The Last Teacher: A Stand-Alone Mackenzie Mystery Page 3

  Life was good. No one shot at me. No one looked to me for answers I still searched for myself. I had a set schedule. My coworkers liked me and I liked them. Old scars were healing. I was good at my job, according to preliminary findings by my peers and boss. My housing situation was a dream. Nightmares were receding. I whistled as I drove to work.

  The friendly, efficient secretaries smiled at me in the mornings. Students came to visit me during homeroom and talk sports or girls. Kristen and I swapped baby stories, Mackenzie and I swapped fantasy football emails, and Taylor and I made eyes at each other over lunch. During planning periods I fell into an easy routine of working on future lessons, grading papers, eating cafeteria tater-tots, and playing on my computer. After school we hit the fairways and greens, and when we didn’t we took mulligans. Kix and I grilled out, took walks and had picnics for dinner. I started losing track of pleasant mornings, fulfilling work, conversations that revolved around life rather than death, sending students to stand outside when they couldn’t be quiet, and afternoons in the sun. The weeks stretched out in front of me with no end, and I was content.

  The nights were harder. Life and culture had flowed outside of my LA apartment during every hour of the day. Instant access to anything and everything. Now I had to drive fifteen minutes before I saw the first streetlight. My neighborhood was mostly empty because the homeowners only vacationed here during the summer and weekends. I liked some of the people I worked with but didn’t live near any of them. And my son had to be in bed by eight every night.

  Nothing could go wrong at a peaceful place like this.

  So I sat and read and listened to music and watched TV. And thought. And tried not to be lonely. Tonight I took a shower, jumped into bed with a Patrick O’Brien book, and tried not to think about Taylor. One night at a time.

  10

  -One day until the body is discovered-

  Teachers hate copy machines.

  I was a teacher. I hated copiers. South Hill Middle had two copiers, both bought used. Vary rarely were both operational. I knew both repairmen by their first names.

  “So, Mr. August,” Mr. Charlie said. He was the art teacher and substitute pastor, and he was making copies. I was waiting on him. He seemed oblivious, but I liked him anyway. “What do you think about the turmoil on our school board?”

  “We have a school board?”

  Mackenzie Allen, the band teacher, laughed. I’m so funny. He was flipping through a notebook full of music. With three of us in the workroom, I felt a little bit claustrophobic. What on earth does an art teacher need copies for, anyway?

  “You don’t read the local paper, August?” Mackenzie Allen asked.

  “We have a local paper?”

  “You just moved here.” Mr. Charlie smiled. He had a nice, slow, significant way of speaking. “I forgot that about you.”

  “Our school board is on crack,” Mackenzie Allen said. “The whole lot of them.” He was drinking coffee. I wanted coffee.

  “He means the school board don’t get along,” Mr. Charlie smiled again. He was a smiler. I wanted coffee.

  “They hate each other. They hate the Superintendent. They hate the board of supervisors. They hate us. We hate them. It’s all one big hate parade.”

  “Sounds terrific. Where do I sign up?” I said.

  “It’s not Christian to hate,” Mr. Charlie said.

  “You’re funny, Mr. August. Mack. I like you, Mack. You’re all right,” Mackenzie Allen said. I wished he had a different name.

  “I just try to stay out of it,” Mr. Charlie said.

  “He’s right, Mr. August. Mr. Charlie’s right. Just stay the heck away. Steer clear. Don’t get in the middle.”

  “Stay out of it,” I repeated slowly. “Think I can remember that.”

  The door opened and another man walked in. A tall, strong black man. A tall, strong black man who looked about 55 and had a stunning white beard and stunning white teeth when he smiled.

  “Hey, Mr. Suhr,” Mackenzie Allen said. There were four men in the room and no women. What were the odds? Not good, in a school that had four times as many women employees as men.

  “Hello, sirs,” the enormous happy man said, smile flashing. His voice filled the room. “So nice to see you. I hope you’re well today.” He stopped and looked at me for a moment. Then smiled. “My, you’re a big fellow.”

