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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

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BOOK: The Principal Cause of Death
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I checked the distance to the door, and wondered whether it would be possible to create a diversion or whether a frontal attack was feasible.
Farnsworth caught my eye. “Don't even think about it. No matter what noise you make, help won't come. Nobody in this neighborhood cares, and if they do, they know enough not to ask questions.”
“You wouldn't murder Scott Carpenter,” I said.
He gave me a nasty grin. “Wouldn't I? I want some answers.” He demanded to know what we really wanted. Scott repeated what he'd said this morning.
Farnsworth said, “You keep mentioning this Younger guy. I told you I never heard of him. I want you to leave.” He waved the gun at us. We got up and edged toward the exit. “Don't come back,” he warned. We slipped out the door.
In the street Scott said, “Cute can cover a multitude of sins, but I'd never trust him.”
“Let's wait for him to come out,” I said.
“For what? If we follow him, he'll probably just go home like most of the other commuters in the city.”
“I'd like to look around his office without the benefit of his assistance,” I said.
“Now look—” Scott began.
Quickly I pulled him into the alley. Farnsworth was at the door to his building. His tie was loosened and he carried a paperback book with him.
In the filth-infested alley we debated. Scott didn't want to go in and had several excellent reasons why we shouldn't. “It's illegal. We have no proof he's done anything wrong. We could get caught.”
I had no answer to his arguments, so I marched out of the alley and back to the building entrance. I walked up the stairs. Scott was behind me, muttering and cursing. His most frequent comment was “This is the dumbest thing we've ever done together.” I heard occasional noises from
a few of the other cubicles in the building. On the second floor no light shone from inside the Paradise Agency. Breaking in was simple: I gave the door an angry shove and it burst open. I managed to catch it before it slammed into the wall. We rummaged around the grime and filth for half an hour. It wasn't five yet, and the window faced west across Michigan Avenue, so we didn't have to turn the light on.
Scott whispered, “Let's get the hell out of here,” an exasperatingly high number of times.
Just after I said, “Would you shut up?” we heard footsteps coming toward the door.
He growled and I murmured, “Hush.”
The footsteps stopped outside the door. I'd closed and tried to relock it. Whoever it was used the same method I did to enter: a sharp shove on the door, and a grab before it banged into the wall behind it. Max Younger stood in the doorway with a McDonald's bag in one hand and an astonished look on his face.
We gazed at each other for a moment. He glanced at Scott. “You're somebody,” Max said to him.
I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Max trudged into the room, flipped on the desk lamp, dropped his bag of burgers onto the desk, and flopped into the chair.
I said, “I want answers now, Max. What the hell is this operation?”
Max decided on exasperation as a major part of his response. He said, “It's a second job. What the hell does it look like? If I ever want to pay back what I owe the district, I have to get it somewhere. I moonlight here. Farnsworth called me early today and told me you'd been around. I didn't know you'd try to break in. I should call the cops.”
“I bet they'd love to look at your files,” Scott said.
“They wouldn't find anything,” Max said. “We haven't made a dime in six months. We had to move from our last place. We can barely pay the rent on this fleabag office.”
“If it doesn't make any money, how will that help you pay what you owe?” I asked.
“We're expecting a couple of things to break for us real soon.”
He ignored the skeptical look on my face. “Then what did Jones find?” I asked.
Max sighed. “He found rumors. He'd read some article in some tabloid talking about phony agencies. He believed them. I suppose I didn't help much by telling him it was none of his business. I guess he got suspicious, but there wasn't anything for him to find, because there's nothing here. Sure, we get kids bookings overseas, but they're all legit, and all the kids come back.”
“Mind if we check?” I asked.
Max hesitated, then said, “Oh, hell. I don't care. Do what you want. You won't find anything.”
I didn't think we would. They probably wouldn't keep records like “Teenager sold into slavery, $100, see Omar the Tentmaker in Ashtrakan.”
