by Josh Berk
“Miss Fowler can work it, huh?”
“Hells yeah.”
We walk up a slight incline toward a thick stand of trees. Dry leaves and pine needles crack underfoot as we make our way deeper and deeper. Minutes pass. Hours pass. Okay, probably not hours, but I’m getting tired of walking. And we’ve walked a long way. Anoop, as always, is a few paces ahead of me. His lead grows and grows until I am half shouting to make myself heard.
“I think we’re getting off track here,” I say. “He wouldn’t make us go this far—”
“Don’t be lazy,” he says.
“I’m not lazy, I just—”
“Aha! Ho-ly sheet,” Anoop says. “Zant went all out.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Look at this!” he shouts. “Get your ass up here! Hurry!” I break into a jog, following Anoop’s voice. When I catch up, I find him standing over an unbelievably realistic-looking corpse.
“We have a victim,” Anoop whispers. “Dude looks like someone.”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “Some Guy someone.” He does look familiar. Is Mr. Zant trying to be cute by making a corpse that looks like me? Ha-ha. Very funny. It’s incredibly disturbing, seeing this dead version of myself. What the hell, Mr. Zant? It is disgusting. I almost throw up in my mouth.
“Dude!” I say. “He did go all out.”
“Okay, be quiet.”
“You were yelling!”
“Well yeah, but that was dumb,” Anoop whispers. “We don’t want the North Berry Ridge jerks catching up. We have clearly discovered the victim. Most important part of the investigation. Everything stems from here.”
“It kinda smells like crap,” I say.
“It’s you,” Anoop says. “You smell like crap.”
“Shut up.”
“So let’s begin by determining cause of death.”
“I think it probably has something to do with that.” I point to the electrical tower looming over us, a few dozen feet away.
“Don’t be quick to judge. That could be a coincidence. He could have been bludgeoned, then placed here to throw us off the path.” This is pretty far away. He paces it off. “Almost ten yards.” He writes this down. “And it doesn’t seem like all that much blood, really.”
“There’s enough to skeeve me all the way out,” I say. “Where do you get such a realistic corpse? And this fake blood?”
“Probably Miss Fowler paid for it. She has all that North Berry Ridge money.”
“Stupid North Berry Ridge,” I say.
“Glove up,” he says.
“That’s what she said. Aw yeah, give me five, AC. Do it.”
Anoop shakes his head at me. “Come on. Take this serious. We can beat those North Berry Ridge jerks.”
I put on my rubber gloves even though I am really not enjoying the weird feeling it gives my hands. Anoop snaps his on with too much glee, like a sadistic proctologist about to go to town.
“I’d say from the lack of decomp he’s been here not long at all,” Anoop says. “No wallet in the back pocket.”
“Check the front,” I say. “If he had parents like mine, he was always afraid of pickpockets.”
“Dude,” Anoop says, reaching into the front pocket. “I think you’re taking this too seriously. Fake dead bodies do not have parents.”
But sure enough, Anoop reaches over and finds a wallet in a front pocket. “Nice work, Detective,” he says. “But it’s empty. Curious.”
It really is impressive. All of it. This corpse is worthy of a Hollywood set. He bags the wallet like a pro, like putting evidence into Baggies is something he’s been doing his whole life. He puts a note into his leather-bound notebook.
“I’ll check to see if there’s any ID,” I say. “Maybe in a front pocket.” I roll the body over. And that’s when I really see the face. It looks like me, but it is no mannequin. It’s that kid, the North Berry Ridge kid who looks like me. The truth becomes clear in waves. No, the truth becomes clear like a hammer to the forehead. This is no dummy. This is no setup. This is not part of the exercise. This is not Forensics Squad. This is not an impressive fake corpse. This is a real live corpse. I mean a real dead corpse. Whatever, it’s the “real” part that is important. Also the “corpse” part. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out.
After that there is a lot of screaming. High, girlish screaming. Mine, mostly. At least that’s what they tell me. I black out or something. I’m a person who doesn’t like to see dead leaves, much less dead dudes who look like me.