  “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle…well, you know,” I said, and he laughed. Threw back his head and laughed. We shook hands.

  “I’m Mr. Suhr. I teach shop and robotics. You’re Mr. August, aren’t you?” He was still shaking my hand.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “The Lord is with you, Mr. August,” he said. He still had my hand, only now he was holding it with both hands. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

  “And also with you,” I repeated from memory from years sitting in a pew.

  Christians. Everywhere.

  “No, no,” he said, and shook his finger at me. Then he placed that hand on my shoulder. “I mean that the Lord, Mr. August, is with you. When I heard about you from Mr. Charlie, my heart leaped within me.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I went with that. Mr. Charlie had apparently been talking about me.

  “I am glad you are here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Suhr,” I said. “Glad to be here.”

  “Good,” he said, and released me. “Good. Please come visit me in the shop one day soon, and we will talk.”

  “Happy to.”

  “Good,” he said again. He fed change into the drink machine, bought a diet soda, and said to us, “Peace be with you.” Then he left.

  “I didn’t know the Lord was with you, August,” Mackenzie Allen said.

  “Yeah, but I don’t like to brag.”

  Mr. Charlie frowned at me.

  11

  Early morning, but not chilly. Apparently the temperature doesn’t drop until winter in South Hill. I pulled into work earlier than usual to make copies. It was the simple things in life that made me smile. But not this morning.

  I saw a body lying in the trailer quad on my way to get the papers. A dead body. Corpses are easy to distinguish from the unconscious with just a little experience, which I had. Not unconscious. Dead. Male, facedown, dressed like a teacher. Students would be arriving in forty-five minutes.

  I took out my cell as I crouched beside the body. No pulse. Dew on the skin.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “This is Mack August calling from South Hill Middle School. There is a corpse, white male, about 20 feet from the inner south entrance to the school.”

  “Can you verify the man is dead?” the female voice asked.

  “Yes. No pulse. I haven’t searched for identification. I’ll be here when the cavalry arrives.”

  I hung up and did my best to remember that I was a teacher now. I didn’t look at the body.

  The dispatcher probably contacted the sheriff’s office immediately, but first on the scene was the school’s resource officer. Gun drawn. I managed to not roll my eyes.

  Resource officers are local law enforcement agents assigned to schools. Their lives can be pretty uneventful besides breaking up the occasional fight and finding drugs in lockers. The RO at our school was named Steve, and he’d obviously been put at the school to keep him out of the sheriff’s hair and office. He compensated for being overweight and low man on the totem pole by acting tough, though he would never have made it through a larger city’s academy.

  “Don’t move,” he called, walking in from the parking lot, gun gripped in both fists, moving sideways in a crablike motion.

  “Sure thing,” I said. I was sitting several feet away on the sidewalk, arms around my knees.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  “I’ll try,” I assured him.

  Steve was uncertain what he should do, so he alternated between staring at the body and looking around corners suspiciously. />
  “Just the two of us. You can holster your piece,” I said.

  “Quiet,” he barked at me. I hoped whoever arrived next would have some experience with a crime scene. A pair of handcuffs clattered to the ground next to me. “Put those on.”

  I looked down at them. I was pretty sure he wasn’t making a joke, and I almost felt bad for him. I tossed them back. They landed at his feet.

  “No. Put your gun away.”

  “What?” he yelled at me. He was wired, lots of adrenaline, puffed up with importance. Wasn’t going to take much to set him off. “You’re under arrest.”

  “You can’t cuff me for coming to work and finding a body. You can cuff me, however, for what I’ll do to you if you try.”

  The barrel of his gun dropped a few inches as he stared at me in disbelief. His face began to turn red in anger.

