Read The Principal Cause of Death Online
Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
The Principal Cause of Death (15 page)
A few minutes later we were back on the topic of the murder. “You're still on the front burner on the stove of suspects, but it's not quite as hot as it was. Still ⦔ Daniels shook his head.
“What can you tell us about the investigation?” I asked, not expecting much of an answer. But he told us more than I thought he would.
“We're pretty sure the knife came from the school cafeteria,” Daniels said. “We checked the brand and it matches the kind they have. Most of the other knives we examined were fairly blunt. This one had been honed. Somebody planned to kill Jones.” He told us that nothing in Jones's office had been disturbed, that Jones hadn't been robbed, that according to a careful examination by Carolyn Blackburn and Georgette Constantine nothing was missing or out of place. Neighbors and friends said the Joneses were a good couple, fought perhaps a little less than most. No evidence of extramarital affairs, no abuse, no alcohol, no money problems.
Daniels concluded, “Usually in these cases you count the wife as a major suspect, but this seems almost definitely connected with school.”
We nodded agreement.
Daniels said, “We haven't been able to dig up many problems at school. I thought most administrators were assholes. From the way the faculty talked, the guy was a saint.”
“He was a good administrator,” I said. “We just had disagreements once in a while.”
Daniels said, “We checked with your buddy Kurt Campbell to see if there'd been any particular union problems. Nothing out of the ordinary. We did talk to Al Welman,
since you and he met with Jones on that grievance, but the old man claims he doesn't know anything.”
since you and he met with Jones on that grievance, but the old man claims he doesn't know anything.”
I hesitated to tell Daniels all we knew. I was still ticked off about the way he and his partner had been treating us. We finished up at the police station, and in the truck Scott said, “Now what?”
I said, “You know what's odd?” I didn't wait for him to answer. “None of our suspects has an alibi for the time the murder could have been committed, but they all have great alibis for burning down the house.”
“So none of them did it,” Scott said.
“Or somebody's doing a good coverup ⦠. I'm pretty convinced Bluefield didn't do it,” I said.
“Bluefield dad or kid?” Scott asked. “And are we talking about murder or arson?”
“Arson. The kiâWait. If the kid didn't burn it, why not the dad?” I explained my reasoning to Scott. “The guy hated me. The kid had to get his homophobia from somewhere, obviously at home, where the idea could be cemented into his head. We didn't ask the father where he was the night of the fire.”
“We are not going over to the house to beat him up and get him to confess. Not after yesterday,” Scott said.
I didn't contradict that statement. Mr. Bluefield would have to come up with an alibi for Friday night at a later time.
“What about Mr. Bluefield as a murder suspect?” I asked.
“No motive,” Scott said. “But if Bluefield or one of the murder suspects burned the house, we're still in danger. Bluefield's got to be pretty pissed at us for busting up his drug concession.”
I nodded agreement. Bluefield could be a big problem.
We drove toward my place to get Scott's car. Halfway there Scott said, “I hope this weather holds.” It was another gorgeous day.
I said, “I hope we aren't too late to get the color up at the cabin.”
He murmured agreement.
“Motive,” I said as we pulled into my driveway. I had a hard time looking at the charred remains. “We've got to find out why somebody would kill him. Let's go to the school,” I said.
“We are not breaking in,” Scott said.
“Who said anything about breaking in? They let one of the local churches use it for Sunday school classes. We shall simply walk in.”
“And clues will leap out at us?”
“I want to look around Jones's office, if I can. Maybe I'll be able to spot something of significance the police missed.”
Scott gave an audible sigh of resignation. I chose to ignore it.
We pulled up at the school as the congregation began to filter out the doors. We found Georgette, Carolyn Blackburn, and one of the assistant principals, Edwina Jenkins, in the principal's office. They looked startled to see us.
“What are you doing here?” Georgette asked.
We told them about the latest developments with the Bluefields.
Carolyn said, “Edwina is taking over as acting principal tomorrow. We needed to organize a few things.”
Edwina wore thick black horn-rimmed glasses. She'd been a physics teacher for ten years and then went back to get her administrative certification. She'd been one of the assistant principals for the past three years.
