Cabo

by Davis MacDonald

  The Judge finally pulled his car up to the assigned speed bump and unlocked the passenger doors. The right-rear door was opened by Miss Johnsen, a lady of long years and loving girth who’d never had any kids of her own, but seemed to love all kids, everywhere, all at once. With difficulty, she squeezed her bulk across the rear seat and child seat to reach the belt releases for Ralphie, and he immediately propelled himself out like some jet pilot hitting the sheets, using the old rubber man, sliding to the floor beneath her and squeezing out onto the pavement before she could regain her balance. He hopped up and down on one leg and then on the other, testing to be sure they still worked. They seemed okay.

  “Hello and goodbye, Miss Johnsen.” Said the Judge, beating her to the draw, precluding some lame comment about the weather, giving her his best boyish smile.

  “Goodbye, Judge. Here, grab my hand, Ralphie.”

  It was then the front-seat passenger side door opened and a pretty redhead in a white silk blouse and pleated skirt squatted down beside the car so she could see the Judge. It was Miss Laura Campbell, the daughter and now Head Mistress, mid-thirties, recently divorced, a workaholic. She looked around carefully to make sure no one would overhear her. Then said in a tense whisper.

  “Judge. I’ve got a big problem.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Jeffery Simpson, our maintenance man.”

  “Where?”

  “In the maintenance room. I don’t know what to do. You must come.”

  The Judge sighed. Why was it always him?

  “Okay. Let me pull over there and park. Have you called 911?”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Are you sure?’

  “Yes. Jeffery’s very dead. I can’t have my children upset by a fire engine and a rescue truck and an ambulance roaring into the school.”

  And the parents, thought the Judge cynically. The parents who paid the freight. The children would love to see a fire engine roll in.

  “Give me a minute.”

  She slammed his passenger door with a vengeance, taking her anxiety out on his car, then stood back from the car-line, arms folded defensively, waiting for him to park, chewing her lower lip.

  He parked and walked back to the drop off bump, past the congregating cars, to the side wall of the school where she leaned. She was shorter than he’d thought, perhaps only 5’4”. He towered over her as she pushed off the wall and stood straight. The Judge was a tall man, broad shouldered and big boned with just a bit of a paunch around the middle. Big hands, big feet, big ears and a big nose set in the middle of his squared Welsh face, ruddy now with concern. With his short-cut dark hair, faded blue Polo shirt and ragtag jeans, he might have been a roustabout, or a teamster. Except for the eyes, large piercing blue eyes restlessly sweeping the people and space around him, missing nothing. Except that he thought like a judge.

  He rarely used his given name anymore. When he had ascended to the bench some years back, people began calling him just “Judge”. Even old friends he’d known for years affectionately adopted the nickname. Back then it had seemed to fit. And somehow it had stuck even though he was no longer a Judge. Now just another L.A. lawyer, scrambling for business in an over-crowded profession in an over-crowded city.

  “Ok, Miss Campbell, let’s have a look.”

  “It’s Laura, Judge. This way.”

  She marched him though the line of disembarking toddlers, each with a keeper’s large hand wrapped around one paw, and a snack bag or lunch box clutched in the other. They walked through the iron gate entrance and across a red-tiled inner patio into the school building, then down a long hall to the left that ended in a door. She produced a key and unlocked the door, opening it just enough for the Judge to squeeze through, which turned out to be considerably open given his paunch, then partially closed it again, allowing just enough room for her to slip her narrow frame through. She quickly closed the door again and flipped the lock to secure it.

  Gauzy light peered in from a high window set in the opposite wall that didn’t look like it’d been cleaned since the structure was built sometime in the late thirties. The room was musty, smelling of old floor polish, paint, turpentine and something else. The something else wasn’t good.

