And On the Surface Die

by Lou Allin

  Holly opened the notebook, turned to a fresh page and dated and timed it. “I came back to the school to try to track down this meth connection.”

  He shook his head, eyes deep with sorrow. “Those tests must be mistaken. Angie was a dedicated athlete. A brush with pot or a beer maybe. But meth? She gave a terrific talk on it for her health class. She was dead set that kids stay away from it. Even handed out cards with the B.C. Meth website. And the pictures of addicts. Holy crow. Put me right off my lunch.”

  Whitehouse had found research for the speech on the computer. “That’s what I hear. But suppose someone slipped the drug to her.”

  Terry’s face purpled, and he pounded the table. His eyes were wide with contempt. Was he acting? “That would be criminal.”

  “Exactly...coach. If she drowned as a result, we might have an involuntary manslaughter charge. Maybe even voluntary.” He looked puzzled. “I don’t know anything about the law other than TV shows, but isn’t manslaughter like murder? Like when a drunk driver kills someone?”

  She gave a bittersweet smile. “One up the ladder from criminal negligence. Here’s a similar case. A man let his son handle a loaded pistol. Showing off. A few days later, the boy took the gun from the closet and shot and killed his sister.”

  “I see. It’s like the drug was a loaded gun.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and a slim young woman with close-cut chestnut hair came in. “Hi, Terry, I...” She caught a look from Grove, then noticed Holly. The girl gave her an unabashed assessment from top to bottom, as if measuring the competition. “Coach. Sorry. Guess I’m...interrupting.”

  He brushed crumbs from his Saints sweatshirt. “That’s fine, Katie. I’ll be free in...” He looked at Holly, and she held up five fingers. “A couple more minutes.”

  “Great. See you then. I brought the forms all filled out with my parents’ signatures.” She waved a bunch of papers. The door closed.

  Grove cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Kaitlin Pollock. Katie. I’ve got her set up for a scholarship. She’s our best swimmer next...next to Angie.” He leaned forward and raised a thick eyebrow. “She’s good, but Angie was one in a million.”

  Holly made a note. Had jealousy been a factor? “Was Katie on the camp-out? I don’t recall seeing her.”

  He shook his head. “She had the flu that weekend. Left school on Thursday.”

  Holly asked Grove to keep an ear open. Then she gave him her card, recently arrived from headquarters. It seemed odd to read Corporal by her name, but it felt good, as if she were working toward a goal, not letting life pass her by. Her father was proud of her. Again she thought of Ann’s bitter disappointment. Reg had mentioned a mother in a nearby nursing home.

  Kim Bass was sipping coffee in the faculty lounge when Holly tracked her down. Lounge wasn’t an accurate description. The stuffy room was small and crowded with stark furniture more suitable for a prison, hard wooden chairs and scarred melamine tables. The walls were an ugly pea green unrelieved by anything but a school calendar and a dusty bulletin board. Mindless elevator music burbled from two loudspeakers on the wall. Obviously people were not encouraged to linger here. A crusted coffee maker had a half-full carafe, and a tea kettle sat next to a tray of sugar and cream packets.

  Dressed in dark brown slacks and a soft deerskin jacket with a beaded pocket, Kim was chatting with an older woman in her early forties. The merriment in their voices and relaxed posture indicated that they were close friends. Kim saw Holly and turned. Uncertainty flashed across her face, no guarantee of either guilt or blamelessness. Often the best liars had total control; they could also fake the nervousness of innocence, a double blind.

  Introductions were made. Chris Wallace, the Spanish teacher, packed up her Tim Hortons travel mug. “Nice to meet you. Gotta run now. Grade elevens are getting ready to put on a play they wrote. Jennifer Lopez theme. Poor girl meets rich man. Typical fairy-tale world. What did we do wrong?” She winked at Kim, whose face pinked as she touched a beaded necklace featuring a double-headed eagle. Once, twice. Was she trying to reassure herself with this totemic image?

  Holly explained her reason for the visit. “Now that these complications have appeared,” she said, “I need to know more about Angie as a student of yours.”

