Finals

by Alan Weisz

  Upon entering St. Mary’s Hall, you were greeted with a tiny hallway leading to three offices. The first room belonged to the director of student activities, and the second belonged to some senile priest barely clinging to life. I think he assisted with alumni issues, but I was rarely given the opportunity to speak with him since he was usually asleep at his desk or in the can.

  Passing by the offices, the hallway opened up into a rather spacious study lounge. The only frequent users of this particular study room were stoners. The room was filled with moldy pieces of furniture, likely recovered from a nursing home or a street corner. The intense smell of cat urine and menthol perforated from the beat-up 1950’s furniture, allowing junkies the opportunity to smoke as much as they pleased since the dreadful smells always overpowered their fumes. Honestly, I didn’t know how they could stand it. I mean I had to hold my breath when I walked passed. I suppose if you’re wasted out of your mind, cat piss is tolerable.

  After breathing through your mouth for close to twenty seconds, one will find two parallel doors on the far back wall of the smokers’ lounge. The door that does not require a keypad entry is designated to the yearbook staff. The yearbook staff work about one day during the month and spend the rest of their precious time researching “topics of significance,” meaning they looked at upcoming events and parties on Facebook.

  The door to the newsroom was secured because Sister Robinson was a worrywart who believed juvenile delinquents wanted to desperately break in and sabotage our articles or steal old copies of The Gazette. I can only imagine the fit the old nun would throw if she discovered how frequently our walls were breached. Vickie texted the four-digit code (which happened to be the year the University of St. Elizabeth was established, 1893) to her friends a minute after our initial Gazette meeting concluded. Her friends constantly were in the newsroom blabbing about the latest vintage sale, and the spineless dudes she hooked up with always seemed to be fetching her food or bringing her belongings. I might have blown the whistle on Vickie’s whole operation if not for that fact that I enjoyed listening to her verbally abuse her lovers.

  Holding my nose, I passed the cat urine-soaked furniture heading towards the newsroom. I was ready to punch in the four-digit security code when I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. No doubt, our bumbling opinion editor, Trevor, had left the door open before attempting to sift through the numerous opinion articles in his Gazette email account. Since this was a frequent occurrence, I casually walked into the newsroom, not giving the incident a second thought.

  Sitting in one of our lounge chairs sat a tall black man wearing a pinstriped navy suit reading our previous issue of The Gazette.

  My first thought was that this gentleman was one of Vickie’s relatives, perhaps her father. I knew her father was a well off politician who treated Vickie like the little princess she claimed to be and judging from the fine suit this man wore, the probability he earned a big enough salary to provide for Vickie’s countless needs was high.

  “If you’re looking for Victoria, I think she’s in class now and I’m not too sure when she’ll get out,” I said, walking over towards the lounge chairs.

  The man brought the paper down from his eyelevel and began placing the various components of the paper in their correct sections.

  “You write this?” the stranger asked, gesturing towards the folded Gazette that now sat neatly in his lap.

  “I did as a matter of fact,” I replied earnestly. “Parts of it at least.”

  “For a college paper, this ain’t half bad.”

  “Thanks,” I said, accepting his seemingly backhanded compliment as I realized the man was not Victoria’s father. Since he disregarded my comment about her, I figured he was more likely the cop she had talked to about Brent’s death.

  “My name is Terry Dunn,” he announced. “I’m an investigator with the Portland Police Bureau. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Every notorious villain grasps the understanding that sooner or later, an encounter with the law is inevitable. It’s like if you keep shitting in the same outhouse, eventually the smell is going to make you gag. You might be hit right up front or it might take time, but either way the scent will find you. Some criminals might not deal with the police for months whereas others might run into them a day or so after the crime. As for the dumb ones, they’ll be lowering their heads into the back of a blue and white in no time.

  I had anticipated contact from the police at some point during the investigation. My DNA along with half of St. Elizabeth’s male population could be found in that bathroom, thanks to the library’s unhealthy cleaning practices. I was in half of Brent’s classes, and to an individual not in the know, Brent and I appeared to be friends. If that wasn’t enough, writing his obituary reinforced the reality that I happened to know a thing or two about old Brent Crane. I probably wasn’t on top of the potential suspects list yet, but I was a person of interest at the very least.

  After tracing the boundless trail of breadcrumbs back to me, the police were bound to have a word. I figured I would have more than a few days to perfect my responses. I hoped they’d just call or email with a list of questions allowing me to leisurely answer them in a stress free manner, but with this copper staring me down I was going to have no such luck.

  Although I had successfully punctured Brent’s jugular as if it were a worn out tire, my descent into darkness wasn’t complete. I still hadn’t delivered believable fabrications to law enforcement officials, but like former President Clinton I would do my best to lie convincingly.

  “Sure,” I said, putting on my best fake enthusiastic smile.

  “Why don’t you take a seat and we’ll get started.”

