The Rector's Tale by John Grantner
A morally bankrupt high school principal takes extreme measures against a bully in his school.
Brian Flaherty sauntered into my office, looking smug and self-assured as usual. "Shut the door and have a seat, Mr. Flaherty," I said.
He dropped into the chair across from my desk and slouched, smirking at me. Flaherty was a football star that every teacher granted an undeserved passing grade because St. Brendan was a football powerhouse favored to win another state championship, and of course, football rules.
A muscle bound, dimwitted brute who made the lives of kids who were smaller and smarter than him a living hell, he was the kind of thug who was the bane of my existence all through my own high school days - privileged, with an overweening sense of entitlement, and a bully - and now that I was a high school principal, was the bane of my existence again.
"Do you know what this is about," I asked.
He shrugged. "Like I care?"
"You should care," I said, "this is serious."
"So the president of the chess club is whining because I gave him another swirly. Gimme a detention if you want." He smiled. "I'll be excused from it so I don't miss football practice."
"Oh, you've got more than that coming to you, sir," I said. "You're going to a criminal juvenile detention center, and you'll stay there until you're twenty-one years old."
I opened a drawer of my desk, pulled out a dozen small, sealed plastic bags of shiny crystals and dropped them in front of him. "I found these in your locker - I'm guessing they're not sugar packets. I assume the police lab will determine this is crystal meth. You're dealing drugs."
He pulled himself out of the slouch and stared at me wide eyed, his mouth hanging open, his lips quivering. In an instant, the self-assured thug had morphed into a scared little boy.
"Of course, a few years in 'juvie' is the best case scenario," I said, "For something as serious as selling meth in a high school - and since you're nearly eighteen years old - the state could try you as an adult and send you to prison."
He tried to regain his composure. "My locker's private," he said, "You can't search it without a warrant or something."
"I certainly can, my friend," I said, "Your locker is the property of St. Brendan High School, and I have the authority to open it at my discretion. That's why I have a master key for all the lockers. And that's spelled out in the waiver that you and your parents signed when you enrolled. You'd know that if you'd bothered to read it."
Of course, If I'd actually wanted Flaherty arrested I would have voiced suspicion to the dean of discipline about him dealing drugs, had the dean present as a witness when I searched the locker - as per St. Brendan's disciplinary guidelines - then called the police. I knew that having no corroboration and removing the evidence would taint it in a criminal case, but he didn't know that.
I had searched his locker the previous night, when the faculty and extracurricular students had long gone home. It was an exploratory mission - you could say it was along the lines of a sociological study - to learn what makes an incorrigible miscreant tick.
Sure, I thought, even hoped, I might find some sort of contraband that would warrant some kind of disciplinary action, but that was secondary.
When I found the packets of crystals tucked between some books, I knew I'd struck gold. This was worth more than hours of detention, more than suspension, this was expulsion and criminal charges material.
I placed the packets back where I'd found them, making sure all the items in his locker were exactly as he'd left them, and closed the locker. In the morning I'd meet with the dean of discipline and call the police.
Then it dawned on me: Flaherty was exactly the tool I needed to solve a larger problem. I needed somebody to do some dirty work, and he was the perfect candidate. I could confiscate the drugs - not telling anybody else about them - and use them as leverage.
In the morning, when Flaherty was in his first period class, I waited till the corridor was empty, quickly opened his locker and retrieved the drugs, and returned to my office and called him in to meet me.
He leaned forward in his chair, blinking back tears. "Please, Mr. Bergman, don't call the cops. This will ruin my life, it'll ruin my parents."
"Yes," I said "It will. You can say goodbye to the scholarship offers from Ohio and Penn State, but you should've thought of that before you decided to pedal narcotics. Oh well, you're young, after you're released you should be able to get back on your feet. Even though you'll have a criminal record, you'll probably be able to land some kind of a job to support yourself - for instance, sorting in a recycling plant."
"Please, sir," he whimpered. "Can't you give me another chance? Everybody deserves a second chance, don't they?"
I leaned back in my chair, sighed, and looked at him as though I were considering his plea. "A second chance? You're asking me to just make this go away. Why would I do that?"
He started to blubber. "Sir... Please..." his voice halting, "Gimme a break... I'll do anything you ask. Anything. Just gimme a break."
"You'll do anything? Really?"
"Yes, sir. Anything you say. Anything to make this right."
I swept the drugs into the open drawer, then closed and locked it. "All right. Meet me after school in Madison Park, 3:45 sharp, at the benches next to the tennis courts. Don't be late. We'll talk about it then."
"But I have football practice after school."
"You'll miss practice today. Be there."
I was sitting in my car parked across the street from the tennis courts when Flaherty arrived at 3:35. I watched him pace as he checked his phone every few minutes, until 3:55 - I figured I'd let him stew a bit, a little anxiety would serve him right - then I left my car and walked across the street.
"I was starting to think you weren't coming," he said.
I pointed to one of the benches, and sat. He took a seat to my right. We were both quiet for a moment. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, and held it next to his right thigh, trying to glance down at it without moving his head, poking at the screen as if he were texting in class.
"Put that damn thing away," I said.
He squirmed, cleared his throat, and pocketed the phone. "So now what?"
"So now," I said, "I'm the only one who can save your life, and you'll do anything I ask of you, right?"
"Right."
"No arguments. No negotiating."
"Yes, yes! God, stop playing around - what do you want from me?"
"I need you to do something for me. A service that requires the only talent you have."
"Football?"
"Not football, you blockhead. Violence."
"What do you mean by 'violence'?"
I handed him a printout of a photo with an address written on it. "You're to take a sick day from school tomorrow - do not have your parents call in, that's important - I'll cover for you. This is the address of a high-rise. Be there at 8:30 and watch for this man. I want you to work him over, hard, break a few bones. And take his wallet, so it looks like a robbery."
"Holy shit!" He said.
"You may keep his cash, but wipe the wallet clean of fingerprints, and dump it immediately. Do not take his credit cards. If you're caught with them, you're going to jail.
"Burn the printout immediately," I said, "That's very important. It's also evidence that would convict you." And me, too after he'd tell the police who gave him the printout.
"What? You can't be serious, man. I'm not gonna do that."
"Yes, you will. I don't know why you're being so squeamish - violence is your stock in trade."
"Jesus! What's this guy done to you?"
"That's none of your business."
"I think it should be, if I'm the one taking the risk." He smirked, "This guy's been fucking your old lady, is that it?"
"Shut up!"
He grinned, "Ha! That's what this is. Can't keep her satisfied, can ya. Probably can't even get it up. I'm not surprised."
