A Simple Suburban Murder (4 page)

"You can't stand guard in my classroom all day."

"I want to at least drive you to school and pick you up."

"It's only a ten-minute ride. Besides, someone might recognize you."

"I don't want you hurt," he said.

"Okay, you can drop me off. I'll get a ride home from Meg."

"And I'll pick you up." He stopped my protest. "My schedule is light today. I'll do some rearranging and be there."

At noon I went to talk to Leonard Vance, head of the math department. I wanted to talk to people and find out more about the man found dead in my room. Vance was in the math department office.

He was in his late sixties. He wore baggy pants that clung under his potbelly, only partially concealed by a fraying sweater. I explained what I wanted. We went into his private office to talk. The room had a battered old desk and two rickety chairs, none of which matched.

After we sat down Vance said, "I don't know how much I can help or even tell you. I've already talked to the police."

To break through his reluctance I said, "I know you don't know me, but as I said, I'm trying to find out more about Evans. Maybe it's curiosity, a lot of it's because I found the body. It's just I want to know, to understand. I'm not interested in secrets so much as finding out about Evans as a person."

He rubbed his chin. "You're a friend of Meg's. She and I haven't always seen eye to eye, but she's a solid person. We've worked together a long time. She talks about you. Says you do a good job with slow kids. She admires you a lot." He paused. "I'll give it a try."

He thought a minute more then said, "If I had to use one word to describe Jim Evans, it would be competitive. He always had to be the first, the best, with the most. You may have heard that the department puts a premium on excellence. "

I nodded.

"But he took it to extremes. He'd fight viciously at every faculty meeting on every topic, even down to who got the most paper clips. He always needed to win. If he ever lost a vote in the department, the office here turned into a living hell. He lost as often as he won."

"How would he show his anger?"

"With a constant barrage of vicious remarks, sniping at everyone. More than once he's brought a new teacher or secretary to tears with something he said. Evans was good at making enemies. Sure we're competitive, but not to the vicious level Evans was. But that wasn't the worst. You might wonder why I didn't report him to the administration. The answer is simple. They were good friends. Evans used to run to Sylvester to snitch on teachers. You know the type of fighting and bickering that goes on."

"You couldn't report him, and at times he'd be undercutting your authority?" I said.

"Say we were considering a curriculum change that he didn't like. If he thought the vote would go against him, he'd run to that clown Sylvester, to try to get that jerk to be on his side, so Sylvester would force us to do what Evans wanted."

"Did he ever succeed at that?"

"Not really, but he caused enormous headaches because of it. The key, as you probably know, with Sylvester is twofold. One, he can be successfully menaced, as all would be bullies can. And two, whoever talks to him last gets the favorable decision. If Evans was crossed he wouldn't try to solve the problem. He'd just keep braying like the jackass he was. He was fairly good at fighting, but he wasn't any good at politics, and at that I am a master."

"Are you sure it was him snitching?"

He smiled. "I trapped him several times. I gave him information, told him the other faculty knew, but not to discuss it yet. The information was bogus. I'd told no one else. Sylvester invariably called me in to discuss what I told Evans within half a day after I told the little snitch."

"Did you ever confront him?"

"Yes. He denied it all, even after I told him he was the only one that I gave the information to. He outright lied to me.

"He sounds like a miserable person to work with."

"He was. In his defense I must say that I didn't personally dislike him. He could be expansive and friendly. Plus I pride myself on being able to say that I can work with anyone."

I thought a minute, tried another tack. "Did he have any special enemies? Any one person he feuded with most often?"

"You'd have to line up the whole math department, and it wouldn't be a question of which ones were his enemies, but who could come up with the most reasons for disliking him."

"But Sylvester must have thought he was the greatest."

"Presumably. Besides his spy reports, Evans was always down there kissing ass with Sylvester, and Armstrong too, for that matter."

"Wait a second," I said. "This morning Armstrong claimed he never met Evans."

