The Principal Cause of Death Page 3

  I settled into my seat, saw him notice me as he entered the dugout after the bottom of the eighth. In fairly typical Chicago tradition, the team managed to blow the lead in the ninth, and Scott lost the game. This was the first time in five seasons he hadn’t won twenty games.

  I waited in my truck outside the ballpark. Scott was one of the last players to walk out of the clubhouse. Kids and adults swarmed around him for autographs even at this late hour. Patiently he signed every program and slip of paper. As one of the few stars in a championship-starved town, he was immensely popular. Finally, he made his way to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door, and plopped himself onto the seat. He wore khaki bermuda shorts that clung to his slender waist and hips, along with a plain white T-shirt over his muscular frame.

  “Where were you until the eighth inning?” Scott asked. “I got a little worried.”

  I told him the story on the way to Ann Sather’s Restaurant on Belmont. When I finished, I glanced over at him, then back to the road. In a gesture I knew well, he used his left hand to knead the muscles of his right shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “It’s still not real to me yet. I’ve never been accused of murder before.” Over dinner we talked of possible explanations and suspects. We managed the meal without Scott being recognized, an accomplishment in itself. Sometimes we can dine out in total anonymity, and other times we’ve had to flee from overzealous fans. It seems to be the luck of the moment that determines his recognizability.

  I drove to his place. He owns a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive. Once there, we performed our postgame ritual. Every time he pitched in Chicago, we went back to his place and had a postmortem so he could depressurize. Lying on the floor, our backs against a white leather couch, we’d talk about the game, pitches he should or shouldn’t have made. We wore similar outfits: white jockey shorts and athletic socks.

  Tonight we talked mostly about the events at school. He was equally concerned about the Bluefield incident as he was about the murder. As I told him about it, my feelings of guilt returned.

  We continued the discussion as we performed the next stage of the post-game ritual on the couch we’d been leaning against. He lay on his stomach while I straddled his torso. Normally, for half an hour I would gently massage all the muscles in his body, spending at least fifteen minutes ministering to his right shoulder. Then we’d have wild hot sex with only the lights from the city below illuminating the room. Afterward we’d have cookies and milk in the breakfast nook, which looked out over Lake Michigan. Sometimes these evenings didn’t end until past three or four in the morning.

  Tonight, becuase of my arm, we had to make do with the sex and Oreo cookies and milk. Scott still pulls the cookies apart to lick the middle off before eating the rest. We kept talking about the murder.

  Halfway through he said, “You seem pretty calm about the whole situation.”

  “I know I didn’t do it, and I assume they’ll find some evidence of whoever did.”

  “But according to you, the guy didn’t have a lot of enemies. It could be anybody, including the Bluefield kid. I can’t believe others haven’t seen through him.”

  “Thanks for your faith in my insights. The kid is clever, but I don’t see him murdering Jones. The principal was his friend. Jones didn’t have a lot of enemies I know about, certainly no one I would consider a murderer. But you’re right, it could be anybody.”

  “So, the police could try and save themselves a lot of hassle and just pick you. No more investigation, and a murder solved.”

  “Frank Murphy won’t let them get away with that.”

  “Look, lover, I wouldn’t put too much faith in Frank’s friendship. This is murder. They’ll want somebody and quickly.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Are they going to let you teach tomorrow?”

  “Why shouldn’t they?”

  “Earth to Tom: You are a suspect in a murder investigation. So you’re hardly someone they’d let be in front of a classroom, are you?”

  “Innocent until proven guilty—at least on this part of the planet. Besides, the superintendent didn’t say anything to me. I don’t think she’d try to stop me.”

  He shook his head. For the moment I just didn’t think I had that much to worry about. We finished our dessert without coming up with any solutions.

  Later, in bed, he lay with his arms around me, snuggled close. I listened to the hum of the digital clock on the nightstand next to the bed, heard his breathing, felt the down on his chest against my back.

  I found I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the sight of the knife sticking out of Jones’s back that kept running through my mind, although that was part of it. The incident with Bluefield replayed itself over and over. I felt monumentally guilty and depressed. I heard Scott’s breathing become regular and even. I moved away. I tossed and turned, refusing to look at the clock to see how late it was. I felt myself coiled and ready to spring.

  Very little can waken Scott, but when I’m restless and unable to sleep, somehow he senses it. It seemed like hours later when he murmured, “Something’s still bothering you.”

  I mumbled that I was okay.

  He turned on the light on his side of the bed. I flinched from the brightness. I turned over and saw him sitting up.

  “Want to talk about it?” he said.

  “What ‘it’?”

  “You’re tense enough to wake me up. You’re ready to explode. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “I’m not ready to explode,” I said. “It’s just …” I got up, picked up a pair of my jeans from the floor, and pulled them on. I walked to the windows and looked down on the cars still streaming by on Lake Shore Drive this late at night.

  I turned back to him. He sat up in the bed, knees raised, one hand draped on each. The blankets still covered him to his stomach. His blue eyes caught mine, but he said nothing. The man is a master at waiting for me to say something.

  I turned the rocking chair next to the window to face him and eased into it.