We chatted for a short while, then walked out of the office. Georgette followed us. She said to Scott, “I didn't want to make a scene in there, but I know you're Scott Carpenter, the baseball player. I go to as many games as I can in the summer. I love watching you pitch. I never thought I'd meet you. I'd heard you and Mr. Mason knew one another. I hardly believed it.” She did her most scatterbrained twitter-and-giggle act until she got to the part about wanting specific autographs and specific souvenirs for specific grandchildren.
Carolyn and Edwina left a few minutes later. Carolyn said to Georgette, “Before you leave, be sure to remind Mr. Longfellow that you're gone. That way he won't waste time wondering if you're still here.” They left.
“Longfellow works on Sundays?” I asked.
“If you can call it work,” Georgette said. “I'll look for him, and he'll be drunk in some corner. I don't tell on him because it's not my business. None of the custodians likes to come in on Sundays, but Longfellow is in trouble because of the other day when you found him asleep. I think they're going to make him go to an alcoholic rehabilitation clinic.” She leaned closer to us and whispered, “I hear if that doesn't sober him up they're going to fire him. I don't trust him. I wish they'd fired him years ago.”
I said, “Georgette, you could do us a big favor.”
“I promised to help you any way I can, and now, with your house burned down ⦠anything I can do to help.”
“This is pretty serious, Georgette. You don't have to do it if you don't want, and I don't blame you if you get angry at me for asking, but it really might help.”
Georgette said, “I could never be angry at you, Mr. Mason.”
I know many principals keep an active file on all the teachers in their building. The police might not be aware of it because it was held separate from the official file kept in the district office. I explained to Georgette that I wanted to look in the active teacher files.
She didn't respond for a minute, and I thought I was out of luck. Then she said, “If Mr. Carpenter had some souvenirs in his car, we could run out and get them. You could wait here, Mr. Mason; perhaps even waiting next to that cabinet over there might be more comfortable.” She pointed to a file drawer across the room. She paused at the door to the office. “I guess I won't need my purse just walking out to Mr. Carpenter's car.” She tossed it on her desk, linked her arm in Scott's, propelled him out the door. She was already twittering at a hummingbird's pace.
For a few seconds I listened to her receding voice and
their departing footsteps. Then I hurried to the cabinet. Locked. Then I realized why Georgette had so elaborately left her purse. I grabbed the keys out of it. Moments later I had the file drawer open. I checked the files of the people we'd talked to. In all of them I found notes that Jones had made about each of their problems. Donna Dalrymple had been caught with Bluefield not once, but twice. I wondered why Jones hadn't simply fired her outright. Al Welman hadn't been completely honest with me, either. Jones had a list of infractions Al had committed for the past six months of school. Next to each problem, Jones had listed the date, the time, and what directive he'd given Welman. Old Al hadn't been a good boy. Jones had listed all his failures to comply with rules: attendance forms not completed, grades turned in late, lesson plans inadequately prepared, and on and on. Al had told me about less than half of them. It's not nice to keep information back from your union rep. Could turn him or her into a fool at meetings with administratorsâor, worse, maybe lose you your case because the union rep didn't have all the information. Amazingly enough, in more than half the teacher complaints I've had to handle, the teachers have left out something vital. Something they're ashamed of or embarrassed about. Can't blame them, really. Reputation can be central to a person's life.
their departing footsteps. Then I hurried to the cabinet. Locked. Then I realized why Georgette had so elaborately left her purse. I grabbed the keys out of it. Moments later I had the file drawer open. I checked the files of the people we'd talked to. In all of them I found notes that Jones had made about each of their problems. Donna Dalrymple had been caught with Bluefield not once, but twice. I wondered why Jones hadn't simply fired her outright. Al Welman hadn't been completely honest with me, either. Jones had a list of infractions Al had committed for the past six months of school. Next to each problem, Jones had listed the date, the time, and what directive he'd given Welman. Old Al hadn't been a good boy. Jones had listed all his failures to comply with rules: attendance forms not completed, grades turned in late, lesson plans inadequately prepared, and on and on. Al had told me about less than half of them. It's not nice to keep information back from your union rep. Could turn him or her into a fool at meetings with administratorsâor, worse, maybe lose you your case because the union rep didn't have all the information. Amazingly enough, in more than half the teacher complaints I've had to handle, the teachers have left out something vital. Something they're ashamed of or embarrassed about. Can't blame them, really. Reputation can be central to a person's life.