“Where else do you keep files?” I asked.
“Hidden around the city in locked luggage containers at the train stations and bus depots,” Max said. “We move them every twenty-four hours. Good luck finding them all.”
I didn't appreciate his sarcasm, but I guess we didn't have much choice. We weren't prepared to search the city. Certainly he wasn't prepared to give us any more information.
 
“Didn't work,” I murmured as I started the truck.
“What we need to do is have one of those murder-mystery scenes,” Scott said. “You know, where they gather all the suspects together? We explain how it logically has to be one of them, and then one of the others dramatically stands up and confesses to having been the murderer.”
I swung east onto Balbo Drive to get to Lake Shore Drive.
Scott continued, “We could find some way to trick them into confessing.”
“Maybe you've hit on the right approach,” I said.
“I was making a joke,” Scott said. He glared at me. “I can already tell I'm not going to like this.”
“Yes, you will.” I outlined my plan as we cruised up Lake Shore Drive. It was simplicity itself. We would tell all the suspects that we knew that Jones had had more files hidden somewhere in the office and that we were assembling a detail to take the place apart to find them the next evening after school. I said, “Jones had to have something on the murderer that we haven't uncovered. The murderer will have to come to find and destroy it sometime tomorrow after school.”
Scott's objections began with, Won't they get suspicious? How do you know there really is something? Won't they be afraid of being caught? How are we going to get the school to cooperate? And went on beyond. He even threw in “Let's just call the police” a couple of times.
The man has no imagination, or too much. He alternated between realistic roadblocks and fanciful fears.
At home I called Meg. She was more than willing to join in the conspiracy. In fact she offered to help make sure each of the suspects knew about the supposed search.
About being caught setting the trap, I said, “I have a right to be in the school, and I don't feel guilty about trying to trap a murderer. I've been a suspect far too long.”
To Scott's objection that there might be nothing to be found I said, “These people all had guilty secrets. Who knows what else Jones might have found out? My bet is they'll all assume the worst, or at least the killer will. They'll panic easily.”
Scott again urged calling the police.
“They don't even know about these people,” I said.
“Which brings up another point,” he said.
We wrangled on the police issue. Finally I said, “Frank's on vacation. Those other two cops haven't been sympathetic. They aren't interested in getting me off the hook. Only we are. We've got to do everything we can. If Daniels and Johnson go talk to those people, they'll just deny anything they said to us. I think we have to give this a try.”
Next day at noon, Meg and I compared notes. We knew for certain that all our suspects had heard the news. When Scott showed up at four, the three of us discussed details. He still had lots of objections, but with both Meg and me against him, he soon gave up.
The murderer couldn't try anything until after the office closed at five. We'd taken Georgette into our confidence. She made sure someone was in the office at all times to prevent the murderer from looking around during the day. She also arranged it so that the custodians would be in the new section all afternoon and night, working on tasks far from the office.
I figured the murderer would try earlier than later. We'd announced the new inspection wouldn't happen until tomorrow. Plus, the earlier whoever it was showed up, the less likely his or her appearance would draw attention.
 
The last rays of golden sunlight peeked through nooks and crannies as we moved into position. Like the people we expected after us, we avoided the night custodians. It wasn't hard. We heard them in the new section with a radio blaring and vacuum cleaners distantly humming. As we moved toward our objective, the noise slowly faded.
We took our position in the washroom directly across the hall from the main office. I climbed onto one of the toilets and carefully removed a ceiling tile. Now we could peer through the uncurtained glass walls of the office. From the hall or the office you could only see a few inches of missing tile. And we were high up, where people didn't normally look.
The light wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. Exit signs gleamed at corridor junctions, illuminating the way to various wings of the campus. Occasionally the gleam from the headlights of cars pulling into the circular drive swept across the blinds in the windows at the far end of the office.