He'd struck a nerve and he knew it, he could read it on my face. I was losing my composure - big mistake.
"Just keep your filthy mouth shut," I said, "and follow your instructions." I tossed him a black ski mask. "Make sure you're wearing this. There'll be security cameras, so put it on before you arrive at his place. And burn it immediately afterwards."
"What if I say no?"
"No? You can't say no, you moron, remember? I've got you by the short hairs, Flaherty."
"So, the stash of crystal meth that you showed me in your office this morning, you're still holding it?"
"Of course I still have it," I said, "I wouldn't be able to use it against you if I got rid of it, could I? And if you don't do what I want, I'm telling the police that I found it in your locker."
"And after I beat this guy up for you?"
"Then you'll have nothing to worry about."
"Understood."
He stood, smiling. "I'm going home now, enjoy the rest of your day Mr. Bergman."
I knew I was taking a major risk by trusting a stupid lump of meat like Flaherty to do the job and not screw it up, but he was my only option - I couldn't very well do a Google search for "thugs for hire".
The following day I fixed it so that Flaherty wouldn't be accused of an unexcused absence. That evening at home, I turned on the television news. There was nothing about a violent assault downtown.
That's odd, I thought. This is the sort of stuff they love - when it bleeds, it leads, as the saying goes in journalism.
My wife Carol was behaving as if nothing were amiss. Something's wrong here, I thought. If her boyfriend had been beaten to a pulp and robbed, certainly she'd know about it, and she'd be upset and show it. She's not that cold-hearted. Quite the opposite - considering the near daily tearful harangues about how unsatisfying her life had been married to me - I'd say she's overly emotional.
Carol and I both know we should never have married. We never satisfied each other emotionally or physically, and stayed together because it would've been inconvenient not to. By the time I was being considered for a position as principal in a conservative Catholic high school, divorce would have been problematic. She couldn't afford divorce financially, regardless of the alimony, with her bachelor's degree in Theatre Arts and no meaningful job experience for the previous twenty years.
A resentment grew between us that turned to anger, and exchanging volleys of insults.
I'd belittle her efforts at poetry and photography, calling them pathetic attempts to play 'sophisticate'. Not fooling anyone, I'd say, you're a dilettante and everybody's laughing at you.
She'd ridicule my career goals and achievements. You're a high school principal in a private school system, she'd say, a mid-sized fish in a tiny pond - and that makes you feel powerful and important. How sad.
I'd mock her appearance: Don't tell me you can't lose weight, you won't lose weight - trying saying 'no' to a slice of pizza now and then.
She'd repeat to me and anybody who'd listen that all of her friends told her she could have done better than marrying a bore like me. Everybody we know thinks you're a tedious bore, she'd say, even your own family.
When she started spending long evenings away from home several times a week, often returning well after 1:00 AM - supposedly going to her book club at first, now her pottery class - that's when I started to follow her and discovered that she'd hooked up with our financial advisor.
That was the ultimate humiliation, and damnit, I was determined to hit back harder. I wanted to hurt them both, and I figured hurting him badly would hurt her as well.
At around five o'clock, Carol came into the living room where I was watching TV, saying, "Your dinner's on the table. I'm going to my pottery class, as usual, then out for drinks with the girls. Don't wait up."
So, I thought, Flaherty lost his nerve.
At 8 AM the next morning, I switched on the intercom. "Brian Flaherty, report to the principal's office immediately."
He walked into my office, smiling. "Good morning, Mr. Bergman," he chirped.
"Don't 'good morning' me," I said, "You didn't do what you were told, did you?"
"No, sir, I didn't."
"And why not?"
Still smiling, he pulled out his phone. "Let's see," he said as he tapped at the screen, "I believe it's at the three minute mark where it gets really good."
He held up his phone as the recording played:
"...I've got you by the short hairs, Flaherty."
"So, the stash of crystal meth that you showed me in your office this morning, you're still holding it?"
"Of course I still have it, I wouldn't be able to use it if I got rid of it. And if you don't do what I want, I'm telling the police that I found it in your locker."
"And after I beat this guy up for you?"
"Then you'll have nothing to worry about."
"This sounds to me like the meth belongs to you," he said, "and you're threatening to frame an innocent student, trying to blackmail him into committing a crime. I think the cops will hear it that way too."
He put the phone in his pocket. "I think this is what the chess club geeks would call, 'checkmate', isn't it," he said, "I'm not sure, I don't know anything about chess."
"You bastard!"
"I own you now, bitch, now you're the one who has to do what I say." He held out his hand. "For starters, you can give me back my meth."
I didn't sleep that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling stupid being outwitted by that ape. Something as simple and commonplace as recording with a phone - even he could figure that out, but it didn't occur to me.
Now what? He'd be an even worse disciplinary problem at school, that was a given, but what else? Probably demand money. Or more. Worse. I opened that door, extorting him to commit criminal battery and robbery.
He'd always have that recording, I thought, probably downloaded it to a hard drive as soon as he got home.
And there are security cameras in the school running 24/7/365, and they recorded me rummaginging through Flaherty's locker - twice - the day before I tried to blackmail him, and the next morning. That footage, together with the phone recording, would destroy me.
For a week I waited for the other shoe to drop. Nothing. Flaherty would occasionally pass me in the corridor, and he'd show no flicker of recognition, as if I weren't even there, while I'd expected a knowing, sly, 'I've got you now motherfucker' grin.
But I knew he wasn't going to be content that I returned his meth, and let bygones be bygones. He was biding his time.
I had dismissed Flaherty as a blockhead, but I hadn't considered that a blockhead could be cunning.
2
My desk phone rang. It was my secretary. "There's a student who wants to talk to you. He doesn't have an appointment, and I told him you're busy, but he insists you'll want to see him."
"Who is he?"
"Brian Flaherty."
"Send him in."
So it begins, I thought.
Closing the door behind him, Flaherty strolled in - grinning, his hands in his pockets - and sat on the credenza next to my desk.
"How are you this fine day, Mr. Bergman?"
"What do you want?"
"Kinda grumpy today, aren't we. The principal's supposed to be our pal."
He was taunting me. Toying with me like a cat with a mouse. It took all the strength I had to maintain my composure.
"State your business and get out of here Flaherty. I'm busy, and you should be in class."
"Business. Yeah, exactly why I'm here. Meet me at Madison Park, same spot, tonight - 5:30 this time, I don't wanna miss football practice. We'll talk about it then."
