by B K Stevens
After school, I headed for our first interview. Ms. Quinn’s classroom is like her—nice, but basic. Some teachers must spend hours on their bulletin boards, hunting for pictures and tacking up borders and figuring out the best way to arrange everything. Then, every month or so, they take all their bulletin boards down and put up new ones. Ms. Nguyen is like that, and so was Coach Colson. I had Ms. Quinn for social studies freshman year, and her bulletin boards never change: a map of the United States, a map of Virginia, and laminated posters about the Declaration of Independence and how a bill becomes a law. She’s a great teacher, but you can tell there are things she doesn’t feel like fussing about.
Including how she looks. When she sat down with Graciana and me, her clothes were baggy and rumpled, as usual, and her hair looked like she’d lost her comb a week ago. “So,” she said, “what can I tell you about Mr. Colson?”
We went through the first few questions, the ones Graciana had described as “softball,” and Ms. Quinn told some great stories. Several times, her eyes misted up, and her voice quivered, but then she’d give her shoulders a shake and say something funny or sarcastic. When Graciana asked her to name one thing that made Coach Colson special, she got misty again.
“He cared about every single student.” She paused, pushed her lips together, and did the shoulder-shake thing. “I know. That’s a cliché. Whenever you praise teachers, you say they care about students. Most do—some of us more than others, and some of us get bitter, but most really do care. Randy—Mr. Colson—took things to a different level. He was determined to reach every student, and he never gave up. That was partly because he was new, of course. It was partly naïveté. But it was also something deeper. Sometimes, he’d get frustrated because a student wasn’t doing well, and he’d ask for advice. And sometimes I’d say that it was hopeless, that I knew the student and knew no one could help. He never accepted that. He always kept trying, and sometimes he succeeded more than I’d thought anyone could, because he kept trying when any sensible teacher would’ve given up.”
“That’s wonderful,” Graciana said. “Could you give us an example?”
Ms. Quinn laughed. “Could I give you a name you can put in the newspaper? No. I don’t think anyone would enjoy being singled out as a student most teachers consider hopeless. Let’s leave it vague.”
I thought of Marie Ramsey. She’s the kind of student most teachers might think of as a loser. That’s how I’d always thought of her. But I remembered how Marie would be sitting in the back row, silent, staring at the floor, and sometimes Coach would ask her a question. She always knew the answer. She’d mumble so low you could hardly hear, but she always knew. Then he’d compliment her and try to draw her out some more, and sometimes she’d whisper a comment that was actually pretty sharp. Maybe that’s why she’d liked him, I thought, because most people, including me, wrote her off as weird, but Coach never gave up on her. And after he was killed, maybe she’d cried because the only person who’d believed in her was gone.
“So,” Graciana said, “Mr. Colson was exceptional because he was so dedicated to his students.”
“Yes,” Ms. Quinn said, and paused. “Of course, it’s possible to be too dedicated. I had to caution him about that, remind him about the dangers of the Anne Sullivan Syndrome.”
“The Anne Sullivan Syndrome?” Graciana frowned. “Helen Keller’s teacher? The Miracle Worker?”
“A-plus,” Ms. Quinn said. “Lots of teachers start out thinking they’ll be like Anne Sullivan—utterly devoting themselves to their students, spending every moment thinking about ways to help them, working miracles. Helen Keller probably needed that sort of devotion. But most students aren’t blind and deaf. They need us to care about them, yes, but they also need space. If we try to protect them from every mistake, we smother them. And Anne Sullivan paid a heavy price for the miracles she worked. Living with Helen Keller, with no time or energy for a life of her own, a family of her own—that’s too much to ask of any teacher.”
Ms. Quinn stopped talking. For two solid minutes, words had poured out, and then they just ended. I could see her lower lip curl up, her jaw stiffen, her eyes harden as she stared at a poster about the Bill of Rights. It felt strange. I cleared my throat.
“You think Coach Colson—Mr. Colson—had this Anne Sullivan Syndrome?” I said.