  “Oh jeez,” I sighed and stood. “Listen, I’m sorry. I know you’re trying. But you are not going to cuff me. I work here, I found the body, I called 911, I’m not going anywhere. And put your gun away. He’s been dead a while, and maybe from natural causes. If not, bad guys are way gone. I’ll go see if Principal Martin is in her office. You stay here and…make sure the body isn’t stolen.”

  I walked off and left him speechless. I knew neither of the principals had come into work yet. The resource officer needed a favor so I decided to leave and let him realize he didn’t know what he was doing without an audience. I went in the hallway and helped the wall stay standing by leaning on it.

  Cool, emotionless mechanics had taken over when I saw the body. I did everything right and didn’t feel. Now, though, I began to feel things. I felt the sick dread in my stomach as old emotions surfaced. Somewhere, peripherally, I felt sad because I thought I knew the guy. Mostly though, I tried to fight off memories.

  Red and blue lights began flickering on the hallway walls. Still, I waited. Officers walked by the doorway, calm voices, radios squawking. I waited some more and then walked outside. Two unmarked squad cars and three law enforcement agents had arrived.

  A deputy sheriff wearing a badge with the name “Andrews” also wore latex gloves and was crouched beside the corpse, going softly through pockets. Andrews was all-American good-looking. Probably used to be a good baseball player. A second deputy was snapping digital pictures. They both wore the flat-brimmed Stetsons I’d always secretly wanted to try on.

  “That’s him.”

  The RO was standing beside a man who had to be the sheriff. He appeared to be forty-five, had a marine-style haircut, looked like he lifted weights every day and went jogging every few, and wore a crisp beige and brown uniform with the star on the chest. He was taking notes on a clip board. Good sign. Principal Martin was also there, wide-eyed with her hand over her mouth. She looked at me and so did the sheriff.

  “You found the body?” the sheriff asked me. His voice was soft but firm.

  “Twenty minutes ago.” I nodded. “Checked for a pulse and let him lie.”

  “Good man,” he said and pointed at the corpse. “ID him?”

  “Didn’t try. Got an educated guess.”

  “The coroner should be arriving soon. No need for guesses.”

  “That’s convenient,” Ms. Martin murmured. Her eyes were wet, staring into space.

  “Pardon, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Mr. August found the body,” she said.

  “Why is that convenient?”

  “He used to be a police officer.”

  12

  Squad cars kept rolling in, including one South Hill Police cruiser. South Hill had a small five man police force, in addition to the county sheriff’s department located in Boydton, ten miles away. The Sheriff, Sheriff Chandler Mitchell, stood by and took notes, but Detective Andrews ran the show. The crime scene was taped off and the investigation shifted to a close inspection of the sidewalk and grass surrounding the body. So far, the investigation seemed pretty small-time, but then again it was a small town. I had grown accustomed to a circus.

  I made a statement, promised to be available, and got out of the way. I left to make copies as the coroner arrived. Soon the body would be rolled over and most of the questions would be answered.

  Concentrating was hard with the investigation happening directly outside of my window, but I stayed in my trailer and gave it a shot.

  I was pretty sure I knew the victim. He was young, about my age, and in good health. Odds were in favor of foul play over heart attack.

  Buses began rolling in ten minutes short of eight. They usually lined up one after the other, until the bell rang at the top of the hour, and the students would come pouring out of the folding yellow doors. Today eight passed without a bell. I shook my head, glad I wasn’t a bus driver this morning.

  Sending six hundred middle school kids home isn’t easy. When it’s an issue of snow, everyone knows it’s a possibility and is semi-prepared for it. But when hundreds of parents aren’t home and aren’t expecting kids to be home for eight hours, the situation gets sticky. I shook my head, glad I wasn’t a principal.

