Free Finals by Alan Weisz Page A

picked out the perfect spot for the murder. He probably had a duffel bag or a backpack containing sweatpants, a light jacket and a different pair of shoes. The fiend would quickly put on the items to hide any traces of blood. The shoe swap would occur outside the bathroom so the police would believe the killer wore a size nine Converse. This was merely a ploy to throw the coppers off the trail because the killer hated Converse and wore a size eleven (It had been a tight fit, but our killer managed to barely squeeze his toes in). To put the cherry on top, the murderer slid the knife into Brent’s unflinching fingers, leaving behind his weapon hoping that a few asinine detectives would call it suicide.”
     
    All of that would have sounded great, but I’m guessing my colleagues would have been rather disturbed by such a descriptive narrative with in-depth analysis. Instead of retelling my account of the events, which transpired that fateful morning, I made up some bull about how the killer was a transfer student or a freshman. I said the killer had not adopted the St. Elizabeth philosophy of faith, leadership and service. A member of our beloved community could not commit such an act. At St. Elizabeth, the society is one of love and togetherness. A member of a group so strong and united could not perform a feat of this enormity. Blah, blah, blah, it was a steaming pile of crap.
     
    My next fictitious theory was that Brent was involved in drugs. I stated that sources close to me said that Brent’s cocaine addiction had worsened. The need to snort gratuitous amounts of blow had increased substantially as the semester went on. It seemed probable that Brent had gotten in over his head and his dealer wasn’t going to take it any longer so he snuffed him out because he didn’t have the dough. Maybe he had run into an unhappy customer or a wacked out junkie who decided to shank him at the pisser because he had cut him off. Actually, if I had no idea how my bitch of an ex-friend died, this solution would have appeared plausible. Brent snorted cocaine frequently and his stash was large enough that he could have distributed it if he wanted to earn some green on the side.
     
    All but Hayley were intrigued by my speculation. The drumming of her pen against her spiral notebook told me she was not amused. Her unwavering joyful expression masked the discontent surely underneath the surface. In her customary refined tone, Hayley informed me that her sources indicated Brent was merely a social drug user, and that he by no means had a substance abuse problem. Of course, by quoting her “sources” Hayley was really just stating her own opinion. She often made statements such as these to put me in my place, demonstrating the power she held atop The Gazette hierarchy. To me it seemed as juvenile as Tommy Lee whipping out his junk in an all-Asian locker room at USC merely to prove he was top dog. Obviously, she had the control or at least liked to think she did. Like her lover, concealment and deceit were second nature to her, but she wasn’t the only one in the room lurking amongst the shadows. Hayley knew more about Brent in the later stages of his life than I did, but I was present for his last moments, watching as his life source slowly depleted.
     
    Despite my inaccurate sources, the praise that always followed a mediocre idea came from the blonde’s mouth before Vickie divulged her thoughts about Brent’s murder.
     
    “ I’m spit-balling here but I have to disagree with everything that just came out of your mouth, Wayne, even though it wasn’t half bad,” Vickie began.
     
    “ I remember my freshman year, I didn’t know my ass from my elbow. It was a confusing time trying to find the right people, the right parties. Knowing how much effort to put into a project was tough too. Some things are easy as fuck and you can do a shitty job while still earning a decent grade. Some assignments you really have to be sober to complete,