First thing next morning at school, I hunted for Kurt Campbell. He's coach of the football team and would know all the boys who'd been at the party. I wanted to learn as much as I could about each person involved. Kurt is also president of our teachers' union, and my best friend on the faculty.
In his classroom, I found him unraveling a red woolen scarf and unbuttoning his heavy parka. The temperature had plunged to fifteen below zero the night before. The weather forecasters had cheerfully predicted it would be twenty to twenty-five below tonight. I closed his classroom door, tossed my winter outer clothes onto a chair, and perched myself on a corner of his desk. Kurt wore dark brown dress pants, a beige sweater, a white shirt, and a striped brown and beige tie. He has a large nose, acne scars, and enormously broad, muscled shoulders. He claims his ugliness kept him from being trampled by all the girls when he was in high school. His wife, Beth, laughs uproariously whenever he says this. They'd dated since eighth grade.
“Damn, it's cold,” he said. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. He eased himself into the chair behind his desk and propped his feet on the top.
“This had better not be union business,” he said. “I am
unioned out. If I get one more complaint from a teacher or administrator before Christmas, I will personally strangle them.”
He's been president of the union for over a decade. He led us through our first strike five years ago. He talked me into becoming union representative and grievance chairman for my building three years ago. Part of the duties included membership on the negotiations team. I got the job because no one else wanted it. He was grateful. I understood his frustration in not wanting to deal with another bitch or moan. Until I became building rep, I'd listened half-bemusedly to his complaints about teachers. Now that I'd heard their inanities directly for a few years, I knew exactly what he meant. And he has far more patience with them than I.
Teachers complain about the stupidest stuff. People expect the union to act sort of like an Old Testament God, only tougher and meaner. Usually, they need the union to get them out of trouble that they've gotten themselves into. And they whine. One school of educational thought says that teachers get more like the kids the longer they've been teaching. It is true teachers take three vows when they get their certificates: poverty, dedication, and the right to bitch.
“Complaints mounting up?” I asked.
He grimaced. “Last night's may have done it. A teacher at one of the elementary schools wanted me to force the principal to change the evaluation he gave her. The teacher said it wasn't fair that she got a satisfactory instead of an excellent rating. She said he observed her the day she was having her period. A fistfight between two kids with bloody noses and with the principal observing your second-grade class is not good.”
“Off day for her?”
“From what I understood, it was one of her good days.”
“Ouch.”
“She told me that she was tired of the union not doing enough for her. How we're not tough enough. The usual shit from an idiot.”
“Speaking of idiots, I've got to see Pete Montini and George Windham today.”
“You have my sympathy.”
Pete is head coach and George is his assistant on the basketball team. For a few years, they've shared minor duties on the football program. They know the boys more than most other teachers and at least as well as Kurt. They are also the biggest assholes in the school.
Kurt asked, “What do you need to see them about?”
I explained to him about Jeff, last night, and the kids at the party.
I also explained about Mrs. Trask. He liked her, too. Most teachers who'd talked to her did.
He gave me his opinion of the kids involved. Becky he knew only by reputation. “As for Susan, I find it hard to believe she had a boyfriend. I had her for algebra two years ago. I remember her as a loner. I never saw her exchange a word with a classmate.” Doris Bradford he didn't know. Same for Eric Task. On Paul Conlan; “You couldn't ask for a better kid. I coached him for four years of football. Did what you asked. Smart. Willing to give of himself for the team. And the kid could play. Excellent chance of a scholarship to a good school. He's an even better basketball player.”
Kurt found Jeff funny, liked him and his loony sense of humor. The boy worked hard on the football field.
“Even with his muscles, I thought he was kind of tall and thin to be a middle linebacker,” I said.
“He's got that willingness to throw himself at an opponent with almost insane abandon. I've seen him go through an opponent with unbelievable mercilessness. He's also got a temper. Angry enough, I've seen him flatten boys who outweigh him by a hundred pounds.”