  “I wanted to hurt that boy.”

  He nodded.

  “I wanted Bluefield to never taunt another teacher again. I wanted to make sure he’d never harass another fellow human being. I wanted him to feel enough pain to change his fucked-up life.”

  Scott watched me carefully.

  “I wanted to make up for every bit of frustration he’s caused me. I wanted him to know that I was a mean tough powerful bastard who he’d better never fuck with. I wanted him to know what revenge feels like.”

  Scott’s eyes bored into mine.

  “I feel like shit. I lost control with a student. I hurt a kid and I feel enormous guilt, and I’m angry at myself for feeling the guilt. I had no business trying to hurt the kid, and that’s what I was trying to do once I got the knife away from him. Hurt him and cause pain. And it felt good to hit him. I thought, This is for every teacher everywhere who is made to suffer because of rotten kids. I enjoyed it and I feel guilt about enjoying it.” I sighed and repeated, “I feel like shit. On top of all that, it’s the last game of the season. We haven’t talked about it for more than two minutes and I know how difficult this time can be for you.”

  For two or three days after the season ends Scott usually goes into a minor depression. He goes from a world of huge crowds, center stage, and racing adrenaline to one of relative calm and placidity, and it takes him a while to adjust. To help his reentry to a more staid life-style, we go to a cabin on the shores of Lake Superior for a weekend so he can totally depressurize. I looked forward to those days with him.

  Silence lengthened between us. He gazed at me quietly. Finally, I said, “Say something.”

  He said, “I’m waiting for you to get to the part you need to feel guilt about.”

  “I told you …”

  “I listened carefully to all you’ve said.” His soft voice thrummed. I could hear the traces of his Southern drawl. “You’re honest with yourself. Y
ou understand yourself. You wish you could make go away a lot of the things that happened today.”

  I nodded.

  “And I wish I could take them away for you,” he said. “And maybe you saw parts of yourself that you don’t like, or wish were different. I listened to a man who I’ve seen sacrifice himself for kids for the ten years I’ve known him. Who I’ve seen do more than any twenty teachers put together to help troubled and despairing children and families. I think you reacted to a threatening situation in an appropriate way. You wish there was another way to have handled the situation?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And what would that have been?” he asked.

  “I should have been able to stop him some other way,” I whispered.

  “You’re being stubborn,” Scott said, “and you’re not listening to me.”

  I folded my arms over my chest, stared out the window at the velvet night over Chicago, and said through clenched teeth, “I am not being stubborn.”

  “Look,” Scott began reasonably. “It’s late. You’ve got school tomorrow, and you need to let yourself off the hook. I think you need to be a little more honest and fair about what happened.”

  He got out of bed, grabbed a pair of jeans from the closet, tugged them on, and came over to me. He sat on the ottoman next to the rocker, took my hand, and said, “There wasn’t anything else you could have done. You lost control. So what? The first time in eighteen years. You can punish yourself for that if you want. If you need to feel guilt, go ahead, but I know I love you as much today as I did yesterday. That you’re the same kind, gentle man I knew then. You’re human, with faults—but I already knew that.” He smiled. I felt the tug of a grin at the corners of my mouth.

  “As for talking about the game, you’re more important to me than any other person or thing in this world, and I know we’ll have time together in the cabin in a week and a half.”

  We crawled back into bed.

  “Thanks,” I murmured as I drifted off to sleep.

  The next day at school was chaos unlimited. At seven-thirty, before they let the kids in the building, we had a full staff-and-faculty meeting with a crisis team. Nowadays, when a member of a school community dies, a crisis team is brought in. This is a group of psychologists, therapists, social workers, and others who are trained in handling emotional upheavals. They travel from school to school bringing their expertise with them.

  At the meeting Donna Dalrymple glared daggers in my direction. Kurt Campbell, the union president, and Meg sat on either side of me. As Scott had that morning, they asked if I felt okay enough to be at school. I told them I was fine.

  The crisis team informed us that we should try to hold our classes in a normal fashion, to speak about the death if kids brought it up, and that any student who showed signs of stress should be sent to them immediately. They had taken over two classrooms in the old section for conferences with individual students too upset to attend classes.

  Carolyn Blackburn, the superintendent, caught up with me in the hallway after the meeting. Kurt materialized at my elbow.

  Carolyn looked annoyed. She said, “I need to speak with Mr. Mason.”

  Kurt said, “I think a union representative should be present.”

  She frowned at him, but didn’t comment. She led the way to the office next to Jones’s, where she sat behind a cheap metal desk. We took plastic-cushioned chairs in front of her. Carolyn had until recently been the principal of Grover Cleveland, and was one of the few administrators I almost trusted.

  “This is a difficult situation,” she said. “Bluefield’s dad is due any minute and he is not happy with you, Tom.”

  “He should be coming down hard on his asshole son,” I said.

  “Probably,” Carolyn said. “He wants to meet with you. I’d like to be present.”

  I agreed.

  Mr. Bluefield’s first comment was “Why is this man still in this school? He attacked my boy. Dan’s got a broken wrist. He’ll be in a cast for weeks.”

