Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (4 page)

Pulling out a new pack of 3 x 5 cards, I began taking notes
although I had all the information in my computer. Individual
cards permitted me to shift information from one context to
another, sometimes triggering dramatic and unexpected conclusions. And sometimes not.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon studying the report
and taking notes. I was curious as to the principal’s rationale for
a sign-in list for teachers at a PTA meeting. Of course, school
administrators did strange things. I knew that from the experience of having taught English in a high school that preferred
king football over academics.

Shivers ran up my spine when I read the ME’s autopsy
report. In the Medical Examiner’s opinion, one of the purported murder weapons, a thirty-six-inch Black Barrel baseball bat,
had delivered a crushing blow to the right side of Holderman’s
forehead, which rendered the victim unconscious. The exsanguinating trauma of the blow and the second weapon, a switchblade knife, having penetrated the subject’s heart, precipitated
an internal bleed out.

Leaning forward, I studied a photo of the knife protruding
from Holderman’s chest. It was a blue switchblade with a stain less steel blade and bolster-lock release. Available everywhere,
the knife was the kind anyone, even an individual unfamiliar
with it, could easily open. Just press the magic button.

Why both a ball bat and a knife? I frowned, but then maybe
I was looking too deep. Maybe the killer, after knocking
Holderman out, simply wanted to make sure the superintendent
was dead.

Thumbing through the file, I discovered the investigating
officers had the same question on the use of two weapons, and
believe it or not, drew the same conclusion, that the perpetrator
wanted to make sure Holderman’s ticket was good and punched
for the Highway to Heaven or the Staircase to Hades, whichever might be his destination.

Another photo showed the baseball bat on the floor.

That the right side of his forehead was crushed indicated the
blow was delivered from the left, signifying perhaps a lefthanded perpetrator.

I continued reading the report. There were no bruises on
Holderman’s forearms, suggesting no chance to fight off his
attacker. It appeared that Holderman had been surprised. He
stood facing the desk, heard a noise behind him, and turned just
as the killer swung. Caught off guard, Holderman had no time
to throw up his arms in defense.

I skimmed the list of suspects the detectives interviewed,
seven of them, and then read the official reports. After poring
over the enormous amount of notes, I gleaned four suspects, the
same four the Safford Police Department came up with;
Frances Holderman, maiden name Laurent, ex-stripper and
betrayed wife; Kim Nally, ex-mistress; Fred Seebell, cuckolded husband of Eunice Seebell, Holderman’s one-time secretary; and Perry Jacobs, a history teacher frightened of losing
his job.

When I finished reading the file, I leaned back and stared at
the computer screen. The Safford PD had put in a lot of work.
There were three hundred and eighty pages of thoroughly gath ered evidence. Like Chief Pachuca said, plenty of physical evidence, some corpus delicti evidence, some associative evidence, but none that would firmly connect any of the suspects
to the crime.

I studied the data, reminding myself of one unequivocal,
indisputable, incontestable fact. Evidence does not lie. It cannot be intimidated. It does not forget. It doesn’t get excited. It
simply sits and waits to be detected, preserved, evaluated, and
explained.

Witnesses may lie, lawyers may lie, judges may lie, but not
evidence. And since it doesn’t, then either not enough had been
gathered or that which had been gathered had been interpreted
incorrectly.

That was my job, to gather more evidence and do my best to
interpret it correctly. I just hoped I was good enough to carry
out the job.

The remainder of the evening I spent studying the files and
calling Janice. No answer. Around 10, I gave up and salved my
wounded ego with the reminder that neither she nor I had made
any personal commitments. This wasn’t the first time she’d broken up with me, and if the past was indeed prologue, it
wouldn’t be the last.

I briefly laid out my plans for the next day, beginning with
Howard Birnam, the Safford High School principal after which
I would interview his teachers. Later on in the day, I’d visit
Frances Holderman and Fred Seebell.

I saw now the strangulated dead end in which the Safford
police had found themselves. Not one of the suspects was lefthanded, and all had airtight alibis.

I wandered over to the front window. Holding the curtain
back with the tip of my finger, I stared into the night, watching
the passing cars on the shiny street without seeing them.

Often evidence can be viewed from various angles. And
these various perspectives can raise new and intriguing questions. Other times, evidence is absolute in its perspective, as
absolute as none of the suspects being left-handed.

The abrupt jangling of the telephone broke into my thoughts.
It was my cousin, Leroi Thibodeaux, from Opelousas,
Louisiana, the son of my Uncle Patric and his deceased wife,
Lantana, a Louisiana Redbone from Beauregard Parish along
the Sabine River.

We exchanged pleasantries, but from his tone, I sensed trouble. I was right. “I need some help, Tony. Stewart is on the way
to Austin.”

“Stewart? Your Stewart?”

“Yeah. The boy, he left this morning. We tried to talk him out
of it, but he claims he’s got connections over there for a good
job.”

His tone suggested something more than a father’s reluctance to see his son leave home. “How old is Stewart now,
twenty or so?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Hey, Leroi. He’s a man now. If I remember right, you were
out on your own at seventeen.”

He grunted. “That was then. This is now.”

I knew exactly what he meant. “Hey, bro, don’t sweat it.
He’ll be fine. You did tell him he could stay at my place until
he gets settled?”

