Читать книгу Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle - David Russell W. - Страница 11

The cold, crisp, sunny November morning of the previous day did not repeat itself. That’s not unusual. I couldn’t say how infrequent sunny November days are—I’m not a weatherman—but I know how much I celebrate the few we have.

Wednesday morning, I did not need my alarm clock to wake me. The sound of sheets of rain slapping against the sliding glass patio door was enough to jolt me awake. Unfortunately, it was only 3:47 am. One of my many flaws, according to my ex-wife, is my remarkable inability to return to slumber once the gods of awakedom have shown even the slightest interest in me. I’ve tried reading, late night/early morning TV, praying, cursing. It doesn’t matter. Once I’m up, I’m up.

When you get up that early, not even the newspaper is there to keep you company. Despite contributing to the demise of my marriage, insomnia did do me some physical good. For a lack of anything better to do, my long-term lack of slumber had led me to a nearly six-year career of early morning running. The previous year, I had celebrated the finality of my divorce by running my first marathon. I hadn’t won, but it hadn’t killed me either. It also hadn’t helped me sleep any better.

The bitter, icy rain this November morning effectively countered the sweat I built up as I finished my traipse out past the Jericho yacht club, along Spanish Banks to the edge of the university lands and back. There was almost no need to shower after the wicked pre-dawn downpour, but I still had all this time to kill. Generally, after showering and dressing, I read the two daily newspapers to fill the hours before a teacher can reasonably be expected to arrive at school in the morning.

One of the many advantages of living down by the beach and working at Sir John A. was that my morning commute was against traffic. In Vancouver’s Lower Mainland, the bulk of traffic traditionally heads west from the outer suburbs into the downtown core. When you already live West, at least getting to work in the morning isn’t inordinately stressful.

Of course, it also doesn’t afford you much time to prepare mentally for unpleasant tasks on your to-do lists, like asking your colleague if he’s been sleeping with his seventeen-year-old biology student. Unfortunately, reporting back to Carl was job number one of the day.

It may have potentially made it more difficult for Carl to start his day with an unpleasant visit from me, but I knew I would probably be ineffective in the classroom if I didn’t get this off my chest. Coincidentally, it was on my lesson plan to discuss the criminal definition of sexual harassment with my Law Twelve class, but I was planning to steer the conversation away from relationships between students and their teachers as an example of what could be classed as a criminally inappropriate relationship.

In my three months of teaching experience, I had found that arriving at the school around seven thirty in the morning afforded me some quiet time to mentally prepare for the day. I admire those teachers who can run in at the last minute as the bell is ringing and begin their day without any panic kicking in. I need to coast into my teaching duties. Get a feel for the room. Anticipate what might lie ahead. I was always like that in court too, which wasn’t easy as a Legal Aid lawyer: I had spent as much of my time travelling between courtrooms as I had inside them. At least as a high school teacher, I pretty much got to stay in the same room all day. For less pay. With fewer breaks.

By the time I reached the entrance closest to the staff parking lot, I was already nearly soaked through. No sooner did I pass through the doorway than I literally crashed into Carl. Damn the proximity of the science wing. It was going to be that kind of day.

“Winston!” he practically shouted as I entered dripping through the doorway.

“Good morning, Carl. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I am a master of small talk.

“Listen, what’s happening?” he asked a little too loudly. Though we were alone, one lesson I had quickly learned in a high school was that the walls have ears. I had learned that in my second week, when I had called the photocopier a piece of shit while I thought I was alone with it. I’m now known as a technophobe with a hot temper.

“Not much. Let’s go into your classroom.” I gave my best surreptitious nod towards the door to remind him we needed privacy.

“Right.” Unlocking the classroom door—if it isn’t locked down, it won’t be there in the morning is a general rule—Carl ushered me inside the science lab.

I had managed to avoid taking a single science class since eleventh grade biology myself. By the last month of school, when it became apparent that even if I scored 100% on the final exam, I could not possibly hope to pass the course, I had left the class, dumping my textbook and notebook in the garbage can by the door, vowing never to return. Thus far, I had been successful. Completing my undergraduate degree at a university that did not require science for admission, I had managed to go from the age of seventeen right through university and law school without ever having to light another Bunsen burner. Being in Carl’s classroom was bringing it all back.

Sir John A. Macdonald isn’t the oldest school in Vancouver, not by a long shot, but despite being Canada’s third largest city, Vancouver has built a new high school for years, probably decades. J. Mac, as the school was known throughout the district, was really beginning to show its age. The room was long and narrow, with counters running along three walls. In the middle of the room, students would sit at banged up old pairs of tables, joined in the middle by a counter with a sink and one of those ridiculously long, tall faucets that were suddenly in fashion with studio loft apartment builders. It was depressing to think we were training future cancer researchers in this decrepit old facility.