I arrived at the park at 5:35-I knew he wouldn't be there at 5:30-and sat on the same bench. At 5:48 I saw him strolling between the swings and monkeybars in the children's play area, holding a styrofoam cup, the straw stuck in his mouth. As he approached, I could hear the loud gurgling of his spent beverage echoing in the cup with each pull on the straw, the ice cubes rattling as he shook the cup, and gurgling as he sucked again. It seemed he enjoyed making the sound, like a small child would.
"Hey, Mr. Bergman," he said, "I keep you waiting long? Sorry, I needed a cheeseburger after practice."
He took a final, long, pull on the straw, turned and threw the cup. It sailed in a rainbow arc into the center of a trashcan thirty feet away.
He pumped his fist. "Three points!"
"Let's not waste any time, Flaherty," I said, "What do you want?"
"That's what I like about you, Mr. Bergman: No beating around the bush. Okay, I'll get right to it. I'm holding that audio file of our conversation, and I figure you should be paying me a storage fee. I Googled it, and your salary is around a hundred-sixty-K a year - that's good money for doing nothing - so I figure a thousand a week would be fair."
"That's a third of my salary. I can't pay that!"
"Hm. Well I'm a reasonable guy, so I tell ya what - instead of paying me, you can do me a service."
"What kind of 'service'?"
Handing me a slip of paper, he said, "Thursday night, you're gonna drive me to this address, I'm going to be there ten minutes or so, and then you're gonna drive me back. Meet me in Fido's parking lot, 7:00 PM."
"Fido? Who's Fido?"
"Jesus, Fido's. The hotdog place on Harrison and 14th."
I could only assume he was planning a drug deal, or something else criminal, and I'd be directly involved. I checked the slip of paper. The address was a decaying neighborhood of the inner city, with mostly abandoned buildings - light industrial, warehouses, plus some residential - puncuated with empty lots strewn with rubble and weeds. Not the sort of place a paunchy, middle-aged, suburban, high school principal driving a Lexus wants to be.
"Why don't you drive yourself?"
"Because my old man has been a real asshole lately about borrowing his car, and yours is available."
"What do I get in return for the chauffeur service?"
"In return, I won't charge you for storing the audio."
For now, I thought. Later, when you want some easy cash? And of course, you'll always want another 'service'. This would never end. I was under his thumb, and there was no escape.
"Alright, I'll see you Monday at seven."
I couldn't sleep that night, and sat in my study, thinking. I'm no longer in control of my life. Flaherty's eighteen, I'm forty-seven, for as long as I live I'll be subject to his every whim.
There was no conceivable way to undo this. It would go on until one of us died, and now that I was permanently attached to Flaherty in drug trafficking - and God knows who else by extension - that could be me at any moment. He had to die first.
Deciding to murder Flaherty wasn't easy. The idea of taking another human life would have seemed outrageous ten days earlier, but now I saw it had become a practical necessity.
Morally? Flaherty's existence is a detriment to humanity, I thought, he's a thug peddling lethal narcotics in a school. And now the thug is a threat to an educator, a respected, productive citizen dedicated to the common good.
I resolved the moral question: killing can be justified - the good war, the individual justifiable homicide - and this was such a case. Flaherty's death would not only be no loss for humanity, it would be a net gain. Killing him was the right thing to do.
Easy to say, I thought, but how? I can't do it face-to-face, shooting or stabbing him. Then how?
I had to find a way to kill him and get away with it, and do it as soon as possible. My life had gone off the rails, and my future would be dangerous, unpredictable, and short unless I somehow got it back on the rails.
Figuring out how to do that would have to wait. Thursday night was the matter at hand, and I could be killed then.
I can't go there defenseless, I thought. Buying a gun would be impossible on this short notice, plus even if I could there'd be a legal record of the sale that could come back to haunt me. I have Grandpa's little 'stinger'. It's small, only holds two shots, but it's a gun, and it's unregistered.
It took me a few minutes to rummage through a file cabinet and find the cigar box with the gun. A nickel-plated, double-barrel derringer with mother of pearl grips, the frame engraved with a swirling floral design, it was the personal protection favored by dandified card sharps and dancehall girls in Hollywood Westerns.
The bullets laying loose were short and squat, and looked like Lego accessories.
My grandfather bought the gun when he ran a hardware store in a rough neighborhood in the 1940s. It was only effective in close quarters, but that suited him. When I was a boy, he'd allowed me to fire a few rounds at tin cans. Now it seemed smaller than I'd remembered.
Not much of a match for machine pistols, but it was something anyway, and its toy-like size made it easy to conceal in any pocket.
I closed the box and put it in a desk drawer, beneath some papers. There was nothing else I could do but wait for Thursday.
3
Thursday evening, and I was driving with Flaherty, the radio blasting as he continuously switched mid-song to different stations.
Jesus, he has the attention span of a gnat, I thought. "Dammit Flaherty, just pick a station. It all sounds the same anyway."
He switched the radio off. "So this place we're going is a junkyard," he said, "They're closed at night. You're gonna blink the lights once as we approach and park near the fence. Don't block the entrance driveway, that pisses them off."
I rested my hand on my left jacket pocket and felt the derringer. It wasn't much comfort.
"Then what?" I asked.
"Then, like I said, you wait in the car while I do some business, and we go home. And we can stop for some tacos on the way."
Arriving at the junkyard, I cruised to the side of the street, blinking the lights, and rolled to a stop. A pair of pitbulls in the yard flung themselves against the chain link fence, barking and snarling frantically. A young man approached us, looking suspiciously at me, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
Flaherty lowered his window, and said, "Yo, It's me. Don't worry about him, he's my ride tonight."
He grabbed a gym bag he'd brought, got out of the car, and walked to the darkened office shack. The man in the hoodie remained outside, not taking his eyes off of me.
My heart was pounding like it wanted to burst out of my chest. I began to feel nauseous.
I can't do this again, I thought, ever. I have to kill him tonight, if I don't, I'll die. But can I find the nerve to shoot and kill a human being? It's not the same as shooting tin cans as a kid.
This would be the neighborhood to do it in. The streets are dark for a major city - only streetlights and almost no lit windows. Little traffic. No security cameras in an abandoned, ruined area like this.
How? I'd have to play it by ear - something I hate doing.
Flaherty returned ten minutes later, plopped into the seat next to me, dropping the gym bag on the floor between his feet.
"We're done here," he said, "let's go, I'm hungry."
I began to drive, and he turned on the radio, again surfing from station to station. Just as well, I thought, I don't want a conversation. Now is the time to think.
If Flaherty's found shot dead in this neighborhood, the police will see another upper middle class, suburban, white kid gone bad. He fell in with nasty people and paid for it - a familiar story. They'd have no reason to think anybody other than gangbangers killed him. That gives me some security.
