The Principal Cause of Death Read online

  At thirty-one Jones was young to be the principal of one of the largest high schools in the state. He’d been picked for his ability, ambition, and drive.

  His opening comment was, “How could you possibly assault a student?”

  “Hold it.” I held up my arm. “What does this look like to you?”

  “Bluefield said you attacked him, and he was just defending himself. The two kids who saw the end of the fight say you threw Bluefield across the room.”

  “What about the student teacher?”

  “Who?”

  “A woman from Lincoln University. I’ve seen her around. Bluefield bloodied her nose and cut her lip. Or doesn’t she count?”

  He looked doubtful. “She never came to the office. Are you sure you aren’t making this part up?”

  This was the first administrator I’d met in all my years of teaching who wasn’t a fool, who knew his job, who was willing to put in the work to make the school better—and now he accused me of fabricating an attack on a teacher. I felt betrayed. I lost my temper.

  “How dare you accuse me before you even hear my side of the story?”

  “What we do have is the students at the door who saw you attacking a student.”

  “Was I supposed to let myself be stabbed and slashed into ground meat?”

  “We have policies and procedures to follow when a student attempts to assault a teacher.”

  “This wasn’t an attempt,” I said. “This was a success.” I found myself yelling at him. Not a bright idea, to yell at your boss, but I was pissed. “You know Bluefield’s reputation and you know mine. Yet you believe him. What’d you do, accompany him to the hospital?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve talked with him numerous times. We’ve established a relationship. You were one of the teachers he always complained about. Said you were out to get him.”

  Some administrators use an odd ploy with troubled students. They get the kid to believe it is the two of them against the faculty, social workers, parents, and any other adult who might possibly want them to obey a rule. The administrator then becomes a “friend” to the kid. What happens then in staff meetings is that the administrator announces proudly that he or she never has any problems with the troubled kid. What it really means is they don’t have any hassles with the kid, everybody else does, and the principal can blame everybody else for not getting along with the kid. Happens more often than you imagine.

  “You ever talk to his parole officer?” I asked.

  “I have spoken with him. He, along with everyone else who’s dealt with Dan in the past few months, agrees that the boy has turned his life around. We were trying to help him, which you seem distinctly unable to do.”

  I couldn’t believe all these people had bought the idea that Dan had changed. “I’ve had more success with troubled kids in the past eighteen years than half the rest of the faculty put together.”

  “I know about your reputation. I’ve talked with a number of parents, including the Bluefields. They had a lot of complaints about you. They said they’ve heard that you harass students, especially the ones with problems. That you’re the cause of a lot of kids’ difficulties.”

  I responded with icy calm. “If you’ve had complaints, why haven’t you told me before this?”

  “This incident seemed to offer the best opportunity.”

  “From whom did you receive complaints?”

  “I’m not going to tell you their names. It would serve no useful purpose,” he said.

  “The contract says you tell me who they are or the complaints don’t get recognized in any way. Since you won’t tell me, I assume the complaints don’t exist and you’re making them up. If necessary, you’ll be dealing with an angry union on this, but even more, I can’t believe a principal not backing up his teacher, especially in an assault case.”

  Noise at the door caused us both to turn. “The police are here, Mr. Jones,” Georgette said. “You told me to interrupt as soon as they arrived.”

  Two detectives walked in. I recognized Frank Murphy. I knew him from when he was with the juvenile division. We’d had some fairly spectacular successes with some very troubled kids. We’d also had our share of failures, kids lost to dysfunctional homes, legal and illegal chemicals, and suicides. I’d thought he was on vacation. Turned out he was leaving the next day.

  Introductions done, Frank said, “I talked to the kid. My bet is he’s lying.”

  “I don’t think he is,” Jones said.

  “I do,” Frank said. He asked me what happened and I told him.

  When I finished, Frank said, “First of all, we’ve got to find this student teacher. Second, the kid’s fingerprints are on the knife. I believe Tom here.”

  Jones said, “I’m sure there will be an investigation by the school board into this.”

  Frank shrugged. “That’s nice. As far as the police are concerned this is a pretty open-and-shut case. The kid’s a menace. He’s been inside the station more than any other teenager for the past two years. If this goes to court, I know who a jury would believe.”

  Minutes later the cops walked out, leaving a frustrated Jones unable to press charges right then, even if he wanted to. I got up to leave.

  His voice stopped me. He spoke loudly, “This isn’t over yet, Mason. You may be buddies with the cops, but the school district will have the final say in this matter.” His voice softened. “And, Mr. Mason,” he said, “I’ll thank you never to raise your voice in this office again. I don’t accept that kind of treatment from anyone.”

  I rested my hand on the doorknob. I didn’t dramatically shout “Fuck you, go to hell, drop dead.” Nor did I apologize. I gazed at his youthful face and said, “I feel sorry for you.” If I hadn’t banged the door shut, my studied calm might have been more effective.

  In the outer office all the lights were out. Through the glass walls I could see Georgette in the hallway, waiting for me.