“How you holding up this morning?” I asked him, looking for a stool on which to park my butt.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “How did it go with Trish yesterday? You talked to her, right?”

“Yeah. I did.” I could barely raise my head to look him in the eye. Carl wasn’t helping by being unexpectedly cheerful.

“And? Did she come clean? Did she tell you why she’s suddenly trying to wreck my life?”

“Not exactly, no.” Bracing myself for the storm that was no doubt to follow, I put myself into lawyer mode and pressed on. “Basically, she confirmed for me the...uh...the story she came to you with.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Carl.” I paused long enough to let out a sigh. It can have good dramatic impact. If I wore glasses, this would be when I would take them off to rub the bridge of my nose. “There is no easy way to tell you this, but Tricia did not recant her story when I confronted her with your version of events. In fact, she filled in a fair number of details.”

“What are you saying, Win?”

“I’m saying either Tricia Bellamy lies with the skill of a sociopath or that a physical relationship actually took place between the two of you.”

“Jesus Christ, Win! I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Carl exploded, as I had expected he would. But even I didn’t like the tone and the intensity of his voice.

“Would you calm down?”

“How the hell can I calm down?” he demanded. “This kid, this obviously disturbed, psychotic girl is trying to ruin me!”

Mustering up my courtroom bravado, I rose to face him as close to eye-to-eye as possible. “If you don’t calm down,” I hissed at him quietly, “Tricia won’t even have to ruin you. You’ll do it yourself.” Carl glared at me, his eyes two small circles of ice. “People are starting to arrive in the building, Carl. If you don’t keep your voice down, any hope of confidentiality is out the window.”

After a small eternity, he turned away from me and walked towards his desk at the front of the classroom. He sat down behind the teacher’s lab counter and became engrossed in a flint lighter used to light Bunsen burners. Also, if I remembered correctly, they could be used to torment people you didn’t like by lighting their hair on fire. Flick. Flick. Flick.

“Did you tell her you were my lawyer?” Flick. Flick. Flick.

“Yes. I did.”

“And that didn’t get her to change her story?”

“Is that what you were hoping would happen?” Flick. Flick. Fli...

“Well, yeah.”

“Why did you think telling her I was your lawyer would make her change her claim? Did you send me there to scare her?”

“Yeah, Win. I hoped that once she realized the seriousness of what she was saying, she would drop whatever she’s doing to me, and we could just go back to school without having to worry about being fired.”

“Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Tricia is legally a child. If you had a relationship with her...”

“She’s seventeen!”

“And according to her, the relationship has been going on for over a year. That means not only was she a minor, but she was unable to form consent, since you were in a position of authority over her. That means this isn’t just a civil matter. It’s criminal. We’re talking the potential for jail time.”

“But she’s lying! It’s not true!” Carl nearly yelled again.

“Carl.” I held up my hands. “Calm down.” He paused long enough to resume his role of flint flicker. Flick. Flick. Flick. “I said I would help you, and I will. I gave you my word, and I am now your legal counsel. If you had a relationship with Tricia Bellamy, you showed extremely poor judgment, and I certainly wouldn’t be proud of being your friend right now. But regardless, you have retained me as counsel, and I will see you through this.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a ‘but’ in there.”

“Okay...but?”

“But, if you aren’t telling me the truth, if you are or were sleeping with Tricia, I will not try to defend your actions. I will only see to it that you are treated with due process. You understand?”

“Okay.”

“And it would be really helpful if you would tell me up front the absolute truth.”

“Win, I’m telling you now. As God is my witness, Trish is making this up. I don’t know why, but she is going to destroy me. If she goes to the principal, it is inevitable that my wife will find out, and it will just create unnecessary stress. I did not sleep with Trish or any other student.”

Damned if I didn’t believe him. “Okay, Carl. That’s all I wanted to hear.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What do we do now?”

“There’s really nothing we can do. Now, we wait.”

“But...” I could feel his anxiety rising again.

“There’s nothing we can do. I talked to Tricia. I interviewed her. It’s possible she believes this story she’s telling. But even if she doesn’t, in my capacity as your lawyer, there is nothing I can do to prevent her from going to the principal with this story. All I can do is defend you against her allegations once she makes them.”

“But that’s insane,” he protested. “All it will take is for her to make a complaint, and I’m ruined.”

“There are things we can do if or when this gets into the legal arena. Discredit her story. Ensure reliable alibis. I’ll look after that. But we can’t tie her down and stop her from talking to Don.”

“Shit, it doesn’t matter whether or not you can get me off, Win. All she has to do is talk to Don and make an accusation, and I’m history.”

“Not necessarily,” I tried to reassure him, though I knew he was basically correct.

“Yes. I’m completely innocent, but every student, every other teacher, every principal, every parent is going to be looking at me like I’m some kind of sex fiend.”

