Читать книгу Deadly Lessons - David Russell W. - Страница 11

The boyish, peach-fuzzed police officer shook his head. “Some sort of emergency?” he asked.

“An emergency meeting. I really need to be there.”

“Yeah. Best if you get there in one piece, counsellor,” he replied, handing me back my driver’s licence.

“Thank you, officer,” I sighed, reluctantly signing the traffic citation. I’m generally hesitant to inform a traffic cop of my profession—albeit in the past tense—as a member of the bar. Like most of the population, cops consider lawyers one of the lower species on the food chain. Trying to talk your way out of a radar trap on the basis of being a lawyer usually just makes them mad. But this one looked young enough that I thought I might be able to bluff my way out of the ticket. I was wrong.

As a lawyer, I should have known better. As a teacher, I should have been going slower. I was clocked speeding through a school zone.

I was operating on less than two hours sleep. Since Bremner had called with the news of Tricia’s death, I had paced a path in my living room carpet not even the vacuum would get out. Going to bed had been no use either. Despite my use of many of the devices various therapists and doctors have suggested, sleep had been an elusive beast that night. I had read an entire novel in hopeful anticipation of bringing on shut-eye. But no matter how hard I had tried, each time I had closed my eyes, my previous images of Carl romantically involved with Tricia Bellamy were replaced with images of Carl killing her.

I had no idea how she’d died, where she’d been found or any other relevant details. Who knew how much more information the principal would be able to provide? It was even possible the two events were coincidental. If Tricia was the kind of student who could concoct wildly believable stories in order to wreak revenge for some imagined wrong, she may very well have been the kind of person who was engaged in extracurricular activities that would endanger her life. In fact, if she was making up the story she had told me about her and Carl, this kid was probably into all kinds of hallucinogens and was running with the type of crowd that could provide them for her. She also could simply have been hit by a car.

Still, I couldn’t help thinking that Carl should have called me. He had to know if Tricia’s story had gone any further than the three of us, sooner or later the police would be looking at him as a suspect in her death. I had made it clear that I was his lawyer now; the fact he hadn’t called me to express concern threw all kinds of new doubts into my opinion of his credibility.

An eerie gloom hung over Sir John A. Macdonald Secondary School when I pulled into the parking lot. Usually one of the earliest to arrive at school in the morning, I could see that today most of the faculty was already present. Seeing a Vancouver Police squad car at the front of the building wasn’t an entirely unusual sight for an East Vancouver high school. Seeing five of them was.

The administrative office of the school was the only place where activity was raging. Phones were ringing off the hook as hapless secretaries confirmed to anxious parents what they had already heard on their morning news shows: “Yes, there has been a student killed. No, we’re not releasing the name of the student yet. Yes, there will be school today. No, students do not have to come if they are too distraught. Yes, grief counsellors will be available to anyone who needs them.”

I walked in and, as a reflex habit checked my mailbox for messages. There were four from parents informing me they were keeping their kids at home for the day. I couldn’t blame them. Today was going to suck.

“Good morning, Winston,” said Fiona, the school’s matronly head secretary and unofficial surrogate grandmother to students and staff.

“Good morning,” I returned glumly. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. I have to be. Students will be in here all day. How about you?”

“I’m all right. This is going to be pretty horrible, I’m betting.”

“Yes. It will. You didn’t teach her?” It wasn’t really a question. Like most public schools, there was always one secretary who held the fabric of the institution together and knew what was happening. Fiona was ours. She would already have known not only that I hadn’t taught Tricia, but also everyone who had. Those teachers would get special acknowledgment from Fiona when or if they arrived.

“No,” I replied, “I didn’t.”

“Lovely girl. Good family. Her mother is on the parent advisory council. She’s . . . she was a terrific young lady.” Fiona did her stoic best to maintain her always present poise.

“That’s what I hear.”

“Staff meeting’s in the library,” Fiona said, snapping back to attention.

“Thanks,” I said, gathering the stash of messages, memos and assorted school paperwork and turning for the door.