Ms. Quinn’s eyebrows shot up, and she took a deep breath in, a deep breath out. “No. He was just new. And this place will eat you alive if you let it. There’s always one more thing you can do, one more student you can help. You’ve got to find a balance. And Randy—Mr. Colson—was finding his balance this year. If he’d had more time, he—oh, God. I’m sorry.”
She started crying, but not for long—a jagged sob, a few tears, and then she dug a tissue out of her pocket, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, waved her hand. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. But it hasn’t even been a week yet. Do you have more questions?”
I looked down at the list. An even-numbered question—my turn. And this was a sensitive one. Damn. “Mr. Colson was always such an upbeat person. Lately, though, he seemed down, like something was troubling him. Did you notice that, too?”
Ms. Quinn stared at me. “No. He never seemed down. The last time I saw him, all he could talk about was how excited he was about the tournament. You thought something was troubling him?”
“Just an impression,” Graciana said quickly. “One last question. Could you tell us something about him most people would be surprised to hear?’
Ms. Quinn laughed. “He was a good actor. He could recite blank verse with the best of them. How’s that?”
“That sure surprises me,” I said. “You saw him act?”
“Only in a Scenes from Shakespeare rehearsal. Some students wanted to do a scene from Macbeth but didn’t have anyone to play Banquo, so Ms. Nguyen recruited Mr. Colson.”
“Ms. Nguyen?” Graciana said. “Doesn’t Mr. Van Zant always direct Scenes from Shakespeare?”
Ms. Quinn nodded. “For twenty-five years. But he’s retiring, so he’s grooming Ms. Nguyen to take over. She sweet-talked Mr. Colson into playing Banquo—she could probably sweet-talk him into anything. He didn’t have many lines, but he practically stole the scene. Well, Mr. Van Zant says acting’s a gift. Some people have it, he says, and some don’t.”
Someone cleared his throat, and we all looked around to see Mr. Quinn standing in the doorway. “I saw your car in the parking lot,” he said, looking at Ms. Quinn. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Where are the girls?”
She sighed. “At home. They’re old enough to manage for an hour or so without adult supervision. And I’m about to head home. How about you?”
“I’ll be a while. The Jessups aren’t happy with the financial aid package Randolph-Macon offered Nick, so I found a college in Pennsylvania that’s still looking for wrestlers. It could be a good opportunity, but we have to act fast. Better have dinner without me.”
She bit her lip. “Fine.”
Mr. Quinn looked at us. “So you’re going ahead with the memorial issue.”
“Dr. Lombardo approved it,” Graciana said.
“I know. But she doesn’t want you spending too much time on it, and you need to keep it in good taste. Don’t forget that. Did that martial arts school work out?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re all taking classes Mondays and Wednesdays.”
“Good. That’s positive and forward-looking.” He scraped up a smile. “Matt, I asked Mr. Pavlakis about this week’s quiz. Eighty-five—significant improvement, but it won’t get you to A-minus. Keep going to those review sessions. And next time, don’t leave early. If you do, I’ll know.”
He wagged a finger at me, wiggled his eyebrows, and grinned. I guess it was supposed to be friendly, maybe funny. But as Mr. Van Zant said, some people have it, and some don’t.
After he left, we all sat silently,
feeling awkward. Then Ms. Quinn lowered her voice. “The Anne Sullivan Syndrome. I rest my case.”
Probably, she shouldn’t have said it—he’s her husband, after all, and our guidance counselor—but I couldn’t help laughing. We finished the interview, thanked her, and walked outside. My thoughts were racing.
“That was interesting,” I said. “But we didn’t learn anything that can help us figure things out.” I paused. “Or did we?”
Graciana kept walking. “If you’ve got something on your mind, say it.”
“Okay.” I stretched both arms out in front of me. “It’s elementary, Watson. Ms. Quinn’s fed up with her husband. She and Bobby Davis were having a hot love affair—until she met Coach Colson. She dumped Davis and started an even hotter affair with Coach. Davis found out, got mad, and killed Coach in hopes of winning back his one true love.”
