Free Schooled in Murder by Mark Richard Zubro

school, smiling and using his charm on the secretaries. He was bluff, friendly, and a Nazi. Few dared say anything to him about his prejudice because he was also African American. I heard him make an anti-Semitic remark once. I was appalled that the other six people listening to him said not a word. I did. I told him that it was an unacceptable and rude comment. He did apologize, and he stopped making any kind of slurs around me. Others told me he still made all kinds of slurs about any number of groups. I often asked why they didn’t speak up. They claimed they were afraid.
    It must have been frightening to sit down on a bus and not move in Montgomery, Alabama, in the mid-1950s. Speaking up about a slur in a school in 2007? Courage? Can they say
adult?
Cowards needed to die as badly as the suckups. That’s what the bullies want: silence in the face of their unpardonable behavior. And when their behavior gets thrownback at them, they act all stunned and innocent. The world had changed since the 1950s. Obviously not enough.
    Higden’s bushy, throwback-to-the-seventies hair was caught under my left rear tire. His jacket was slightly awry. Rain flowed into his lifeless eyes and beaded down his cheeks. I felt for the pulse in his neck. Nothing. He was dead.
    Two deaths in less than eight hours.
    I leaned against the side of the car. I don’t remember if I felt the rain pelting down on me. I shook my head and bent over. Death in unexpected places was always a shock. For a few moments I thought I might be ill. Marine training or not, all this was not easy to take.
    I saw Scott pulling around. He drove up to see what the delay was. He peered out his windows at me. His windshield wipers swished back and forth. I opened the passenger door of his Porsche and climbed in.
    He said, “What’s wrong?”
    “Peter Higden is dead.”
    He looked out the windows. “Who is he? Somebody on the radio?”
    “No. One of the teachers.”
    “Where?”
    “About three feet from here. Just this side of the back wheels of my car.”
    “Did you hit him?”
    “I haven’t moved from my parking space. I tried to go backwards. He was wedged behind the rear wheels. I couldn’t move the car.” I shuddered. “At least I didn’t try and use the four-wheel drive to climb over him.”
    Scott said, “Nor did he plop in your path.”
    “Close enough.”
    He touched my arm and asked, “Are you okay?” “I’ve been better.”
    He pressed the OnStar system button. In a few seconds avoice came through the radio speakers. He told them to send the police. They didn’t need to ask where we were. The satellite system would pinpoint our location.
    Scott took out his cell phone and dialed our attorney. Todd had gotten to the interstate but promised to come back immediately.
    Scott turned off the windshield wipers and then the engine. He left the headlights on so the police would be able to spot us more easily. The rain thudded on the roof. I pulled my jacket tighter around me. It was a warm, furry one I’d purchased when we were in Provincetown last summer.
    “Cold?” he asked.
    I nodded. He turned the engine back on and turned up the heater.
    “Did you know him?” Scott asked.
    “A leader of the suckups. I didn’t know him all that well.
    “I think I remember you talking about him. The African American Nazi?”
    “Yep.” I sighed. “It’s going to be a long night.”
    “He was a leader?” Scott asked.
    “He went out drinking with the gang every Friday night. That was their criterion for letting you into the group’s secrets.”
    Scott said, “Did they have a secret handshake?”
    “Only if it involved fewer than two steps.”
    “You used to go out with the staff, didn’t you? I remember stories of mild escapades.”
    “Years ago. Not with these people, and
mild
is the operative word. We were young. We went out. We were enjoying the world. We weren’t trying to shove our crap down everyone else’s throats.”
    “Which does seem to