  Kim drained her mug with a wince, then gave a half-smile. Holly hadn’t noticed before that she had a small gap between her sparkling front teeth, an attractive feature in the days of assembly-line beauty. “If this is coffee...you know the saying.”

  Holly let a beat or two pass. She liked this woman, but she remembered her initial days on the force. Several times she’d been one-hundred-eighty degrees wrong in her first estimates. Witnesses gave false information, sometimes not their own fault. With an endless variety of focus and five complex senses, people saw things different ways, could even be led in the wrong directions. Drained by hours of steady interrogation, confused by the options, innocent people confessed to murder, especially young people and the mentally challenged. “It’s a rather delicate situation.” She told Kim about the accusations. “Two students...and I consider their testimony as biased as the typical teen’s—”

  “Probably less biased than an adult’s.” Kim passed a broad hand over her brow. It was stifling in the room, the sun streaming through the glass. She got up and levered open a window, and a cool breeze rushed past them. The instructor sat back down and levelled her olive black eyes at Holly. “It’s possible that Angie had a crush on me. Nothing was ever said or written. It’s something you sense. And even so, she might not know her own mind at this age. I was in love with my Grade Eight history teacher, Mr. Bradshaw.”

  Possible crush, Holly wrote, leaving her face impassive. It was critical to keep opinions out of reports. Stick to the facts and let the justice system sort them out. If this woman had nothing to do with the death, “outing” her served no purpose. “Did she try to talk to you after class? Or outside the school?” She hesitated. Two questions at once. Bad form.

  Kim’s voice was even and serious. “Sometimes when school let out, she’d come by the classroom for a few minutes. She walked home, so she didn’t need to catch the bus.”

  “Was she discussing her schoolwork?” Holly winced again.

  Leading the witness. Her techniques needed refining, but at least she knew that.

  Kim gave a sigh. “Angie was an overachiever. She brought in her essays for my opinions on improvement, not to argue about the marks. In the normal scheme of grading, the huge numbers, sometimes two hundred essays each week, I don’t have time to make thorough comments.”

  Holly nodded. Her father made the same complaints. “I don’t envy you. Maybe gym teachers made the right choice.”

  A soft smile greeted that humour. “Often she wanted to move deeper into a point. And she brought some poetry.”

  “Poetry? Part of her assignments?”

  “I teach Canlit, but I don’t mind looking at creative writing from my students or any others in the school. We’re starting a little magazine this year. Spawnings.”

  Holly sat up. “Pardon me? Did you say—”

  Kim was laughing out loud, apparently at Holly’s expression. With her broad smile and a touch of crinkle at her eyes’ edges, she was even more attractive. “I know. It’s provocative. Sounds like Allen Ginsberg and those one-word Beatnik titles. But who around this fishing community could dispute it? I thought it was very clever. Angie was on the screening committee.”

  The scenarios might be multiplying. “Does that mean she had a say about what was included? Could that have made her any enemies?”

  “About poetry? Who would think? It’s the antithesis of violence.”

  “Or should be. What about rock lyrics and rap music?”

  Kim gave this some thought. “I suppose. Do you want me to send you a list of the students whose work she read, those who didn’t make the cut?”

  “Might be an idea.” She passed Kim her card. “What were her poems about
?”

  “The normal teen angst. ‘Misery, companion mine, to my depths you do entwine’.”

  Holly winced. “Ouch. I see she had no career there. But no one else has suggested that she was unhappy.” For once, Holly wondered if they were on the wrong track, if Angie had taken the drug herself. Even that theory didn’t explain where she had gotten it.

  Kim gave her a wordly look that revealed her greater experience with teens. “She wasn’t unhappy. She was just exploring the concept. Young people think that writing about the small things in our lives, a flower, a delicate lichen, even a pet, is a trivial pursuit. They’ll learn. I sent Angie to that William Carlos Williams poem about finding a plum in the...fridge...icebox. So simple, so pure.” She closed her eyes. “Know what? There was a lovely fresh plum on my desk the next day.”

  “Back to my original purpose, I have to ask...I mean...off the record...” She swallowed back her hesitation. Kim Bass was a likable person, trustworthy and credible, or so it seemed.