But shooting him, I thought, with the toy I have I'll have to be close, just a few feet away, and he's eighteen years old and built like a bull, and I'm not. If I can find a way to divert his attention, even if for a couple of seconds - and in one quick motion, pull out the gun, cock it, pull the trigger. If I hesitate, I'm dead.
Flaherty nudged my elbow. "Pull over," he said, "I have to piss."
This is my chance, I thought. I might not get another one.
I scanned the area, looking for an alley. I saw a dark, narrow service alley between two gutted buildings, and headed for it.
"C'mon, pull over," he said, "I've been holding it for half an hour."
"I'm looking for a place with a little privacy."
"Privacy? You joking? You think there's anybody around here who gives a shit about pissing on the street?"
"I have to go too, and I like my privacy, so you can keep holding it for an extra few seconds, it won't kill you."
"Jeez, you're a delicate daisy, Mr. Bergman."
I turned into the service alley and continued deeper between the buildings.
"Stop the car," he snapped, "my bladder's gonna burst."
I hit the brakes and stopped. He hopped out of the car, unzipped, and released a stream against a brick wall. I got out of the car and walked toward him, pulling the derringer out of my pocket and aiming as I approached, my mouth dry, my heart pounding, my hand holding the gun shaking.
I stood behind him as he was finishing, the gun inches from his head. He was zipping up.
Now. I have to do it now. In another second it will be too late.
He turned and saw the gun, quivering in front of his face, and stared at it, befuddled. I squeezed the trigger, and there was a loud, sharp, 'pop'. He fell back against the wall, and slid to the pavement, blood gushing from the hole in his head.
I was shaking, nauseous, dizzy, my heart pounding - I knew I was having either a heart attack or a panic attack. I have to get out of here as fast as possible, I thought.
His phone. The police will search his phone and the recording may still be on it. The gun and the phone - I have to get rid of them, but not in this neighborhood, where the police might find them.
I searched his pockets, grabbed the phone, and ran to my car.
Backing out of the alley - the tires screeching, almost sideswiping a wall - I sped away. Ten minutes drive through this Hellscape to the freeway, I thought, then I can breathe easier.
Flaherty's gym bag caught my eye.
Dammit! That's his inventory. I've got to get rid of that. The gun. The phone. The drugs. Where to dump them?
I'll drop them in a sewer, I thought, in a hoity-toity, low crime neighborhood, miles from here.
No, to fit the gym bag I'd have to lift an iron manhole cover and put it back in place.
A dumpster, that's it. One behind a restaurant or grocery market would have garbage picked up every morning. Once it's in a garbage truck, no one will find it. A few days later it's in a landfill and gone forever.
I drove to a big-box warehouse store and bought some heavy-duty plastic trash bags. Sitting in my parked car, I unzipped the gym bag and dropped the phone and gun inside where they nestled into dozens of packets of meth.
A few of these planted in Flaherty's locker would support the suspicion that he was killed during a drug deal, I thought. Should I? It's risky. It would be the third time school security cameras have recorded me rummaging in his locker.
I'm banking on the police not combing through the security archive, especially video recorded in off hours when students wouldn't be there. If Flaherty's murder twelve miles away seems cut and dried, why would they?
I don't know, but there's always the possibility they will. Well, I'm already recorded twice, so a third time won't make a difference.
I grabbed a handful of the packets and stuffed them into a jacket pocket, zipped the gym bag closed, and sealed it in a plastic trash bag.
The next forty-five minutes were spent looking for a suitable dumpster. The alleys behind every restaurant, produce market, and grocery store, were washed with bright, cold light. Of course, security cameras were everywhere. Now what?
Now, I thought, miles from the crime scene a camera will have recorded another person dumping their garbage in a commercial dumpster at night, that's what. Shouldn't be a problem. One of a hundred cameras recording dumpers that night, and nobody cares.
I parked around the corner from a small restaurant, put on a baseball cap, and dropped the garbage bag in a dumpster, rearranging the other bags to cover mine.
I found myself miles from home, an hour's drive or more. It didn't matter. I couldn't sleep that night anyway.
4
5:50 AM, an hour before faculty would start arriving, and there were only a few maintenance and cafeteria staff in the school.
I stopped in my office, grabbed the lockers master key, and headed to Flaherty's locker.
The corridors were empty, and dimly lit as the lighting was still on overnight energy saving mode. My footsteps echoed and seemed surprisingly loud in the emptiness. Damn these leather heels and soles!
I arrived at his locker, and paused to look around and ensure I was alone. As quickly as possible, I opened the locker, stuffed the drugs between two books, closed it, and walked away.
Back in my office, I sat at my desk with a file folder open in front of me, so I'd appear to be working.
Now to wait.
My desk phone rang, startling me out of a daze. I checked the clock: 7:01.
I answered, "Bergman."
"Mr. Bergman, Detective Lieutenant Brownlow, CPD here. Please meet me at the front entrance, there's a police matter involving one of your students."
"Police? What's this about," I said.
"I prefer to give you the details in person, sir."
"Of course. I'll be there shortly."
I rushed out of my office, striding down the corridor. Whoa, slow down, I thought, don't be breathing hard when you meet him. You're the principal, you're always calm and in control. Steady. Dignified.
A man in a dark gray suit showed me his badge as I opened the door and stepped outside. "Detective Lieutenant Brownlow," he said.
"Miles Bergman. So, what's this about, Lieutenant?"
"One of your senior students, Brian Flaherty, was shot and killed last night. His body was found at about 1:00 AM."
"Oh, my God."
"He was found in a rough neighborhood, where there's a lot of gang activity and drug dealing. No signs of a struggle and we've determined the body wasn't dumped there. So it seems he went there of his own volition. That's a long way from home for a privileged, middle class, white kid. I'm afraid the only plausible reason he'd willingly be in that neighborhood would be buying drugs."
"What a tragedy," I said, "we all thought Brian had a bright future ahead of him."
"Yes," Brownlow said, "it is. I've seen it happen too often." He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket. "So, I have a warrant to search Brian's locker."
"Of course, I'll direct you there."
"Thanks. Also, what is your availability this afternoon? I need to interview you in detail about Brian."
"I'll check my planner."
I pulled the notebook from my jacket pocket and flipped it open. As often happens, a few items - notes, business cards and such - spilled out to the ground.
Brownlow bent to pick them up, saying, "Allow me."
"Thank you," I said.
I looked down and saw - between the business card for my auto mechanic, and the schedule for the Spring Educational Administrators Conference - one of the packets of meth, a straggler left behind when I rushed to plant its companions in Flaherty's locker.