  A wooden work bench ran down the right side, anchored by a vise at the front corner, and pinned by a table saw of ancient vintage at the other. Boxes of nails, screws, electrical parts, and hand tools were scattered across its surface, along with two small cans of touch up paint and a box of rags. More tools hung on plyboard nailed on the wall above the workbench, each tool bracketed in a cutout drawing of its inner self. It looked like a man-cave, but without the refrigerator, the beer and the big-screen TV.

  Four feet out from the wall on the left side of the room was a rack of metal shelving, running the length of the room, extending almost to the window wall, placed so one could walk behind it and access its contents from either side. It was laden with dusty looking cardboard boxes, perhaps old school records, boxes of old light fixtures, a box of plumbing parts, several electrical tools neatly stowed in their green plastic cases, and an assortment of other dusty looking junk.

  “This way, Judge.” Said Laura, standing on tip toes to reach a string to an overhead light, giving it an anxious jerk to shed neon white on the floor and walls around them.

  She marched him down to the window wall and then stopped, turning her head away, pointing him around the corner of the shelving. The Judge stepped around her into the narrow space between wall and shelving rack. The light didn’t penetrate much into the gloom here. But he immediately ran into someone’s shoe floating three feet off the floor.

  Springing back, he looked up. A pipe was anchored cross the ceiling, perhaps for water, or a sprinkler system. A large shape dangled from it,… a body! It swung partly around from his collision with the shoe, displaying dusty jeans and a khaki shirt with large pockets, the beltless pants starting to slip down over narrow hips on one side. The missing belt was wrapped around the pipe and around the body’s neck. It was a man, or had been.

  The man’s head slumped to the left, his face fixed in the contorted agony as he’d asphyxiated. He looked to have been early thirties, lean and short, perhaps five and half feet tall, with long blond hair and a surfer’s good looks. But now his face was mottled and splotched. His pants were wet with the release of fluids, and a small pool had formed on the floor under his hanging feet, scenting the air. A wooden step-stool lay turned on its side on the floor behind him.

  “This is Jeffery?”

  “Yes.” Said Laura Campbell in a small voice, her face still turned away.

  The Judge reached over and took hold of one of the Jeffery’s hands. It was ice cold. Laura sounded like she was having a dry-retch behind him. He turned and moved back to her, catching her from behind as she started to fall, leaning her against the wall under the window, holding her there as she fought to recover. He took her hand after a minute and led her back past the workbench and out of the room, closing the door securely behind them, taking the key from her and locking it.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, what are we going to do?” She asked.

  “We need to call 911.”

  “But the school, the kids?”

  “I don’t’ suppose we can just send them home.” Said the Judge.

  “No. This is preschool. Working parents and all. There’s likely no one at home, and no one available to pick up the kids at this hour.

  “Let’s put everyone in the auditorium.” Said the Judge. Close the doors. Your staff can entertain them there. Let 911 and the police do their work without an audience.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what we should do. You’re right Judge. Can you call 911 and talk to the police? I’ll organize the kids and the staff into the auditorium.”

  “They’ll want to talk to you too.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, I guess they will.”

  “Jeffery is your maintenance man?

  “Yes. He’s been here for over three years.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “I saw him come in this morning. Then he disappeared. We’ve a hall light out. It needs the big ladder to replace the bulb. I couldn’t find him, so I went looking. I finally tried the maintenance room. Oh God. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “You found him like that?”

  “Yes. I touched him. He was ice cold. So I knew.”

  “Was the door to the room locked?”

  “Yes. I unlocked it when I came in, and locked it again after… after I found him and walked out. I didn’t want any of the kids to see.”

  “Did he seem depressed or despondent when you saw him earlier?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Okay. You go organize your staff. I’m going to call right now.”

  “Can you give me a five-minute head start, Judge.”