  “He attempted to rape one of our teachers yesterday,” Carolyn said. “We consider that a serious charge.”

  “He didn’t touch her. It’s his word against hers. She’s probably some slut—”

  Carolyn cut him off, “As long as you are in this office, in my presence, Mr. Bluefield, you will confine yourself to proper language.”

  “We’re all grownups here,” he said. “You’ve heard these words before.”

  “Whether I’ve heard them or even said them, this is a professional meeting and you will control what you say,” Carolyn said.

  Bluefield looked frustrated and ready to argue some more. Carolyn said, “What can we help you with, Mr. Bluefield?”

  He considered Carolyn’s comments. The father and son had the same thin, wiry, tightly muscled frame, but Mr. Bluefield might have had the beginning of a paunch. He had pale blond hair, a bushy mustache, and a ponytail. He hadn’t saved this morning. He wore tight, faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt.

  Bluefield pointed at me. “I want him fired.”

  “Mr. Mason is not going to be fired,” Carolyn spoke firmly and decisively.

  “You’re backing him up in child abuse.”

  Carolyn laughed. “Your son is over six feet tall, and when he isn’t suspended or on probation he’s one of the top wrestlers in the school. If he’d had any ambition or self-control, he could probably have won at the state level. Child abuse is a frivolous charge. I agreed to this meeting so we could work out what to do about Dan. He will not be permitted back in the school. The student teacher and Mr. Mason may press charges.”

  Bluefield hardly looked abashed at all. He blustered for a while about teachers always picking on his kid, at intervals mixing in remarks about the unfairness of the police.

  Finally Carolyn stopped him. “Mr. Bluefield, why did you want to meet with Mr. Mason?”

  “To pound the shit out of him.”

  Carolyn sighed. “Then there is no further purpose in continuing this meeting.” She got Bluefield out of the office and returned.

  She sat back at the desk. “Your presence is going to be disruptive, Tom,” she said.

  “How so?” Kurt asked. He’d sat quietly during the entire exchange with Bluefield.

  “Kids, teachers, secretaries—everybody is going to be asking questions. The Bluefield incident alone would be cause enough for talk. The murder is going to cause even more chaos. Are you sure you want to go ahead with teaching today?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t see why not. People are going to ask questions whether I come back today or in a week.”

  Kurt asked, “Has the practice teacher been interviewed by school personnel?”

  “I talked to her myself,” Carolyn said, and shook her head. “She wasn’t particularly articulate. She may not press charges. I was bluffing with Bluefield earlier. She’s frightened. Not the first woman traumatized by an attack.”

  “Tom is in the clear, like the police said last night?” Kurt asked.

  “Pretty much, but it won’t be that simple,” the superintendent said. “The murder and the attack together add extra dimensions to the situation. Board members have questions. We’ve already had calls from parents asking that their children be taken out of Mr. Mason’s classes.”

  “You’re going to let the stupid and ignorant people run this school?” Kurt asked. “Your obligation is to protect your staff.”

  “And I will. I’m just giving you information and a different perspective. Some of them are saying that Tom is a threat to the students.”

  Kurt said, “Don’t be absurd. Either they bring some charges or they forget it. We’re not going to be part of a witch-hunt by loony parents.”

  Carolyn agreed, then said, “At any rate, Bluefield is suspended for the moment. I’m going to recommend expulsion to the board. We’ll see what happens. Also, we had reporters around last night, and more today. They won’t be allowed in the school. We haven’t and won’t give them your name
, Tom, or anybody else’s.”

  We left.

  By noon the lines waiting to see the counselors from the crisis-intervention team stretched throughout the old section of Grover Cleveland and doubled back through the main hallway of the new section.

  I caught up with Meg outside the library.

  “This is madness,” she said as two girls walked by sobbing hysterically. “Have you seen Donna?”

  I shook my head.

  She grabbed my good arm and dragged me through the library to her office. “You won’t believe what’s happening. I know for a fact that those two sobbing in the hallway just now had never talked to Jones. Never knew him except as a man who spoke once a year at the opening assembly. Grief and woe are totally out of control, with kids who didn’t even know the man. I think these kids are taking advantage of the situation and this crisis team.” She snorted. “Those hypocrites are using Jones’s death as an excuse to get out of class. It makes me sick. The way these kids are acting makes a mockery of genuine sorrow.”

  “Grief can do strange things,” I said. “Maybe they’re sorry for the loss.”

  “Maybe.” Meg didn’t sound convinced. “I know what they should do. Cry with the genuinely grieving and send the sobbing hypocrites packing.” Abruptly she switched topics. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Jones?”

  “At the moment I’m prime suspect number one.”

  “Redundant but true,” she said. “Since we know you didn’t do it, who did?”

  “That’s what Scott asked me last night. I don’t like being a murder suspect. I may have been set up. Maybe even by Dan Bluefield in some way. I’m going to do some checking, see who was around last night, see who had a grudge against Jones.”

  “I don’t know what kind of list you’ll come up with,” Meg said. “He was a competent administrator and intended to make sure the school maintained high standards. His very competence could have been a threat to some people.”