We had a perfect spot, with only one major drawback: To remain in our perch we had straddle dividers between
the johns. This became excessively uncomfortable, since we tried to move as little as possible. An hour and a half later each movement of muscle became near agony. We were in good shape, but the tension on one set of muscles for a prolonged period was hell.
It didn't help that fifteen minutes after we started, Scott began to get mutinous. By the time the hour and a half was up I would have cheerfully made him walk the plank and spread shark food on the waters to make sure he'd be the main course for dinner when he hit the water.
He'd begun another “I told you this was a waste of time” crack when I thought I heard something. The custodial noises had long since dimmed to nothingness.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. He'd been grousing in a whisper and fell silent immediately. I waited a minute without hearing a repetition. I was almost ready to whisper to Scott when the noise came again. Definitely the sound of somebody easing down the corridor and trying to remain silent. In the darkness I couldn't see which direction this someone was coming from, and my range of vision was limited.
I listened with remembered jungle instincts, then pointed to the right. A dark mass crept slowly along next to the wall. Its path would take it directly beneath us. We couldn't risk moving.
Along with a rush of adrenaline, I felt an enormous surge of satisfaction. The killer had walked right into our trap.
I watched the form creep to a spot almost under us. I saw the head turn back and forth, checking both ways in the corridor. Slowly the figure crept across the hallway. I could see long hair sway, and guessed our sneak was Fiona Wilson. At the door to the office she paused. A few moments' fumbling followed. In the light from the exit sign above the office door I saw her working at the lock. My eyes had adjusted enough to the dimness that I could make out her features and see that she wore a designer jogging outfit, appropriately black for hiding in shadows.
I didn't want to jump out at her until she'd had time to get into the office and do some searching. Maybe she'd even find something that would convict her more surely than her presence already did.
I heard a soft click; the office door swung open and she tiptoed inside. I watched her flick on a flashlight. It shone briefly. She inched her way to the file cabinet I had examined earlier, eased it open, and placed her flashlight so it shone only a narrow beam of light toward what she was reading.
I motioned to Scott. He put his ear next to my mouth. I said, “Let's move out.”
His soft footfall hit the tile floor. At the same moment I
thought I heard another noise. I glanced quickly toward Fiona. She continued to peruse the files. I inspected the corridor in both directions. A small blob had appeared at the entrance to the north corridor. The mass of greater darkness could have been a head peering around the corner.
“Scott,” I whispered. “I think there's another one.”
He carefully scrambled back up next to me. By straining he could follow my gaze.
“Ah nuts,” was his profound comment.
The new interloper flattened itself against the corridor. From the size, I suspected it was Al Welman. Light gleamed from distant exit signs enough so I could see the reflection on the bald head of the old English teacher as he neared the office.
Welman was ten feet from the office when he slipped and banged his hand against a locker. I looked across at Fiona. She'd heard it. Her flashlight flicked off. I could make out her shape as she disappeared farther into the office. I thought I saw the door to the office of the dean of students open and shut.
I glanced back at Welman. He stood as if paralyzed, one hand dangling an inch from where it had struck the locker. Suddenly he swiveled his head from left to right, then rushed toward the office door. He fumbled with the knob for a second. Fiona must have left it unlocked, because in only a second, Welman was in the office. He crouched down behind the counter. For five minutes he didn't move.
Finally I saw his gleaming dome slowly inch its way above the top of the counter. His eyes searched intently out the office windows for possible danger. A minute later, he retreated to the same file cabinet as Fiona. Out came a flashlight and he began the same sort of inspection.
“Okay, Sherlock,” Scott said. “You caught two of them. Not bad. Now what?”
“I'm not sure.” I eased my back against the wall in the john. Numerous unhappy muscle groups protested the rigid position I'd kept them in.
Scott tapped my shoulder. He pointed.
I joined him at the observation post and followed the direction of his finger. Down the hallway from the right crept another figure.
“Damn.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Scott said.
