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- My hand flew off the doorknob.
The soft click of the door latch spooked me further into the
room. I was alone with Richard's corpse.
Suppressing the need to run, I
hugged in a deep breath then whistled it out through pursed lips.
Calm your breathing, that's right.
Then try to think.
Okay. Finish looking. Finish looking
and then you can go.
The position of Richard's body
appeared benign, as if his death were a passing whim of fate.
One second he had been sitting at a table collecting a pile of
papers, the next he was sprawled forward, his skull shattered,
the papers again in disarray.
Moved by sympathy, I reached toward
Richard's arm, my hand anticipating the rough tweed of his brown
sport jacket even as I brought myself up short. Television police
forever warned about disturbing a murder scene.
Murder. My mind grappled with
the incomprehensible. How could anyone do this--ever?
Soon
I would force my frozen body to leave, to report Richard's death
and set the process of the law into motion. Meanwhile, my heightened
sensitivities continued to record the room. Although I probably
spent only half a minute assimilating Richard's appearance, those
thirty seconds had made an indelible impression.
Now I noticed that the most visible
paper on the table bore the name of the couple who was delinquent
with their tuition payments. The box of extra large T-shirts
remained on the table at the same angle as before I left. The
pencils and erasers and bag of scarf rings--everything appeared
untouched.
Only the groundbreaking
shovel was out of place. Looking incongruous and unnaturally
clean, trimmed with a large, loopy bow in the school's trademark
dark green, it had originally rested in the corner near the box
of brochures.
Now it lay on the floor near where
I'd been working. A small smear of blood suggested it skidded
or bounced a few feet after the killer flung it behind him. Or
her. I was not an especially large woman, but with a nicely balanced
little shovel, I could cause plenty of damage if. . .if what?
It was time to get the hell out
of there and call the police. Let them ask if, and what, and
why.
I pulled my jacket cuff down over
my hand before I opened the door. Then I sprinted down the hall
into the lobby, nearly colliding with Jacob, the maintenance
supervisor.
I put
both hands on his chest to steady myself, to reassure myself
he was real.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Something terrible, Jacob.
A man's been murdered. I'm going to call the police. Please stand
at the front door and keep everybody here."
Jacob's complexion had turned
ashen all the way back to his remaining band of dark hair. Sweat
beaded his upper lip.
"Who?" he asked. "Where?"
Already jogging toward the main
office, I answered over my shoulder in a hushed voice. "Wharton. Richard Wharton. He's
in the Community room. But don't say anything. Just guard the
door and tell everyone Rip will be right out."
Jacob wiped his lip with his hand
and nodded solemnly. When I glanced back again, he had stationed
himself between the two main doors. He wasn't much bigger than
me, but if I had come face to face with him just then, I would
have stayed put--if only to find out what was going on.
Joanne and the teachers who had
been with Rip had scattered around the outer office, one reading
mail, two chatting quietly. Joanne spoke into the phone.
"Stay here," I told
them all. "Don't move an inch."
I entered Rip's
office and shut the door tight behind me.
My husband rose slowly from his
chair. "What's wrong?" he asked. Instinctively, he
gravitated toward me.
What I said stopped him like a
slap. His eyes widened and stared. His body swayed slightly,
and he spread his fingers on the desk top to steady himself.
He
said nothing, just reached for the phone with the same stunned
expression, punched 911 and handed me the receiver. Then he tightened
his tie and straightened his back and opened the door to the
outer office.
Just as our emergency call was
answered, I could hear the gasps of shock from the people Rip
informed. One of the women began to cry.
The crying braced me, toughened
me. It's been that way ever since Chelsea was born. Somehow I
learned to cope first and crumble later--preferably in private.
I calmly and succinctly told the dispatcher there had been a
murder at Bryn Derwyn Academy, adding
that the people on the premises were being asked to stay until
the police arrived.
After that, I made a second call
to our house. The kids would see and hear the police roar into
the school driveway, and they needed to be warned. To my relief,
Chelsea answered; being the younger of the two, Garry might have
panicked just from the stress in my voice.
"There's going to be a bit
of commotion over at the school," I said as calmly as possible.
"What?" Chelsea interrupted.
I took a deep, time-consuming
breath. "Something happened to Mr. Wharton, and the police
have to check it out."
"Is he dead?" I could
visualize my daughter's face wide with awe, flushed with the
thrill of life's drama. She did not sound scared. Tell her the
truth?
"Yes, Chelsea. I'm afraid
so."
"Ohmigod."
"Dad and I are fine. Everybody
else is fine. Please just wait at the house for us. We'll tell
you whatever we can when we get home."
"Like, how did he die, Mom?
Was it a heart attack or something?"
"Probably not."
"Then what, Mom? Mr. Wharton
was old, but not that old." Fear was infusing itself into
her voice. I could almost hear her thoughts: If somebody Mr.
Wharton's age could die suddenly, so could anybody.
"It was more like an accident."
The expedient white lie.
"Look," I added before
Chelsea could quiz me further. "I've got to go now. Just
hang in, and I'll be there as soon as I can."
When I got home, I would obliterate
the white lie with the whole truth, and probably spoil some additional
innocence as well. It wouldn't be easy, and I felt certain both
kids would require generous portions of reassurance for weeks
to come.
My eyes rested on the familiar
cover of Bryn Derwyn's present-year directory, tucked under Rip's
phone for handy reference. It reminded me that, for my husband,
there would be 239 students, their parents, the faculty, the
board and the whole alumni body to reassure.
"Phew," I remarked to
myself. "Lucky thing Richard was a bachelor."
Was a bachelor. I began to tremble,
but one more glimpse at the directory shamed me out of that.
When I emerged from the office,
the three waiting teachers ambushed me for more details. Joanne
saw my face and held them back like a no-nonsense crossing guard.
I proceeded into the lobby, a
robot now with only so much juice left to operate my limbs.
When he caught sight of me, Rip
stopped speaking with Jacob and just watched.
There was an oak bench along the
far wall. I went to it and began to pull. Rip recognized what
I was doing and helped me close off the hallway leading to the
Community room.
Then wordlessly, we sank onto
the bench side by side. Rip covered my hand with his. I allowed
myself to meet his greenish brown eyes just a second, just a
second for sustenance, and that did it. Next thing I knew I was
sobbing into his shoulder.
After I had finished venting,
finished wiping and blowing, while all of us who had gathered
in the lobby seemed stuck in that suspended-time state of waiting,
it occurred to me that I had always considered Richard Wharton
educated scum.
I disliked him the day we met,
and nothing he had done in the six months since had improved
my opinion.
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