  As I sat in the lounge chair directly across from the investigator, my memory of Vickie’s depiction of the black officer she nicknamed “Denzel” was suddenly jogged. If I squinted my eyes a tad, I could see the resemblance; however, judging from the six-inch scar running across his neck it was obvious that this Denzel did his own stunts.

  Denzel leaned forward in his chair, removed a pen and miniature notebook from his jacket pocket, then the assault began.

  “You were friends with Crane, is that right?”

  “He spent two semesters in France so I wouldn’t say we were as tight as we had been, but yes, he was still my friend.”

  A moderately truthfully answer.

  “You’re a finance major too, so I’m assuming you shared a couple classes with him?”

  “Yup, three,” I replied.

  “And he was in your Personal Taxation class?”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Did you find it strange he didn’t show on the day of your test?”

  “Brent was studious so I was surprised he wasn’t there, but I figured he was sick or something,” I said, slightly mystified he had discovered our Personal Taxation test occurred the same day as Brent’s murder.

  “What were you doing that morning? Studying?” he asked, staring at me with an intensity only a hardnosed cop could possess.

  “I studied a little at home before going to class. I know it sounds God-awful, but I’m glad I heard about Brent’s death later in the day because if I had known, I’m sure I wouldn’t have done as well.”

  “How’d you do on the test?” Denzel’s double asked, keeping his eyes glued to his notebook as if uninterested in my forthcoming answer.

  “I got an A,” I said, trying not to sound overly zealous. We had actually gotten our results back today. I was stoked about my ability to ace a test after I had slain a fellow classmate. Personal Taxation was a walk in the park for a senior level business class, but I wouldn’t say that could take anything away from my accomplishment. After committing one’s first act of murder, a normal person would freak the hell out. Who knows, maybe I was truly a sociopath for being capable of acing an exam minutes after taking a life.

  Maybe my A was all the proof I needed to show Dunn I wasn’t a suspec
t. He wasn’t going to put my A on the fridge and take me out for a Blizzard at Dairy Queen like my mother, but this test had the potential of putting me in the clear. If Denzel were thinking like me, then I was sure he’d assume no average Joe could slice his friend open then do well on a test.

  I dug out my exam from my backpack I had slung off to the side of the chair, and showed it to him. “See,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” he answered, barely glancing at the paper. His clear lack of interest was proof this brilliant idea of mine wasn’t about to earn me a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

  “Did you notice anything different about Brent recently?” the investigator asked, getting back on topic. “Anything unusually, like habits or behaviors? Was he hanging with a new crowd? Anything like that?”

  “He was living with this guy named Mike,” I said. “And I think the guy might have been a coke addict because when I went over to Brent’s for a party the guy seemed to be tweaking out. He was shaking a lot.”

  I didn’t feel the need to mention Brent had been snorting more coke than Courtney Love too. Where was the fun in throwing a dead guy under the bus? I had already taken his life, I didn’t need to be a complete bastard and take away his dignity. As Dunn began writing more ferociously on his notepad it appeared this bit of information would be sufficient.

  “Did Brent show any signs he might have been using?” Dunn asked, his eyes staring straight into mine once again.

  “Like I said, I wasn’t spending enough time with him to know. I mean, in class he seemed fine, but the weekends…I have no idea.”

  “Anything else?” Dunn asked.

  “Not that I can think of,” I replied.

  “Rumor has it, Brent had himself a new girl. Know anything about that?” he asked straight-faced.

  I’m not sure if Dunn knew about Hayley and was trying to get my goat. He was probably unaware of our previous relationship, but either way I wasn’t going to share that factoid with him. The scorned lover kills his ex’s new boy toy out of jealousy was wonderfully cliché. Nothing like a gift-wrapped present to make one’s job easier. I wasn’t about to divulge one morsel of information that would guide me down the path towards a life in prison.

  “Nope,” I said, playing dumb. “We didn’t really talk much about that kind of stuff.” Well, I basically avoided the topic at all costs. Being intentionally out of the loop kept me from knowing anything about the newly formed couple, which was the point.

  “One last thing,” Dunn said. “Would you take off your shoe for me?”

  I’m sure if Denzel wasn’t eyeing me like a hawk a smug grin might have appeared, but instead of acting smitten I put on my confused face as if to say, “Why do you need my shoe?” as I handed my left shoe over to him.

  Dunn flipped the shoe around to check the size then gave it back, before jotting down a brief note on his pad. Sorry Denzel, I didn’t have a size nine Converse. Well, I did have one, but it was currently nestled in the bottom of the Willamette River.

  “Okay, that’s it. If you hear anything or think of anything else, give me a call,” he said, handing me his business card.

  If I was smart I would have shut my mouth, but a single question was gurgling in the pit of my stomach like ingestion and I couldn’t help but spit it out. “I’m just curious, do you have any suspects at this point?”

