A Simple Suburban Murder (18 page)

All morning I half expected one or the other of them to come down or send a message refusing the meeting. It's seldom that job-threatening conversations occur in the school system, and even rarer for the teacher to be the one doing the threatening. For a fleeting moment I let myself enjoy the irony of the situation. Around eleven I found myself a little tired. I shook it off. I hoped to be through with the Evans family, the administration, and the murder by the end of the day.

At noon they showed up.

Sylvester's shallow face now had red blotches I'd never seen before. He rubbed his hands together in nervous bursts.

Armstrong gave me a look that combined condescension with benign puzzlement. He said, "If you wanted to see us, it wasn't necessary to terrorize a poor, lowly secretary. A simple request would have been quite sufficient." He attempted what I supposed he thought was a wise-fatherly smile. To me it looked vinegary and pained.

I said, "Gentlemen, I have some information for you. It should clarify a lot of the problems we've had around here."

"I have a meeting in ten minutes," Armstrong said,
"so
if you could be quick about it."

I flipped the computer on. I invited them to join me in viewing the screen.

"Oh, no." Sylvester moaned as he realized what it was. He sat down heavily into one of the student's desks, covering his face with his hands.

Armstrong decided to brave it out. "I can't imagine what you think this jumble of dates and dollar amounts means," he said to me. "Obviously this is something Jim Evans dreamed up. You can't imagine we have anything to do with the random actions of a man who isn't here to explain whatever it is you think you have here."

"I never mentioned Jim Evans," I said.

Sylvester's moan increased in depth and despair.

"Shut up," Armstrong barked at him. He turned to me.

"This is obviously some trick of yours to ruin us or get back at us. It won't work. We know you're gay. If this information comes out about us, we'll tell the world about you." All of his suave condescension was gone.

I kept my voice deadly calm. "That didn't work Tuesday. It won't work today. I'm still not impressed by your threats. You should know that the police have this data disc with this information on it."

"Then why haven't they talked to us?" Armstrong asked quickly.

"I figured out the access code only this morning. I haven't given it to the police yet, but I intend to."

"What can we do to stop you?" Sylvester asked.

"You're a cheap blackmailer like Evans," Armstrong accused.

"No," I said. "I'm trying to solve the murder. I want you to tell me the whole story. What hold did Evans have over you two?" I knew Scott would be angry at my next promise, but I felt it was necessary. "If you tell me, I won't give the police the access code."

"Forget it," Armstrong snapped. "You're not to be trusted."

"It was all so simple at first," Sylvester began.

"Shut your stupid mouth," Armstrong roared at him.

"That's all I've been these years, your stupid dupe. Can't you see it's all going to come out? I'll lose my job"—Sylvester pointed at Armstrong—"and so will you."

"It won't come out if we stick together." Armstrong pointed at me. "What can he do? He's only a schoolteacher."

But Sylvester was a broken man. His body sagged and drooped around the student desk. He tried to reason with Armstrong. "The police will find out about all this. We're going to be implicated in the murder. If we talk now it might go easier for us."

"We haven't done anything," Armstrong insisted.

Sylvester turned to me, "I know I had nothing to do with the murder, absolutely nothing. I want that clear."

"Meaning I did?" Armstrong said.

"I don't know. Did you?" Sylvester responded.

"You son of a bitch." Armstrong swung his arm to hit his employee. Sylvester didn't flinch. I seized the arm on the back swing.

Armstrong turned to me, "You think you're so high and mighty," he began.

Sylvester cut him off. "Jason, it's time to drop it." His voice was weary.

Armstrong leaned over Sylvester, "The police already have a suspect." He flapped his arm in my direction. "They won't listen to him. Don't say anything stupid."

Sylvester waved his boss away and looked up at me.

While Sylvester explained Armstrong strode to the window and contemplated the world outside.

Sylvester said, "Six years ago I needed money. I was getting divorced. I'd gotten my mortgage when interest rates were out of sight. There were other things too. It doesn't matter what. I was desperate. It all seemed so simple. For years they'd trusted me with counting the receipts from all school events. It was a practice left over from fifteen or twenty years ago when this was a little farm district and one man ran the whole operation."