“Yeah. Hope you don’t mind.” He paused, then added, “Me
and Sally will feel better knowing he’s staying with you, at least
until the boy, he gets on his feet. Kick his tail if you gots to”

“Glad to, and don’t worry, he’ll be okay.”

“I sure hope so” His tentative reply suggested that he had
more on his mind. He cleared his throat. “I gots to be honest
with you, Tony. Truth is, Sally and me, we’s worried about the
boy. We think he might be into drugs.”

The announcement stunned me. “Stewart? Come on, Leroi.
Are you sure?”

He hesitated. “Well, not exactly. Sally, she found a couple
joints in his car-you know how snoopy mothers can be. Well, anyway, he claimed they weren’t his. One of his friends left
them.” He drew a deep breath. “We had a big argument. Two
days later, he gots this job in Austin. Sally and me is worried
sick.” After a long sigh, he added, “Now, if you don’t want him
around, we’ll understand.”

I closed my eyes and muttered a curse. Drugs. Stupid kids.
Stupid, dumb kids. I kept my tone light. “Don’t say that,
Leroi. We’re family. Of course, I want Stewart around. I’ll see
what I can find out for you. You’re probably mistaken, you
know. You were always kind of slow,” I replied, my words light
with sarcasm.

Leroi laughed. “You know where you can go “

“Hey, cuz. I’m already there.” I paused a moment, then grew
serious again. “I’ll call when he gets in. Don’t worry.
Everything will be okay.”

After replacing the receiver, I leaned back in my chair and
stared at it, turning the last few minutes over in my head. I
hoped all that had happened was nothing more than a young
man trying to assert his own independence from his father.

I knew from experience that Leroi could be demanding.
More than once when we were growing up, we tangled because
he was so hard-headed-actually, because we were both so
hard-headed.

“I hope that’s all there is to it,” I muttered, closing my eyes
and saying a short little prayer that if my little cousin needed
help, I would be capable of providing it.

Later, I searched the apartment for the gray kitten, determined to put him, or her, back outside, but the little sneak had
vanished.

When I came out of the bathroom, I jerked to a halt. There
he was, curled up on the pillow next to mine, sound asleep,
purring like a tiny motorboat.

All I could do was shake my head. “All right. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, you go,” I grumbled, taking care to spread a couple
of newspapers on the floor.

The insistent chiming of the doorbell awakened me just after
one. Figuring it was Stewart, I pulled on my robe and hurried
to the door.

I was right.

Swaying on his feet, Stewart stood in the drizzle, his eyes
glazed and a silly grin on his face. “Hey, bro. I made it ” He
slurred his words.

I glanced over his shoulder. He had parked his Pontiac at the
curb. “Get in here out of the rain, Stewart.” I reached out and
pulled him inside. “Hurry up “

Even though I’d downed a couple of beers a few hours earlier,
I still could smell the sweet-sour stench of whiskey on his breath.
He staggered inside and promptly passed out on the couch. I
threw a couple of blankets over him and called Leroi to put his
mind to rest, but without mentioning his son’s inebriation.

When I turned back to the bedroom, guess who was standing in the doorway, watching the excitement? The kitten, his
ears perked forward, his tail straight up in the air, curled on
the tip like a question mark. When I started toward him, he
spun and raced back to the bed.

During the night, the rain ceased. I rose early to a cloudless
and chilled sky. At seven, I dialed Safford High School. Birnam
was very agreeable. We made a nine o’clock appointment.
Safford was south, halfway between Austin and Bastrop,
around twenty or twenty-five miles from my apartment, an
hour-long drive thanks to Austin traffic.

Quickly, I showered, shaved, and slipped into my usual attire
of washed out jeans, sport shirt, tweed jacket, and boots. I
jammed a bagel in my jacket and filled an insulated cup with
coffee. I was ready to take on the day.

I checked on Stewart who still slept. I left him a note, a bottle of aspirin, and my cell phone number with instructions to
give me a call.

I wanted to talk to him, try to find out just what was going on.

Principal Howard Birnam was swamped with problems, several of which I spotted as his secretary led me down a hall lined
on either side with surly students standing shoulder-to-shoulder
waiting to see either Birnam or one of the assistant principals.

The girls must have taken their fashion tips from the goodtime girls who strutted up and down Sixth Street, nose rings
and all. The boys, well, the kindest thing to say about them was
they probably couldn’t even spell fashion.

We halted at a closed door. His secretary tapped, cracked it
open, stuck her head inside, and then pushed the door wide.
“Please come in, Mr. Boudreaux.”

Howard Birnam came around the desk with a warm smile on
his face. He extended his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr.
Boudreaux. Personally, I’m extremely pleased you’re here.
Maybe you can solve this mess.” He indicated a chair across the
desk from him. He continued, explaining how the unsolved
murder had created unnecessary tension among the faculty,
how the students were experiencing difficulty in putting it
behind them, and how in general, the incident had disrupted the
routine at Safford High School.

“I’m going to give it my best shot, Mr. Birnam.”

He grinned and leaned back. “The name’s Howard. And I’m
at your disposal at any time, day or night.”

“Mine’s Tony.”

He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. “Here’s a roster of
our teachers. If you want, we can set up appointments throughout the day. We’ll handle it however you want.”

I pulled a slip from my jacket and handed it to Birnam.
“These are the ones I need to see first.”