Finals

by Alan Weisz

  “Was he an officer or a detective?” Hayley asked.

  “Was it Denzel Washington?” Trevor asked.

  “Yeah, fucknut, it was Denzel Washington because when he isn’t busy acting he likes to solve crimes,” Vickie retorted.

  “I was only asking,” said Trevor.

  “If I may, Victoria,” I said, explaining this perplexing metaphor to Trevor. “By Denzel are you referring to a fine black man with whom you’d like to ‘get chummy’?”

  “Nicely paraphrased, Catholic boy, you always get me. Yes, this gorgeous black man was outside taking notes, and since he was wearing one fine-ass suit, I imagine he was a detective. Anyways, so I asked the man ever so sweetly what he found out. He said due to the library staff’s unsanitary practices, the forensic team found a lot of DNA. They probably had over two hundred suspects at that point and the number was only increasing. They found blood, urine, jizz, you name it. They even found a few strands of female hair meaning some skank could even be the perp.”

  “What will the next move be after the department analyzes the initial DNA samples?” Hayley asked, looking up briefly as she continued to write down every word coming out of Vickie’s mouth.

  “Once the forensic team matches the samples, Denzel said that the department will conduct interviews with all of the potential suspects. Denzel was hush about the questions he would ask, but from the sounds of it, he’s going to begin by interviewing those close to Brent and see if any leads develop,” said Vickie.

  “Was there an official position at this point in the investigation? Has it been ruled a homicide?” asked Hayley, continuing to feverishly jot down notes.

  “He gave me that same piece of shit cop response you hear on TV all the time. ‘At this point in the investigation we are not ruling out any option.’ But come on, every person with a scrap of intelligence knows Brent was murdered.”

  “So the dude didn’t mention suicide? Vickie you never know with these things—” Trevor began.

  “Like I said, anybody with a clue knows it’s a murder,” said Vickie loudly with disdain.

  “But there was a knife in Brent’s hand when he died. Dude, Wayne, in your article, you said there was no evidence to suggest foul play,” said Trevor.

  Speaking for me as she often does, Vickie jumped in before I was able to respond. “Wayne wrote that so mass hysteria wouldn’t break out, you dipshit. Do you think having students walking around campus terrified that a fucking wacko is going to shank them next is a good thing?”

  “Huh, I mean that makes sense. Still, I don’t think you can totally say it wasn’t suicide.”

  “Your mama must have dropped you on your head so many—”

  “Did you find out anything else, Vickie?” I asked, half hoping to see if the police were on to me and half wanting to avoid another pointless argument.

  “Sadly, Denzel had to hit the bricks so I couldn’t get any more answers out of him,” said Vickie.

  “Marvelous work, Vickie! Absolutely stellar investigating!” Hayley said giving Vickie a hearty smile as she finally placed her pen on the newsroom table.

  “Yeah, I know, but my efforts don’t amount to a speck of shit since the almighty Sister Robinson and our conservative faculty censor, edit and cut my feet out from under me making my chances of turning this into an award-winning article utterly impossible.”

  “I know this material can’t be printed in The Gazette but that does not mean we should dismiss the matter like the St. Elizabeth faculty. Collectively we know more about Brent’s death than any other students on campus. Arguably, we know as much about Brent’s death as the police do. I believe it is our responsibility to assist the police.”

  “But Sister Robinson said that—” started Trevor.

  “Fuck that old nun. I’m down with what you’re saying Hayley. The university has a different agenda, one that doesn’t involve solving this case. We can at least talk some shit out or try to build a profile so we can help catch the perp,” said Vickie.

  “I love the idea to build a case profile,” Hayley exclaimed excitingly, continuing to scrawl on her notepad as she talked with childlike enthusiasm. “Sprinkle in an ounce of hard work with a dash of investigative reporting and we may find ourselves solving this murder!”

  “We have the paper to put together, Hayley,” I said. “We don’t have time to pretend we’re undercover detectives.”

  I didn’t want the girls to build a profile against me and I didn’t want to have to spend time trying to find myself. Hayley would expect me to come up with evidence and put forth an effort to solve this crime. Revealing information was easy; finding information not linking me to the crime was a more difficult task. I would have to come up with top-notch bullshit or locate a police officer, professor or fellow student with inaccurate information, then pass it on to Hayley. Moments like this made me hate good journalism.

  This whole ploy was pointless. The odds of Hayley building a case pinpointing me to the crime were extremely doubtful. She was one smart cookie, but bringing down a criminal mastermind such as myself was not going to happen. I had covered my tracks and left no clues whatsoever. Seriously, what was she going to find? Maybe a forensic whiz might be able to connect me to Brent’s death, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a ninety pound blonde French major.

  “Please, you party-pooper. We can handle more than the week to week business,” Vickie said. “Is a little brainstorming gonna kill you, Wayne?”

  I shrugged. I would be digging myself a hole if I continued complaining. Who knows, maybe if I spewed off some convincing bull I could guide these fools down the wrong path entirely.

