possible. 'I don't remember' was that type of response that would make cops furious.
"So," Gail said, picking up the story. "Ricky bumped Marcus a couple of times, and one time he fell down on the pavement."
"Uh-huh," I said, vaguely remembering a parenting advice book that said something about the blessings of a skinned knee.
"But then Marcus got up and punched Ricky in the face."
"Oh, really?" I said, becoming very sure I didn't like where this was going. "What did the school say?"
Gail frowned, and a cross look appeared on her pretty face. "The school. Yes. I spoke with the director. They warned us if it happened again, Marcus could be expelled."
I inched back on the couch and put my arms around Marcus and hugged him slightly. Part of me wanted to high-five him and tell him good job. Someone pushes you, you push them back. Someone knocks you down, you go and knock them down. I had a funny feeling though, my better half wasn't going to be pleased with that approach, and I needed to tread cautiously.
"That seems a bit harsh. Expelled from preschool?"
"It's what they told me. Some preschools have a zero tolerance policy. We're actually lucky."
I wasn't feeling lucky. I wasn't feeling very good at all. "At least we didn't spend a bundle on that Applewood Preschool. Be hard to get our tuition money back."
Gail shot me a glance. "It's not funny. I don't like this behavior in a three year-old. And I wonder where he picked it up from."
I didn't need to be a psychic to sense when an argument was coming on, and I clearly did not relish the possibilities. Gail and I had been married for over four years and I could only recall a couple of times when we even bickered. We had enjoyed quite a long honeymoon, and we both took great pains to avoid bringing the stresses of our high-pressure jobs home with us. And I had some added incentives to avoid fighting with Gail. While I could trade quips with anyone, being snide with my normally lovely wife did not hold much upside. And I also knew that arguing with a lawyer was often a futile exercise. I had motivation to settle matters maturely right now.
"Okay," I said, raising my hand in acquiescence. "You need to know, I do not encourage Marcus to fight. I have not done so. Not at all."
"But I've seen you show him how to throw a punch. And when he's mad, you'll hold up your palms and let him punch your hands. Practice."
"It's not practice," I insisted. "I want him to blow off steam when he's mad about something. And punching my hand seemed like a good alternative."
"And look where we are," she countered.
"It wasn't my intention. I can assure you."
"He has to learn to use his words when he's mad. And to blow off steam in a different way."
"Okay, we'll work on it," I said, putting Marcus down and walking into the kitchen. I wondered how to help Marcus find another way to blow off steam. I also wondered what was for dinner. I wondered if I would be docked dessert. I also wondered if I'd be sleeping on the couch tonight.
*
I rocketed out the door the next morning, well before the clock struck 7:00 a.m., and as such, the sun was up and the traffic was fast. If I had lounged about for another 30 minutes, my commute to Pasadena would have sagged into a long, dreary slog. And if I had indeed waited that additional, prescient half-hour, Gail would be up. And I would, in no uncertain terms, have been reminded of our chilly conversation last night.
I found a Starbucks on Colorado Boulevard., not far from the Norton Simon Museum, and I settled in with a grande Sumatra. Around me sat a patchwork quilt of what appeared to be college students, entry-level I.T. workers, some retirees, and a few people who were likely unemployed and in dire need of getting out of the house. After waiting until 9:00 a.m., by which time classes should have started, I headed over to the high school.
St. Dismas was a short drive from Starbucks. Everything seemed like it was a short drive in Pasadena. There was traffic, but it was mild. There were a lot of stylish office buildings, but not a lot of the congestion that often comes with it. Pasadena struck me as a nice small city. Or maybe a nice big town. Almost as livable as Mar Vista. But the temperatures were much higher here and the air was smoggier. And no amount of charm can make up for discomfort. If you're going to live in paradise, it's best to not see what you breathe.
A different security guard from the one on duty yesterday greeted me as I walked into the main building, but the reception was much the same. He offered a lazy smile and asked if I were a parent. I smiled right back and told him I was, leaving out one crucial detail. My child was not matriculating at St. Dismas High in Pasadena, but rather, was a brand-new enrollee in the Grand View preschool. At least for the time being, and pending good behavior. The guard happily waved me on in. Nodding pleasantly at each other, we both went about our jobs.
I walked over to the administrative offices of the school and asked if I could speak with the bookkeeper. I wasn't entirely sure whether I could get anything out of them, but it was worth a shot. I was told the bookkeeper's name was Ms. O'Hara, but no one knew where she was. I casually glanced at some papers on her desk, but nothing resembling fraud jumped out at me. Then a deep voice came from behind.
"May I help you, sir?"
I turned to see a tall bespectacled man with a long neck and a brilliantined comb-over looking at me suspiciously. He wore a dark suit, and he maintained an aura of authority. He did not look happy.
"Just trying to find the accountant," I smiled.
"If you're dropping off a tuition check, I can take it," he said.
"No. Actually I had a few questions for her."
"Anything I can answer?"
"To whom do I have the pleasure?" I asked, attempting to come off as easygoing, and most likely failing.
"I'm Ed Mularkey. I'm the principal here. What does this concern?"
