Schooled in Murder (22 page)

Spandrel rounded on him, “Don’t you start.”

Scott laughed. It was the most refreshing sound I could have heard. When he spoke, his voice still thrummed. “You have no power over me. If I had a bucket of water, I’d be tempted to throw it on you, just to see what would happen.”

I couldn’t suppress a smile.

Spandrel turned to Bochka. “Do something,” the head of the department demanded of the board president.

Bochka said, “I’m sure none of the teachers were engaged in unprofessional conduct.”

I said, “No, it looks like it was mostly administrators–or if not, the administrators were heart and soul, part and parcel, of the whole screwed-up operation. But Ms. Spandrel still hasn’t answered the question.”

Spandrel said, “You miserable excuse for a human being.”

I said, “You’ve made people miserable for no discernable, rational purpose.”

“Good,” she said, “I’m glad I made them miserable. I hope I’ve made you miserable.”

I said, “Is that a management technique you learned in school, or do you come by your Nazi instincts naturally?”

The crowd was going nuts. No one else was around us. The rest of the attendees were focused on the action on the field. The dim lights played off Spandrel’s beet-red face.

Spandrel said, “People don’t like you, and we have proof they don’t like the job you’re doing.”

“Proof where?”

“You’ll see. You think you run this place. You push yourself forward and try to tell everyone else what to do.” I said, “Name once.” That stopped her.

I said, “If I’ve been telling people what to do, then you would have evidence of that.”

“You do all those union things.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Next point?”

Bochka said, “The union can’t do all the things you do.”

I said, “If you are accusing me of an unfair labor practice, file a complaint. Have you talked to Teresa Merton, complained to her? What exactly don’t you like? That you have to follow the union contract? If you don’t like the contract, say something at the negotiations table.”

Spandrel said, “I’ve had it. You don’t listen. You do the same things you accuse administrators of doing.”

I said, “No, your problem is that people listen to me more than they do to you. Even your suckups know I have more direct effect on their pay and their working conditions than you do because I’m part of the union leadership.”

Spandrel said, “How dare you call teachers suckups?”

Bochka said, “That’s totally unprofessional.”

I said, “Speaking truth to power can always be a problem.”

Spandrel said, “No one likes you. No one likes the job you do as union building rep.”

I said, “As long as I’m irritating you, I’m satisfied.”

Spandrel said, “I think we should settle this now. He’s been criticizing the administration behind our backs since the first day I started.”

“What exactly did I say? I assume you have dates, times, and exact quotes. And of course, you’ll need to tell me who told you I said which things.”

“I’m not going to tell you who told me.”

I said, “If you’re not going to tell me who, then it doesn’t exist.”

“Are you saying I’m making this up?”

“Yes.”

She shook her finger in my face. “I don’t have to make things up about you. I know you for what you are. You’re a fag.”

Scott put his hand back on my arm. I said, “Yes, I know. To whom is that news?”

The crowd groaned. Moments later they began chanting an obscenity. Bochka said, “Where are Graniento and Towne? I told them I didn’t want any more obscenities chanted at these games. I’ll cancel these games if I have to.”

Spandrel’s finger still wagged in my face. I was pissed, but Scott’s touch was reassuring.

Scott stepped in front of me. Although the crowd was
chanting loudly, I could still hear that wonderful thrum. I moved close enough that I could catch a whiff of his deodorant. He said, “You two are the most pathetic excuses for human beings I have ever seen or heard of. You have no sense of proportion or decency. You have no common sense or common courtesy. You make me sick. Why don’t you both quit and get out? You certainly don’t care about children.”

Bochka said, “Who the hell are you to say anything to us? How dare you? Wea do care about children.”

Scott said, “Then why is there a football game going on? If you cared about children, there would be no game, or at least there would be hundreds of police. Two people have died, and yet you are playing this game? Are you mad? Is there no mourning for those have been murdered? Is this the appropriate way to honor those who died?”

Spandrel said, “Tickets were sold.”

Scott interrupted. “And could have been refunded. Is your message here that sports are more important than murder? Or money is more important than people? Aren’t you planning to do something before Monday to reassure the parents that the children and teachers are safe? I see no evidence that you have taken action to protect anyone at this game.”

Spandrel said, “We haven’t had problems at games.”

Scott said, “People are dead, and you’re having a football game.”

I looked up. The stands were now at a normal buzz. Numerous people were looking over the edge of the bleachers down at us. Kids were pointing and calling out to different ones of us.

Spandrel, who didn’t seem to have noticed the noise reduction, screamed, “You and your faggot lover are the problem.”

Scott’s voice was very soft, “That’s the last time you get to say that.”

Scott towered over her. I knew he wouldn’t physically assault her. If she was in the batter’s box, she’d have to duck the next pitch, but Scott was one of the most gentle of men, sort of a Gregory Peck with extra muscles.

Bochka said, “Mabel, we should leave.”

Spandrel looked pissed and ready to keep fighting. Bochka put her arm through the crook in her employee’s arm and escorted her away.