That was the moment I knew that I would never get my life back on the rails.
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1
Brian Flaherty sauntered into my office, looking smug and self-assured as usual. "Shut the door and have a seat, Mr. Flaherty," I said.
He dropped into the chair across from my desk and slouched, smirking at me. Flaherty was a football star that every teacher granted an undeserved passing grade because St. Brendan was a football powerhouse favored to win another state championship, and of course, football rules.
A muscle bound, dimwitted brute who made the lives of kids who were smaller and smarter than him a living hell, he was the kind of thug who was the bane of my existence all through my own high school days - privileged, with an overweening sense of entitlement, and a bully - and now that I was a high school principal, was the bane of my existence again.
"Do you know what this is about," I asked.
He shrugged. "Like I care?"
"You should care," I said, "this is serious."
"So the president of the chess club is whining because I gave him another swirly. Gimme a detention if you want." He smiled. "I'll be excused from it so I don't miss football practice."
"Oh, you've got more than that coming to you, sir," I said. "You're going to a criminal juvenile detention center, and you'll stay there until you're twenty-one years old."
I opened a drawer of my desk, pulled out a dozen small, sealed plastic bags of shiny crystals and dropped them in front of him. "I found these in your locker - I'm guessing they're not sugar packets. I assume the police lab will determine this is crystal meth. You're dealing drugs."
He pulled himself out of the slouch and stared at me wide eyed, his mouth hanging open, his lips quivering. In an instant, the self-assured thug had morphed into a scared little boy.
"Of course, a few years in 'juvie' is the best case scenario," I said, "For something as serious as selling meth in a high school - and since you're nearly eighteen years old - the state could try you as an adult and send you to prison."
He tried to regain his composure. "My locker's private," he said, "You can't search it without a warrant or something."
"I certainly can, my friend," I said, "Your locker is the property of St. Brendan High School, and I have the authority to open it at my discretion. That's why I have a master key for all the lockers. And that's spelled out in the waiver that you and your parents signed when you enrolled. You'd know that if you'd bothered to read it."
Of course, If I'd actually wanted Flaherty arrested I would have voiced suspicion to the dean of discipline about him dealing drugs, had the dean present as a witness when I searched the locker - as per St. Brendan's disciplinary guidelines - then called the police. I knew that having no corroboration and removing the evidence would taint it in a criminal case, but he didn't know that.
I had searched his locker the previous night, when the faculty and extracurricular students had long gone home. It was an exploratory mission - you could say it was along the lines of a sociological study - to learn what makes an incorrigible miscreant tick.
Sure, I thought, even hoped, I might find some sort of contraband that would warrant some kind of disciplinary action, but that was secondary.
When I found the packets of crystals tucked between some books, I knew I'd struck gold. This was worth more than hours of detention, more than suspension, this was expulsion and criminal charges material.
I placed the packets back where I'd found them, making sure all the items in his locker were exactly as he'd left them, and closed the locker. In the morning I'd meet with the dean of discipline and call the police.
Then it dawned on me: Flaherty was exactly the tool I needed to solve a larger problem. I needed somebody to do some dirty work, and he was the perfect candidate. I could confiscate the drugs - not telling anybody else about them - and use them as leverage.
In the morning, when Flaherty was in his first period class, I waited till the corridor was empty, quickly opened his locker and retrieved the drugs, and returned to my office and called him in to meet me.
He leaned forward in his chair, blinking back tears. "Please, Mr. Bergman, don't call the cops. This will ruin my life, it'll ruin my parents."
"Yes," I said "It will. You can say goodbye to the scholarship offers from Ohio and Penn State, but you should've thought of that before you decided to pedal narcotics. Oh well, you're young, after you're released you should be able to get back on your feet. Even though you'll have a criminal record, you'll probably be able to land some kind of a job to support yourself - for instance, sorting in a recycling plant."
"Please, sir," he whimpered. "Can't you give me another chance? Everybody deserves a second chance, don't they?"
I leaned back in my chair, sighed, and looked at him as though I were considering his plea. "A second chance? You're asking me to just make this go away. Why would I do that?"
He started to blubber. "Sir... Please..." his voice halting, "Gimme a break... I'll do anything you ask. Anything. Just gimme a break."
"You'll do anything? Really?"
"Yes, sir. Anything you say. Anything to make this right."
I swept the drugs into the open drawer, then closed and locked it. "All right. Meet me after school in Madison Park, 3:45 sharp, at the benches next to the tennis courts. Don't be late. We'll talk about it then."
"But I have football practice after school."
"You'll miss practice today. Be there."
I was sitting in my car parked across the street from the tennis courts when Flaherty arrived at 3:35. I watched him pace as he checked his phone every few minutes, until 3:55 - I figured I'd let him stew a bit, a little anxiety would serve him right - then I left my car and walked across the street.
"I was starting to think you weren't coming," he said.
I pointed to one of the benches, and sat. He took a seat to my right. We were both quiet for a moment. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, and held it next to his right thigh, trying to glance down at it without moving his head, poking at the screen as if he were texting in class.
"Put that damn thing away," I said.
He squirmed, cleared his throat, and pocketed the phone. "So now what?"
"So now," I said, "I'm the only one who can save your life, and you'll do anything I ask of you, right?"
"Right."
"No arguments. No negotiating."
"Yes, yes! God, stop playing around - what do you want from me?"
"I need you to do something for me. A service that requires the only talent you have."
"Football?"
"Not football, you blockhead. Violence."
"What do you mean by 'violence'?"
I handed him a printout of a photo with an address written on it. "You're to take a sick day from school tomorrow - do not have your parents call in, that's important - I'll cover for you. This is the address of a high-rise. Be there at 8:30 and watch for this man. I want you to work him over, hard, break a few bones. And take his wallet, so it looks like a robbery."
"Holy shit!" He said.
"You may keep his cash, but wipe the wallet clean of fingerprints, and dump it immediately. Do not take his credit cards. If you're caught with them, you're going to jail.
"Burn the printout immediately," I said, "That's very important. It's also evidence that would convict you." And me, too after he'd tell the police who gave him the printout.
"What? You can't be serious, man. I'm not gonna do that."
"Yes, you will. I don't know why you're being so squeamish - violence is your stock in trade."
"Jesus! What's this guy done to you?"
"That's none of your business."
"I think it should be, if I'm the one taking the risk." He smirked, "This guy's been fucking your old lady, is that it?"
"Shut up!"
He grinned, "Ha! That's what this is. Can't keep her satisfied, can ya. Probably can't even get it up. I'm not surprised."
He'd struck a nerve and he knew it, he could read it on my face. I was losing my composure - big mistake.