“Enough temper to kill somebody?”
“I don't know. Possible. I'd hope not.”
Roger Daniels, the last one he had in class, Kurt said was a
good football playerâa hulking kid almost as wide as he was tall. I'd had Roger in class as a freshman. Then, he'd been the class clownâa red-haired dynamo who looked like he could take on the world. Kurt confirmed this as currently correct.
Kurt finished: “I only coached Roger, but he didn't strike me as overly bright. The only real intelligent one of the bunch was Conlan. Sorry I can't help you more. Both Montini and Windham had a lot of these kids in class as well as coaching them on the basketball team. I don't envy you talking to them.”
Before I left, we set a tentative Friday-night date for a Christmas visit from Scott and me and for me to pick up more negotiations material.
At noon, I went to talk to Pete Montini. I found him in his classroom near the gym. Pete is tall, broad, and bald. He has the well-muscled body of a recently in-shape heavyweight wrestler. Rumor says he has the worst breath among any of the faculty. Behind his back, the kids call him “Dragon Mouth.” He also is known for his prodigious ability to consume candy bars. His muscles look a few ounces away from a great deal of fat, with a heart attack soon to follow. The head basketball coach, he also teaches several American government classes.
Pete is in his mid-fortiesâa man soured on kids and teaching but with no place else to go. He is the living vision of the cliché “Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.” He'd wanted to be a pro football player, had the height and weight to play, but, for reasons unknown to me, had never made it. Ten years ago, he'd picked up a kid and thrown him down the school's front stairs. He barely escaped an assault charge. They'd suspended him for thirty days without pay. He came back a chastened and frightened man.
When I walked into his room, he and Paul Conlan abruptly stopped talking. I apologized for interrupting and turned to leave. Pete stopped me. He said it was all rightâthe boy was just leaving.
As he walked out, I asked Paul whether I could see him after
school to discuss Jeff and Sunday's party. He gave the coach a fearful look. I saw Pete give him a brief nod of permission. I wondered what the connection was there. The kid left.
“He looks worried,” I said.
“Grades. Eligibility. He wants me to talk to one of his teachers.”
Paul Conlan worried about grades? I guessed it was possible. Pete eased into a broken-down swivel chair and invited me to sit. I found a bare spot on his desk and did so. Chicago Bears posters covered the walls. The Gale Sayers and Dick Butkus ones dated back to before the Bears won the Super Bowl. Kids' shouts seeped into the classroom from the gym next door. Pete pulled out a bottom desk drawer and rested his feet on it. He leaned back in his chair, picked up a tennis racket from the top of his desk, and twirled it in sporadic jerks.
I gave my little spiel about helping Jeff and asked for anything he could tell me about the kids at the party.
He said, “I've coached Jeff for three years. He'd never hurt her. They were in love.” The racket twirled. “Although,” he said slowly, “Jeff's got quite a temper. I can see him going out of control.” He told me about a basketball game early in December. A ref had called Jeff for a foul. Montini thought it was a bum call, but Jeff had gone nuts. Before Montini could bench him, Jeff had two technical fouls called against him. Then the kid threw a chair and the ref tossed him out of the game.
The information I had so far didn't look good for Jeff. It confirmed that he had a violent temper. I'd seen it myself the night before with his dad. I asked about the other kids.
He said, “First, I've got to add a couple nice things about Jeff. He's easy to coach. Always does what I tell him. A good athlete. Not great. He's never going to be in the pros, but he'd be a starter on most high school teams.” He added that Mr. Trask expected Jeff to play in the pros. The father pushed his son really hard for success, but Montini didn't understand it. Mr. Trask wouldn't be the first dad disappointed over a son's career.
Jeff played a decent game of basketball but was better at football. His emotion worked for him there.
“I don't want you to get the impression I'm down on Jeff or anything. I like the kid. Why, one time, he even stayed overnight at my house.”
