by Chuck Logan
Okay.
So let the hick games begin. First the cop, now this guy checking him out. Broker held the guy’s sticky scowl for a fraction of a second; enough to absorb the murky heat of someone barely under control. Then the guy jerked his attention into the far door. The one with “Nurse” printed on a sign over the top. Broker anchored down on another slow deep breath. Way more tension poisoning the air than an elementary school office deserved at ten-thirty in the morning.
Then, like the next cue in a choreography the cop in the hall had set in motion, one of the women broke away and approached. She was a tidy fast mover in faded jeans, a snug white sweater, and Nikes. Wheat brown hair cut in a pageboy swung clean above her shoulders. She took his arm with quiet urgency as her direct brown eyes stated simultaneously and emphatically, “I’m here to help, so don’t mess with me.”
“Mr. Broker, right?” Perfectly timed bright smile, expertly smoothing an edge. He nodded. She pressed his arm and guided him toward the other office door to the right. “Kit is fine, she’s in the conference room with a teacher’s aide. Could you come with me, please?”
Broker was led from the office down a side hall, but not before he saw the group move away from the nurse’s office. The guy in the brown jacket had his arm around the shoulder of a stout little boy who raised his arm to wipe tears from his eyes.
He had a spray of fresh blood stippled down the front of his beige SpongeBob T-shirt.
“Oh, honey, look at you. Does it hurt?” said the woman in the hall. She raised her camera and started snapping pictures. Then the end of the hall blocked Broker’s line of sight, and he turned to face the women who’d escorted him from the office and eyed her left hand on his arm. She removed her hand. Out of old habit he noted: no wedding band. As her fast eyes gauged him, the angry female voice started up again around the corner.
“At least this time you’re not blaming him, that’s a switch. You know how they’re always trying to trip him up. You should have more help on the playground to watch out for sneaky little bitches who like to hit people. This is not the end of this.”
“Sneaky little bitch, huh,” Broker said in a neutral tone.
“Hold on. We wait until they leave the building.”
“Uh-huh. So why the cop?”
“That’s Cassie Bodine you hear out there.”
“I see ‘Klumpe’ written all over everything?”
“She’s married to a Klumpe, but she’ll always be Cassie Bodine. The last time we had a scene with her, she threatened the principal…” She knit her smooth forehead. “It’s a special needs case.”
Broker stared at her, and her cheeks colored slightly. “I’m sorry.” She extended her hand. “Susan Hatch. I’m the school psychologist.”
Broker’s hand hesitated. “Psychologist?” He glanced around. “This place rates a psych?”
She shook his hand firmly. “Relax. I’m on a co-op schedule. Mostly I work next door, in Thief River Falls. Her kid’s on my list. Your isn’t. We’re a cluster school. We have all the special-ed students in the county. So I travel here two, three days a week.”
A fifty-something woman stuck her head around the corner and said with a touch of inflected drama, “All clear. Cassie has left the building.”
“Thanks, Madge,” Susan said. “Okay, let’s go.” They started toward the office.
“You gonna tell me-” Broker started.
“Sorry, you have to talk to the principal first.” Susan Hatch was all cool and professional now that her delaying action had been successful. As they approached the office, Broker was aware of two small, quiet bodies creeping along the hall, all eyes and ears. Susan turned on them. “Why are you not in class, Mr. Wayne Barstad?”
“I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“In the hall?”
The boy darted away. She turned to the next kid. “Billie Hatton?”
“Ah, I’m getting a drink of water. My mom says I gotta drink eight glasses of water a day.” His voice sped up. “Is the new girl gonna get expelled for decking Teddy?”
“Scram,” Susan said.
Trudi Helseth, a raw-boned, striking woman in her fifties, stood in her doorway. She was almost as tall as Broker and clearly in charge of her turf. She did not offer to shake his hand; instead she indicated her office with a practiced tilt of her head. “In here, please, Mr. Broker.”
Broker went in and saw Kit sanding behind a chair, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her face blazed with stubborn fire that was an miniature cameo of her mother. It had been months since he’d seen Nina’s eyes as on fire as Kit’s at this moment.