“Makes sense to me.” Graciana kept her voice deadpan. “Of course, Ms. Quinn’s about fifteen years older than either Davis or Coach, but they wouldn’t mind that. After all, she dresses in a way that’s sure to attract younger men. Or try this one. She was having an affair with Coach Colson, Mr. Quinn found out, and he hired Davis to kill the man breaking up their happy home.”
“Even better,” I said, “especially since Mr. Quinn’s obviously so passionately devoted to his wife that he’d kill to keep her.”
We’d reached Graciana’s car. Finally, we looked each other in the eyes and laughed—not much, because nothing we’d said had been funny, but enough to show we felt embarrassed.
“God,” I said. “We’re awful. Why are we making jokes about something so serious?”
“Maybe,” Graciana said, “because we’re afraid it’s true.”
“Oh, come on. We were making stuff up. Ridiculous stuff.”
Graciana nodded. “Yes. Nothing we said could be exactly true. But maybe we’re afraid we might not be far off.”
I’d been thinking the same thing. “Like you said the other day, in most murders, the killer’s someone who was close to the victim. In Ridgecrest, was Coach Colson close to many people outside of school?”
“Mrs. Dolby didn’t mention any,” Graciana said. “And Ms. Quinn certainly saw him as very caught up in the school—too caught up, in her opinion. And we’re interviewing the people he was closest to, so, well…”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I looked down and started nudging a pebble around with my foot. “But we don’t know anyone from school was involved, right?”
“Absolutely not. We don’t know much of anything yet. There could be lots of possibilities we haven’t thought of. Oh, that’s right. I set up an appointment with Ms. Nguyen for after school Monday. Does that work?”
“Sure. And I talked to Paul Ericson. He wants us to come out to his lake house Sunday afternoon. Okay?”
She hesitated. “Will that girlfriend of his be there? Carolyn Olson?”
I’d never heard anyone refer to Carolyn Olson as “that girlfriend of his.” “I don’t think so. He’ll be cleaning up the yard.”
“Okay. I should get home.” She gave me this odd little smile, almost a sad little smile. “Have fun tomorrow night. I hear the movie’s good.”
So Berk had been right again—talk about Suzette and me was all over school. Probably, people were trading theories about how far things would go, how long it’d last. When you live in a small town, people always talk. But knowing people were talking about Suzette and me made me squirm.
Put it out of your mind, I told myself. You’ve got bigger things to worry about, like going to Richmond tonight and maybe having another run-in with Bobby Davis. And maybe, with luck, surviving.
Thirteen
We got lucky. Around nine o’clock, Berk and I got to the Range. The street was much more crowded than it’d been on Sunday, but as we drove up, someone pulled out of a parking space right across from the bar. We grabbed it.
I’d insisted we both wear jackets with hoods. Berk thought it was dumb, but Bobby Davis had seen me close up, and he knew my name. I didn’t want to risk having him recognize me. So we pulled up our hoods and settled in for what we figured would be a long wait. Chances are, I thought, we’ll never see him. Fine. We’ll sit in the car a few hours, talking and joking. Then we’ll head home, say how disappointed we are, and be friends again. That’s all I wanted to accomplish tonight.
But fifteen minutes later, Davis walked out of the bar with two other guys. Even in the dim light of the streetlamps, there was no mistaking him—compact build, confident strut, slicked-back dark orange hair, smirk. Damn, I thought. The three of them got into a white Chevy.
“I never thought we’d spot him so soon!” Berk said. “Now we follow him.”
No way to avoid it—that’s why we’d come. I pulled onto the street, hanging back as they turned down a side street and drove through a run-down part of town—old apartment buildings that seemed mostly dark, cruddy-looking shops with iron grates covering windows and doors. Then they parked across from a grocery store that’d probably gone out of business years ago. I kept driving.
“Don’t leave,” Berk said. “We’ve gotta find out what they’re up to.”