“Just calm down, Carl.”

“No. I’ll end up having to transfer schools. And my wife will want to know why I’m leaving the school I love, and I’ll have to tell her some kid is claiming I banged her!”

“Carl.”

“No, Win. I can’t just sit back and wait for Trish to fuck up my life.” He got up and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to try to stop her.”

I took two steps after him to try to block his exit. “Wait. Do not go and talk to Tricia.”

He whirled and faced me, eyes blazing. “Why the hell not?”

“Because obviously, previous conversations you’ve had with her have not gone well. Getting confrontational with her is likely going to make her more angry.”

“I’m just going to talk to her.”

“Trust me. If I’m going to be your counsel, you’re going to have to listen to me.” I stepped between him and the door.

“Win, move.” Carl stepped back and put his hand to his forehead.

“Carl, listen to me. Just listen for a minute, okay?” I used my best soothing voice.

“Win, just get the hell out of my way, okay? I need to talk to Trish. I will not sit here and watch my life go to shit because of her.” His voice was steely cold. I actually felt just a little threatened, at least enough to step aside from the door.

“Okay.”

“I’m just going to talk to her, all right? Maybe I can fix this.” Almost as quickly as his rage had come, it was gone.

“All right,” I told him. It wasn’t.

He put his hand on my shoulder momentarily, then walked out the door.

Days like that rarely get better, and this day was no exception. The kids were kids, not wonderful, but no one went out of their way to make the day difficult for me either. Carl had largely taken that task on himself.

The most disturbing part of the day came at lunch. When teaching days are going poorly, there are basically two approaches to lunchtime. The first is that you lock yourself away in your classroom and catch up on marking or maybe read the paper. I had already read two newspapers before arriving, and the thought of reading my law class’s assignments, in which they discussed—probably quite poorly—‘sexual harassment in the workplace laws’, seemed a little too much to bear on this day. So I went to option two, which was to join my colleagues in the faculty lounge for empty chit-chat, bitching shop talk and plans for Christmas vacations. I can only spend so much time with adolescents before I need a bit of adult face time.

Walking into the staff room, I bumped headlong into Carl. It was as though he didn’t see me. Without so much as an “excuse me,” he shrugged by me and headed back towards the science wing.

“That was odd, don’t you think?” asked Christine, a petite English teacher who had walked in with me.

“Yeah,” I replied nonchalantly, “he must be having a bad day.”

“That’s just not like Carl. He’s always so friendly.”

“Yeah. That’s always been my impression of him too.” I let it drop at that, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation in which I pretended to speculate on the cause of Carl’s surly disposition.

For the second time in as many days, I made myself scarce after school, but not before looking in on Carl. To my surprise, he wasn’t in his biology lab, where you could almost guarantee he would have students in after school getting extra help on frog gutting and pig fetus dissecting assignments, but I couldn’t tell if he had gone for the day, and I didn’t really want to know. I knew he needed to blow off steam, and after the way we had parted before school, I didn’t want to get in his face until he had time to cool off and reflect overnight.

I had to admit it didn’t look good. His unexpected outburst aside, I still couldn’t shake my gut instinct that Carl was telling me the truth. That being the case, I totally understood why he was so angry at the thought of Tricia going to the principal. He was right. He and I would know, but to everyone else around the school, Carl Turbot would be damaged goods once this got out. Even the innocent are usually believed to have done something to warrant this kind of accusation from a student.

By ten that night, I was outright tired not only of mulling over Carl’s legal problems, but also of marking the aforementioned law class papers, so I surrendered to my Wednesday night weakness for Law and Order. Ten minutes into the program, and ten seconds into one of Fontana’s complaints about dirt on his Italian leather shoes, I put down my wine glass as the phone rang.

“Hello?” I asked on the third ring. Damn, I wished I had set up the VCR to tape the show.

“Winston? Winston Patrick?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Hey, Winston. It’s Ralph Bremner. From school,” came the gruff voice of the school’s P.E. department head.

“Ralph, what’s up?” I asked, not realizing that our meeting yesterday had cemented a friendship that warranted post ten p.m. phone calls.

“Sorry to call you so late. It’s kind of official. The principal called and asked me to take a few names on the phone list. We’re having an emergency staff meeting tomorrow morning. I’m just helping to spread the word.”

“Oh, all right. Any idea what it’s about?”

“Yeah, unfortunately I do. It’s a bit of a doozy. It’s actually about that kid you were talking to in my gym class yesterday. Tricia Bellamy.”

“What about her?” I asked, alarm rising in my throat like floodwaters.

“Jeez, Win, did you get to know her at all yesterday?” Ralph asked tentatively.

“Did I get to know her? Ralph, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Win. She’s dead.”