Burning Man (11 page)

Like, gag me with a spoon.

Jenny had told me that although the TV series
The Brady Bunch
was filmed on a set, the writers always imagined that the household existed in the suburbs of Sherman Oaks. Our plan had been to have our own nest with children, and we picked a house that a family was supposed to fill, but it never worked out that way. Jenny had even insisted that we put up a white picket fence in the front yard. As I pulled into the driveway, the night couldn’t mask the fact that the fence needed a new coat of paint. The whole house needed TLC that I was no longer inspired to put into it.

Sirius stayed at my side as we walked up the pathway to the front door and then waited for me to enter the house first. When the two of us worked together in K-9, there had been clear divisions of rank, with frequent classes and exercises to reinforce that pecking order. The dogs are taught their handlers are generals and that they are grunts that have to obey no matter how insane the orders are. Sirius always went along with this game so as to not make me look bad, and still does.

I made Sirius what was either a late dinner or an early breakfast. He eats on the patio and was waiting outside for his catered affair to be served. I sat down while he ate. It was cool but not uncomfortably so. Our backyard is full of mature fruit trees, and
at different times of the year it’s awash in nectarines, apples, apricots, lemons, plums, figs, avocadoes, oranges, limes, and tangelos. It was a good thing the trees were so well established when their care fell to me; so far I’d managed not to kill them. Jen had been the gardener and the cook. The breeze brought with it the bouquet of citrus, and I remembered her tangy lemon meringue pies.

Sirius made short work of his food. I thought about making myself a late snack but decided sleep sounded better than food. I had a six-thirty appointment with the assistant principal at Beverly Hills High, so I’d be lucky to get three hours sleep. My hope was that I would be too tired to dream, especially with my early meeting. When my head hit the pillow, I dropped off. The next thing I knew I was in hellfire.

Both of us were staggering under the weight and heat. The smoke was pummeling us, hitting us in our throats and lungs. The Strangler collapsed to a knee, and Sirius’s legs slipped through his hands and hit the ground. I held on to my partner’s head and legs, but just barely.

“We’re going to die,” the Strangler said.

His lips were blistered and it was tough making out his words. Soot covered his face. His eyes stared out, red coals among the blackness.

“We have to leave the dog if we’re going to have a chance.”

Sirius was still breathing; blood was no longer pouring out of him, but I was afraid that was because he’d bled so much already. Without answering the Strangler directly, I shifted the direction of my gun. It wasn’t easy holding up my partner, with the gun in my right hand, but I’d managed. In a few moments, I could holster the gun and then carry my friend by myself.

The Strangler read my intentions and all but jumped to his feet. I reluctantly eased the pressure on my trigger finger. In the fire my morality had burned away.

My partner was a dead, unwieldy weight in our arms, but I couldn’t let him go. As he struggled for air and continued to fight for life, his sounds made me press on.

Holding Sirius between us, the Strangler and I resumed our death march.

In the limbo of past and present, the crippling forces of grief and despair made my chest feel as if it was being staved in. That pain hurt even more than the burning fire.

And then I was gasping in the now, the dream behind me, as my partner’s licks awakened me and cooled my burning flesh.

In the calm of the moment after, I found myself focused on the crazed red orbs of Ellis Haines. As we had walked through hell, his eyes had always been on me, but now, in my vision, I watched as he plucked out his right eye and offered it to me.

And then I heard the words—or maybe I thought them—“An eye for an eye.”

I fully awakened then, and I thought of Paul Klein and the gap of his missing orb. I wondered whether the bullet was a statement. If I could believe what my vision was telling me, the shooting had been carried out by someone who believed in an eye for an eye. If that was the case, the killer had acted upon what he or she perceived to be a grievous wrong.

Sirius offered up another lick.

“I am awake,” I said, reaching for his head with both of my hands. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re the best nightmare cure in the world?”

He leaned into the bed, gladly accepting my praise and scratches. The love fest was cut short when my alarm went off.

“We need to hurry,” I told him, “or we’ll be late for school.”

I had driven by Beverly Hills High School many times but never had reason to go on its campus. The school is located in the southern part of Beverly Hills and borders on Century City. Contrary to what television might have you believe, the high school’s zip code is 90212. Pictures taken from the school’s
playing fields invariably include the background of high-rise hotels and buildings on Avenue of the Stars and little Santa Monica Boulevard. I turned on Moreno Drive and followed the signs. Along the way I saw media vans lining the street. Signs directed me to student and faculty parking, but a security guard was barring entry and apparently doing his best to keep the media at bay. When I showed him my wallet badge, he waved Sirius and me through.

After parking the car I told my partner, “You’ll have to wait for me.”

Sirius didn’t even try to pretend he was disappointed but instead just curled up on the backseat.

“I was at least hoping for an argument,” I said.

He raised one eye and then closed it.

The BHHS campus is sprawled out over a lot of acreage, and it took me a few stops and starts to orient myself. Anyone expecting a prep school for the rich would have been disappointed. The school was mostly nondescript, with little to distinguish it. The producers of the original
Beverly Hills 90210
must have decided the same thing: they used the exterior of Torrance High School, which was some twenty miles away, for their shots.

