Schooled in Murder

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Scott interrupted. “And could have been refunded. Is your message here that sports are more important than murder? Or money is more important than people? Aren’t you planning to do something before Monday to reassure the parents that the children and teachers are safe? I see no evidence that you have taken action to protect anyone at this game.”

  Spandrel said, “We haven’t had problems at games.”

  Scott said, “People are dead, and you’re having a football game.”

  I looked up. The stands were now at a normal buzz. Numerous people were looking over the edge of the bleachers down at us. Kids were pointing and calling out to different ones of us.

  Spandrel, who didn’t seem to have noticed the noise reduction, screamed, “You and your faggot lover are the problem.”

  Scott’s voice was very soft, “That’s the last time you get to say that.”

  Scott towered over her. I knew he wouldn’t physically assault her. If she was in the batter’s box, she’d have to duck the next pitch, but Scott was one of the most gentle of men, sort of a Gregory Peck with extra muscles.

  Bochka said, “Mabel, we should leave.”

  Spandrel looked pissed and ready to keep fighting. Bochka put her arm through the crook in her employee’s arm and escorted her away.

  “Let’s go home,” Scott said.

  “Yeah. I don’t want to be near these people for a whole weekend.”

  We returned to our seats, picked up our blankets, and trudged out.

  As we passed the concession stand, Scott asked, “Why haven’t they fired your ass?”

  “They must want something–or think that I know something or that I have some power over them that I’m not aware of. That last makes no sense, but yeah, something is out of control here.”

  “Before you said it just now, did Bochka know all that stuff about Spandrel and Higden?”

  “I couldn’t tell. They’re homophobic creeps, and I guess Spandrel is a sexual athlete, but I’m not sure how that all connects to murder.”

  He said, “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll be better when we get home.”

  30

  The cops had been around all day. They had set up a command post in the school. I’d heard they’d been interviewing people nonstop.

  As we neared the parking lot, Gault and Vulmea, the detectives, strode toward us. Vulmea was eating a corn dog with lots of mustard. Gault said, “We need to see you for a few minutes.” His tone was rough and acerbic.

  I nodded.

  “In the school office.” He stood aside.

  I didn’t move. “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “We need to talk to you in the office.”

  I felt my pulse racing. Scott gave me and the cop puzzled looks. I said, “My attorney has advised me not to speak with you without him present.”

  Vulmea gave me a dirty look.

  Gault said, “We have a witness that saw you coming out of the supply room at 4:45, long before you claim to have gotten there.”

  I gaped at him. My mind flashed to the scene in the movie The Producers after the play Springtime for Hitler has started and the audience sits, mouths agape, in absolute stunned silence at what they are hearing and seeing. A jumble of thoughts and emotions swept through me. All reminders of my attorney’s advice or being remotely sensible were gone. I could argue with Spandrel, but this was blatant irrationality, a lie without basis, and it was a threat.

  I managed to gasp out, “Who?”

  Gault asked, “Where were you at 4:45?”

  “I already told you. I won’t repeat myself. I came out of the supply room with Brandon Benson and Steven Frecking when I said I did.”

  Gault shuffled through a notepad. “We got that at 5:10.”

  “That’s about right.”

  Gault said, “And now we’ve got someone who says they saw you coming out of the room at 4:45.”

  The pit of my stomach had taken a vacation. My mind reeled. I got misty-eyed. I was shaking.

  Scott said, “Tom, do you want to sit down?”

  It was like a dream. I said, “I was nowhere near the supply room at 4:45.”

  “Why would someone lie about that?” Vulmea asked.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

  “Do you have a witness to that?” Vulmea asked.

  “I already gave you a statement of my movements. I don’t need to repeat them. I was where I said I was. I’m sure you’ve checked it.”

  “As far as it was checkable,” Vulmea said. “The parent said she did talk to you. She doesn’t know exactly what time it was.”

  “Phone records will show exactly what the times were.”

  “But were they 4:45?”

  “Why would I kill her?” I asked.

  “You tell us.”

  “I have no reason to. Who told you I was there? I need to know that. I have a right to confront my accuser.”

  “That’s in a court of law, not in an investigation.”

  “Bullshit. I have a right to know. This is bullshit.” I was frightened and furiously angry.

  “Why would people lie about your movements?”

  “To protect themselves. Because they’re homophobic creeps who are trying to destroy me.”

  “Why destroy you? What do you have that they don’t?”

  “A life? Someone who loves me? A life as an openly gay man who is comfortable with himself? Is it an attempt to wreck me because they’re nuts? Because I have a lover who is a rich, famous baseball player? People can be insanely jealous. Some people want to tear down, hurt, and destroy just because they can. Because they want to bring others down to their level. How the hell should I know why? I just got told someone saw me near a murder scene. I’ll need my lawyer here before I say anything else.”

  “If you could just go over again what happened,” Vulmea said.

  Again Scott put his hand on my arm. He said, “Tom will want his lawyer. He’s not going to say any more until his lawyer gets here.”

  “Don’t interfere,” Vulmea said.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment,” Gault said.