The staff assembled in the library was not the normal, chipper group of colleagues who traded bullshit, gossip and grievances in the lounge. You would think a group of people who work with teenagers day in and day out would be used to the idea that at some point something bad would happen to one of them. The school had not escaped its share of tragedy in the past. There had been students killed in car crashes, and one or two had suffered an untimely end due to illness. But from the muffled conversations around the room, I gathered that no J. Mac kid had been killed during the school year for many years.

I looked around the room for Carl but didn’t see him. Within a few minutes of my arrival, nearly the entire faculty and support staff were gathered, and still there was no sign of my colleague-turned-client. I was about to slip out the door to phone him at home when Don McFadden, Sir John A. Macdonald’s bland and generally considered inept principal, arrived to start the meeting. There was no effort to arrange tables in the room for people to sit in any sort of formal fashion. It was enough just to give Don attention for a few moments so he could begin the proceedings.

“Good morning,” Don began. “Thank you everyone for coming in early this morning. This is one of those things they don’t prepare you for in principal school.” Murmurs of acknowledgment emanated from the gathered staff. As Don resumed speaking, I looked up with some relief to see Carl slip quietly into the library. He took a seat on an easy chair next to the rotating rack of pulp fiction by the window.

“As you know, I’ve assembled us here this morning to discuss some tragic news that was given to me last night.” Don paused. I can’t say I was a fan of my new boss, but at this moment at least, he seemed much more human than he had since I’d first met him during my interview. “By now, you are all aware one of our Grade Twelve students, Tricia Bellamy, was killed yesterday. There is no easy way for me to say this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. According to the police, Tricia was murdered.”

The expected gasps, murmurs and sounds of disbelief flowed out of the collected staff. A slight buzz travelled around the room as some teachers had their speculations confirmed while others reacted with disbelief that one of our own could have found her end through murder. Don raised his hands to the staff to regain the room’s attention, while I glanced over to Carl to gauge his reaction. He caught my eye, and in his I detected genuine sadness.

“People, please,” Don continued, “students will be here shortly, and I really want to get through this.” The buzz of quiet conversations began to diminish as people returned their focus to the principal.

“Don, what happened?” asked George Kyle, the head of the math department.

“I don’t have a whole lot of information for you. And that’s important, because there will be lots of speculation among the kids, and I don’t want to start any kind of false rumours floating around out there.”

“What do you know?” came a second question. This one came from Carl.

Don paused and looked slowly and carefully at Carl for a moment before responding. “The police contacted me at home about nine last night. Tricia’s body was found in the middle of a soccer field at a park close to her home. A neighbour walking her dog caught sight of her and called the police. She . . . umm . . . she had her student card and driver’s licence with her, so . . . identification was made very quickly. The police got in touch with me only about five or ten minutes after the body was found.”

A teacher towards the back of the room was no longer able to contain herself and broke down in tears. She was quickly comforted by colleagues around her, plunging the room into an uncomfortable silence. I eventually broke it.

“Don,” I asked, perhaps a bit too clinically, “do we know how she was killed?”

“Yes. We do. And we should be as clear as we possibly can when students ask, without traumatizing them any more than absolutely necessary.” He paused a moment to check the notes on paper he held in his slightly quaking hands. “The coroner’s preliminary examination indicates the cause of death was strangulation.”

“Oh, God,” came the voice of another teacher who couldn’t contain her emotions and joined the first teacher in tears.

“And, because it is likely to come up from scared students, there is, as yet, no indication of . . . umm . . . . sexual assault,” he continued.

“At least she didn’t suffer that,” one of the school’s senior teachers of home economics added to the discussion.

“Have the police made any arrests?” I pressed further, trying to focus the conversation away from details of the crime.

“No,” Don replied. In that moment, for a very brief second, Don flashed a glance towards Carl. The look was so fleeting, I wondered if I had imagined it. “They have not arrested anyone. But, from what I have been told, they do not believe this was the act of a random killer. They do have suspects.”

“It’s not anyone at the school, is it?” one of the counsellors asked.

Don left an uncomfortable pause, seemingly unsure of how to respond. “I’m afraid I can’t really say at the moment,” he finally managed.

“What?” Christine from the English department demanded. “What the hell does that mean? Are you saying the police think Tricia was murdered by someone at the school?”