He sighed heavily. "So I started skimming money. At first it was small amounts—a hundred a week from the football games. It turned out it was incredibly easy. During basketball season there was a lot more money. No one kept count of how many people showed up at the games. It was a poor month when I didn't get an extra thousand.

"Then I got caught." He jerked his thumb at Armstrong. "I don't know how he did it. I was so careful not to let the numbers fluctuate too much. The basketball team won all its home games that year. Crowds were enormous. He came to my office late one night after a basketball game. Maybe he was suspicious before then. I don't know. I'm certain he never intended to turn me in. Instead he had one of his oily proposals. I had to go along." He gave me a look that appealed for sympathy.

I sat on the edge of my desk prepared to listen to the rest.

He went on. "I was to continue skimming money. He would take half. I had to go on taking risks. The next year I was in better financial shape, and I wanted to stop. He told me we would keep on. That if I tried to stop he'd turn me in. I said he'd be fired too. He laughed at me and dared me to quit. I couldn't chance it. I needed the job."

Sylvester snuffled. He fished for a handkerchief, found none. He wiped his nose and face on his coat sleeve. "He's a greedy bastard. That's what wrecked it. We kept on and Evans found out about it."

"How?" I asked.

"Some stupid assignment he gave the kids in math class. It was a group of slow kids. He told them to count how many kids fit in each bleacher section of the gym—some stupid thing like that. One of the god-damn kids got hold of one of those counter things. He sat at the door counting every kid who walked in the gym. This way he wouldn't have to count the kids in each section. He could simply divide the total by the number of sections, and that's easier than trying to count each section with all the kids constantly moving around."

Futilely he fished for a handkerchief again. Before he abused his sleeve once more, I handed him a tissue from the box on my desk.

I gave him a minute then prodded, "So the kid got an accurate count."

"Yes. Later, Evans told us he was the only kid who completed the assignment along with extra credit, which was to multiply the number of kids by the price of admission. Evans remembered the assignment. It was the only one the kid turned in all year. Evans remembered the totals too. Besides being a math teacher, Evans had an incredible memory for statistics.

"When the student paper, as it always does, printed the amount of the gate receipts, Evans noticed the discrepancy. For several games he sat with a counter. When the disparity happened consistently he figured illegal activity was in progress.

"He came to me with it. I refused to face him alone. I brought him to Armstrong. We worked out a deal. Evans would get a percentage. For five years I've paid the price. My health is shot. My stomach is in shreds. And I'm the one who counts the money. I'm the one they'll blame."

Armstrong turned and faced us. "No one will do anything if you keep your mouth shut."

"I won't let them pin a murder charge on me."

"No one said anything about murder," Armstrong said.

"The police will," I countered. "They'll see blackmail as a good motive for murder."

He walked over to me, "And what makes you a big deal know-it-all?"

"Remember," I said, "I'm just a schoolteacher."

"I'll drag you down with us," Armstrong threatened.

"I'm not worried about me. I know I didn't kill him."

Armstrong glared at me.

I turned to Sylvester and asked, "Where were you the night of the murder?"

"Home with my wife," he said simply. He'd remarried three years ago.

I turned back to the superintendent. "And where were you, Mr. Armstrong?" "I don't have to answer your god-damn questions." He gave me an evil stare. I gazed calmly back. Finally his eyes dropped.

Sylvester said, "You might as well know the rest. We were in the gambling operation too." He waved a hand in Armstrong's direction. "He met with Evans that night to pay everything. "

"You god-damned son of a bitch." This time I wasn't quick enough to stop him. Armstrong belted Sylvester in the mouth with the back of his hand.

Sylvester's head rocked back. His nose began to bleed. Armstrong swung around to me. He snarled, "Yes, I met Evans to pay what we owed him."

"What time was this?"

"About twelve-thirty."

"Why then?"

"That's when he said to meet him. I think he enjoyed making things inconvenient and uncomfortable for people."