"Just keep your filthy mouth shut," I said, "and follow your instructions." I tossed him a black ski mask. "Make sure you're wearing this. There'll be security cameras, so put it on before you arrive at his place. And burn it immediately afterwards."
"What if I say no?"
"No? You can't say no, you moron, remember? I've got you by the short hairs, Flaherty."
"So, the stash of crystal meth that you showed me in your office this morning, you're still holding it?"
"Of course I still have it," I said, "I wouldn't be able to use it against you if I got rid of it, could I? And if you don't do what I want, I'm telling the police that I found it in your locker."
"And after I beat this guy up for you?"
"Then you'll have nothing to worry about."
"Understood."
He stood, smiling. "I'm going home now, enjoy the rest of your day Mr. Bergman."
I knew I was taking a major risk by trusting a stupid lump of meat like Flaherty to do the job and not screw it up, but he was my only option - I couldn't very well do a Google search for "thugs for hire".
The following day I fixed it so that Flaherty wouldn't be accused of an unexcused absence. That evening at home, I turned on the television news. There was nothing about a violent assault downtown.
That's odd, I thought. This is the sort of stuff they love - when it bleeds, it leads, as the saying goes in journalism.
My wife Carol was behaving as if nothing were amiss. Something's wrong here, I thought. If her boyfriend had been beaten to a pulp and robbed, certainly she'd know about it, and she'd be upset and show it. She's not that cold-hearted. Quite the opposite - considering the near daily tearful harangues about how unsatisfying her life had been married to me - I'd say she's overly emotional.
Carol and I both know we should never have married. We never satisfied each other emotionally or physically, and stayed together because it would've been inconvenient not to. By the time I was being considered for a position as principal in a conservative Catholic high school, divorce would have been problematic. She couldn't afford divorce financially, regardless of the alimony, with her bachelor's degree in Theatre Arts and no meaningful job experience for the previous twenty years.
A resentment grew between us that turned to anger, and exchanging volleys of insults.
I'd belittle her efforts at poetry and photography, calling them pathetic attempts to play 'sophisticate'. Not fooling anyone, I'd say, you're a dilettante and everybody's laughing at you.
She'd ridicule my career goals and achievements. You're a high school principal in a private school system, she'd say, a mid-sized fish in a tiny pond - and that makes you feel powerful and important. How sad.
I'd mock her appearance: Don't tell me you can't lose weight, you won't lose weight - trying saying 'no' to a slice of pizza now and then.
She'd repeat to me and anybody who'd listen that all of her friends told her she could have done better than marrying a bore like me. Everybody we know thinks you're a tedious bore, she'd say, even your own family.
When she started spending long evenings away from home several times a week, often returning well after 1:00 AM - supposedly going to her book club at first, now her pottery class - that's when I started to follow her and discovered that she'd hooked up with our financial advisor.
That was the ultimate humiliation, and damnit, I was determined to hit back harder. I wanted to hurt them both, and I figured hurting him badly would hurt her as well.
At around five o'clock, Carol came into the living room where I was watching TV, saying, "Your dinner's on the table. I'm going to my pottery class, as usual, then out for drinks with the girls. Don't wait up."
So, I thought, Flaherty lost his nerve.
At 8 AM the next morning, I switched on the intercom. "Brian Flaherty, report to the principal's office immediately."
He walked into my office, smiling. "Good morning, Mr. Bergman," he chirped.
"Don't 'good morning' me," I said, "You didn't do what you were told, did you?"
"No, sir, I didn't."
"And why not?"
Still smiling, he pulled out his phone. "Let's see," he said as he tapped at the screen, "I believe it's at the three minute mark where it gets really good."
He held up his phone as the recording played:
"...I've got you by the short hairs, Flaherty."
"So, the stash of crystal meth that you showed me in your office this morning, you're still holding it?"
"Of course I still have it, I wouldn't be able to use it if I got rid of it. And if you don't do what I want, I'm telling the police that I found it in your locker."
"And after I beat this guy up for you?"
"Then you'll have nothing to worry about."
"This sounds to me like the meth belongs to you," he said, "and you're threatening to frame an innocent student, trying to blackmail him into committing a crime. I think the cops will hear it that way too."
He put the phone in his pocket. "I think this is what the chess club geeks would call, 'checkmate', isn't it," he said, "I'm not sure, I don't know anything about chess."
"You bastard!"
"I own you now, bitch, now you're the one who has to do what I say." He held out his hand. "For starters, you can give me back my meth."
I didn't sleep that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling stupid being outwitted by that ape. Something as simple and commonplace as recording with a phone - even he could figure that out, but it didn't occur to me.
Now what? He'd be an even worse disciplinary problem at school, that was a given, but what else? Probably demand money. Or more. Worse. I opened that door, extorting him to commit criminal battery and robbery.
He'd always have that recording, I thought, probably downloaded it to a hard drive as soon as he got home.
And there are security cameras in the school running 24/7/365, and they recorded me rummaginging through Flaherty's locker - twice - the day before I tried to blackmail him, and the next morning. That footage, together with the phone recording, would destroy me.
For a week I waited for the other shoe to drop. Nothing. Flaherty would occasionally pass me in the corridor, and he'd show no flicker of recognition, as if I weren't even there, while I'd expected a knowing, sly, 'I've got you now motherfucker' grin.
But I knew he wasn't going to be content that I returned his meth, and let bygones be bygones. He was biding his time.
I had dismissed Flaherty as a blockhead, but I hadn't considered that a blockhead could be cunning.
2
My desk phone rang. It was my secretary. "There's a student who wants to talk to you. He doesn't have an appointment, and I told him you're busy, but he insists you'll want to see him."
"Who is he?"
"Brian Flaherty."
"Send him in."
So it begins, I thought.
Closing the door behind him, Flaherty strolled in - grinning, his hands in his pockets - and sat on the credenza next to my desk.
"How are you this fine day, Mr. Bergman?"
"What do you want?"
"Kinda grumpy today, aren't we. The principal's supposed to be our pal."
He was taunting me. Toying with me like a cat with a mouse. It took all the strength I had to maintain my composure.
"State your business and get out of here Flaherty. I'm busy, and you should be in class."
"Business. Yeah, exactly why I'm here. Meet me at Madison Park, same spot, tonight - 5:30 this time, I don't wanna miss football practice. We'll talk about it then."
I arrived at the park at 5:35-I knew he wouldn't be there at 5:30-and sat on the same bench. At 5:48 I saw him strolling between the swings and monkeybars in the children's play area, holding a styrofoam cup, the straw stuck in his mouth. As he approached, I could hear the loud gurgling of his spent beverage echoing in the cup with each pull on the straw, the ice cubes rattling as he shook the cup, and gurgling as he sucked again. It seemed he enjoyed making the sound, like a small child would.