  “Okay then, how about we go around in a circle and share our thoughts. I know very elementary of me,” said Hayley lightly giggling. “But this way we will each get a turn to state our ideas then we can brainstorm when we are finished sharing. How about you go first, Trevor?”

  “Uh ok…” Trevor began. “No offense here Vickie, but if I were to guess I would have to say the murderer is one of your type,” he said, looking at the table to avoid Vickie’s deathly stare.

  “You’re lucky there’s a table between us or I’d bitchslap you so hard you’ll wish your mother would have aborted your ass,” said Vickie.

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that, I was—”

  “Oh, you didn’t mean it, huh? Tell me something Trevor, what’s my fucking type? Don’t tell me, I’m the type that texts while intoxicated while driving while some starving artist I met at the local dive bar furiously tongues my twat because it’s the first decent meal he’s had all month. Fuck you! At least I’m not a crackerjack momma’s boy who shops at K-Mart and spends his free time playing frisbee golf with fellow limp-dick virgins.”

  “Screw you, Vickie! I’m not a momma’s boy and if I want to wait until I’m married to have sex, that’s my own personal decision!” yelled Trevor.

  “A fucking idiotic one!” retorted Vickie. “There’s nothing better than getting hammered at a party and having premarital sex with a perfect stranger. Am I right, Yorky?”

  I hated for Trevor to view me as a party animal, sex-having jerk that boned chicks then refused to call them back. Honestly, I wasn’t that guy anyway, but I had engaged in premarital sex and unfortunately I had done the deed with the girl sitting a few feet away from me. Vickie knew of our liaison because she stuck her nose in everyone’s business. Hearing of our relationship was easy enough, since we worked side by side, unless you were blissfully ignorant like our darling Trevor. The poor dumb bastard looked up to me as a fellow Catholic. He believed that Hayley and I were virgins like himself, waiting for that one “special” person. I couldn’t inform him that he was in the sexual minority. He would be crushed.

  Thankfully, Hayley spoke up and did the thing she always does when a discussion gets out of hand.

  “Taisez vous tous!”

  I had no idea why shouting French remarks continued to work. I guessed Trevor was too perplexed t
o speak because foreign languages boggled his peanut size brain, and Vickie hoped that at the end of the year, Hayley would recommend her for my job, meaning it was best to stay in the tiny blonde’s good graces, rather than let a “WTF” slip out.

  “Merci,” said Hayley, as an approving smile surfaced. “Let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we? Trevor, when you said you thought the culprit to be Vickie’s type were you referring to her ethnicity, her behavior, her interests, what?”

  “I’m not a racist, ok Vickie. I swear to high heaven I wasn’t talking about your being black. I was talking about your lack of faith.”

  “I have faith, you piece of—”

  “Fine, faith in Catholicism then. Gosh! I mean a Catholic couldn’t do what this dude did because first off, it’s a sin. Second, Catholics bear a burden of guilt that is tremendous. It’s constantly there, like a super tight-fitting belt. A Catholic would feel so dang horrible and guilty about committing murder. I don’t think that like, a good standing member of the Church would do something like that.”

  Poor naïve Trevor. I hoped that he like many others would be kept in the dark about my secret. He’d be destroyed to learn that an outstanding Catholic, one whom he thoroughly respected, had waxed Brent.

  “Wonderful thought, Trevor! Many religious radicals have committed acts of violence; however, Christianity helps individuals learn acceptable societal norms and establishes a sense of morality. As Catholics, the concept of guilt is a familiar one, and as conventional wisdom indicates, sociopaths are immune to feeling a sense of remorse. This means our killer is a non-Catholic or has lost his way since he is clearly not regretting his actions,” said Hayley.

  “Or maybe the guy is just a Catholic prick who is impervious to catching feelings. Some of my exes were that way,” said Vickie.

  “What does that say about your love life?” I asked.

  “Fuck you, Wayne.”

  “Excellent idea, Trevor!” said the bubbly one, ignoring the side conversation taking place. “You’re turn, Wayne. Will you share a few of your theories with us?”

  “I believe the killer knew Brent well or at least knew a few of his tendencies. Murder is often not a spur-of-the-moment decision, meaning whoever killed him did research or knew the victim’s characteristics. For example, if the alleged killer knew Brent had a bladder the size of an acorn and went to the bathroom more often than an old man with a prostate problem, then he or she knew the bathroom would be an ideal location for the murder. Also, given that Brent liked to study in the library an hour or two before a big test, the odds of finding him in a study room a few hours before his Personal Taxation test were high. Using this knowledge of the victim, the killer could have waited until he spotted Brent’s shoes from underneath one of the library’s bathroom stalls.

  “With regard to the murder weapon, the selection of the knife was simple; it was the practical choice. Guns are efficient but the process is entirely too fast. The murderer doesn’t get the satisfaction of the kill. He can’t watch as the victim strains to live before sucking in one last dying breath. With a gun, one moment a person is alive and kicking and the next, their body is slouched on the sidewalk like a pile of trash waiting to be collected. Wire or fishing line lets the killer savor the process of taking a life. The drawback of this approach is that more effort is required. Given Brent’s physique, the chances of him escaping or hollering would have increased twofold if this weapon were chosen, which is why our killer used a blade.

