Free Schooled in Murder by Mark Richard Zubro Page A

be the operative problem tonight,” he said.
    “It was, until this guy decided to nap under my tires.”
    Twirling red and blue lights interrupted our morbid repartee.
    It was the same two detectives. Gault said, “You again.” “I found another one,” I said.
    Half an hour later, I was being interviewed. We stood under umbrellas in the pouring rain. Scott always kept an extra one in the car. He made sure we had one in both cars, along with a first-aid kit, flares, the OnStar system, and every other crisis-management equipment devised for auto travel. He used to keep a full gas can in the back of his car. I had put my foot down about that, but the likelihood was that he stopped only because carrying extra gas had been ruled hazardous.
    Cars’ headlights, more rotating Mars lights, and cop floodlights illumined the scene.
    “You know this guy?” Gault asked.
    “Yep.”
    “Colleague.”
    “Yep.”
    “This guy know the other corpse?” Gault asked.
    “We were in the same department.”
    “They friends or enemies?”
    “They were on the same side in the fights.”
    “They get along?”
    “As far as I know.”
    “You fight with him?”
    “Never directly.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “We had differing views on some issues, but we never disagreed in public. I never had a private discussion of educational philosophy with him.” I added the bit about the anti-Semitic remark.
    Scott asked, “How did he die?”
    Gault said, “We’re waiting for the medical examiner.”
    “Did he die here?” I asked.
    Gault said, “When we can tell you something, we’ll let you know. For now, stick around.” My attorney said, “No.” Gault glared at him.
    I said, “I’m tired. I’m hungry. I didn’t kill him. I’m going home. Unless you’re going to charge me, I’m not staying. You have my address. My car hasn’t moved. Scott will drive me home.”
    My attorney nodded.
    Then Vulmea asked, “Mr. Carpenter, may I have your autograph? For my kids.”
    They always added “for my kids.” I sighed. Scott is unfailingly polite. The cop held out a scrap of paper. Scott signed.

13
     
    At home I changed into jeans, thick white socks, and a heavy sweatshirt. I checked our messages while Scott began putting dinner together. I had a call from Meg Swarthmore. She wanted to know if I was all right and if I needed to cancel our usual Friday-morning breakfast. The message said that no call from me meant that breakfast was on. I didn’t call.
    For dinner Scott warmed some spinach-cheddar soup he’d made the other day. I unpacked fixings for sandwiches. Two kinds of Genoa salami, plus ham, roast beef, prosciutto, sharp cheddar cheese, hot olive salad, sliced tomatoes, toasted bread, olive oil, a dash of vinegar. We started with soup.
    Scott said, “I’m worried about you.”
    “Thanks.”
    “This is more stress than any teacher needs.”
    I said, “It’s not the kids, it’s the adults that drive me nuts. Murder. This is insane.”
    Scott said, “Aside from the corpses, the part I don’t get is crowd after crowd rushing to you for help. Certainly, I’d pick you as the one to go to, and frankly they’re right, but itdoesn’t make sense. Did I get this right? The suckups and the old guard came for help, and the administration wants some kind of intervention.”
    I said, “Maybe they could all just die. It would make my life easier.” The soup was great reheated. He’d been downloading recipes from the Food Network and trying them. Over the years he’d become a reasonably decent cook.
    Scott said, “The administration put up with a lot of verbal abuse from you.”
    “I guess I was kind of rude.”
    “Kind of?”
    “Okay, I was honest to a fault.”
    He sighed. “The real question is,
why
did they put up with it?”
    “They want something. They’re in on it? One of them is in on it and has the others duped? Some odd combination is going on there. I’m most pissed about Benson and Frecking. Those two