  “I get you. This is a Catholic school, Charter of Rights be damned. It’s not exactly Don’t ask. Don’t tell. But close enough.”

  “I understand.”

  “I live with another woman who writes romance novels. We’ve been together for three years. I was glad to take this job to repay my student loans. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the boomers have been retiring in droves. I’ll be out of here in June. I have an offer back home in Canmore. With her occupation, Judi can relocate anywhere. Oddly enough, I miss the snow and cold. It’s so much cleaner.” She looked out the window, where it had clouded over. Sooke weather changed on the hour. Fat raindrops teared runnels down the window. “How I hate the rain. I think I have SAD. Thank god they put in those special lights in the library. Fifteen minutes a day, and you cheer right up. I’m overdue for my fix.”

  “Your personal information will be confidential.” Holly heard a bell ring. Her watch read eleven. “Time for the memorial service, I guess. One more question. Did Angie confide in you about other students?”

  “Absolutely not. She was no gossip. All the same, Angie was mature for her age, but she wasn’t one to make a teacher a pal. We’re supposed to be leaders, not friends. I looked over that essay on meth for her. It was passionate. No way in hell she took those drugs herself.” She checked her watch. “Guess I better make sure I have some tissues. If that’s all, I’ll leave you now and hit the bathroom before the service.”

  Minutes later, Holly found herself in the last row of the bleachers. At least half the seats were empty, a far cry from the old days. Perhaps the school would close after all, just desserts for the discomfort it had inflicted upon her. Standing in for the principal, Gable began the service as the crowd quieted. A large screen showed videos of Angie’s triumphs in her swim meets. She poised on the starting blocks, intent, focused, a picture of youthful perfection. Then the video faded to black. Across to the podium came the president of the senior class, a boy with Harry Potter glasses, poking them back on his nose every two minutes. For his age, the comments were surprisingly mature. He ended by reading Housman’s “To an Athlete Dying Young”. Had Kim given him the idea?

  Then came the head counsellor, followed by Coach Grove, awkward in a role other than pep talks. She noticed that his gaze kept gravitating toward the statuesque Katie. But the girl next to her, Janice, was it? was fixated on Paul Gable. Such temptations lay in wait in the educational minefield. Now female teachers were being accused of seducing young male students. Women were proving to be as reprehensible as men when it came to sexual foibles.

  The choir finished the hour-long service by singing “I’ll Fly Away”. By then nearly everyone except the most stoic was wiping their eyes, and a chorus of sniffs filled the air as tissues emerged among the females. Angie might not have had any close friends, but her peers recognized the tragedy as a harbinger of their own passing. A lone kilted piper played “Amazing Grace”, walking out at dirge pace until the sound faded in the halls and the gym was totally quiet, except for the drip of water from the metal roof. Then the bustle of finding umbrellas began as people got up.

  As Holly stood to the side, she noticed Nate Didrickson filing out, Buster the golden retriever plodding at his heels, bleary eyes searching the crowd for its lost mistress to part the clouds in its vision. Nate was with a woman with similar facial features, perhaps his sister, and had the boy Robin by one hand. The lad’s dark suit echoed his father’s, down to the white carnation boutonniere. Then the last handshake and hug had been accepted, and everyone had left for the cafeteria to take refreshments and sign the guest book.

  Nate saw Holly and whispered to the woman, who then said to the youngster, “Come on, dear. We’ll get some cake. Dad will be right along.” They walked off as the senior dog slumped down with a relieved sigh and appeared to nod off. Buster had been freshly groomed and given a bright blue collar ribbon, no slight chore under the demands of such grief.

  “My condolences again. It was a lovely service,” she said. “Corporal Martin. Thank you for coming.” He took both her hands in his in a warm embrace. “I didn’t expect...” His voice trailed off.

  “I understand that Detective Whitehouse visited your home.” He coughed into his hand. “Sorry. This time of year, the debris burning starts my allergies going. What were you... Oh, yeah. Whitehouse. What a know-it-all. You should have seen the mess he left in my little girl’s room. Clothes and books all over the place. It took me...” Then he broke off and turned away, one hand shifting to his swollen, puffy eyes. “Funny, but I still think she’s coming back.”