I looked across at Welman. He turned off his flashlight, shut the file drawer, crouched, and moved back toward the counter. I lost sight of him for a few seconds; then he reappeared. He moved toward the inner offices. I wondered what would happen if he ran into Fiona, but he passed up the dean's office, instead opening the door to Jones's. He flicked on his flashlight.
At the same moment our new person reached the office door. The noise he or she made opening it alerted Welman. His light flicked off and he quickly swung Jones's door shut. The angle from the main office door made it difficult for the third intruder to see Jones's office, so he or she didn't notice the brief flicker of light, or maybe thought it was the gleam from a car pulling into the drive in front of the school.
The new person made the same beeline to the file cabinet. There was a hood over the face, but from the movements and general build I guessed it was Max Younger. Another flashlight. At the rate we were going, by morning there wouldn't be another battery left in River's Edge. More searching through the files.
I'd resigned myself to futility by this point.
When the next noise came, from another furtively creeping figure—a large one this time—I almost expected it.
Max had had plenty of time to go through the files, however, and had started on the office storage room. I knew that was where they kept the district records. He propped the door open an inch, probably so he could hear anyone approaching, so he was prepared when the new person lost his or her footing. That's when I realized that the hulking mass seemed to be two people. Possibly they'd tripped over each other's feet. They scrambled up and
seemed prepared to flee, when we all heard loud clunking sounds approaching from the new wing.
The two—I could see now that they were Clarissa and Ralph Hartwig—hurried to the office and crouched behind the counter as one of the custodians, whistling cheerfully, dragged a mop and bucket behind him. He made enough noise so that all the hidden suspects must have heard him.
A moment later the Hartwigs were thumbing urgently through the files.
Donna Dalrymple and Denise Flowers showed up five minutes after that. The Hartwigs only had time to hide behind the counter. Donna and Denise nearly tripped over them.
I decided it was time for an appearance.
We climbed down and made our way to the office. We could see the flashlights and hear wrangling voices. I opened the office door and flipped on the light switch. It didn't make a lot of difference if the custodians or someone else found us now. We had all our guilty suspects right where we wanted them—sort of.
I invited all the searchers into Jones's office. They spent the next five minutes in shouts and accusations. I sat behind the desk while Scott leaned on the window ledge behind me. Arrayed in chairs in front of us were the six suspects.
Good, I thought, this is where I reveal the damaging evidence about who really did it. Or they jump up and tell all. But the defiant and angry people in front of me didn't give off the slightest hint of guilt or willingness to confess. Worse, I couldn't think of a thing to say. “Caught you now” seemed inadequate.
When they all paused for a moment, Scott said, “Why did you all come here?”
No one said a word.
Scott said, “You all had reason to kill Jones, and you all obviously had something to hide that we haven't found out yet. Eventually we, or the police, will find that out. Why not get it out in the open now?”
His voice thrummed almost musically. I caught that hint of a Southern drawl I enjoyed so much.
Only Donna Dalrymple spoke. “Mason had a reason to kill him, too. He's just trying to get himself off the hook. This was a cheap stunt that I, for one, am not going to put up with. I'm leaving.”
“Leaving could make it look as if you had something to hide. We know you did, because you showed up. Leaving won't help,” I said.
She returned to her chair.
To the group at large I said, “Coming here makes you all look guilty. One of us is a murderer. We need to find out everybody's motives, including yours, Donna.”
“Well, I didn't do it,” Ralph Hartwig said. “I'd never even met the guy.”
Al Welman laughed. He said, “You set this up, Mason. You thought you were smart. Figured the guilty one would show up. Instead, all of us are here, and you aren't anywhere near a solution.”
“We should talk about what Mason has to hide,” Max said.
“What?” several people asked.
He pointed at me. “He's gay and he's got a lover.”
“Why would I care if people found out I was gay?” I asked. “Most everybody here knows. I've got nothing to hide. Besides my lover is rich enough to buy all of our salaries for the past twenty years.”