"He's lying. I saw them together at least two or three times."

"Can you remember when this was?"

"It was quite late after the last few department meetings. One time I heard the three of them talking in the inner office. The door wasn't tightly closed. And once I saw the three of them walking out of the office. They were distant from me, but you can't mistake the Blimp."

"The time you heard their voices, are you sure it was them?"

"Oh, yes. We department heads meet with the superintendent at least once a month. He drones on in that endlessly cheerful way, so I'm used to his voice. Sylvester and Evans I would recognize in the normal course of events."

"Could you tell what they were saying?"

He thought a moment. "No, I can't help you there."

After he picked me up, Scott and I spent an hour working out at my place. I live in a farmhouse in the middle of one of the last cornfields in southwestern Cook County. The subdivisions creep closer every year. Soon I'll want to sell. I own the house and two acres around it. I like the quiet. The fields belong to a farmer I've only seen at a distance as he works the land.

Scott and I agree that working out together is one of our biggest turnons. I can still wear the same size gym shorts I wore when I played sports in high school. We work out in gym shoes, white socks, old running shorts, and much-used jock straps. Many times the workout has been interrupted for more intimate activities. We work out together as often as we can.

That evening we went to the funeral home. Often when going out, Scott's fear of being recognized limits us. Several times in restaurants we've had to leave before finishing because of persistent and obnoxious fans. Other times we've been in the most public of places and no one has said a thing. It's not so much being seen with another male and people thinking he's gay, but to keep away from the admiring hordes. At a gathering such as this I doubted there would be much trouble.

The funeral home was crowded. Amid the strangers, I recognized several faculty members and parents.

I spotted Mrs. Evans and went up to her. She looked tired and subdued.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

"Mr. Mason, thank you for coming." She turned a pasty white. "You're the one who found him."

"Yes."

"It's so awful." She glanced up at me tearfully. "I remember when you had Phil in class. You tried to help. I could tell you cared. I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for you. You were wonderful."

"I hope I helped," was all I could think of to say.

Abruptly she seemed to come to some decision. She glanced quickly around and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I must talk to you." She took my arm and led me down a corridor to a private room. She closed the door and stood in the middle of the floor, trembling.

"What is it, Mrs. Evans?" I went to her, put my hand on her arm.

"I'm glad he's dead," she snarled. "He was an evil and cruel man."

— 3 —

I
didn't know what to say.

She continued. "He abused all of us, hurting the children, bullying me. I feel like I'm waking up from a hideous nightmare. I can't tell them out there." She jerked her head toward the door. "They'd never understand the dutiful wife who hated every breath the bastard took." She began crying.

"It's all right," I said, patting her arm awkwardly.

"I'm not crying for him." Her voice was fierce. "I want you to know that. It's like I'm on a roller coaster. One minute I'm so happy he's gone, and the next I realize I have nothing to fall back on. I've never had a job. I have no skills. I have no idea what's going to happen to the children and me.

She stepped away from me, found a Kleenex in her purse, and dabbed at her eyes. "I didn't kill him," she said. "I couldn't. I'm not strong enough, although there were a thousand times I wish I had been, but I didn't kill him."

She put the Kleenex back in her purse, stood up straighter. "I didn't ask you here to slobber all over you. You've got to help me. Phil is missing. I'm worried."

"Missing? For how long?"

"Since yesterday. He talked to the police around two o'clock at the house. He left around four and never came back. I didn't hear anything during the night. This morning he wasn't at breakfast. I checked his room. The bed was perfectly made. There was no note. He hasn't been back all day. I called the school, but he didn't show up there either."

"Have you told the police?"

"No, I'm afraid to. They'll think he had some part in killing his father. I know they will. He's a good boy, moody, like so many teenagers are, but a good son."

"Maybe he's simply off grieving by himself?"

She gave a short laugh. "They hated each other. Jim used to beat Phil when he was younger. The last time Jim tried, a couple years ago, he didn't realize how much Phil had grown up. The boy fought back. I thought they would kill each other. And I'm afraid Phil knows things about his father."