  She wore a light sweater and clutched her purse in her right hand. Her glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. She fluttered to my side. “I heard your voices,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you were both so loud. He better not try to get rid of you, Mr. Mason. He’ll have a tough time. The union won’t let him get away with it. Let me know if I can help.”

  I’d been so angry, I hadn’t realized how loud we’d been. I said, “Thank you, Georgette. That’s very kind.”

  She moved her head closer, so her lips were only an inch or so from my ear. “I’m scared of him, Mr. Mason. I think he wants to get rid of me. I’m not young and pretty, and I’m sure that’s what he wants.”

  I patted Georgette’s arm encouragingly. She might have had a befuddled act that could win Academy Awards, and at least once a year she got involved in some major office screw-up, but her reports for the state were always perfect, the attendance records and budget items correct to the last dot, and she was a helpful refuge for many a bewildered teacher. She could run almost any computer program invented and knew how to explain each one so that even the most befuddled teacher could understand it.

  “I think he’d have a tough time firing you, Georgette.”

  “I hope so.” She clutched her glasses in her right hand and shook them at me. “He’s been interviewing secretaries these past few days, but I think he wants to bring in his secretary from his last job. I’ve done a little calling around on my own.” She nodded significantly and moved closer. “He deserves to be yelled at. He’s always so nice and polite on the outside, but he’s a snake.”

  We walked down the corridor together. I gave her what words of reassurance I could. At the main entrance to the building she turned to walk out to the parking lot, and I trudged back to my classroom.

  The lights in the main hall flicked off as I reached the turn by the faculty lounge. A figure emerged from the doorway. By the light from the lounge I could see it was Donna Dalrymple, our resident psychologist. Through clenched teeth she said, “May I see you pl
ease, Mr. Mason?”

  I agreed. She led the way to her office which was in the new section of the school.

  In the past couple of years they’d finished several new wings. This was the newest and the worst. Its roof leaked after heavy rains and since, like all the new sections, it had unopenable windows, so it was totally dependent on the heating and air-conditioning for comfort regulation. The system never seemed to work right. You might get bitter cold in the middle of September because the air-conditioning decided to stay on high, or you could get Sahara-like heat in early June. The weirdest days were when rooms right next to each other might have completely separate climates. You could step from one to the other and go from rain forest to polar ice cap.

  We entered Donna’s office. She wore a rust-colored corduroy pants suit over a white blouse and kept her hair swept back from her face in a ponytail. She’d been in the district three years and had alienated nearly every teacher at some point or other. Her basic attitude was that “you poor teachers haven’t the faintest idea how to handle these children—only I, a trained specialist, should be allowed to speak to them and deal with them.” I generally avoided talking to her.

  Nearly every social worker we’ve had has been a complete gem, brilliant and compassionate, a true miracle worker with troubled children, but according to the rules at Grover Cleveland, the social worker had to take second place to the psychologist.

  She tossed the manila folder she’d been carrying into the center of her desk, then faced me with hands on her hips and eyes blazing.

  Her office had only interior walls, so no windows gave hope of a world outside. On the cinderblock walls she had posters of rock groups and hot cars. Maybe these made the kids think she was with it and relevant.

  She said, “What was the meaning of your attack on Dan Bluefield?”

  “I just went through this with Jones.”

  She rapped her knuckles on the desk top. “You may have destroyed that boy for the rest of his life.”

  My guilt at what I’d done fled, and total anger returned. I said, “That ‘boy’ is nearly a man, and he’s had far worse happen to him than I just did.”

  “He’s turned his life around. He’s reformed. Everybody but you seems to have noticed. What’s your problem?”

  “Dan is the one with the problem. I can’t believe he’s convinced everyone that he’s now a model citizen.”

  “I intend to see if we can’t file abuse charges against you.”

  I showed her my arm. “Your little angel attacked me right after he beat up one of the teachers. You believed his story without checking it out.”

  “I trust him.”

  The whole scene seemed unreal. I wanted to find that student teacher, if only to burst their bubble of trust in a teenaged delinquent.

  “I’ve been in touch with the parents,” she said. “They’ll be in first thing in the morning. You’ll be lucky if they don’t swear out a warrant for your arrest.”

  I walked out on her. I had no patience for someone incapable of connecting with reality. I had my own emotions to deal with about what happened, and she wasn’t helping.

  As I walked through the gloomy corridors, thinking about my meeting with Jones, my fury increased. I didn’t think the district could do much of substance, didn’t think I had much to worry about. A glance at my watch told me I’d be late for the game. I needed to make a call to the ballpark in case the game ended before I got there, so that Scott would know I’d been delayed. The nearest phone was in the office, so I grabbed my briefcase and walked back in that direction.

  First I stopped in a washroom. With all the activity I hadn’t had time to try and get the blood out of my shirt. I took it off and examined the stain. Probably too dried by now, but I’d give it a try. I ran cold water from elbow to cuff on the left sleeve. Some of the blood washed out. Of course the sleeve was soaked, and I’d have to wear the shirt home wet. Not a bright move.

  I trudged down the darkened corridors. The last rays of light from the early October sunset streamed through a few opened classroom doors that faced west. It gave the old place an almost golden glow that for the moment hid the peeling plaster, defaced lockers, and blackening tile. The wood paneling seemed soft and welcoming. The dust motes drifted in around me. I breathed in that old school smell of chalk and kids.

