Read The Principal Cause of Death Online
Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
The Principal Cause of Death (11 page)
She gave me a disgusted look, ground out the burning
ash and said, “This is only a rumor. Jones was after Denise Flowers's teaching job. She thought he was going to try and fire her. I'm not sure how much was her own paranoia, and how much was real. I know this is only her second year teaching, and she wasn't tenured yet.”
ash and said, “This is only a rumor. Jones was after Denise Flowers's teaching job. She thought he was going to try and fire her. I'm not sure how much was her own paranoia, and how much was real. I know this is only her second year teaching, and she wasn't tenured yet.”
One of the innovations Jones had started was to take the evaluation of all nontenured teachers out of the hands of the heads of departments. This had caused a major uproar, but he'd gotten his way. By evaluating the new teachers himself, he thought to build a corps of good young teachers.
Minutes later we watched her drive away.
“I feel sorry for her,” Scott said.
“She's got a motive for murder,” I said, then sighed. “She didn't give us much to go on.”
“But it's worth checking out,” Scott said, then added: “You know in some ways this Jones guy doesn't seem to be so awful. He had some pretty powerful stuff on some of these people. He could have simply blown the whistle and ruined some careers. At least he gave them a chance to save their reputations.”
“I'm not sure they all saw it like that,” I said.
“Well, some of these cases are pretty complex. I'm not sure what I'd do if I had somebody's career or reputation in my hands. He had to make some tough decisions. All these teachers had reason to fear him. They'd all done something that, if it got out, would ruin their reputations.”
I said, “A lot of them were in trouble because Jones was a vigilant, competent administrator. His own competence killed him.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, “but it was also his method of being kind. He gave all these people a chance to save their skins. Somebody tried to off him before he could tell. It was his promise of discretion, his kindness that killed him.”
I agreed. We decided to stick around the wake for a while trying to see if Denise Flowers showed up. We reentered the funeral parlor and for the next hour we stayed in the background observing. By checking the sign-in book I
found she hadn't been there, but my cursory look showed over half the faculty had been in so far that afternoon and evening to pay their respects.
found she hadn't been there, but my cursory look showed over half the faculty had been in so far that afternoon and evening to pay their respects.
While we waited we filled Meg in on the latest. She waited with us for a while, but left after half an hour saying she had to get home.
We thought about leaving, too. It was nearly ten, and the crowd had thinned out considerably. I saw Carolyn Blackburn walk in the door. She spotted us and came right over. She nodded at Scott and said to me, “I've got to talk to you.”
We returned to the empty parlor.
Carolyn said, “We just got done with the school-board meeting. We couldn't call it off on such short notice. We were just going to do a memorial to Jones and adjourn, but Mr. Bluefield showed up.”
I got an uneasy feeling. “This doesn't sound good,” I said.
Carolyn said, “He demanded to make a public statement. They can't refuse him, because they've got that public-comment part of the meeting. He mentioned your name in the first sentence, Tom. I immediately stepped in and said that any comments about teachers had to be made in closed session. The board president immediately called for an executive session. Before we let Bluefield in, I told the board they better be careful. We had to protect your rights, Tom, and the board had to cover its ass.”
“You let Bluefield in to talk to the board!” I was furious. “You let that bigoted, ignorant fool address the school board? All he had to do was show up, and he gets an audience. This lunatic shows up, and he gets to say anything he wants?”
Scott said, “Carolyn is trying to help, Tom. She's on your side.”
She said to Scott, “Tom has a right to be angry. If I'd known Bluefield was coming, I could have taken more vigorous action, but he surprised us all.”
I shook my head. “I can't believe this,” I said. “How dare
the board give in to this maniac? This isn't the first time he's caused trouble. You all should have known he was an idiot. By letting him talk to the board, you've encouraged him.”
the board give in to this maniac? This isn't the first time he's caused trouble. You all should have known he was an idiot. By letting him talk to the board, you've encouraged him.”
“He didn't get his way, Tom. You will not be fired. Not as long as I have any say in the matter, and you know you have legal protections.”
“Is this about Tom's being gay?” Scott asked.
“No, although Bluefield tried to bring that up. I was fairly proud of the school-board president”âthis was Jessica Allen, recently electedâ“she stopped him each time he tried to mention you. She made him talk about his kid. Still, Bluefield managed to get in a few licks.”
I found that I was sitting in the chair Younger had sat in while we questioned him. Carolyn walked over and sat next to me. “Don't be angry. We stopped him. Kept him busy enough so he couldn't get out to make any statements to the press. First thing tomorrow I'm going to call the reporters for the two River's Edge papers. They owe me a couple of favors. I'll do everything I can to keep anything Bluefield ever might say out of the papers. I think I'll be successful.”