Helseth stood back a moment, observing. Broker moved forward and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “What happened, Kit?”
She shook his hand off and stared straight ahead. “He stole my gloves, and then he pushed me.”
“And?”
“And he’s a bully. All the kids are afraid of him. He gets away with stuff.” Eyes narrowing, lips bunched.
“Stick with what happened,” Broker said.
Kit clamped her arms tighter, then released them. She held out her right hand, peeled back a Band-Aid and showed two raw skinned knuckles. “He took my gloves and threw them up on this roof, then he started pushing me hard. I backed away and warned him three times, like I’m supposed to…and then when he kept it up, I hit him. Once. In the nose.” Her voice was level but her tone and her hot eyes were unrepentant.
Like I’m supposed to.
Broker showed no expression, but his eyes settled on Trudi Helseth. Clearly she didn’t like the sound of that.
“Please sit,” Helseth said, standing behind her desk.
As Broker and Kit settled into two chairs in front of the desk, Helseth pushed a sheet of paper across her blotter. Broker scanned it fast.
Notice of suspension…
“This is to advise you that the above-named student has been suspended from school…”
Farther down the form, under “Grounds,” he saw a check next to:
“Willful conduct that endangers the pupil or other pupils, or surrounding persons, or property of the school.”
Under the heading, “The facts have been determined as follows,” Broker scanned the handwritten notation:
During morning recess Karson P. Broker and Teddy Klumpe got into an argument over Karson’s gloves. Teddy said Karson had thrown her gloves at him and that they flew over his head and landed on the toolshed roof. Karson said Teddy had taken her gloves and tossed them on top of the shed. No one witnessed this event. Jackie Etherby, playground monitor, did observe Karson and Teddy when they came around the back of the shed having an argument. Etherby then saw Karson punch Teddy in the face causing a bloody nose.”
Helseth motioned toward the doorway. A ruddy woman in jeans and a pile jacket entered. “This is Jackie Etherby. She was the playground monitor who witnessed the incident,” Helseth said.
Broker sat resolutely still, willing himself to look humble and respectful. Inside he felt his defensive hackles start to raise. Moving toward pissed.
Helseth continued, “We expect a certain amount of roughhouse from time to time during recess. But this incident was extreme. Jackie?”
Etherby shifted from foot to foot and peered sincerely at Broker. “Well, like it says on the form there, I saw Teddy Klumpe and your daughter come running around the toolshed out by the monkey bars. They were yelling at each other, but I was too far away to hear. But I started toward them, and then she…”
Etherby licked her lips, shifted from foot to foot again.
Broker started to open his mouth, paused, looked to Helseth, who nodded. He continued, addressing Etherby. “What about the other kids? What did they see?”
Etherby shrugged. “None of them were behind the shed, where it started.”
Kit lurched forward in her chair. “They all saw him take my gloves and run behind the shed. He’s got ’em all scared.”
“Kit,” Broker said quietly, firmly. Sh
e settled back in the chair and clamped her arms over her chest again.
Etherby waited a few seconds, then she said, “The thing was the way she did it. Like she really knew what she was doing. She really hit him a hard one.”
As Etherby’s words sank in, Kit squirmed on her chair and stared straight ahead. Helseth thanked Mrs. Etherby, who left the room and closed the door behind her. Broker waited a moment and then asked, “So where does this go next?”
Helseth pointed to a second sheet of paper on her desk and said, “A readmission conference is scheduled for tomorrow at ten A.M. Here in my office. We’ll go into it all then, when we’ve had some time to settle down.”
Broker stood up, collected the forms, and motioned for Kit to get up. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be here.”
Helseth raised her hand, “Kit, could you wait in the office, just outside the door, please?”
Kit looked to her dad, who nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” Kit said, then exited the door and closed it behind her.
Helseth then opened a manila folder on her desk. Looked up at Broker. “I just have a few questions, if you can take a moment.”
“Sure.”