  She touched his shoulder gently, hoping that the light contact would be accepted. Common perception was that female officers had brought a new sensitivity to policing. Often they were of greater use in domestic violence cases because of the way they could defuse a situation without using brute force.

  “He got me steamed, searching for drugs in my angel’s room. There is no way she took that toxic junk or drank more than a beer, probably a light one at that.”

  There had been some alcohol in Angie’s system, but he might have been right. For some, the excitement of the illicit beer itself was as much a charge as the small buzz of a single drink. She hadn’t intended to bother Nate again after Whitehouse had done his job, but while she had him here... “I’ve been speaking with her teachers to get to know her better. Did she confide in you? I mean as much as a teenager does.”

  “She had some concerns about Robin. He’s been her responsibility ever since her mother...passed. She went over his homework with him every night.” Nate gave a nod to a very old bow-backed man and his wife with a walker who had been slowly making their way across the gym. The woman gave a sob as she hugged him. The man said, “We’ll miss our girl, Nate. You come by to talk any time.”

  “Thanks for your support.” Nate returned his attention to Holly.

  “Sweet people. They live next door. Angie was like a granddaughter to them. Anyway, she said there were drugs at school sometimes. It disgusted her. I wanted her to tell the authorities, but you know how kids are about that. We used to call them squealers.” His quiet tones took on an edge. “Now it’s ‘dropping the dime’. Gangster talk. Makes me sick.”

  “Did she mention any names?”

  He gave a contemptuous snort. “If she had, I would have passed them on to the authorities. She knew that. That’s the problem today. Everyone’s covering up. The whole community has to work together to make this a safe place, and I’m not just talking about Neighbourhood Watch.” He ran fingers through his hair, freshly trimmed for the occasion. “Just see out the year, I told her. Concentrate on your classes, your swimming. Get to university, and you’ll forget there ever was a time called high school. Life will sort itself out.”

  Holly felt a kinship with this girl and her dislike of childish cliques. In a time warp, they might have been friends. Finding out why and how she died assumed the nature of a personal challenge, more than a job. Was that wise? She h
ad no choice, and she hoped she never would.

  She left the school wondering whether she should have dismissed Kim so quickly. Was she naïve to discard the gossip? Did this partner of hers even exist? Yet why plant the seeds of doubt in a father’s imagination? She was beginning to understand how damaging passing on information in a case could be. Discretion was a narrow line between total candour and silence. And the coach. Loyal husband or playing his own little games with Katie? Should she do a background check, or was that overkill? She felt certain that the meth had come from someone at the school, a student or, god forbid, the staff. Then there was the wild card. The boys from Rennie.

  Chipper met her at the Otter Point Bakery. They opted for the pizza buffet and started chowing down as the friendly owner brought more selections hot from the ovens. “No chicken pie for you today, Officer?” she asked Chipper, who grinned as he took another slice. The quaint room had Chinese antiques in wicker cases, along with silk scarves and carvings. They advertised a high tea as well as fresh meat and vegetable pies. Tourists crammed the place in summer.

  Chipper nodded as Holly told him about the school. “Whitehouse checked in,” he said. “He’s off to Vancouver for a couple of days. Since there are no new leads in our case, I guess he’s shelved it. Told me he thought that Angie took the meth on her own.”

  “Like hell she did. This is so frustrating.”

  “Too right. What does he care about us? No surprise, though. First lesson I learned in my first year. Ninety-five per cent of police work is dreary and routine. Glory boy wants none of that.”

  “And the other five, you get your head shot off and an official funeral better than you could afford.” She munched on a Greek pizza slice, then selected a pepperoni piece.

  “Don’t forgetting shooting someone yourself.” He wiped his mouth on a serviette. “Did you ever have to do that?”

  Her memories had to be pried from their dark corners. “I drew my gun once...after a dangerous car chase. The guy was cornered, and I was afraid he was going to run me over or drive into a crowd. The warning shot stopped him.”