"Hey, Mr. Bergman," he said, "I keep you waiting long? Sorry, I needed a cheeseburger after practice."
He took a final, long, pull on the straw, turned and threw the cup. It sailed in a rainbow arc into the center of a trashcan thirty feet away.
He pumped his fist. "Three points!"
"Let's not waste any time, Flaherty," I said, "What do you want?"
"That's what I like about you, Mr. Bergman: No beating around the bush. Okay, I'll get right to it. I'm holding that audio file of our conversation, and I figure you should be paying me a storage fee. I Googled it, and your salary is around a hundred-sixty-K a year - that's good money for doing nothing - so I figure a thousand a week would be fair."
"That's a third of my salary. I can't pay that!"
"Hm. Well I'm a reasonable guy, so I tell ya what - instead of paying me, you can do me a service."
"What kind of 'service'?"
Handing me a slip of paper, he said, "Thursday night, you're gonna drive me to this address, I'm going to be there ten minutes or so, and then you're gonna drive me back. Meet me in Fido's parking lot, 7:00 PM."
"Fido? Who's Fido?"
"Jesus, Fido's. The hotdog place on Harrison and 14th."
I could only assume he was planning a drug deal, or something else criminal, and I'd be directly involved. I checked the slip of paper. The address was a decaying neighborhood of the inner city, with mostly abandoned buildings - light industrial, warehouses, plus some residential - puncuated with empty lots strewn with rubble and weeds. Not the sort of place a paunchy, middle-aged, suburban, high school principal driving a Lexus wants to be.
"Why don't you drive yourself?"
"Because my old man has been a real asshole lately about borrowing his car, and yours is available."
"What do I get in return for the chauffeur service?"
"In return, I won't charge you for storing the audio."
For now, I thought. Later, when you want some easy cash? And of course, you'll always want another 'service'. This would never end. I was under his thumb, and there was no escape.
"Alright, I'll see you Monday at seven."
I couldn't sleep that night, and sat in my study, thinking. I'm no longer in control of my life. Flaherty's eighteen, I'm forty-seven, for as long as I live I'll be subject to his every whim.
There was no conceivable way to undo this. It would go on until one of us died, and now that I was permanently attached to Flaherty in drug trafficking - and God knows who else by extension - that could be me at any moment. He had to die first.
Deciding to murder Flaherty wasn't easy. The idea of taking another human life would have seemed outrageous ten days earlier, but now I saw it had become a practical necessity.
Morally? Flaherty's existence is a detriment to humanity, I thought, he's a thug peddling lethal narcotics in a school. And now the thug is a threat to an educator, a respected, productive citizen dedicated to the common good.
I resolved the moral question: killing can be justified - the good war, the individual justifiable homicide - and this was such a case. Flaherty's death would not only be no loss for humanity, it would be a net gain. Killing him was the right thing to do.
Easy to say, I thought, but how? I can't do it face-to-face, shooting or stabbing him. Then how?
I had to find a way to kill him and get away with it, and do it as soon as possible. My life had gone off the rails, and my future would be dangerous, unpredictable, and short unless I somehow got it back on the rails.
Figuring out how to do that would have to wait. Thursday night was the matter at hand, and I could be killed then.
I can't go there defenseless, I thought. Buying a gun would be impossible on this short notice, plus even if I could there'd be a legal record of the sale that could come back to haunt me. I have Grandpa's little 'stinger'. It's small, only holds two shots, but it's a gun, and it's unregistered.
It took me a few minutes to rummage through a file cabinet and find the cigar box with the gun. A nickel-plated, double-barrel derringer with mother of pearl grips, the frame engraved with a swirling floral design, it was the personal protection favored by dandified card sharps and dancehall girls in Hollywood Westerns.
The bullets laying loose were short and squat, and looked like Lego accessories.
My grandfather bought the gun when he ran a hardware store in a rough neighborhood in the 1940s. It was only effective in close quarters, but that suited him. When I was a boy, he'd allowed me to fire a few rounds at tin cans. Now it seemed smaller than I'd remembered.
Not much of a match for machine pistols, but it was something anyway, and its toy-like size made it easy to conceal in any pocket.
I closed the box and put it in a desk drawer, beneath some papers. There was nothing else I could do but wait for Thursday.
3
Thursday evening, and I was driving with Flaherty, the radio blasting as he continuously switched mid-song to different stations.
Jesus, he has the attention span of a gnat, I thought. "Dammit Flaherty, just pick a station. It all sounds the same anyway."
He switched the radio off. "So this place we're going is a junkyard," he said, "They're closed at night. You're gonna blink the lights once as we approach and park near the fence. Don't block the entrance driveway, that pisses them off."
I rested my hand on my left jacket pocket and felt the derringer. It wasn't much comfort.
"Then what?" I asked.
"Then, like I said, you wait in the car while I do some business, and we go home. And we can stop for some tacos on the way."
Arriving at the junkyard, I cruised to the side of the street, blinking the lights, and rolled to a stop. A pair of pitbulls in the yard flung themselves against the chain link fence, barking and snarling frantically. A young man approached us, looking suspiciously at me, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
Flaherty lowered his window, and said, "Yo, It's me. Don't worry about him, he's my ride tonight."
He grabbed a gym bag he'd brought, got out of the car, and walked to the darkened office shack. The man in the hoodie remained outside, not taking his eyes off of me.
My heart was pounding like it wanted to burst out of my chest. I began to feel nauseous.
I can't do this again, I thought, ever. I have to kill him tonight, if I don't, I'll die. But can I find the nerve to shoot and kill a human being? It's not the same as shooting tin cans as a kid.
This would be the neighborhood to do it in. The streets are dark for a major city - only streetlights and almost no lit windows. Little traffic. No security cameras in an abandoned, ruined area like this.
How? I'd have to play it by ear - something I hate doing.
Flaherty returned ten minutes later, plopped into the seat next to me, dropping the gym bag on the floor between his feet.
"We're done here," he said, "let's go, I'm hungry."
I began to drive, and he turned on the radio, again surfing from station to station. Just as well, I thought, I don't want a conversation. Now is the time to think.
If Flaherty's found shot dead in this neighborhood, the police will see another upper middle class, suburban, white kid gone bad. He fell in with nasty people and paid for it - a familiar story. They'd have no reason to think anybody other than gangbangers killed him. That gives me some security.
