Colin Fischer (5 page)

Of all the subjects
in school, math was Colin’s favorite.

Unlike most of his peers, Colin knew what math was for. He understood why it was useful to calculate the time two trains pass if one leaves Chicago at three P.M. headed east and another leaves New York at four P.M. headed west. The answer to the word problem was immaterial, but the
calculation
was of critical importance because it allowed one to learn about trains. Trains were very interesting to Colin and worth learning about.
³

For Colin, this was true of all subjects. To learn a thing was to know a thing; to know a thing was to understand a thing; to understand a thing was to face it without fear.

So it was with great interest that he transcribed every word uttered or scratched on the board by his grizzled old algebra teacher, Mr. Gates. For example, the words “Identity Matrix.” Gates’s crooked index finger, dusty with chalk, pointed out at the class.

“Can anyone list the properties of an identity matrix?” Mr. Gates asked.

Colin could. His hand shot upward, expecting to be called upon. He was not. Mr. Gates silently noted Colin’s clear enthusiasm and passed him by. “Thank you, Mr. Fischer,” he said. “I’d like to see what other people know.”

Low laughter rippled through the class. The loudest laughs came from the back and a boy named Rudy Moore—
Rudolph Talbott Moore
on Mr. Gates’s student list.

Colin found Rudy troubling. His expression never matched the hand-drawn figures on his cheat sheet. Rudy’s eyes and mouth always seemed to
disagree—in fact, his eyes almost never changed. It was as if he didn’t really feel anything and simply moved his facial muscles to approximate human emotion. Rudy reminded Colin of a shark, especially when he smiled.

Colin had made precisely one personal observation about Rudy in his Notebook:

Mr. Gates made a low noise, almost a growl. “Anyone?”

Colin thrust his hand into the air again, interpreting the question as an invitation.

“Come on, someone give it a shot.”

Colin waved, flagging his teacher down, thinking perhaps he didn’t see him.

Mr. Gates froze, as if taking a moment to process some arcane algorithm before announcing his solution. “Okay. Fischer.”

Colin stood and opened his mouth to speak. Before the first word of his answer could escape, he was interrupted by the shrill sound of a cell phone ringing from somewhere in the back of the classroom. Colin pursed his lips, silently counting to three.

Mr. Gates glared. “Whoever that is, turn off the phone or it belongs to me.”

The ringing stopped. Mr. Gates held a moment just
to make sure it was really done, then nodded at Colin. “Go ahead.”

Once more, Colin opened his mouth. This time, the cell phone interrupted him with a song: “The 1812 Overture.” Once more, he counted to three, taking deep breaths.

“Knock it off,” Mr. Gates snapped. “Last warning.”

The music ended. Colin heard laughter and whispered conversation all around him and found it distracting. Frustrating. His heart pounded in his chest, cold sweat beaded on his forehead. The fire inside had rekindled, and it was building.

Colin forced the words out between breaths. “An identity matrix is—”

A cacophony of sound drowned out the rest of his words. The cell phone again. Loud and shrill. Not stopping. Not music, not a ring, not anything pleasant—just noise.

Colin put his hands to his ears to shut it out, only dimly aware of Mr. Gates charging down the aisle. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping as the rest of the class laughed and pointed, and Mr. Gates searched in vain for the source. This was all too much for Colin to bear, so he did the one thing he knew would drown out the noise.

Colin barked like a dog. Louder and louder, so focused on his barking he didn’t notice Mr. Gates discover and shut off the offending phone. He didn’t notice the stares in his direction from around the room. He didn’t notice
Rudy Moore’s mouth open wide in deep laughter, showing off his shark teeth with his dead eyes.

Most of all, he didn’t notice himself collapse to the floor, huddled in a ball with his hands over his ears, still barking as Mr. Gates called the school office for help.

This was the second time
Colin had visited Dr. Doran, the school principal.

The first was three weeks before school began. He had come with his parents to discuss his special requirements, especially now that he would be without Marie. Dr. Doran was new to West Valley High School and brought with her new ideas about how to do things. She seemed interested in Colin’s case and was firm in her reassurances that her approach to “mainstreaming” would put his needs first and the convenience of the faculty second.

During the meeting, Colin’s mother did most of the talking, his father asked most of the questions, and Colin spoke not at all. Instead, Colin spent the hour studying Dr. Doran’s office, subjecting everything he saw to careful scrutiny.

In his Notebook, Colin wrote:

Colin spoke only nine words to Dr. Doran, and he saved them for the end of the meeting. “Dr. Doran,” Colin had said then, “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Once again, Colin found himself doing very little talking in Dr. Doran’s presence. She was staring at him over steepled fingers, sitting back in her chair. The cell phone Mr. Gates had found was on the desk before her. Colin looked at his feet.