  “Then I’m leaving.” I stumbled toward the parking lot. Scott kept his hand on my arm. They didn’t try to stop us.

  Before we were out of earshot, Vulmea called, “Don’t leave town.”

  I was pulling my cell phone from its clip as I eased into the car. Trembling, shaken, and angry, I called my attorney. I got his voice mail. I left a message.

  Scott started the car, turned to me, and took my hands in his. “Okay, you’re not arrested, because you’re here with me. It’s going to be okay. If you don’t want to talk, fine. We’re going home, or we’ll do whatever you want.”

  I pulled in deep breaths. He put his arm around me. Feeling his touch was calming and a comfort. His eyes sought mine. He is a treasure of calm in any storm.

  When he saw that my breathing was under control, he said, “I’ve never seen you so upset.” He caressed my hand. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.”

  I said, “I’m furious. I’ve never been this furious. Deliberate. Absolute, deliberate, lies.” I shook my head.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said.

  “I’ve got to find the killer. I’ve got to be proactive. Someone lied. Deliberately, bald-faced lied.”

  31

  It was late. I didn’t want to stay at my place. I wanted to be as far away from Grover Cleveland High School as I could get. We drove to the city to stay at Scott’s penthouse. As the warmth of the car spread over me, and the more I thought about the day, the more pissed off I got. Whatever was between towering anger and a stroke, I was there. I was fed up with anything remotely resembling a suburb or an administrator or a police detective.

  I ranted about the vicissitudes of the world until Interstate 57 ended and the Dan Ryan Expressway began. I drew deep breaths and stared out the window from Ninety-fifth Street to Twent
y-second. We inched toward the Loop in the construction traffic on the eternally-being-rehabbed stretch of road. As we eased off the Ryan onto Lake Shore Drive, Scott took my hand. That felt good.

  If I was a get-drunk-and-hit-people kind of guy, I would have gone out and gotten drunk and hit people. Instead, I worked out for an hour with Scott, mostly in silence. We showered in his sunken tub.

  We mounded the chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream with marshmallow sauce, chocolate sauce, and cashews and got down to serious eating. Another workout would be necessary in the morning.

  As we were piling dishes in the dishwasher, I said, “I don’t know how someone gets over being this angry. I don’t remember this kind of fury.”

  We repaired to the living room. We each wore jeans, white socks, and white T-shirts. I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out at the waves lapping against the lake shore. He stood next to me.

  I said, “We don’t believe in conspiracy theories.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Unless it’s Republicans.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “River’s Edge is a very conservative area. Maybe it is a vast right-wing conspiracy. Maybe they’re all Republicans.”

  “There are a lot of lies, but to be a conspiracy they’d have to be organized. You usually sneer at them for being too stupid.”

  “Maybe they’re taking lessons or classes. Maybe there’s a book: The Rush Limbaugh Guide to Concocting a Brainless Conspiracy.”

  “Even for you, that’s a little paranoid.”

  “Depends on which side of the conspiracy you’re on.”

  “I’m on your side.”

  “I know. I meant them.”

  “But who would ´they’ be? And a conspiracy to do what?”

  “Isn’t that one of the benefits of a vast conspiracy? You need to not be able to name specific people specifically conspiring.”

  “But we do know at least some names. Frecking and Benson lied. Someone lied about where you were. The superintendent, the head of the English department, the president of the school board, and the principal are acting suspiciously.”

  “And we’ve got two dead bodies. Both of which I discovered. I am depressed and pissed off.”

  Scott said, “You have every right to be.”

  “I think I’m the most pissed off at Victoria Abbot, the assistant superintendent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she knows better. Because she knows what people are up to–and it’s not good. And she won’t tell what she knows, but she gives fire-alarm-level warnings. Hell, she could be part of the conspiracy trying to make me more frightened. ´We’ve got the guy on edge, let’s see if we can’t make him more miserable.’ ”

  “Did she seem honest?”

  “I couldn’t tell. After all the lies I’ve heard today, I’m not sure I’d believe god himself if he showed up.” “And you don’t believe in god.”

  “How many supreme beings can you fit on the head of a pin?”

  “Not as many as I used to.”

  It started to rain again. I watched Lake Shore Drive dampen. Traffic was light. It was long after midnight.

  “What’s worse is that somebody I work with is a killer. Attempting to pin it on me adds excess anxiety to my life, but to think that someone who teaches in the same corridor is a killer is spooky.”

  “Might be a killer. We don’t know who did it.”

  “Definitely a liar.”

  “The police seemed to believe you.”

  “I’m afraid that was more Frank Rohde’s support yesterday than anything I said or did. That young cop is a menace.”

  “We’ve got the weekend to relax.”

  “Or brood.”

  “You are very good at that. I’d hate to deny you the chance to enjoy something you’re good at. We’ve had ice cream and chocolate, and I’ll do what I can.” In bed he massaged my back for quite a while. We do that for each other for tension release, for pleasure, and for the hell of it. I took my turn massaging him. I wasn’t in the mood for much more. In a short while, he fell asleep. He almost always falls asleep quickly and seldom wakes up during the night.