As I made my way to the administrative offices, I encountered more security guards. There was a lot of talking going on over walkie-talkies. The guards were intent on keeping the media away from the campus, which was more than all right by me. Even though it was early, teachers and students were already arriving on campus, drawn by news of Paul Klein’s death. Judging by its brightly lit offices, the school’s administration had arrived early to deal with the crisis.

When I announced myself to a receptionist, she said, “The assistant principal is expecting you.”

Even though I am closing in on the age of forty, the receptionist’s words took me back twenty-five years. They had been scary back then; there was a part of me that thought they still were. The
only thing that had changed was the title: it was now assistant principal instead of vice principal.

Most adults offer their first names when being introduced. Assistant Principal Durand did not. “I am Mrs. Durand,” she said.

She was about my age, with short, dark hair set off by pale skin. The assistant principal might have been attractive if she smiled, but she didn’t. Maybe frowning was one of her job requirements. Maybe her night had been as long as mine. I keep hoping that one day I will arise reborn from my phoenix dreams instead of feeling like day-after barbecue.

“I am here investigating the homicide of Paul Klein,” I said. “I’m going to need to talk to those individuals that might have known Paul best, including counselors, teachers, administrators, and of course students.”

Durand folded and unfolded her hands several times before she responded with carefully measured words: “I will do what I can to help you, Detective, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable having you talk with students without first getting the permission of their parents.”

I wasn’t surprised by her response. The first rule of school administrators is to avoid any possibility of a lawsuit.

“Paul was an adult. Confidentiality laws shouldn’t factor in here.”

“His eighteenth birthday was less than three months ago. Most of the students at this school are under the age of eighteen, and some of our Beverly parents might not like you talking to their children. School records are much like juvenile criminal records: they’re supposed to remain sealed.”

“One of your own was murdered. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Of course it does. I will try and work with you, Detective, but I must be mindful of that slippery slope.”

“Did you know Paul Klein?”

She nodded but didn’t elaborate.

“When I was in high school, the vice principal was the disciplinarian of the school. Is that your role?”

“That is just one of my duties.”

“But if students are written up, or if there is trouble, you’re the sheriff?”

“I would likely be involved in the process, yes.”

“Did you ever call Paul into your office?”

She hesitated and then said, “Not officially.”

“But unofficially you did?”

Weighing her words she said, “There was an instance where a student complained about his behavior.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“I was told that Paul was acting inappropriately toward one of our students.”

“I’ll need you to be more specific.”

“Paul and some of his friends were heard teasing a student. The complaint was secondhand, mind you. It didn’t come from the party being teased.”

“But you talked to the student that was teased?”

“I did. And it was that student’s wishes to not proceed with an investigation into the incident.”

“In that case, you wouldn’t mind me talking with this student?”

“I’ll have to consult with someone in administration and get back to you.”

I sighed, hoping my dramatic posturing would get me somewhere. When it didn’t I said, “I assume you also talked to Paul about this incident?”

She nodded. “It was his belief it was no big thing.”

“Was the student being teased foreign born?”

“Why do you ask?”

I pretended to flip through some old notes, looking for something. “Here it is,” I said. “One of Paul’s friends mentioned the incident. The young woman was Iranian, right?”

“She was
Persian
, yes,” Durand said, emphasizing to me what must be the more politically correct term.

“Are many of your students native to other lands?” I asked.

“Almost a third,” Durand said. “At Beverly we pride ourselves on our diversity.”

“You haven’t found any racial or monetary divide among your students?”

“Beverly is a public school, and in real life it is nothing like how it’s portrayed in television and film. There are many apartments in Beverly Hills, and quite a few of our students come from families that are anything but affluent.”

I pretended to look through my notes again. “I didn’t get the name of the girl Paul was accused of teasing. What is it?”

“I prefer withholding her name until I get some directive from above.”

I thought about sighing again but didn’t. Every day, the assistant principal probably dealt with much more talented actors than me. “Over the years did you have any other dealings with Paul?”

Durand hesitated before speaking and then carefully said, “Last spring we talked after an incident in a lacrosse game. There was a formal complaint from another high school saying that one of our players head-butted a member of its team. The opposing coach suspected that Paul was the one that committed the offense, because earlier in the match he’d had a run-in with that player.”

“Was Paul guilty of the head butt?”

“He said he wasn’t involved, and that it was likely the other player was accidentally hit with a stick.”

“What happened with the complaint?”

“Our athletic director dealt with it, but as far as I know nothing came of it, since the victim couldn’t identify who hit him.”

“Were Paul’s teammates questioned?”

Durand nodded. “They all said the same thing, that it must have been an accidental stick.”

“Sticks and stones,” I mused aloud.

I didn’t continue with the rest of the nursery rhyme, because it’s bullshit and every kid knows it. Only a sociopath can declare, “Words will never hurt me.” Words do hurt, sometimes more than anything, which meant I would have to investigate the stick incident and the hurting words.