“Let’s go home,” Scott said.

“Yeah. I don’t want to be near these people for a whole weekend.”

We returned to our seats, picked up our blankets, and trudged out.

As we passed the concession stand, Scott asked, “Why haven’t they fired your ass?”

“They must want something–or think that I know something or that I have some power over them that I’m not aware of. That last makes no sense, but yeah, something is out of control here.”

“Before you said it just now, did Bochka know all that stuff about Spandrel and Higden?”

“I couldn’t tell. They’re homophobic creeps, and I guess Spandrel is a sexual athlete, but I’m not sure how that all connects to murder.”

He said, “I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll be better when we get home.”

30

The cops had been around all day. They had set up a command post in the school. I’d heard they’d been interviewing people nonstop.

As we neared the parking lot, Gault and Vulmea, the detectives, strode toward us. Vulmea was eating a corn dog with lots of mustard. Gault said, “We need to see you for a few minutes.” His tone was rough and acerbic.

I nodded.

“In the school office.” He stood aside.

I didn’t move. “What’s this about?” I asked.

“We need to talk to you in the office.”

I felt my pulse racing. Scott gave me and the cop puzzled looks. I said, “My attorney has advised me not to speak with you without him present.”

Vulmea gave me a dirty look.

Gault said, “We have a witness that saw you coming out of the supply room at 4:45, long before you claim to have gotten there.”

I gaped at him. My mind flashed to the scene in the
movie
The Producers
after the play
Springtime for Hitler
has started and the audience sits, mouths agape, in absolute stunned silence at what they are hearing and seeing. A jumble of thoughts and emotions swept through me. All reminders of my attorney’s advice or being remotely sensible were gone. I could argue with Spandrel, but this was blatant irrationality, a lie without basis, and it was a threat.

I managed to gasp out, “Who?”

Gault asked, “Where were you at 4:45?”

“I already told you. I won’t repeat myself. I came out of the supply room with Brandon Benson and Steven Frecking when I said I did.”

Gault shuffled through a notepad. “We got that at 5:10.”

“That’s about right.”

Gault said, “And now we’ve got someone who says they saw you coming out of the room at 4:45.”

The pit of my stomach had taken a vacation. My mind reeled. I got misty-eyed. I was shaking.

Scott said, “Tom, do you want to sit down?”

It was like a dream. I said, “I was nowhere near the supply room at 4:45.”

“Why would someone lie about that?” Vulmea asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“Do you have a witness to that?” Vulmea asked.

“I already gave you a statement of my movements. I don’t need to repeat them. I was where I said I was. I’m sure you’ve checked it.”

“As far as it was checkable,” Vulmea said. “The parent said she did talk to you. She doesn’t know exactly what time it was.”

“Phone records will show exactly what the times were.”

“But were they 4:45?”

“Why would I kill her?” I asked.

“You tell us.”

“I have no reason to. Who told you I was there? I need to know that. I have a right to confront my accuser.”

“That’s in a court of law, not in an investigation.”

“Bullshit. I have a right to know. This is bullshit.” I was frightened and furiously angry.

“Why would people lie about your movements?”

“To protect themselves. Because they’re homophobic creeps who are trying to destroy me.”

“Why destroy you? What do you have that they don’t?”

“A life? Someone who loves me? A life as an openly gay man who is comfortable with himself? Is it an attempt to wreck me because they’re nuts? Because I have a lover who is a rich, famous baseball player? People can be insanely jealous. Some people want to tear down, hurt, and destroy just because they can. Because they want to bring others down to their level. How the hell should I know why? I just got told someone saw me near a murder scene. I’ll need my lawyer here before I say anything else.”

“If you could just go over again what happened,” Vulmea said.

Again Scott put his hand on my arm. He said, “Tom will want his lawyer. He’s not going to say any more until his lawyer gets here.”

“Don’t interfere,” Vulmea said.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Not at the moment,” Gault said.

“Then I’m leaving.” I stumbled toward the parking lot. Scott kept his hand on my arm. They didn’t try to stop us.

Before we were out of earshot, Vulmea called, “Don’t leave town.”

I was pulling my cell phone from its clip as I eased into the car. Trembling, shaken, and angry, I called my attorney. I got his voice mail. I left a message.

Scott started the car, turned to me, and took my hands in
his. “Okay, you’re not arrested, because you’re here with me. It’s going to be okay. If you don’t want to talk, fine. We’re going home, or we’ll do whatever you want.”

I pulled in deep breaths. He put his arm around me. Feeling his touch was calming and a comfort. His eyes sought mine. He is a treasure of calm in any storm.

When he saw that my breathing was under control, he said, “I’ve never seen you so upset.” He caressed my hand. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.”

I said, “I’m furious. I’ve never been this furious. Deliberate. Absolute, deliberate, lies.” I shook my head.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

“I’ve got to find the killer. I’ve got to be proactive. Someone lied. Deliberately, bald-faced lied.”

31