  I tossed and turned. I tried reading. I went straight to my surefire “get to sleep” book, a volume of Wordsworth’s poetry. Not a smidge of luck.

  I returned to the living room. Got a blanket and a mound of pillows and cushions and sat them in the middle of the couch. I made a snug spot for myself, and I watched the rain. I must have slept. I awoke and it was dark. Scott had my head in his lap. His head was wedged against several pillows and cushions. He was snoring softly. I snuggled close and made sure the blanket was covering us both. I slept again.

  32

  Saturday we did our grocery shopping online. It’s a pain in the neck to try to go out shopping with Scott. If he’s recognized, it becomes a madhouse and can get dangerous. While a cap pulled far down on the eyes and sloppy clothes are often enough to throw off casual observers, as they did the night before, use his credit card and all anonymity goes out the window. I switched sites and ordered a few things for my nephews for Christmas. Saturday night we put in our latest NetFlix DVD, Secondhand Lions, a great movie. Saturday night I finished the Agatha Christie and managed to get a little sleep.

  Late Sunday morning Meg called. I was doing some laundry, mostly socks and underwear.

  She said, “The assistant superintendent wants to meet with you. I talked to her again. She said she felt bad for the way she treated you.”

  I said, “This isn’t going to be one of those ´I’ve got something to tell you’ moments and ´Meet me at three,’ and I go to the appointment and the person I’m supposed to meet is dead.”

  Meg said, “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

  We agreed to get together late that afternoon.

  I called Todd Bristol, our attorney. We’d played phone tag most of Saturday. Todd said, “Do not confront those people. Do not say anything to them. If they come talk to you, take out your cell phone. Call me or get in touch with your union representative. Do not be alone with any one of those people. If there are two or more, turn around and walk away immediately.”

  “Do I have to be paranoid about walking down the halls?”

  “Yes. Look to see who is where. You might want to get in touch with your friends and see if they can provide escort service.”

  “This is absurd.”

  “You’re the one who called me for advice.”

  “I didn’t mean the advice is absurd. I meant having to follow your sensible advice is absurd. An escort in my own building? That’s nuts.”

  “That place is dangerous to you.”

  “Should I quit?”

  “It’s going to be nerve-wracking for a while, but my advice is not to quit. You need to take precautions. So, take them.”

  Scott nudged me. “Ask him if anything these people are doing is specifically illegal.”

  I asked.

  Todd considered. “It’s complicated. Partly it depends on what you can prove, and you can’t prove anything. It doesn’t sound like you can count on Victoria Abbot. You’ve got proof on that one grade-changing mess, but that’s not a major felony. They’ll never admit to a conspiracy to get you. Giving false statements to the police is a crime, but how often do cops prosecute that?” He answered his own question. “That depends. Saying negative things about you to the police is not illegal.”

  I said, “They’re masters of innuendo and character assassination.”

  “You have my permission to talk to your friend on the police department. He might know what’s going on.”

  I asked, “Are you saying that if I didn’t have a friend on the police force, I’d be in more trouble?”

  “You’re not actually in trouble. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I promised to fill him in if we found out anything. We called Frank to set up the meeting for early Sunday evening.

  33

  Much
as I hated to return to the suburbs before Monday morning, we hustled out for the meeting with the assistant superintendent and Meg. We met at a Brew-Ha-Ha coffee shop in Park Forest, far from the River’s Edge school district.

  Victoria Abbot wore dark glasses, a black sweatsuit, and a beret pulled down low over her eyes. She clutched her car keys in her right hand. I only recognized her because she was with Meg.

  When the assistant superintendent took off her sunglasses, I could see that red lines shot through the whites of her eyes, which had big bags under them. Her face was pasty gray. She said, “You can’t tell a soul about this meeting. Only Meg can know. I’m almost sorry I talked to her. I’m probably going to regret talking to you, but I’ve done wrong. I should have told you everything Friday morning. I’m going to tell you everything I know or have surmised. I can’t take the pressure anymore. I can’t take the lies and deception. I can’t stand this nonsensical secretiveness. I can’t stand the cruelty. This madness has gone on long enough.”

  I said, “I appreciate any help you can give me.”

  “Help?” She leaned close to me. “What you need is a tank battalion.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  She glanced carefully around, taking her time examining all the patrons. Then she leaned within inches of my face and said, “It was their idea to try to accuse you. Bochka, Towne, Graniento, and Spandrel, especially Spandrel. They made one of the teachers go to the police and lie about seeing you. I don’t know which one.”

  I got the same chills I had on Friday when the police had first told me the news.

  I said, “They’re insane.”

  “Very desperate and very determined and very angry.”

  I made a guess. “They threatened to keep the teacher from getting tenure.”

  “Oh, dear, yes. They are willing to go quite far to make you miserable.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “Being gay?”

  “Not just being gay. That you are comfortable being gay. You are out of the closet. You aren’t dying from some dreadful disease. You aren’t suicidal. You don’t party until you puke. You are what they might consider normal if they didn’t hate you so much. They don’t like you because you have a successful lover who is an attractive man. They don’t like you because they don’t have power over you. They can’t bully you or intimidate you.”