"What makes you think that?"

"There were times, not that long ago, when Phil would talk to me, but not for a while now. He hasn't talked to anyone at home for months. When we did speak, I'd urge him to talk to his father. I wanted them to get along. I wanted us to be a normal family. But Phil refused. He'd say to me, 'Mom, don't pressure me to talk with Dad, or to talk about him.' The way he said it frightened me. It's as if he knew things that a child shouldn't know. I didn't dare press him for more."

"Did he ever threaten his father?"

"The time I told you about, when they fought, at the end, before running out of the house, Phil screamed at his dad, 'If you ever touch me again I'll kill you.' But I know he didn't mean it, Mr. Mason. He was angry. I made him apologize for that later."

"Did he?"

"Yes, I begged him to, for me." She gave me a forlorn look. "I wish he would come home."

"Has he ever left before?"

"Sometimes he's stayed out late, but he's never been gone overnight without telling me."

"Do you know who he might stay with?"

"No, we have no relatives here."

"How about his friends? Who are they?"

"None of his old friends called recently. I think he cut himself off from them. I know he used to be friends with Greg Davis, but he hasn't mentioned Greg in months."

"He must be somewhere, Mrs. Evans, probably with some friend close by. Did he have any money, a savings account to draw on?"

"No savings, but he's had a lot of money lately. I asked him where he got it. He wouldn't tell me."

"Was he dealing drugs?"

She gave me a fearful look. "I don't know. What do I do? You've got to help me, Mr. Mason."

"I will if I can, but I think you should tell the police. They'll find out he's missing sooner or later. They have resources for finding someone."

"I can't, not yet anyway. I just want him to come home."

"I'll try to talk to some of the kids at school," I said. "I doubt if I can do much, but I'll do what I can."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Mason. Thank you."

I found Scott waiting in the viewing room. In the short hallway leading outside I told him about my conversation with Mrs. Evans. "Her intensity at times worries me; she might be close to a breakdown." "Poor woman," Scott said, "but there probably isn't a lot we can do."

"That's true," I said. "The police will find out Phil is missing soon enough. Still, I'm going to check it out."

We left. From where we parked you could see down the alley behind the funeral home. As we neared the car I noticed a lone figure in the alley sitting on a stack of tires. I pointed him out to Scott. "I think that's the Evans boy, the eighth grader. I remember he used to wait for his brother after school when Phil was in my tutoring group. I think his name is Keith. Let's talk to him."

The boy looked up briefly as we approached. He wore a suit and tie with no overcoat. He shivered in the chill November night.

"Cold to be out tonight, son," I said.

He peered up at me. "Who are you?" His voice was petulant.

"Tom Mason. You're Keith Evans, aren't you? Phil's brother? I was his teacher."

"Oh, yeah," he said without enthusiasm.

"It's a little cold to be out without an overcoat."

He shrugged.

I sat down on the stack of tires next to him. He looked at me. For the first time he glanced at Scott. His eyes got very wide. "You're Scott Carpenter," he exclaimed.

"I am." Scott sat down on the other side of him.

"I know you," Keith said. "You came and talked at our sports banquet last year. You're cool."

"Thank you," Scott said. "I'm also cold. Why don't we go inside?"

"Not in there with all those people," Keith said.

I suggested the fast-food restaurant across from the funeral home as an alternative. Keith agreed. Scott and I had coffee. Keith wolfed down enormous quantities of food. He had his dad's handsome face, with his hair longer than the fashion.

"This is great," he said. He pointed to the massed food in front of him. "Whenever we go out with my family we can only order the least expensive thing on the menu."

"How come you weren't inside?" I asked.

"I couldn't stand all those adults slobbering over me. So I walked out." He stopped eating and stared wistfully across the street to the funeral home. He spoke softly. "I wanted to see where they put my dad." His voice grew softer. "I wanted to see what he looked like."