“How'd that happen?”
“I've had kids stay overnight a few times. Mostly if they don't have anywhere to go, usually had a big fight with their parents. Mostly guys from the team. It's no big deal.”
He told the story about Jeff between tosses and twirls of the tennis racket. After the last home football game in October, Montini had walked out to his car. Jeff and his dad had been standing nose to nose in the middle of the parking lot, screaming at each other. The argument centered around what Mr. Trask thought Jeff should have done in the game. The old man pointed out every fault the boy had, including the way he sat on the bench. His dad stormed off. Montini'd thought father and son had similar tempers. Jeff had planned to stay at his dad's that night. He told Montini that he and his dad didn't get along, even though they didn't see each other that much. The boy didn't want to hassle with his mom. It was after eleven, so Montini let him stay over at his place.
“I never met the father before last night,” I said.
“The man is a son of a bitch. When he comes to the games, he screams at his boy in front of everybody. The kid has a hard time concentrating on the game with his damn dad bellowing at him.”
I'd known that type of parentâliving through the sports achievements of their kids. I'd seen them at games, torturing their sons and daughters with bellowed advice while the poor kids tried to master a few skills their coach had taught them. The idiot parents expected all-pro play from high school kids. Once I'd seen a parent get his comeuppance. At a basketball game in front of four thousand people, a kid turned to his dad,
who from ten rows up in the bleachers had been screaming at his son. The boy stood still while the rest of the players ran down the court. Then he came to the edge of the stands, looked up to where his dad sat, pointed at his dad, and yelled, “Shut up, you stupid motherfucker.” The crowd around the father cheered the son. Instead of suspending him for the season, they should have given the kid a medal. I appreciated the impulse and wished I could see it more often. My parents came to most of my games in high school, and once or twice in college. My dad got excited sometimes, but he never embarrassed me in front of packed bleachersâan important consideration for a teenager.
Montini twirled the tennis racket in his left hand, then tossed it to his right. “Now your Susan Warren, she got friends because she dated Jeff. Unfortunately, they weren't the greatest girls. Susan was a follower. She was closest to Conlan's girl, Becky Twitchell.”
He hated Becky Twitchell. He had her in class two years ago. He hadn't dared turn his back on the class the whole semester. He was sure she was the one behind the vandalism in the boys' locker room. Every football and basketball had been slashed to ribbons, along with several thousand dollars' damage to the room itself. “It all happened after I gave her an F for the first quarter. I'm sure it was that bitch.”
“Why would a guy go out with a creep like Becky?” I asked.
“Why not? She's hot-looking. If she was older, I'd be interested. Or maybe she's easy.” He gave me a leer, then continued. “She's pretty and a cheerleader. Susan, being a quiet kid, would fall in with Becky pretty easily. Susan was a nice kid. Sometimes she would wait for Jeff after practice. It was kind of cute. They were pretty serious about each other.” He didn't know of any problems they might have been having.
Pete didn't know Roger and Doris. Paul, of course, was God. “The kid has everything. He's going places. He's got half the
recruiters in the country breathing down his neck. He's good-natured, polite, cooperative, mature, a leader. I can't say enough good things about him. We'd have a state-championship team if I had only one more kid half as good as he is.”
Pete knew of no one who might have a motive for killing Susan.
The odd thing I thought about as I left the room was that Pete Montini had been friendly and more cooperative than I'd ever dreamed. I'd known him for twelve years and every single conversation with him until then had contained at least one complaint, plus sarcasm and nasty digs. As building rep, I'd dealt with all the grievances he'd filed with the union. He didn't particularly like me, I didn't think. I had a tendency to tell him when his complaints were silly bullshit. I guess a good union representative is supposed to smile quietly and go along with whatever inanities the complainer brings. Somehow, I can't go along with that. He hasn't complained about the quality of representation I've given him. I shrugged it off for the moment. Maybe murder was enough to make him a little cooperative.