I mumbled thanks. She left.
Scott came over and sat next to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. He said softly, “Let's go home.”
In the car I said, “I need to stop at my place for a couple of things first.”
“We've got enough stuff at my place.” This was true. We're close enough in size so that we can wear each other's clothes, but I insisted that I needed a few essentials.
As we crossed 191st Street at Wolf Road on the way to my place, several emergency vehicles passed us, sirens blaring. I had my arm out the window, my head resting all the way back in the seat cushions.
As we pulled over to let the fire truck pass, I sniffed the
pleasant autumn air. It contained barely a hint of the cold of winter lurking only a month or so away.
pleasant autumn air. It contained barely a hint of the cold of winter lurking only a month or so away.
Up the rise and over Interstate 80 and I saw the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles beyond the white oil-storage silos on the right.
I sat up straight. “What the hell?” I asked.
We drew closer. They were at my place. Looking through the trees, I could see fire streaming out the bedroom and kitchen windows. A fireman tried to wave us past, but we pulled into the driveway. He cursed and swore and came up to the driver's side of the car. I leaped from the car, not pausing or caring what Scott said to him. I raced to the house like some idiot in a cheap movie. I heard shouts around me, then felt arms encircling me and drawing me back.
I watched my home burn to ashes.
I remember bits and pieces of the next few hours. I know Scott stood next to me, his closeness providing comfort. A couple of firemen eventually recognized him and tried to come over and talk, but he waved them away. Somebody handed us coffee and sandwiches. I only took a couple of bites before throwing mine away.
Finally the last fire truck sat at the top of the driveway, ten feet from the damp and blackened embers. I found myself sitting next to Scott in the front seat of his car.
“It's three in the morning,” Scott said. “We should go. There's nothing you can do here.” His voice was its softest and most soothing.
“In a few minutes,” I said. I got out of the car and walked to the place that had been my home for fifteen years. The smell of smoke and ash permeated the air. Under my feet the ground had been turned to mud by the water the firemen poured in their vain attempt to stem the flames.
A fireman met me a few feet from the house. He was a roly-poly man about twenty-five years old. “Mr. Mason,” he said, “there's nothing you can do here now. It's still too dangerous for you to go in. We're going to stay here a while longer. We think it's out, but we always like to be sure. There'll be an arson investigation in the morning.”
“Was it arson?” I asked.
He looked doubtful. “I'm not the expert,” he said, “but it sure was caught good when we got here.”
“Arson,” I said.
I began to walk around the house.
The fireman said, “Here, Mr. Mason, I wish you wouldn't. I could get in trouble if you hurt yourself.”
“I promise not to go next to the house. I just want to walk around.”
I noticed Scott was beside me. He accompanied me as I took the most painful journey of my life. Opposite where the back door used to be, I stopped. I said, “You know what I'll miss the most?”
“What?” Scott asked quietly.
“The first gift you gave me. I've saved it all these years. You bought it back from Japan that first October. You remember that silk rose? It was unique. They only make them like that over there. It was so beautiful. Now it's gone.”
Scott said what needed to be said: “Be thankful we weren't in there. We're alive. That's what counts. And you've got a place to stay.”
I glanced at him in the darkness of the now-cool night. “I know that's true.” I sighed. “I don't care about the expensive stuff. It's the irreplaceable stuff. Pictures of us together on vacations, family stuff.” I was too tired and in too much shock to cry. “If it was arson ⦔ I began.
Scott interrupted, “If it was arson, we'll find the person and make them sorry.”
“If it was arson,” I said, “I know who it was. Dan Bluefield.”
In the car on the way to the city, I raged about Dan Bluefield. How Scott kept silent so long, I'll never know. He didn't tell me to shut up or to give it a rest. He let me fulminate all the way to where we exited Lake Shore Drive at LaSalle Street. I finally wound down as we left the Drive.
I sat in the penthouse library, surrounded on three sides by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The fourth wall consisted of windows looking north toward Lincoln Park. I
didn't turn on any of the lights, but stared out at the darkness. Scott's building is the tallest around, so the view to the rest of the world is never obstructed.
didn't turn on any of the lights, but stared out at the darkness. Scott's building is the tallest around, so the view to the rest of the world is never obstructed.
He came into the room in jeans and socks. He touched my hand lightly. “Do you want to try to get some sleep?” he asked.