  The intercom beeped three times and a voice asked all teachers to report to the cafeteria. I obeyed. The crime scene was directly between my trailer door and the school’s door, so I walked around it. The body had been rolled over and I could see his face. My guess was right. Sheriff Mitchell was on a cell, probably trying to find the line between a thorough investigation and a quick one. I shook my head, glad I wasn’t the sheriff. The second wave of buses was pulling in and having a hard time finding places to park. The assistant principal was running between bus doors. I walked inside to find the PE teachers herding car-driven kids into the gym. Sleepiness was working on the side of the teachers; the teenagers were willing to be quietly herded, looking anxious, rather than excited, about the change in routine. They sat quietly on the bleachers talking as I passed.

  Mr. Cannon met me in the hall, pointed over his shoulder with his thumb toward the crime scene, and said, “Real shame, isn’t it.”

  “Sure is.”

  “You had just met him, right?”

  “Yup. About two weeks ago.”

  “Real shame.” He shook his head.

  Most of the staff was already waiting in the cafeteria. Taylor beckoned me over to sit near her.

  “Is it true?” she whispered. Her question was loud enough to draw the attention of our neighbors.

  “Depends on what you heard.”

  “Somebody had a heart attack.”

  “Dunno,” I said.

  “Yes you do. I heard you found the body.”

  “I did,” I said. “But you shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

  “So you found the body,” she frowned at me, “but you don’t know if they’re dead?”

  “Definitely dead. Police haven’t issued an official ID yet, though. Nor the cause of death. And by the way, its ‘if he or she is dead.’”

  She glared at my correction and said, “But you know, though.”

  “Just guesses.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Gossip, gossip.” I shook a finger at her. She did not think that was cute, but experience had taught me to keep my mouth shut.

  “I also heard you were a homicide detective,” she said, and nudged me with her shoulder. I didn’t respond, even though she had a very nice shoulder. “Ms. Martin didn’t show us that part of your resume.”

  I shrugged.

  “So, are you a detective?”

  “Not currently, no.”

  “Stop, you know what I mean. Were you? I mean, I knew you were a cop, but not a homicide detective,” she said.

  “A lot of officers don’t like the term ‘cop,’ you know.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Newp,” I said.

  “Okay then. Were you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Shut up, in LA?”

  I shushed her as Principal Martin walked to the front of the cafeteria benches. I was glad to get out of that interrogation. Un
invited personal question and answer sessions made me grouchy.

  “Hi everybody, thanks for being so patient,” she said. Her eyes were red. “As you may have heard, a dead body was discovered out near the south trailers this morning by Mr. August. It appears to be a man, and we’re guessing the man probably works here. Worked here.”

  Heads began to swivel around, looking for missing faces. Not mine.

  “The police are doing their best to figure out what happened, and when I know more I’ll let you know.”

  She said police, but she meant the sheriff’s office or law enforcement agents, something like that. Somewhere along the way, ‘police’ had become the umbrella term to cover everything related to law enforcement. It’s the little things in life that annoy me.

  “We’re not sure yet what we’re doing about the students. There are six hundred kids waiting out in the buses, but obviously a portion of the campus is a crime scene and might stay that way for a while.”

  She went on to talk about precedents and procedures, but Taylor nudged me again.

  “Is that why you’re so big?” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Because of the cop thing?”

  “Sorta. I did some pushups last week too.”

  “Okay.” She rolled her eyes, but she liked me. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a kid?”

  “Don’t you have a kid?”

  “Hell no,” her voice squeaked.

  I shrugged and said, “I thought everyone did.”

  A guy across the table shushed us. His name was Roy. He was the agriculture teacher. He hated everyone named Mackenzie in the school. Especially if Taylor hit on them. I felt his name was very appropriate for his appearance, and he obviously had a thing for Taylor. Most of the guys in the school did. Glancing around, I saw we were surrounded by guys. The entire cafeteria was women, except for the circle around her. I was going to sit somewhere else next time.

  The vice principal walked through the doors with the sheriff, and the three of them had a two-minute huddle. I went to the back of the cafeteria, pretending to throw something away. The room buzzed with whispers until Principal Martin addressed them again. She did not look well. She was a tough lady, but unexpected death is unnerving, even to those used to it.