“This is Kit’s prior school record. She’s a very bright student. The only thing we’ve noticed is really minor, how she really keeps to herself. Not that unusual for a transfer into a new school. But the record jumps around a lot. She started third grade in Stillwater, here in Minnesota, before she transferred to us. Before that it mentions tutors in Lucca, Italy, and she attended a military school at the Aviano Air Force Base in Italy, for first grade. But she attended preschool in Devils’s Rock, Minnesota, and kindergarten in Grand Marais.” Helseth closed the folder and studied Broker. “Were you in the Air Force?”
“No.”
Helseth cocked her head, waiting.
“Her mother was in the Army,” Broker said finally.
“I don’t believe I’ve met Mrs. Broker,” Helseth said.
“No, you haven’t.”
“Will she be coming to the meeting tomorrow?”
“Does it require both parents?” Broker asked.
Helseth shrugged but continued to study him. “No, not at all.”
“Then I’ll be here. Is there anything else?”
“No, we’re through for now. And thank you for coming in so promptly on short notice.”
Susan Hatch was waiting in the office with Kit’s coat and book bag, which she handed over with a curt smile, no words. Broker walked Kit outside, and he asked her where her gloves were. Kit pointed to the toolshed on the playground. He noted that the brown Ford was still parked at the curb, its black-tinted windows and opaque mirrors full of reflections of the gray churching clouds. Another reason to hate tinted windows. He could feel the mom and dad and the kid in there, watching.
A little more aggravating was the presence of the county cop car, still parked idling in back of the Ford. The cop stared over his steering wheel, his creased face composed in an unreadable professional mask. He did not make eye contact as Broker and Kit walked past.
Then Broker heard the trouble start behind him.
Chapter Three
The driver’s-side door on the Ford tore open too fast, springing on the hinges. Broker spun and heard a burst of unintelligible words, like profanity; a taunting back and forth between the man and woman. He could actually see the spat rise in a cloud of frosted breath over the top of the truck cab. The door slammed. Klumpe stalked around the back of the truck.
Broker shoved with his right arm, pushing Kit away. “Kit, go stand by the side of the school. Now!”
“Don’t yell at me.” Kit bristled.
“Move!”
Klumpe stepped between the back of the truck and the front of the Crown Vic and came onto the slippery school sidewalk. The cop sitting in the car bowed his head and swung it slowly from side to side. Through the windshield, Broker could read the pained silent grimace that formed on the cop’s lips: Aw goddamn…
Kit was clear, but Klumpe, in his face now, swung up his right hand, pointing his finger like a no-neck Uncle Sam. I want you.
“You owe my son an apology,” Klumpe stated.
Broker took it in fast: the window on the passenger side of the truck zipped down, framing the wife and kid, a glowering gallery. The cop heaved from his car, calling out, “Now, Jimmy, take it easy…”
Some parts of Broker, the old street parts, were going on automatic; other parts were stunned, treading on new ground, not sure what the rules were. He’d had custody of Kit when she was a toddler; Nina had her in Europe after kindergarten. He had handled a lot of pissed off, drunk, and just plain crazy people in his life. But he’d never dealt with an infuriated parent who was mad at his kid.
Hopefully the cop coming up behind Klumpe would chill it out. So he smiled, hands extended, palms out, reasonable. “Hey, fella; like the officer says, take it easy…”
The smile only infuriated Klumpe. The wife yelling-all her makeup curdling to war paint-“Don’t take any shit, Jimmy,” didn’t help.
“Sneaky little bitch sucker-punched my son, and you owe us an apology,” Klumpe yelled as he set his feet and balled his beefy hands into fists. A puff of angry white breath crossed the short space between their faces. Broker smelled the pancakes and syrup Klumpe had for breakfast. And, more significantly, caught a sour curdle of alcohol over syrup. Felt it actually in an angry spray of his spit. Broker did a fast shuffle between street rules and the new world of parent etiquette.
Okay, this Klumpe asshole was getting ready to hit him.
And he’d had just about enough of this “sneaky little bitch” routine.
Street won.
Klumpe had forty pounds on Broker, went 220 maybe, but he looked out of shape and puffy. But also a little nuts, like his wife. As he cocked his right fist back to throw the punch and charged, Broker instinctively closed the distance, his left hand drifting up, extending, palm still open to trap the punch before Klumpe could power it forward. Simultaneously, he fended Klumpe’s left hand away with his right hand, clamped down on the wrist, twisted, and levered the arm straight into a come-along hold.