“It's okay,” I said. “I won't be able to sleep anyway. I'll just sit here. Maybe I'll try to read something later.”
He patted my shoulder and said good night.
After he left, I walked to the window. For a long time I stared out, watching the cars move far below. Around five-thirty I tried to find something to read to blank out my mind. I placed a Jean Redpath CD into the machine, hoping her soft Scottish burr might help soothe me to sleep. Every time I thought I might be nodding off, the vision of the flames leaping out my bedroom window flashed through my mind. The words on the pages held no sense for me. I thought about the items I'd miss. The other gifts from Scott: a stuffed Eeyore from our first Christmas, a pewter
Lord of the Rings
chess set, the scroll of a love poem he'd written for our tenth anniversary, the dowdy throw pillow we brought in the South of France. The pillow had our names hand-embroidered, along with obscene comments in French about lovemaking between two men. Most of the stuff was not very expensive, just irreplaceable. I watched the light of the rising sun slowly spread over the city scape below.
Lord of the Rings
chess set, the scroll of a love poem he'd written for our tenth anniversary, the dowdy throw pillow we brought in the South of France. The pillow had our names hand-embroidered, along with obscene comments in French about lovemaking between two men. Most of the stuff was not very expensive, just irreplaceable. I watched the light of the rising sun slowly spread over the city scape below.
It was Saturday, so there was no school. I wouldn't have gone anyway.
At eight I found a diet soda in the refrigerator in the kitchen and then I looked in on Scott. He slept peacefully on his stomach. I gazed at his broad shoulders, uncovered by the blanket, then traced the line of his still-covered torso, down the sensuous curves of his thighs and hips, down his long muscular legs.
I let him sleep. I returned to the library, sipped the diet soda, and curled up with a volume of Wordsworth's collected poems, guaranteed at any normal time to put me to
sleep in less than five minutes. At some point Wordsworth must have worked his magic, because I came wide awake at the ringing of the phone. I glanced at the clock on the dark oak desk. It was just after nine-thirty. My head felt numb and my body ached from sleeping in the chair. I snatched the phone off the stand on the third ring.
sleep in less than five minutes. At some point Wordsworth must have worked his magic, because I came wide awake at the ringing of the phone. I glanced at the clock on the dark oak desk. It was just after nine-thirty. My head felt numb and my body ached from sleeping in the chair. I snatched the phone off the stand on the third ring.
It was Hank Daniels from the River's Edge police. He offered condolences, then said, “I got in earlier, saw the report on the night log. I went out to the fire scene, just got back. It was arson. You need to come in so we can talk.”
As I was finishing my conversation, Scott walked in, dressed only in jockey shorts. “Who was it?” he asked after I hung up.
I told him. He looked at the clock. “Did you get any sleep?”
“About an hour.”
“You're in no condition to go running around town. You need to get some rest, relax. It's going to be hard enough to go back there and check for anything you can salvage, although I don't guess there'll be much.”
“Let me take a shower,” I said. “I'll be ready to go. Somebody burned my home, and I'm going to make them pay.” I felt last night's anger returning, only now it wasn't fury, it was cold determination to find and punish the perpetrator.
Scott insisted we stop for breakfast first. We ate thick French toast at Nookies on Wells Street; then we went out to River's Edge.
We stopped at the police station. With the trees in full color around it, the old place almost looked respectable. In the starkness of winter it would be revealed for what it was, a run-down rat trap. Daniels and Johnson met us at the front desk and took us to a gray interrogation room.
“Do you think this is connected to the murder?” Scott asked.
Daniels said, “Cops have an instinct that says never believe in coincidences. This is too much of one. We know
you've been talking to people on the faculty about the murder. We want to know what you found out.”
you've been talking to people on the faculty about the murder. We want to know what you found out.”
For half an hour they barraged us with questions. I was too tired and angry to be reasonable. Often I felt my temper rise, especially when at one point they seemed to be implying that we might have set the fire ourselves, but Scott's calm managed to remind me to take it easy.
Finally I said, “I'm the one who's had his house burned down. You said it was arson. I'm the victim. I refuse to be treated as if I'm guilty. Let's get my lawyer in here, and we can all have a nice chat.”
Daniels said, “We're simply asking the standard questions we would in any arson investigation.”
I was only slightly mollified by that statement. I wished Frank Murphy was back from vacation.
Daniels continued, “What you've done since the murder, and we know you've been questioning people, may have angered somebody with a guilty secret. Whoever set the fire may have thought you were at home. Your truck, Mr. Mason, was in full view back by the barn.”