"You paid what you owed?"

"And I left. I swear he was alive and sitting in the restaurant parking lot when I left him."

"How did your gambling get started?" I asked.

"He insisted we join his gambling operation. He made it part of the price we had to pay for his silence."

"Did you know any of the details of the operation?"

"No, not really," Armstrong said, "only that he handled everything."

"Tell the rest of it," Sylvester said, "about that night."

Armstrong gave him a dirty look. "All right. Along with paying him I told him we wouldn't gamble any more. These past two months we lost more money from the gambling than we took in from skimming off money."

"What'd he say to your refusal to pay?"

"He said he'd expose us if we failed to come across as usual the next week. He died before we found out if it was a bluff or not."

"I didn't kill him," Sylvester reiterated. "I was at home."

"Did you kill him?" I asked Armstrong.

He sat on top of the desk next to Sylvester. He gazed up at me. "I don't expect you to believe me, but no, I didn't kill him. I might have during that week some time. Some lucky guy got there ahead of me."

I dropped my next question innocently into the conversation. "And you were customers of the escort service?"

"Only once, only once," Sylvester said. "She was over eighteen. I made sure of that."

"After the fact." Armstrong sneered.

"I didn't even know it was a former student until afterward," Sylvester said. "You had sex with her too," he added.

"That's why she called you," I said.

"Once you were caught in Evans's web it only got worse," Armstrong said.

During the day I made another decision. After school I spoke to Greg. I talked to him about going to see his sister with us. He agreed to come along. I hoped his presence would convince her to tell us more. We'd pick him up later.

I called Murphy. He didn't think they'd reopen the case, but he would keep trying. I wanted to tell about Armstrong's meeting with Evans, but I'd promised them. Slime as they were, I wouldn't break my promise to them—at least for now. If I couldn't prove Vance didn't do it in a day or so I'd have to. I asked Murphy if I could talk to Vance. He said he'd try to arrange it.

When I got in the car Keith moved to the backseat.

"I slept until one-thirty," Keith announced.

"I'm envious," I told him.

He picked up the stereo earphones in the backseat. "Do these work?" he asked. Scott adjusted the system for backseat headset listening. Scott's car stereo system is better than most people's home systems.

As Scott drove I filled him in on the big confrontation. I spoke low to be sure Keith couldn't hear even with his earphones on. I was annoyed at Scott's initial reaction.

He said, "So you won't give the police the access code?"

"I promised them if they told me I wouldn't."

"What about your promise to me?"

"I'm sorry. I wanted their information."

"And what about the other stuff on the disc? What about all those kids being used as prostitutes?" he demanded. "Are you going to tell about that?"

"Yes, I'm going to tell about that."

"Fine.When?" He was angry.

"Soon."

"Each minute you delay another kid is hurt, probably scarred for life."

"Will you ease off? I didn't apply for the position of God here. We were lucky we found the key to the whole operation. The police have the data. They haven't helped us. I'm not ready to help them."

"Think of the kids." He was still angry.

"Those on that list have been doing prostitution for a long time. Even with our immediate intervention there's little we could do."

"We could stop it."

"How?"

"If we told the cops."

"And they'd do what?"

"Arrest the kids."

"Yeah, so?"

"And it would stop."

"For how long?"

This held him silent for a minute. "They could return them to their parents," he said finally.

"These kids, or most of them, don't want to be with their parents. Long ago they could have returned to them. They didn't." I pointed my finger at him. "Or their parents don't want them. I agree we need to tell the police. My view is that it isn't as immediate an issue as you think it is."

"Say I agree to that. When you decide to give the information to the police, how will you keep from giving them the stuff about Armstrong and his buddy?"

"I don't know."

"Are you sure you've got a hold of yourself on this?"

"Yes," I said flatly. "I want to find the murderer. The police can't or won't. I found the body. I've been shot at and beaten up. I won't give in. Tell me if I'm wrong in how I'm handling this. If you want, turn the car around right now. We'll go straight to the police station."