I smiled politely. I had planned to speak with Principal Mularkey, but didn't expect much. Underlings are more likely to let things slip, and when your goal is to have subjects spill secrets, the higher up they are on the totem pole, the less prone they are to reveal much. I suggested we adjourn to the principal's office, but he demurred, at least momentarily.
"First tell me what this is about," he demanded.
"Fundraising," I said, purposely omitting words like fraud, theft, or even the decidedly squishy term, irregularities. "I'm a private investigator. One of the parents here is very concerned about what happened to their donation."
Mularkey did not hesitate, and whisked me into his office with a sweeping gesture from a very long arm. Once inside, it was quickly obvious that the principal had far more luxurious digs than the teachers or staff. His office was outfitted with an intricately designed Persian rug, the walls were freshly painted, and there was a pair of impressive teak bookcases. The smooth spines told me that many of the books had probably never been opened. A large picture window, framed with long, straight maroon drapes, looked out onto the front grounds, lush and green.
"Tell me what's going on with the fundraising," Mularkey said, getting right to the point.
My first reaction might normally have been to inform him I'd be the one asking the questions. But I sensed joviality was not one of the principal's finer traits. Mularkey had a serious air about him, one that bespoke a busy man who would appreciate neither digs nor disrespect of any kind.
"One of the donors to the football program has concerns about where his money is going."
"And who might this donor be?"
I took a breath. It wasn't wholly ethical to reveal a client, but I had the distinct feeling our conversation would cease immediately if I failed to be cooperative. And given Mularkey's omnipotent abil
ity to limit access to anyone entering the school, my investigation might be stopped cold. But I also had an inkling that the Principal might already know who this was.
"One of the team parents," I said. "And a major donor. The type of man who writes a six-figure check without blinking. I'm sure you have some wealthy families here, but I also think you know who I'm talking about, don't you?"
Mularkey sighed. "That must be Bainbridge."
"Must be," I said, patting myself on the back for not actually confirming his name.
"Good heavens. That man is a blessing and a curse."
"How's that?" I asked.
"You know about his son."
"I know he goes to school here. And he plays football. And rumor has it he studies once in a while."
"If that. Look, Austin came here to play quarterback. He was a good player. Not outstanding, but he'd do. Then we had a shot at Noah Greenland. That changed everything. I didn't think Noah would come at first. His family situation is, well, complicated."
"I understand his father coached here. Then he got dismissed. For cause."
Mularkey paused for a moment. "You've done your homework. Yes, he was terminated. At the time, we didn't have any idea Bob's son would become a great athlete. But he did. Noah had a brief stint in public school, but things weren't working out there. Bob asked if Noah could transfer to St. Dismas. I gather Coach Savich had cultivated a relationship with the family."
As odd as it might sound, recruiting football players often starts well before high school. Kids begin playing Pop Warner, the talented ones are recognized, and private schools will offer scholarships to certain players. The cost is often worth it; the good publicity can put some schools on the map. A few high schools have even developed national reputations because of their sports teams. But coupled with that public presence is an ongoing pressure to win. And that meant continuously recruiting new players.
"So that was the end of Austin's career as a quarterback. I'm sure Earl wasn't pleased."
"To say the least. And the fact that Noah was on scholarship unnerved him even more. You'd be surprised how wealthy people can be very petty when it comes to money."
I thought of the eight years it took Earl to pay my bill. "Maybe not."
"Anyway, Austin moved to wide receiver. He's a starter, and he's accepted his role. His father, on the other hand, is less accepting."
"I take it Earl doesn't like Savich much," I said.
"Earl doesn't like anyone here. But he detests the coaches in particular. Hates them with a passion. Any opportunity he has to snipe at them, well, he takes full advantage."
"So you're not surprised he went out and hired someone like me to look into things."
"No," he said wearily. "Earl's been making threats, but he's been doing so for two years. Looks like he's finally following through. That man needs more to do with his life."
"Perhaps," I said, not feeling any strong need to disagree. "But why not just tell him about the fundraising and how it's spent? If the guy's been writing six-figure checks, doesn't he have a right to know where his money's going?"
Mularkey sighed again and shook his head. "We can't have parents this close to school business. There has to be some separation. We appreciate parent contributions, but that doesn't give them unfettered access to how we run our school. We'd have anarchy otherwise."
"I understand," I said. This made some sense. Allowing everyone input can indeed lead to chaos, and not everyone would be happy in the end. Group decision-making can be an ugly thing. Many years ago, a minor league football team in Ohio experimented with an interactive TV technology that would allow fans to call the plays for their home team. It was interesting for a few minutes, but when the home team fell behind, the fans panicked and began voting to throw a deep pass on every play. These plays rarely worked, as the opposing team quickly caught on and installed a scheme to defend it. The game took six hours, the wide receivers were completely exhausted by halftime, and the home team got clobbered. It was an experiment no one wanted to try again.
"So what do you have so far?" he asked.
"Nothing. I don't know who to ask or what to ask them. I've spoken to a few people so far. No one knows anything. So I feel like I'm going down a blind alley wearing ear plugs."