Even now I’m not totally sure what I did. I have to piece it together like clues in a gross jigsaw puzzle. Or like a crime scene investigator, investigating the weirdness of my own life. It seems like what happened was this: Yes, I screamed. A lot. Anoop screamed some too. We are both screaming hysterically, yelling “Oh my God!” and “Holy shit!” and “Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit-shit.” Stuff like that. Real suave. Someone comes running—I’m still not sure who. Probably either TK or Maureen or both. They deduce the situation and called 911 from a cell phone. The teachers are there in a minute, and my mom shortly after.
Police are showing up, and news vans, and Chopper 4 is hovering overhead. Reporters. Everyone texting like mad. I give some really stupid comment to the press. It is more than a bit of a blur. And then Mom wraps me in a blanket for some reason (why do they always wrap you in a blanket?) and gets ready to take me home. But before I get into the van, Anoop walks close to me and whispers into my ear.
“I’ve still got the wallet,” he says with a wink. “Let’s process the evidence tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I go home and immediately fall asleep. You’d think it might be hard to snooze, given the circumstances, but being me, one of the world’s greatest nappers, it’s not so rough. I sleep. Sleep I can do. Give me a gold star for sleeping. But it is not restful. No, it is not. I dream of maggots. Buzzing maggots. They are the mouths of barking dogs. They are the sky opening with helicopters. They are reporters yelling with tiny notepads. They are me saying stupid things. I don’t need Dr. Waters to analyze this stuff. Anyone could analyze dreams, really. They’re basically about death or doing it. Man, I should be a shrink. You had a dream about bears? Dr. Langman says: Bears symbolize doing it. You had a dream about soda fountains? Dr. Langman says: Well, that symbolizes doing it. You had a dream about maggots? Well, Dr. Langman says that symbolizes death, unless you’re really sort of messed up in the head and maybe you want to do it with maggots. Either way: One hundred dollars an hour, please.
Even the smell of death works into my subconscious. I feel queasy, like the room is spinning. And smelling very bad. I had only ever seen death in the scrubbed-clean funeral home–synagogue–cemetery. And even there I was not cool with it. What is up with the people who talk about death like it is cool? Seriously, death sucks.
When the cell phone does its little insect buzz on my dresser, I jump. Everything seems scary. Death is everywhere. How did I miss that in my years on this planet? Life ends. This, in fact, is the point of life.
The phone call is from Anoop. He is not feeling so philosophical.
“I called like eight times, you turd sandwich,” he says. “You violated our sacred three-call rule. I thought you were dead.”
“Nice. I guess that explains the buzzing in my dream,” I say. “I was wondering why maggots would buzz.”
“You were dreaming of maggots?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty shaken—”
“I’d hate to tell you what I dream about.”
“I think I can guess,” I say.
“So okay, Langman, I got the wallet. We have some more prints to lift. Let’s get on this bitch.”
“I don’t know, Anoop. It’s not a game. That kid is dead.”
“Toby,” Anoop says. “The kid’s name is Toby Weingarten. Was Toby Weingarten. Whatever. It was on the news. Toby was his name-O.”
“Okay, so Toby Weingarten is dead. Maybe an accident. Maybe s
omeone killed him.”
“Exactly! And we have to catch him.”
“No, the police have to catch him, Anoop.”
“They won’t count the wallet if we turn it over. They’ll exclude it or whatever. Chain of custody. It’s been at my house. I’ve touched it. You’ve touched it. Totally contaminated. This wallet is a slut. Everyone’s touched it.”
“I think they’ll understand, given the circumstances,” I say.
“They’ll understand, yeah, but that doesn’t matter. A defense lawyer would eat it up and crap it out. Crap it right out.”
“But they’re going to accept the forensics work of a couple of high school kids, Anoop?”
He ignores this sensible objection. “I’ll bring the fingerprint kit over. You did a hell of a job on the window. I want you to process this wallet. And if you want some help, I happen to know some of the best young forensics minds around.”
