Free Gentlemen by Michael Northrop Page B

Haberman, still looking at me and putting a little extra emphasis on the word friends, it seemed to me. Then he broke off his stare, even though I hadn’t so much as blinked, even with my bad eye. He swept his high beams toward someone farther over, maybe Bones.
    I looked over at Mixer and half mouthed: “A student is missing?” We weren’t dense. Plus, it was already sort of in our heads from Bones’s joke. Tommy’s empty desk was in a line, connect-the-dots style, between Mixer and me. But we weren’t crazy, either. Mixer gave me a look like, Is this guy frickin’ nuts? I gave him a look back like, I don’t know.
    â€œAnd certainly,” Haberman went on, “it’s a problem for the murderer. There is a body; there is probably a weapon. It’s like a living thing, this problem, a living thing that can stay hidden or can keep extending outward. Say someone, or some ones, help this murderer get rid of the body, aren’t they also, in some sense, guilty?”
    I looked over at Mixer. He didn’t look back. His eyes were far off, unfocused. He was thinking about something, and I knew that it was that barrel.
    â€œAnd if afterward they wanted to inform the police, the Petroviches of this world, would they be welcomed with open arms or viewed with suspicion? What if they had participated unknowingly, what if they had done nothing knowingly wrong? Would it matter? Would they still be stained by the act, as if dipped in ink? Do appearances matter? What sort of people are they? What sort of person is the killer? What if these unwitting helpers seemed more guilty than the killer?”
    The bell rang and Haberman let out a wet little cough. His body slumped down a little. He called out some page numbers, but the class was already loud, collecting their stuff and pushing back their chairs.
    â€œI want you to think about these things when you’re reading tonight,” Haberman shouted above the noise. “This idea that a crime extends past the moment it is committed. That a man’s conscience…” but the class was too loud and his voice trailed off.
    He took as good a breath as his ragged lungs would let him and shouted, “Just read the book!”
    Then he gave up and a little smile crawled onto his face. He looked sideways at me and it seemed like, yeah, I had some reading to do.

7
    So I was walking down the front hallway of the main building after school, and god knows I hate the Tits, but the hallways after school aren’t so bad. They’re empty and open and cleaned and polished. At home, I’ve got to kick my way through all the stuff on the floor half the time, at least in my room, but after school you can just motor through all this clean open space. You can sort of skate on the tiles, depending on what kind of shoes you’re wearing.
    It’s not like it’s a huge thrill; it’s just much better than it is during the day. You can pretty much go where you want, and you don’t need a pass. That’s because the people who stay after school are mostly the jocks, who are outside or in the gym, or the geeks, who are holed up with their clubs. There’s detention, too, but then you’re shut in the Tank, which iswhat we call the detention room. So if you’re just hanging out after school, it’s like you’ve got the hallways to yourself. You’re like 99 percent less likely to run into someone you don’t want to. That goes for some senior looking to stomp you or some girl you’re avoiding. (And, yeah, it’s pretty much always the girl who’s avoiding me, but whatever, it could happen.) More to the point, it goes double for some teacher who’s been acting like a psychopath.
    Before sixth period, I turned the corner heading out of the east wing. I was going fast, trying to get to the library before the sign-in sheet filled up, which I didn’t, and I nearly ran head-on into Haberman.