  “Sticking with the assumption that Brent and the killer were friends or acquaintances, the perpetrator likely said something to Brent to announce his presence. Something like, ‘You ready for the test today, big guy?’ Keeping in mind the killer moved quickly from the stall to the urinal, Brent was perhaps startled. Due to his brazen disposition, he would give a douche response such as, ‘Dude, you came out of nowhere. Don’t you see I have my dick in my hand? If I didn’t know you man, I’d say you were a homo.’ The killer would have pretended to vacate the room, causing the victim to become calm and urinate freely, then without a moment’s hesitation, the killer would return to Brent’s side. With the blade removed from his pocket, our sociopath would push Brent’s head downward, and in one fell swoop, slit his throat.

  “Like in a horror movie, the wounded party would spray red corn syrup across the room, flailing around in an overly-dramatic manner. At this point, we know the killer is clearly a smart guy considering he picked out the perfect spot for the murder. He probably had a duffel bag or a backpack containing sweatpants, a light jacket and a different pair of shoes. The fiend would quickly put on the items to hide any traces of blood. The shoe swap would occur outside the bathroom so the police would believe the killer wore a size nine Converse. This was merely a ploy to throw the coppers off the trail because the killer hated Converse and wore a size eleven (It had been a tight fit, but our killer managed to barely squeeze his toes in). To put the cherry on top, the murderer slid the knife into Brent’s unflinching fingers, leaving behind his weapon hoping that a few asinine detectives would call it suicide.”

  All of that would have sounded great, but I’m guessing my colleagues would have been rather disturbed by such a descriptive narrative with in-depth analysis. Instead of retelling my account of the events, which transpired that fateful morning, I made up some bull about how the killer was a transfer student or a freshman. I said the killer had not adopted the St. Elizabeth philosophy of faith, leadership and service. A member of our beloved community could not commit such an act. At St. Elizabeth, the society is one of love and togetherness. A member of a group so strong and united could not perform a feat of this enormity. Blah, blah, blah, it was a steaming pile of crap.

  My next fictitious theory was that Brent was involved in drugs. I stated that sources close to me said that Brent’s cocaine addiction had worsened. The need to snort gratuitous amounts of blow had increased substantially as the semester went on. It seemed probable that Brent had gotten in over his head and his dealer wasn’t going to take it any longer so he snuffed him out because he didn’t have the dough. Maybe he had run into an unhappy customer or a wacked out junkie who decided to shank him at the pisser because he had cut him off. Actually, if I had no idea how my bitch of an ex-friend died, this solution would have appeared plausible. Brent snorted cocaine frequently and his stash was large enough that he could have distributed it if he wanted to earn some green on the side.

  All but Hayley were intrigued by my speculation. The drumming of her pen against her spiral notebook told me she was not amused. Her unwavering joyful expression masked the discontent surely underneath the surface. In her customary refined tone, Hayley informed me that her sources indicated Brent was merely a social drug user, and that he by no means had a substance abuse problem. Of course, by quoting her “sources” Hayley was really just stating her own opinion. She often made statements such as these to put me in my place, demonstrating the power she held atop The Gazette hierarchy. To me it seemed as juvenile as Tommy Lee whipping out his junk in an all-Asian locker room at USC merely to prove he was top dog. Obviously, she had the control or at least liked to think she did. Like her lover, concealment and deceit were second nature to her, but she wasn’t the only one in the room lurking amongst the shadows. Hayley knew more about Brent in the later stages of his life than I did, but I was present for his last moments, watching as his life source slowly depleted.

  Despite my inaccurate sources, the praise that always followed a mediocre idea came from the blonde’s mouth before Vickie divulged her thoughts about Brent’s murder.

  “I’m spit-balling here but I have to disagree with everything that just came out of your mouth, Wayne, even though it wasn’t half bad,” Vickie began.

  “I remember my freshman year, I didn’t know my ass from my elbow. It was a confusing time trying to find the right people, the right parties. Knowing how much effort to put into a project was tough too. Some things are easy as fuck and you can do a shitty
job while still earning a decent grade. Some assignments you really have to be sober to complete, because those uppity hags with yardsticks shoved up their cooches won’t take any half-ass malarkey. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, I was so busy with school and trying to make friends that I definitely wouldn’t have had time to plan a murder.”

  “So you’d venture to guess that freshmen or transfer students would not be a position to commit a crime due to their similar disposition?” Hayley asked, helping to destroy any strain of believability left from my suggestion.

  “Sure, I’d say it is unlikely since they’re busy as shit. I think the murder was premeditated. This was no chance run-in where the poor motherfucker got knifed because he was in the wrong bathroom at the wrong time. Our killer knew that was the spot. He must have known the bathroom was gross and the probability of the forensic team finding plenty of DNA samples was high.”