“You?”
“Well, me and a couple of friends.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
“I don’t know, Anoop,” I say. “It sounds crazy.”
“Look,” he says. “We owe it to that dead kid to do what we can do to figure out what happened. If someone did this, we need to stop him before he does it again.”
I have a creeping weird thought. Is Anoop thinking the same thing? Toby Weingarten could have been one of us. More to the point: Toby Weingarten could have been me.
Anoop continues. “And I know whatever we find won’t hold up in court, but if we turn the wallet over, they won’t even be able to lift prints. They won’t do anything with it because it’s been contaminated. But if we lift the prints, we can at least make an anonymous tip to the police. That will help put them in the right direction. You know it’s the right thing to do.”
Oh my. What would the noble warriors of the dong bracelet tribe do? They would gather in the hut and they would do what’s right. Or, in the words of Fran, “It’s often easy to tell what the right thing to do is, because it’s also the hard thing to do.” I don’t like that one, because it was usually used to make me do something I didn’t feel like doing, but it has the ring of truth to it. Certainly now.
“Anoop Chattopadhyay,” I say. “Are you calling an emergency meeting of the Berry Ridge High School Forensics Squad?”
“I already did!” he says. “Everyone is in, but I didn’t want to start without you.”
“Everyone?” I ask.
“Yeah, dude,” he says. “TK and Maureen were really psyched about it. And Raquel loves fingerprinting. I don’t know why, but she’s just really good at it.” Duh, that’s who he meant. I guess I’m going to have to get used to this.
“Where are we meeting?” I ask.
“Um, I was thinking your house,” Anoop says.
“Oh, I see,” I say. That would explain why they didn’t start without me. I am too weary to fight.
“Send ’em over,” I say.
“Everyone is pretty much on their way,” he says. “Put some pants on and meet us downstairs. People are going to start showing up in about five minutes.”
“How do you know that I don’t have pants on?” I ask. “Are you spying on me?”
“I know you always nap with no pants on,” he says. “Simple deduction.”
“Eat shit, Sherlock,” I say. I shake my head and click the phone off. Apparently we are going to have a Forensics Squad meeting at my house. Pardon me while I skip for joy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
By the time I get some pants on my lazy ass and make my way down the stairs, it’s almost time for the Forensics Squad members to arrive. I’m rubbing my eyes. It feels like the middle of the longest night on earth. In fact, it is about eight o’clock. Mom is in the great room, playing her piano. She’s not half bad at it, even though she pretty much just plays the same few sad songs over and over again. She spends a lot of time playing Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor, a horrifyingly depressing little number. It’s one of those slow piano tunes where every high note rolls like a tear down the piano’s cheek and every low note hits you like a punch in the gut. Even the silences between the notes are somehow horrifyingly dismal. Some song. Now imagine it bouncing around the empty walls of an old house with one less person living in it than should be living in it. No wonder I’m depressed.
And yeah, it’s really called “the great room.” Dad found that funny every time. He’d pretend to be shocked every single time he walked in. “Wow,” he’d say, surveying the place as if for the first time, nodding his head in approval with arms outstretched. “This is a great room. I mean, this is really a great room.”
“Mom,” I say. I am standing at the doorway to the great room, only a few feet away, but she doesn’t hear me. She is lost in thought, rocking her head, playing the song even slower than normal, tapping out the melody with her right hand and letting long silences sit in between. “Mom!” I shout.
“Yes, Guy?” she finally says without looking up. “What is it? Are you okay?”
What is it? I think. Good freaking question. What is it about life that makes it so sad? And why do we pretend that it isn’t? I don’t say that. And I don’t even think about telling her the answer to the second part of her question. Nor do I tell her that Anoop fancies himself some sort of actual detective or forensics expert or whatever. She, like any sensible person on earth, would have insisted that we turn the wallet over to the police immediately. She would have understood that it was not right for high school students to handle evidence in a murder case.