  As I entered the office, I noticed the door to Jones’s office was open. I picked up Georgette’s phone. The glass windows of the office let me look out on the darkened corridor. The sweep of the headlights, from a car pulling up in the school’s circular drive, gave occasional light. In the dimness I had to lean my head close to the buttons on the phone. I glanced up. A car’s headlight beam swept past the windows in Jones’s office. I caught my breath.

  At the edge of Jones’s desk I saw a hand, a white shirt cuff, and the beginning of the sleeve of a suit coat. A few steps closer, and I saw Robert Jones with a knife sticking out of his back and massive quantities of blood soaking through his clothing.

  I hurried toward him and felt for his carotid artery, hoping for a pulse. I felt cold flesh and not a trace of movement. I hurried from the room, being sure to touch nothing, and dialed the police from the phone on Georgette’s desk.

  The beat cops arrived in eight minutes. Soon, the crime-lab people, along with detectives and captains, joined the fray. Murder in River’s Edge isn’t unheard-of, but it’s rare. This would definitely cause headlines.

  I listened to the cops exchange pleasantries, explanations, and theories, a few of which had to do with the murder and most with who was playing golf with whom and whose turn it was to buy lunch. The beat cops interviewed me and took a statement. The few people still in the building got called in. The police found custodians, and the football team coming in from practice, but not much else.

  Georgette came in at seven. She left a half-hour later, giving a fearful look at the cops and sneaking a tender pat to my shoulder as she swept by. The school superintendent showed up at eight. They hadn’t been able to reach her because she’d been out to dinner for her wedding anniversary.

  About eight-fifteen the cut in my arm began to throb.

  At eight-thirty two detectives interviewed me.

  The tall ugly one was Hank Daniels. The good-looking young guy with the earring was David Johnson. I’d realized early on it didn’t look good: I’d had a fight with Jones. But I didn’t know, until they told me, that I’d been the last one to see him alive. Plus I’d found the body, and the dank sleeve of my shirt reminded me that I had bloodstains on it. Not a good combination for establishing my innocence.

  Daniels began the interview. “We’ve heard about you. Dead bodies seem to show up when you do.”

  Johnson said, “The swish teacher who’s always sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  Not your basic charm-school interrogation. No matter how hard they pressed, I held my temper in check. I’d been captured by the Viet Cong and held captive for two days. I’d managed to escape, but the memory of the interrogation at that time helped me stay calm now.

  Around nine Frank Murphy strode in. They’d kept me in the nurse’s office. He sat on the couch they keep for the kids to lie down on. I stayed in the swivel chair behind the desk.

  “You’re in deep shit,” he said.

  “Daniels and Johnson were no sweat,” I said.

  “Sweat is not the problem. You are prime suspect number one. Did you do it?”

  “It’s bad enough you’ve got to ask?”

  He gazed at me levelly.

  “It’s that bad,” I said.

  “Yeah, Tom. I know you didn’t do it, and our friendship will probably get you home tonight without a trip to the station, but it’s touch and go. The two of them want to arrest you.”

  “They’ve got nothing definite. Did anybody see anything?”

  Frank shook his head. “According to the interviews, nobody was near this office after you and Georgette Constantine left.”

  “I w
ouldn’t bet on Georgette,” I said. “She’s the last one I’d pick as a knife-wielding maniac.”

  “Somebody around here is,” Frank said.

  I sighed. “Do you know when I’m going to be able to go? I’m supposed to pick Scott up at the game tonight.”

  “I’ll check.” He came back a few minutes later to say I could leave, and added, “We found that student teacher. She looks pretty bad. She was pretty uncommunicative, but I’m sure she’ll back up your story. You shouldn’t have to worry about the incident with the kid.”

  I accepted his reassurances and left.

  2

  Because of the bloodstains, the police had confiscated my shirt, so I had to stop at home for a new one. I took an extra pain pill to deaden the throbbing in my arm. In my gleaming black four-wheel-drive truck, I opened the window and steadied my arm on the opening.

  A few minutes later I was on I-80, heading toward I-57 and the Dan Ryan Expressway. I’d called ahead to the ballpark to make sure my ticket was still saved. Fortunately, what with all the folderol of the last game of the season, they’d started late. I arrived in time for the eighth and ninth innings.

  The pecking order for tickets was the same as it is in many major-league teams. The wife of the starting pitcher got seat 1-A in the family section. Scott, not being attached to a woman, used to just give up his ticket. As the years of our relationship went on and he became less closeted, he’d simply give me the ticket. The only problem was that I could rarely get to the games because of my own busy schedule. I like to see him pitch at least four or five times a year. It’s fun watching him out on the mound in his tight pants, fantasizing about all the things I’d done or planned to do with his body in our bed. My semiregular presence in the family section caused barely a ripple among the relatives and friends. Scott’s teammates liked him and he was popular among the wives. Even when he started giving away seats to people with AIDS who wanted to attend games, it wasn’t a hassle.