“Loss of prestige,” Dalrymple said immediately. “Everybody is afraid of that. You aren't immune.”
I opened my mouth to let off some frustration and anger, but Scott said, “Hold it, everybody. So we know Tom's possible motive. He denies it, and I, of course, agree with him. What about the rest of you? It's time for all the secrets to be out on the table.”
We got lots of nasty cracks and arguments, but no cooperation.
Suddenly the door opened and Carolyn Blackburn marched into the room with Meg right behind her.
Carolyn said, “The custodians called. Said there were lights on in the office that weren't supposed to be on.” She sighed. “The general rule they have is to call rather than put themselves in danger. They aren't the brightest. What's going on?”
Meg said, “I saw Carolyn walk in, Tom. I decided it would be better if I followed.”
I explained to Carolyn how I had had the rumor spread during the school day, and how we'd planned to catch the murderer by seeing who came looking for further information.
When I finished, Carolyn gave a faint smile. “Didn't work.” She glanced around at the assembly. “I think it's time you all told me what it is you're hiding.”
Scott brought chairs in from the outer office for Carolyn and Meg. They got settled. None of the suspects seemed willing to start.
“I know a great deal about each of you that I promised not to tell,” I said. “It would be more graceful if we heard it from you rather than me.”
No response.
Carolyn said, “All your secrets must be pretty awful if you can't tell.”
Ralph Hartwig said, “Mason is gay.”
Carolyn said, “I figured that out a week after I entered the district. So what?”
“Maybe she's in the conspiracy with Mason.” This was Al Welman's contribution.
Carolyn frowned at him. “Conspiracy to do what? I have nothing to gain by Jones's death. I was in a meeting from one that afternoon until after seven with all the state legislators who have constituencies in the school district.”
Max Younger said, “I think one thing is clear. Whatever Jones knew, he didn't tell Carolyn Blackburn. We can all breathe easier. If she knew something, she'd tell us now.”
Carolyn said, “I don't know anything. Is there something for me to know?”
I said, “Yes.”
She looked at each of them in turn, then back at me. “Obviously no one is going to tell. I think it's time to bring the police in on this.”
This engendered a round of vigorous protests, which Meg interrupted after five minutes. “Maybe Jones did keep separate records somewhere in the office. Everybody was looking for them. Maybe all we need to do is find them. Obviously there wasn't a set for Carolyn to find or all your secrets would be out.”
For over an hour Carolyn and Meg searched through every part of the many offices. The rest of us sat in Jones's office, avoiding one another's eyes.
Finally Carolyn slumped into the chair behind Jones's desk. “Nothing,” she said, and drew a deep breath. “It's very simple. You all tell me or I call the police.”
No one said anything for a full minute.
“Fine,” she said, and reached for the phone.
Clarissa Hartwig placed her hand over the receiver. “I'll tell. I don't want the police, but I don't want to talk in front of all these people.”
We arranged to talk to each person separately. Meg waited with them in the main office while Carolyn, Scott, and I interviewed each one in Jones's office.
Clarissa told Carolyn about her awful evaluations and Jones's warning that he would tell her supervisor. “I came back tonight because I was afraid he'd already written the letter. I knew my supervisor hadn't gotten it. After I heard the rumors today, I had to give it a try. I could have lost my whole career.”
Carolyn said, “You'll be evaluated again.”
Clarissa said, “You mean I'll have a chance?”
“You'll be evaluated fairly, like anyone else,” Carolyn said. “If it turns out Jones was right, the report will reflect that.”
The young woman slumped in her chair.
Carolyn explained to each of the reluctant others, “It's me or the police. Mason already knows you'd make good murder suspects. He'll be made to tell all he's found out.
I can minimize the scandal here and now, but not if the police are called in. In fact, I promise to do what I can to protect you.”
BOOK: The Principal Cause of Death
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