What I say is, “I guess some people are coming over in a little bit. Anoop invited the Forensics Squad. I guess everyone wants to talk about what happened today, or whatever.”
“That’s good, dear,” she says, finishing the song with a loud, pounding flourish and breaking out of her trance. “It’s good to talk about things like this. We can schedule an extra visit with Dr. Waters if you like.”
“I think you should see Dr. Waters,” I say.
“Dr. Waters is an expert in adolescent psychology,” she says.
“Well, you should talk to someone,” I say.
“I have you, dear.”
“Sure thing, Mom,” I say. What else is there to say?
“Want me to get some snacks together?” she says.
“If you think that will help,” I say.
“I mean, for your friends.”
“Oh yeah. Snacks will be good,” I say. What kind of snacks are best for solving a murder? “Do we have any donuts?”
“No,” she says. The quality of junk food in Langman Manor has seriously declined since Dad died. Mom is skinny and youthful-looking, and determined to stay that way.
“Just nothing too weird,” I say. “We eat enough arugula at school.”
“I wasn’t going to bring out arugula,” she says, sighing. “I was your age once. Not that long ago. How about popcorn?”
It’s probably organic and low-fat and no-salt, but at least it’s popcorn. “Popcorn works,” I say.
She gets up from the piano, letting a final minor chord ring in the great room as she heads to the kitchen next door. I sit and listen to the silence until the popping of the kernels makes me think of tiny shotgun blasts. It makes me think of the dead kid in the woods. It makes me think of bullet holes. It makes me think of maggots. I wish I had asked for a less violent food. Something soft, like pudding. Crap, I really am an old man. What am I doing with my life?
While she waits for the corn to finish popping, I sit down at the piano bench. Mom was always trying to get me to take lessons, but I never did. I only know one little thing on the piano, that famous four-note riff from Beethoven’s Fifth. Da-da-da daaaaaah. Da-da-da daaaaaah. I just keep playing that over and over again. Ominous. One thing I’m good at is playing loud, so I don’t hear the doorbell ring. I don’t hear anyone walk in. But those things must have happened, for when I look up, there is Maureen.
I jump a little bit. Sheesh. Why do I startle s
o easily?
“Sorry to scare you,” she says.
“You didn’t scare me.”
“Okay, good. You don’t need any more stress today.”
“You got that right,” I say. She is being really nice. Are we going to talk more about the events of the day? The thought doesn’t make me feel better. Just weird. Maureen senses it, I guess, and changes the topic.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” she says.
“I don’t,” I say. “Just those four notes, really.”
“Good enough for Beethoven,” she says.
“That’s always been my motto,” I say.
There is a pause.
“Beethoven had good fashion. He wore some mighty fine ascots, didn’t he?” she says.
“You know, I think he did.”
Then we just stand there in the great room for a while.
“This is a pretty great room, isn’t it?” I say. She does not laugh. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound funny if you don’t know that it is called “the great room.” And having to explain it doesn’t seem worth it. Why do I always say stupid nonsense?
She shrugs and put her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “It’s okay, I guess.” Cue awkward pause. Just keep talking, Gisborne.
“What did you do with the rest of your surprise day off?” I ask.
“Took a walk, mostly,” she says. “I was just walking around when TK texted me about this little meeting or whatever. I was almost here, so I just kept walking.”
“Oh yeah, I was going to ask if your mom dropped you off or whatever.”
At the mention of the words “your mom,” she cringes like the words hurt her ears. She changes the subject fast. “I also wrote some stuff,” she says. “I have this online thing. It’s no big deal. Totally dumb.”
“Sounds neat,” I say. Sounds neat? What kind of idiot am I? She makes a weird face. She isn’t used to compliments, maybe. Or maybe just not from me. She knows it’s a good thing, a compliment, but given its source, she remains skeptical. It’s like getting a candy bar from your weird neighbor on Halloween, and despite the creamy and tasty exterior you can’t help but think that a razor blade is hidden within. Maybe it is. What’s wrong with me?