I used the old barn part-time as a garage. With so much harvesting equipment being used in the area, the farmer who owns the fields had asked me if he could store some of it in the barn. Fortunately the truck was far enough away from the house not to get caught in the conflagration of the night before.
“If it was Bluefield, he'd have only seen me driving that to school. He wouldn't have known about the Porsche,” I said.
“Do you really think the kid did it?” Daniels asked.
“Yes, and I don't think it had anything to do with the murder. I think the kid is fucking nuts, and he'd do anything to hurt me. That's going to stop today.”
“Don't do anything stupid,” Daniels warned.
Before I could retort Scott asked, “Do they know how it started?”
Daniels said, “Once they started looking this morning, it didn't take long. Molotov cocktails through the windows,
one in the bedroom, one in the kitchen. No other clues so far. With all the fire equipment around the place last night, they won't find any footprints or tire tracks. You don't have a lot of neighbors, but those few will be asked if they saw anything. I doubt if they did. With all the corn around your place still unharvested, it would have been difficult for anyone to see anything close to the house.”
one in the bedroom, one in the kitchen. No other clues so far. With all the fire equipment around the place last night, they won't find any footprints or tire tracks. You don't have a lot of neighbors, but those few will be asked if they saw anything. I doubt if they did. With all the corn around your place still unharvested, it would have been difficult for anyone to see anything close to the house.”
Daniels added, “Two things you might be interested to know. First, we went to the Bluefield house to question the kid about the arson. Second, we don't believe him about seeing you outside the principal's office.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don't misunderstand,” Johnson said, “you're still our chief suspect.”
Scott's hand on my arm forestalled a comment. He asked, “Did the kid have an alibi for last night?”
“He was at home, so he says, and his old man backs him up. Mr. Bluefield was quite self-righteous and self-satisfied about your home burning down. The kid didn't say a lot. We questioned him about the murder again. The kid's a jerk and would make a lousy witness.”
“That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement of my innocence,” I said.
Sounding more reasonable than he had so far, Daniels said, “We've got to ask questions. It's not a polite job, and you are a good suspect. People have been convicted based on only one of the things you're accused of: last one to see victim alive, fights with victim the day he dies, finds the dead body, has blood on his shirt.”
I began to list the arguments against these reasons.
Daniels held up a hand. “Save it. You aren't under arrest. Although you could be for obstructing justice. So far we haven't gotten any complaints about your interference. Nobody willing to press charges or say anything nasty, which is lucky for you. If these people are talking, they seem to trust you. Learning all that information can be dangerous. So can fucking with the cops, so don't try it. I'm
not Frank Murphy, and his word only goes so far around here, so I'd be careful, if I were you.”
not Frank Murphy, and his word only goes so far around here, so I'd be careful, if I were you.”
We said nothing to this, and a few minutes later they let us go.
We drove to my house. When Scott pulled up the driveway, the sight of the ruin by the light of day hit me hard. The investigation team was just about finished so I was allowed to prowl carefully through the ruins. The basement stairs had been destroyed. Little remained of the furniture. Globs of plastic were all that remained of the electronics room: computers, stereo, CD player. The place smelled as black and depressing as it looked.
Scott followed me silently. His calm presence got me through the inspection. I didn't find one salvageable thing. I stood in the middle of the blackened ruin and felt all the helplessness and powerlessness of the night before back again and redoubled, but those feelings had a companion this morning, a towering fury. I'd get whoever did this.
We had dirt and soot all over our clothes, so we went to the barn to change. We'd brought spare clothes with us, because we knew we'd be stopping at the house. When I finished dressing and reopened the door to look out on the field of corn surrounding the ruin, I said, “We're going to Bluefield's.”
Scott said, “Fine.”
I turned back to look at him. “I thought you'd object,” I said.
“No,” he said.
Usually Scott's the reasonable one in our relationship. The one who insists we stop, think, and consider all options. From ten years of knowing him I could tell that his “No” contained all the fury of someone ready to do battle. I mentioned earlier, he doesn't lose his temper often, but when he does it's spectacular. I didn't envy Dan Bluefield his chances when we caught up with him.
We stopped at school. There is rarely a day or time that some group isn't using the school during off hours. Everybody from the Cub Scouts to the Park District uses the
complex for meetings or games. I needed to stop in the office to find Bluefield's address. We found Carolyn sitting at Jones's desk, and told her about the fire.
complex for meetings or games. I needed to stop in the office to find Bluefield's address. We found Carolyn sitting at Jones's desk, and told her about the fire.
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