  I should have been happy that he was finally leaving, but no I had to push it to the limit. If I soon had to start worrying about dropping the soap, the only person I could put the blame on was myself.

  “I know you’re a writer and all,” Dunn said. “But I got nothing for you, kid.”

  “Oh, I can’t write anything about Brent,” I began. “Our supervisor has forbid us from writing anything related to his death. She said the university doesn’t want any more media attention.”

  “Smart gal.”

  “So you see, I can’t write anything about it. I want to know because Brent was my friend,” I said, doing my best to sound sincere.

  Reading Denzel’s expression was more difficult than finding a helpful employee at Walmart, but just when I thought he was going to leave without a word, his gruff exterior vanished momentarily.

  “I’ve talked with a few folks and the impression I’m getting is that he was starting to get into drugs as you mentioned. We haven’t connected the dots, but I think that may be linked to his death.”

  I choked down the triumphant urge to jump for joy as I gave the cop a solemn head nod.

  “Don’t worry kid, we’ll catch the perp. We always do,” Dunn added, one foot out the door.

  “Thanks, officer,” I said, and with that, the real life Denzel vanished.

  Once I heard the door lock snap in place, I flung myself into my chair breathing a deep sigh of relief. I had pulled this one out, came through in the clutch, and to be honest, I was rather pleased I had lied so convincingly to a cop. Despite this small victory, little did I know, the next time I’d see Dunn would be in handcuffs.

  Chapter Eleven

  One scrap of evidence could send me to the big house, but as weeks turned to months, I began to feel more at ease that the cops were following the investigator’s initial lead, rather than chasing yours truly.

  The police believed that a drug dealer or a coke addict was responsible for the murder. I was neither addicted to cocaine nor did I sell it. My size shoe also helped reinforce my current attitude that I was not a prime suspect.

  My three Gazette colleagues weren’t close to nabbing me either. Trevor was a hopeless twit, as everyone knew. There was no way that he was ever going to put the pieces together, even if I left him a trail of breadcrumbs linking me to the crime. Once I told Vickie about my interview and about Denzel’s suspicions, she started hunting down Brent’s friends to see if she could unearth anything. She snooped for a week or two but didn’t find much. Brent wasn’t a social butterfly and the few friends he did have were not about to tell Vickie about the giant stash of cocaine underneath his bed. With little to go on, no leads and no motivation, Vickie accepted that the case was in Denzel’s capable, lotion-soft hands.

  Nancy Drew was the only one left on the case, but I found it hard to believe she was making any headway. As the semester progressed, Hayley talked about Brent less and less, leading me to believe the blonde bombshell wasn’t having much luck either. Oddly enough, for a pair of ex-lovers our conversations were becoming more cordial, and I no longer detested running into her or I could at least tolerant her. Then again, she also wasn’t dating Brent anymore, which made me secretly warm and fuzzy on the inside.

  With the heat off and my professors yet to unload a pile of assignments and projects upon me, I was beginning to unwind. For the first time since junior year, I felt like a normal college student – drinking with my buddies, talking about slutty girls and football. I didn’t have to worry about classes, relationships or covering up homicides. It was fantastic!

  Even the ominous murmurs in my head saying, “You are emotionally colorblind,” “You are void of compassion,” “You hide in plain sight, concealed by deception, you vicious killer,” were replaced with pleasant whispers such as, “You look ravishing in this sweater vest,” “These appletinis are delectable; excellent choice, Wayne,” “You’re so hilarious, you make Daniel Tosh look like Rob Schneider.” Evidently, my voices appeared to be on vacation as well, or least they were until my roommate told me about Harvey Cho.

  Due to his afternoon clinicals, my roommate, Arthur didn’t arrive to join Scott and I for happy hour at our favorite bar, McMeminins, until about six thirty. Once Scott and I learned that Brent was off to France for a year, we desperately needed to find a third roommate to help with rent and Arthur Cobb was our man. Arthur was a nursing major, who was smart, tidy, and just an overall cool dude.

  Happy hour started at five, and I was already on my third drink and my second appetizer by the time Arthur entered.

  “Hey big boy,” I said jokingly when Arthur came within earshot.
“Why don’t you come cuddle up next to me?”

  “I see Princess Sophia’s been pounding the drinks, and how’s the Jewish accountant doing?” Arthur said looking over at Scott, as he joined us at our table.

  “He’s the accountant you dick,” Scott said, taking a sip from his second beer. “And how do you come up with these retarded nicknames?”

  “I’m a finance major, not an accountant,” I corrected them. “Accountants are pathetic losers!”

  “Wayne is Princess Sophia because he’s drinking lemon drops like some sort of sorority girl bitch, and you’re a Jew because your afro or jewfro I should say, looks like the hair on my testicles. Also, did I mention you’re an extremely cheap fuck.”

  “Who says I’m cheap?”