On Marshall Longfellow: Jones had caught him in the school basement numerous mornings, sleeping off the effects of alcohol. The guy had gotten drunk at school and never gone home.
I was surprised to find extensive notes on Clarissa Hartwig, the student teacher, and even more to discover that he thought she was totally incompetent and would make an awful teacher. I wondered if he'd told her or the professors at Lincoln University. A report like that could easily endanger her whole career.
Before reaching for the next file I took a quick glance into the hallway. I didn't want Marshall Longfellow accidentally being competent enough to catch me, and I didn't
know how long Scott and Georgette would be gone. She was being kind enough to help; I didn't want her to get in trouble if I got caught. I assumed they were doing their best to give me time.
know how long Scott and Georgette would be gone. She was being kind enough to help; I didn't want her to get in trouble if I got caught. I assumed they were doing their best to give me time.
As I riffled through the next file, another concern resurfaced: Maybe the killer was someone from outside the school, to whom we would have no clue, or perhaps one of the other teachers who had problems with him that I didn't know about. I didn't have the time to hunt through all the personnel files. I'd have to stick with Meg's information from the day before, that none of the other school personnel had a motive for murder.
In Max Younger's file, I found that the David Mamet of the Grover Cleveland theater department had directed promising graduates to a shady talent agency in Chicago. Jones had several notes about getting runarounds when he called them. He'd planned to visit them next week.
Fiona Wilson, clotheshorse, woman about town, physics genius, and computer wizard, had offered Jones delights beyond his wildest imaginings while trying to sit on his lap in his office chair.
Jones had been harassing Denise Flowers. The un-tenured Ms. Flowers had been observed up to four or five times a week, in all of her different classes, and in each one Jones had found flaws. Some of which were preparing lessons poorly, making silly threats of discipline, coming to class late, and glossing over difficult material.
I'd pulled the file drawer all the way out when I first opened it. At the very back was a piece of paper sitting alone and unfiled. I pulled it out. Part of a much larger memo, it started in the middle of a sentence. It was the documentation on Dan Bluefield, including a list of dates and times when Jones had met with the boy or the father or both. After each date was an anecdotal record. I hunted quickly for the rest of the documents.
I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I kept the Bluefield information, stuffed the last folder into its alphabetical
place, shut and locked the file drawer, and returned the keys to the purse.
place, shut and locked the file drawer, and returned the keys to the purse.
Scott and Georgette walked in smiling a moment later. Georgette took her purse and got ready to leave. I told her that we wanted to interview Marshall Longfellow, so she didn't have to go looking for him.
In the hall after Georgette left, Scott said, “I like her. She's sort of like Meg, only on fast forward. Lot of common sense there. Did you find anything?”
I told him.
“Another round of interviews would seem to be in order,” he said.
I agreed.
He examined the Bluefield document briefly. “I don't understand its significance,” Scott said.
“I'm not sure there is any,” I said, “but I'd like to know where the rest of it is, and I'd like to know what it said. If he was keeping notes on Bluefield, maybe it meant he was going to take action. Maybe he wasn't as big a buddy as Dan thought.”
Scott glanced at the notes again. “I don't think this was stuff against the kid,” he said. He pointed to the names. “It's about Bluefield senior mostly, not the kid.”
“He was after Mr. Bluefield?” I asked.
Scott shrugged. “We could try to check it out, but I can't imagine Bluefield succumbing to our normally irresistible charms.”
We found Marshall Longfellow without too much trouble. He was sitting with his back to us in a rusting folding chair on top of the gym roof. I checked there after looking in the heating/air-conditioning room I'd discovered him in on Thursday. He sat far enough away from the edge of the roof so he wouldn't be seen from below, but close enough so he could see all the vista. Walking toward him I saw that from this angle River's Edge looked almost like a peaceful New England town on the ripe edge of fall.
Other books
The Red Road by Stephen Sweeney
Wanted By The Cowboy Tiger (Heroes of Shifter Creek 3) by Clara Moore
Desire's Golden Dreams by Tish Domenick
Who Stole the American Dream? by Hedrick Smith
The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer
Keller's Fedora (Kindle Single) by Lawrence Block
Edsel by Loren D. Estleman
Through the Medicine Cabinet by Dan Greenburg
The Last Bazaar by David Leadbeater
Rebellion in the Valley by Robyn Leatherman