“I don’t want them to spot us. I’ll go around the block.”
By the time we got back, the three men were walking through the grocery store’s parking lot. A silver Mitsubishi had parked nearby, and two men got out.
“Maybe it’s a drug deal.” Berk’s voice had the bristly sound it gets when he’s excited. “Maybe we should call the cops.”
“And tell them what? That some guys parked on a quiet street?” Slowing down, I saw a tall wooden fence at the far end of the lot. Davis and his friends seemed to be heading for that. I circled the block again.
This time, when we got back, we saw more cars, more people walking across the parking lot—all men, at least a dozen now, most in their twenties or thirties, several carrying six-packs.
“You should park,” Berk said. “We could blend in, see what’s going on.”
“Not yet. Too risky. If more people come, we’ll think about it.”
Even thinking about it was dumb. But I was curious, too, and the whole thing felt—I don’t know, like it was a movie and we could watch for a while and walk away, no problem.
I kept circling the block. Each time we came back, more cars were parked along the street, more men were walking across the parking lot, carrying six-packs or drinking from paper bags. They all walked to the wooden fence and slipped out of view.
“If you keep driving by,” Berk said, “somebody’s gonna notice that. Might as well park.”
He was right. With all these cars parked along the street, who’d pay attention to one more? We could slump down in our seats and watch people arrive. I parked. We waited until thirty or forty men had walked across the lot, until cars stopped coming.
“Not a drug deal,” Berk said. “Too many people. Wanna check it out?”
It was a really bad idea. But yeah, I wanted to check it out. “Keep your hood up. One quick look, then straight back to the car.” I shoved the flashlight from the glove compartment into my pocket. Not that Mom’s plastic flashlight would make much of a weapon, but I felt better having it.
We walked across the parking lot, walked behind the wooden fence. Big surprise—another parking lot, this one behind a row of small stores, all dark, probably half of them out of business. A loose circle of men, drinking, laughing, cursing, sometimes cheering. A broad-shouldered man with a short black beard walked around the circle, taking money other men held out. Davis stood with the two men from the bar, laughing quietly at some joke. In the center of the circle, two shirtless guys pounded on each other, kicking and punching and grabbing, faces bloody.
It was a fight club. I’d heard about those, but I hadn’t thought they really existed. And I’d seen the movie, but this wasn’t like th
e fight club in the movie. This one was all about gambling and drinking, and getting thrills from watching other people bleed.
We should’ve left right then. But we stayed, because there was something else we needed to see. We needed to see Bobby Davis fight.
One of the guys in the center, the shorter one, was getting tired. He started stumbling, his punches got weaker, and he couldn’t keep his balance after he kicked. The taller guy backed off and then came in hard, slamming a full-force front kick into his chest. The shorter guy fell on his back, and the taller guy kneeled on top of him, punching his face. When the shorter guy’s head fell to the side, the taller guy jumped up, raising his fists in the air. People cheered and had another drink. The man with the short black beard walked around the circle again, giving money to some people, taking more money from others.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “I know you,” a tall, skinny guy said. “Ridgecrest High, right?”
It was Craig, the weird guy from Kelly’s Gym. “No,” I said, making my voice gruff.
“Sure you are.” Craig squinted at Berk. “And you took that lousy cell-phone video, and you both asked about Bobby. So you decided you wanted to see him in action again?”
Berk gave me a terrified look. If this guy told Davis two kids from Ridgecrest High came to Kelly’s asking questions about him and then showed up at the fight club—damn.
“We gotta go,” I said.
Craig clutched my arm. “Not yet. It’s just getting good. See, after every match, Bobby fights the winner. And you don’t ever wanna bet against Bobby.”
Davis peeled off his jacket, peeled off his shirt, and headed for the center of the circle. I knew moves I could use to make Craig let go of my arm, but part of me wanted to see.
The tall man watched Davis warily. Davis took a loose stance and stood grinning, waiting. The tall man hesitated and then charged forward, bellowing, throwing a right punch.