I thought I saw a faint smile briefly cross Mularkey's lips. Then it disappeared just as quickly. "I don't think it benefits anyone for you to continue this investigation," he finally said.
"Look," I said testily, "I'm being paid to do a job. I'm going to do it. I can always contact these people outside of school. This only makes it more convenient. It sounds like someone has something to hide."
At that point, a very loud siren-like alarm started to go off. Mularkey and I looked at each other and walked quickly out into the hallway. A middle-aged woman, possibly a teacher or an administrator, raced up to us, her arms extended, and she was practically panting.
"Mr. Mularkey! The school's on lockdown!"
"What?" he exclaimed. "On whose authority?"
"The police. There's been an incident and 9-1-1 was called. The police told us to lock all the classrooms. I so can't believe this happened!"
"Can't believe what, Mrs. Cook? What happened?"
"There's been a stabbing!" she cried.
"Who?! Who was stabbed?!" exclaimed Mularkey.
"It was a faculty member. It was ... oh my God! It was Jason. I mean, Mr. Fowler. It's terrible. He's dead. He was so nice and so popular. Who on earth could have done such a thing?"
Chapter 4
It took a few hours for the Pasadena police to assiduously comb through the campus and declare the grounds secure. But listening to the murmurs of students outside of the building, it was plain that no one felt safe. The school wisely suspended classes for the remainder of the day and instructed everyone to go home. Everyone, that is, except for those special students who played on the varsity football team, who would be required to stay and attend practice. There was, after all, a big game looming on Friday night.
Many students loitered outside the campus, waiting for a parent in a foul mood to pick them up, which they proceeded to do at a slow pace. In addition to the parade of vehicles from the medical examiner, the county coroner's office and local TV news crews, the street in front of the school was lined with black and white patrol cars from the Pasadena Police Department. Most of them were parked haphazardly, in the notorious cop style. The cruisers were angled in such a way that the rear end of the vehicles invariably protruded back onto the street. Anyone trying to navigate through the maze of black and whites needed to weave carefully around them.
I noticed a clump of muscular teenagers hanging together over by a corner. They all wore forest green t-shirts with the name Warriors emblazoned in gold across the center, right above the caricature of a bending goal post. Using my carefully honed detective skills, I deduced they were football players. I scanned the area to see if I could find any who were alone and came across a familiar face. While he wasn't wearing the standard green t-shirt, I knew he was an integral part of the team. He was intently focused, looking down at his phone with a sense of urgency as I approached. Fully engrossed in what he was doing, and plainly unaware I was standing right in front of him, I needed to utter a brief clearing-of-the-throat cough to get his attention.
"How are you doing there?" I began, taking a glance around the make sure there weren't any coaches nearby.
Noah Greenland looked up quickly from whatever critical endeavor he had been engaged in. "Oh," he said. "Hi. Okay, I guess. Do I know you?"
"You may not remember me, but I was part of Johnny Cleary's staff at SC. We met once. Briefly."
"Uh-huh," he said, appearing a little bewildered. "I sure remember Coach Cleary. You look a little familiar."
"I can imagine. Sorry to hear you decommitted from SC. Understand, new coaching staff and all."
"Right. My dad wasn't crazy about the new coaches. Said he didn't know anything about them. Wanted us to
take our time."
I agreed. "It's a big decision. Don't sign your letter of intent unless you're sure it's the school for you."
"My dad is kind of handling that."
"Oh?" I said. "You're the one who's going to college, right?"
"Uh-huh. But it's kind of tough to figure out. I've had over a hundred schools offer me scholarships. They all say the same things, make the same promises, say how they're the best, tell me how they only recruit players who want to compete, whatever. My dad's taken me to visit some of them. It's hard for me to tell them apart. They all kind of look the same after a while."
"Sounds like you're not enjoying this process much," I noted. "For a lot of players, visiting different colleges is a great experience. Everything is open to you, everyone is welcoming. Trust me, when you step onto campus as a student-athlete, things change."
"What do you mean?"
"Coaches that once told you how fantastic you were, and acted as though you're the greatest thing since sliced bread, are suddenly barking orders at you like you're an army plebe, screaming when you make a mistake. Once they've got you in the fold, they go back to their normal ways. What you're seeing now is their best side. They're selling themselves to you. If you win a national championship, you might see that side again."
He managed an unhappy laugh. His expression was that of a puzzled child struggling to solve long-division problems in his head. Noah Greenland was a good-looking teenager, tall, strong, freckle-faced, with short red hair that almost resembled a lawn that had just been mowed. His features were unusual, the red hair complemented by blue eyes, the square jaw offset by a long, aquiline nose. But the one impression that kept shining through was this sadness, a sense that the weight of the world was on his shoulders, his stardom a burden rather than a blessing.
"I'm kind of used to that," he sighed. "I'm seeing it with my coach now."
"Savich?"
"Yeah. I transferred here two years ago. After freshman year. They offered me a scholarship. Coach Savich treated me like a prince during recruiting. Then I came on board. When I threw an interception in my first game, he damn near tore my head off. It's like dude, chill, these things happen."