“I’m not saying anything like that,” Don countered. “I’m saying the police have instructed me not to say anything at all about suspects. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Don,” Christine protested further, “if there is a student in the school who may be dangerous to other students or to ourselves, we deserve to know. How am I supposed to teach my classes when I’m worrying about one of my kids being a killer?”

Similar comments of outrage followed Christine’s. “People,” Don cried out. “People, please! Listen to me.” The room quieted down again, and he continued slowly. “I don’t have any reason to believe that one of our students is a threat to anyone in the building. The police do not believe this is a random act. They will be here today. They will likely conduct interviews with all of Tricia’s teachers.” This time it was unmistakable, as Don shot another furtive glance towards Carl. “They will also probably be talking to her friends. So if a police officer comes to your door and wants to speak to anyone, please, just cooperate.”

No protest came from the group this time as the magnitude of the day to come was beginning to sink in. “Most importantly,” Don resumed, “please remember the most important thing is that we are all here for the kids. There are going to be some very upset kids today. The district will have extra counsellors here for any student who wants to come down and talk. They will set up here in the library. If you see any student who is responding particularly badly, whatever that may mean, feel free to quietly suggest to that student that they can come down here to talk to a counsellor. And,” he paused for a moment, “that offer goes to all staff as well, especially those of you who taught her. Don’t take this on yourself. These counsellors will be happy to talk with you, too.”

The bell to signal five minutes to first period rang and broke the silence that had fallen on the room. “Okay,” Don said. “Let’s go out there and do our best. If anyone needs anything from us, get a hold of me or anyone in the office.”

Teachers began shuffling reluctantly towards the door. This was not something I ever thought I would have to face as a teacher. Carl, I noticed, appeared to be making a conscious effort to avoid making eye contact with me. The lawyer side of me had doubts about the story he had been telling me. The teacher side of me knew that if Carl was telling the truth—if Trish had essentially been seeking revenge for some perceived wrong—Carl could very well simply be hurting from the loss of a student he’d taught and cared about.

I had just about reached the door to the library when I noticed the principal step beside Carl and take him gently by the arm, whispering into his ear. Once that happened, I had no choice but to abandon my plans to head to first period class and intervene in the conversation taking place between Don and Carl.

“Hey Carl,” I began, sauntering casually up to the two men. “What’s up?”

“Sorry, Winston,” Don interrupted before Carl could reply. “You’ll have to excuse us. We’re just about to go have a little meeting.”

I looked at Carl, carefully sending a question with my eyes. “You have a first period class, don’t you, Carl?”

“Yes,” he replied uneasily.

“There’s a substitute coming in who’s going to look after the class for a few minutes,” Don said with contrived casualness.

“What do you want to see me about, Don?” Carl asked.

“Listen, I’d rather not talk about it right here. Just come to my office so we can talk about this . . . this unfortunate situation.”

“No,” I interjected. “No, Carl, that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Don looked at me incredulously. I couldn’t really blame him. Who was this upstart teacher with less than three months of tenure to tell the principal what is and is not appropriate? He took a few seconds to couch his response, which told me his meeting with Carl most definitely was not coincidental; somehow he knew something about Carl and Tricia, and he was planning to talk to Carl about it.

Finally, he recovered his composure enough to put on a stern principal’s look. “Winston, I’m not sure what you mean. Carl and I are just going to have a little talk.”

“Great. I’ll come with you,” I replied calmly and quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the remaining staff to our little hubbub in the corner.

“Okay,” Carl said, “that would be great. Why don’t you come with me, Win?”

“Hold on,” Don objected. “Winston, this is a private matter between Carl and me.” Don leaned just slightly towards me, attempting to use his size to intimidate. Why do so many ex-football players end up as high school principals?

“There are no strictly private matters between teacher and principal, Don. We both know that. I’m coming with Carl, or he isn’t coming.” I talk tough for a skinny guy. But I can also run fast.

“Since when are you the staff’s union representative?”

Bringing my voice to barely above a whisper, I replied, “I’m not. I’m his lawyer.”

Don froze like deer in a headlight. Unfortunately, I had just given Don a whole lot of information long before I wanted to. But now it was out there, at least between the three of us.

“My office,” he eventually said. “Let’s talk.”