  “I suppose. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The Judge wondered back to the maintenance room and entered, this time taking a very curious look at what was there. The body was as he’d seen it before. On the shelf beside the body were pruning shears. He leaned over to look without touching. There were tiny strands of twine on one blade, twine had been cut at some time. Looking closely at the floor, there was a bit of fluff of similar color. Had twine been recently cut and used here? Had Jeffery’s hands been tied with twine? There was no note. No sign that said, ‘This is suicide, I’m taking my own life.’ Only the position of the body and the kicked over stool suggested he’d snuffed himself. Puzzling.

  The Judge returned to the hall and called 911. He requested that the police be informed, and that sirens not be used when approaching the school. Then he wondered out to the front of the school, out again to the speed bump, and waited for people to arrive. Fortunately, all the kids had been dropped off and the parents had all roared away in their silly cars. He wondered how much wasted gas got burned sitting in the damn drop off line. Next time it’d damn well be Katy’s gas and Katy’s time.

  The fire rescue truck arrived, along with a fire engine, an ambulance, and not one but two Hermosa black and whites. And they were all blaring their sirens. Boys would be boys, mused the Judge. It was a little odd there were two police cars rather than one, but the Judge brushed the thought aside. He was required to explain the situation first to the 911 truck crew, then again to the fire engine crew, then again to the police officers, and finally to the ambulance team. They each took a trot into the school and down the hall to the maintenance room with him to have a look, taking turns like relay teams in a cross-country walk-a-thon, but in some pre-determined pecking order only they knew.

  The sergeant from the second car returned, identified himself as Sergeant Oliver, and told the Judge they were sealing off the entire end of the hallway in front of the Maintenance room, and there’d be a full investigation. He brought out his flip-top notebook and took down the Judge’s statement, then asked him to retrieve the Head Mistress from the auditorium so he could take down hers.

  The Judge stuck his head into in to Auditorium and waved for Laura Campbell. The kids were busy on the floor of the gym, organized in four groups approximately by age and size, and were painting on cardboard boxes, or throwing blocks at each other, or playing in solitary mode with a truck or a doll, depending on their age and sex.

  “Judge, can you come with me to talk to the police?

  “I’ve got business to take care of Miss Campbell,… Laura. I really can’t stay.”

  “Oh please, please, Judge I’m so nervous. Just ten minutes more Judge, I beg of you. The police are so… intimidating. And after that awful letter that went out, I just need you there for support. Please.”

  “What letter?”

  “You haven’t seen the letter?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m sure you will. Please Judge. Just ten minutes more.”

  “Okay, Laura. Let’s go do this quickly and get it over with.”

  The sergeant listened to Laura’s story with an expressionless face, taking down careful notes. Was there a hint of underlying animosity in the sergeant’s attitude? The Judge couldn’t be sure.

  “So you just walked into the maintenance room and found the body of Mr…” The sergeant consulted his notes. “Simpson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand there’s another entrance to the maintenance room, through an old tunnel. Is that right?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So, you came in through the door from the hall here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the door locked? Did you use your key?”

  “Yes”

  “So, you do have a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, when you stepped into the room, you couldn’t see the body?”

  “No.”

  “So, what made you go to the window in the back and peek around the shelves?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it because you already knew he was hanging there?’

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Officer, Miss Campbell has answered the question. You’re not allowed to badger her.” Said the Judge.

  The sergeant glared at the Judge. “You her lawyer?”

  “For the moment I guess I am.”

  “So, she needs a lawyer?”

  “Everyone’s entitled to have a lawyer if they wish, and Miss Campbell is entitled to be free from badgering by local police.”

  “I’d got your full name and address, Judge. I’m putting you on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The list our department is developing of those potentially connected to the child pornography ring operated here.”

  “The what?”

  “You heard me. I’m done here. But our detectives will be contacting you both for an ‘at the police station’ interrogation of what’s gone on here this morning.”

  The sergeant snapped his flip-book closed, spun on his heel, and stalked off to his cruiser to call the county morgue, leaving a totally baffled Judge turning to Laura Campbell for an explanation. She covered her face with her hands and softly began to cry.

  Look for THE STRAND to be published in the Fall of 2018