But shooting him, I thought, with the toy I have I'll have to be close, just a few feet away, and he's eighteen years old and built like a bull, and I'm not. If I can find a way to divert his attention, even if for a couple of seconds - and in one quick motion, pull out the gun, cock it, pull the trigger. If I hesitate, I'm dead.
Flaherty nudged my elbow. "Pull over," he said, "I have to piss."
This is my chance, I thought. I might not get another one.
I scanned the area, looking for an alley. I saw a dark, narrow service alley between two gutted buildings, and headed for it.
"C'mon, pull over," he said, "I've been holding it for half an hour."
"I'm looking for a place with a little privacy."
"Privacy? You joking? You think there's anybody around here who gives a shit about pissing on the street?"
"I have to go too, and I like my privacy, so you can keep holding it for an extra few seconds, it won't kill you."
"Jeez, you're a delicate daisy, Mr. Bergman."
I turned into the service alley and continued deeper between the buildings.
"Stop the car," he snapped, "my bladder's gonna burst."
I hit the brakes and stopped. He hopped out of the car, unzipped, and released a stream against a brick wall. I got out of the car and walked toward him, pulling the derringer out of my pocket and aiming as I approached, my mouth dry, my heart pounding, my hand holding the gun shaking.
I stood behind him as he was finishing, the gun inches from his head. He was zipping up.
Now. I have to do it now. In another second it will be too late.
He turned and saw the gun, quivering in front of his face, and stared at it, befuddled. I squeezed the trigger, and there was a loud, sharp, 'pop'. He fell back against the wall, and slid to the pavement, blood gushing from the hole in his head.
I was shaking, nauseous, dizzy, my heart pounding - I knew I was having either a heart attack or a panic attack. I have to get out of here as fast as possible, I thought.
His phone. The police will search his phone and the recording may still be on it. The gun and the phone - I have to get rid of them, but not in this neighborhood, where the police might find them.
I searched his pockets, grabbed the phone, and ran to my car.
Backing out of the alley - the tires screeching, almost sideswiping a wall - I sped away. Ten minutes drive through this Hellscape to the freeway, I thought, then I can breathe easier.
Flaherty's gym bag caught my eye.
Dammit! That's his inventory. I've got to get rid of that. The gun. The phone. The drugs. Where to dump them?
I'll drop them in a sewer, I thought, in a hoity-toity, low crime neighborhood, miles from here.
No, to fit the gym bag I'd have to lift an iron manhole cover and put it back in place.
A dumpster, that's it. One behind a restaurant or grocery market would have garbage picked up every morning. Once it's in a garbage truck, no one will find it. A few days later it's in a landfill and gone forever.
I drove to a big-box warehouse store and bought some heavy-duty plastic trash bags. Sitting in my parked car, I unzipped the gym bag and dropped the phone and gun inside where they nestled into dozens of packets of meth.
A few of these planted in Flaherty's locker would support the suspicion that he was killed during a drug deal, I thought. Should I? It's risky. It would be the third time school security cameras have recorded me rummaging in his locker.
I'm banking on the police not combing through the security archive, especially video recorded in off hours when students wouldn't be there. If Flaherty's murder twelve miles away seems cut and dried, why would they?
I don't know, but there's always the possibility they will. Well, I'm already recorded twice, so a third time won't make a difference.
I grabbed a handful of the packets and stuffed them into a jacket pocket, zipped the gym bag closed, and sealed it in a plastic trash bag.
The next forty-five minutes were spent looking for a suitable dumpster. The alleys behind every restaurant, produce market, and grocery store, were washed with bright, cold light. Of course, security cameras were everywhere. Now what?
Now, I thought, miles from the crime scene a camera will have recorded another person dumping their garbage in a commercial dumpster at night, that's what. Shouldn't be a problem. One of a hundred cameras recording dumpers that night, and nobody cares.
I parked around the corner from a small restaurant, put on a baseball cap, and dropped the garbage bag in a dumpster, rearranging the other bags to cover mine.
I found myself miles from home, an hour's drive or more. It didn't matter. I couldn't sleep that night anyway.
4
5:50 AM, an hour before faculty would start arriving, and there were only a few maintenance and cafeteria staff in the school.
I stopped in my office, grabbed the lockers master key, and headed to Flaherty's locker.
The corridors were empty, and dimly lit as the lighting was still on overnight energy saving mode. My footsteps echoed and seemed surprisingly loud in the emptiness. Damn these leather heels and soles!
I arrived at his locker, and paused to look around and ensure I was alone. As quickly as possible, I opened the locker, stuffed the drugs between two books, closed it, and walked away.
Back in my office, I sat at my desk with a file folder open in front of me, so I'd appear to be working.
Now to wait.
My desk phone rang, startling me out of a daze. I checked the clock: 7:01.
I answered, "Bergman."
"Mr. Bergman, Detective Lieutenant Brownlow, CPD here. Please meet me at the front entrance, there's a police matter involving one of your students."
"Police? What's this about," I said.
"I prefer to give you the details in person, sir."
"Of course. I'll be there shortly."
I rushed out of my office, striding down the corridor. Whoa, slow down, I thought, don't be breathing hard when you meet him. You're the principal, you're always calm and in control. Steady. Dignified.
A man in a dark gray suit showed me his badge as I opened the door and stepped outside. "Detective Lieutenant Brownlow," he said.
"Miles Bergman. So, what's this about, Lieutenant?"
"One of your senior students, Brian Flaherty, was shot and killed last night. His body was found at about 1:00 AM."
"Oh, my God."
"He was found in a rough neighborhood, where there's a lot of gang activity and drug dealing. No signs of a struggle and we've determined the body wasn't dumped there. So it seems he went there of his own volition. That's a long way from home for a privileged, middle class, white kid. I'm afraid the only plausible reason he'd willingly be in that neighborhood would be buying drugs."
"What a tragedy," I said, "we all thought Brian had a bright future ahead of him."
"Yes," Brownlow said, "it is. I've seen it happen too often." He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket. "So, I have a warrant to search Brian's locker."
"Of course, I'll direct you there."
"Thanks. Also, what is your availability this afternoon? I need to interview you in detail about Brian."
"I'll check my planner."
I pulled the notebook from my jacket pocket and flipped it open. As often happens, a few items - notes, business cards and such - spilled out to the ground.
Brownlow bent to pick them up, saying, "Allow me."
"Thank you," I said.
I looked down and saw - between the business card for my auto mechanic, and the schedule for the Spring Educational Administrators Conference - one of the packets of meth, a straggler left behind when I rushed to plant its companions in Flaherty's locker.
That was the moment I knew that I would never get my life back on the rails.
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