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” Dr. Doran said evenly. “But I do hold you responsible for how you choose to react to things that upset you. Do you understand?”

Colin nodded. He offered no explanation because there was none.

“If and when something like this happens in the future, ask your teacher to excuse you from the classroom. You can come here, if you like, until you feel better.”

Colin looked up at her. “What if my teacher says ‘no’?”

“Your teacher will not say ‘no.’” She meant it. Colin could tell. He trusted her.

“Let me be clear,” she continued. “If there is another incident, I’ll deal with you the same way I would deal with any other student here. Do you understand?”

Colin nodded again.

“You may go.”

Colin stood, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and turned to leave. As he reached the door, he stopped and turned back toward Dr. Doran.

“Yes?”

He pointed at the cell phone. “Do you know whom that belongs to?”

“Not yet. But I expect we’ll find out soon enough.”

Colin shook his head. “No,” he disagreed, “you won’t. May I see it?”

Dr. Doran wrinkled her nose, then held up the phone so Colin could take it. He scrolled through the received calls. “You see?” he offered. “This telephone has only received two calls, both from a restricted number.”

She rose to get a better look. Colin paged through the options on the phone. “No missed calls, no sent calls. There are no stored contacts, and no information on the owner other than the assigned area code and number. Don’t you find that strange?”

“It’s a new phone,” Dr. Doran observed.

“Yes,” Colin agreed.

He pulled a plastic sheet off of the LCD screen. “So new the owner didn’t bother to completely unpack it. However, that is not what is strange about this telephone.” He turned it over and ran his finger across the back. “Look at these scratch marks. They could only come from someone replacing a SIM card.”

Colin reached into his backpack and produced a small screwdriver from a pocket toolkit (a curious investigator’s best friend). He used it to pry open the back of the phone. Dr. Doran leaned forward to get a better look at Colin’s impromptu forensic analysis. In spite of herself, she found this fascinating.

A narrow cover popped free, and Colin extracted its SIM card. “This SIM card came from a pre-pay telephone, making the owner completely untraceable.”

“So where’s the original SIM card?”

“With the person who bought this phone.”

“And you’re saying we can’t figure out who that was.”

“No, I’m saying you can’t figure out who owned this phone just by looking at it.”

Dr. Doran drummed her fingers against her desk and cocked her head slightly. Colin was going somewhere—it was a game he was playing, but she was pleased to play along. At least for the moment.

“It costs three hundred dollars,” he continued. “I know this because my mother wanted to buy me one, and my father told her absolutely not would he pay that
much money for something he was certain I would lose. Whoever bought this phone could afford to lose three hundred dollars. He also had the technical know-how to replace the SIM card and the forethought to plant the phone where Mr. Gates would not be able to find it quickly. Our adversary is intelligent, resourceful, and cunning.”

“Our
adversary
,” Dr. Doran repeated, a little dubious.

“Yes,” Colin insisted. “This was intended for me. A ringing cell phone is a distraction in any classroom, but not worth three hundred dollars by itself. The person who did this knows me, and he knew how I would react. So whoever it was went to the same middle school I did and has taken classes with me in the past. That narrows down our list of suspects considerably.” He returned the SIM card to its slot and handed the phone back to Dr. Doran.

“Okay, cut to the chase,” Dr. Doran pressed. “Who was it? I’ll suspend him so fast he’ll think he’s still on summer vacation.”

“You’ll never make it stick.” Colin frowned. “Our adversary is too smart.”

“Colin,” Dr. Doran said, “just give me the name.”

“Rudolph Talbott Moore,” Colin said simply.

“And do you know why Rudy Moore would spend all of this money and go to all of this trouble just to make you bark like a dog? For a laugh?”

Colin shook his head. Adjusted his glasses. “The
choice of ring tones was a message, directed at me. ‘The 1812 Overture.’ It was a declaration of war.”

“Yes, Colin. But why?”

“I suspect it has something to do with the Strange Case of the Talking Doll.”

“What was strange about the talking doll?”

“It barked. Like a dog.”

“I see.”

“May I be excused?”

Dr. Doran nodded, and Colin exited without another word between them.

Colin was on
the thirty-ninth step between the main office and class when he saw Sandy Ryan at Eddie Martin’s locker. She had just finished popping open the door and was reaching inside to grab Eddie’s Notre Dame jacket, which she slipped over her shoulders. Colin furrowed his brow and reached for his Notebook—was he witnessing a crime in progress? Could Sandy be so foolish as to believe she could get away with it?