The effect was to rotate Klumpe a half turn. When the bigger man was off balance, Broker stepped in fast behind him, whipped his right arm around Klumpe’s neck, scissoring the biceps and the forearm on either side of the throat. Now Broker lowered his forehead and pressed Klumpe’s head firmly into the V formed by his arm. His left hand came up and applied crushing pressure to his right hand. Smooth, pure reflex; it took less than two seconds.
Klumpe struggled briefly, then started to fade as the blood supply to his brain was cut off. The instant he felt the resistance cease, Broker loosened the restraint and stepped back. Klumpe staggered, flailing around. Lost his footing.
Broker backed away, hands up and fingers spread open. Klumpe fell face forward, unable to get his flailing hands up to break his fall. Red stippled the snowpacked concrete under his dripping nose.
Big Klumpe and little Klumpe had both caught some nosebleed action this morning.
As Klumpe went down, he was replaced by the cop, who now stood over him pointing his finger at Broker.
“You. Move away.”
“Yes, officer.”
The cop removed a green bandanna from his jacket pocket and thrust it in Klumpe’s face. “Here, Jimmy; hold this on your nose. Then get up and go sit in the front seat of my car. You hear? I mean it, Jimmy.”
Klumpe shook his head back and forth, blinked, took the hanky. “Okay. Okay.”
The wife yelled from the car, “Keith, you gonna let him get away with that!”
Keith Nygard. Broker read the name tag on the cop’s chest. And the word under it: Sheriff.
Nygard ignored her, bellying up to Broker. Broker asked, “Am I in trouble here?”
Nygard looked him over, his eyes doing a fair imitation of two tired ball bearings. “I seen it all. Jimmy was out of line, and I’ll give him a talking to. So, offi
cially, no-” Nygard narrowed his gray eyes. “But-between the lines-watch yourself. This ain’t the ideal way to meet the sheriff. What’s your name?”
“Phil Broker.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Broker?”
“I’m renting Harry Griffin’s place south of town off County Twelve. On the lake.”
“Uh-huh.” The tension loosened a bit in his face. Maybe Broker detected a faint glimmer of curiosity in the gray eyes. “I know Harry. That’s one of his jackets you’re wearing?”
Broker nodded. “I work on Griffin’s stone crew.”
Nygard studied Broker’s clothing; jeans, work boots, and a tan Carhartt jacket smeared with dirt from manhandling the oak. “You work this morning?”
Broker shook his head. “I work part-time.”
Nygard’s eyes lingered on Broker’s face for a few more seconds, and then he said, “Okay, collect your daughter and go on home.”
Broker pointed to the playground. “I got to get her gloves off that shed by the monkey bars.”
“Fine. Make it quick.”
Broker motioned to Kit, who was waiting obediently next to the school, keeping her face blank with some effort. As she joined him, Nygard called out, “Broker. This ends here. Clear?”
“Clear,” Broker said. He took Kit’s hand, and they walked to the playground.
“Dad, there’s a bunch of teachers and the principal watching from the door,” Kit said under her breath.
“Don’t stare.”
“How’d you do that? Knock him down?”
“Shhhh.”
“You gonna show me?”
Broker’s voice stiffened. “I think I showed you too much already. This isn’t funny one bit. You better start thinking about the C word.”
“Consequences.” Kit lowered her voice, deflated.
They walked to the toolshed on the playground next to the monkey bars, where Broker spotted one of Kit’s green mittens peeking from the snow on the roof. He lifted her by the knees, and she was able to reclaim her gloves.
Then they walked back to the truck, got in, and fastened their seat belts. Broker started the Toyota, pulled away from the curb, and checked the rearview. Cassie Bodine and her son stood stolidly in the cold a few feet from the sheriff ’s car, where Jimmy Klumpe sat, head on his chest, in the front seat with the sheriff. Exhaust from the police car and Klumpe’s truck swirled in a gust of wind, cloaking them like smoke over wreckage.