Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (7 page)

He arched an eyebrow. “A lot of folks have it a lot tougher.”
He changed the subject. “You know how Salinger came up with
that name, Holden Caulfield, don’t you?”

What Salinger groupie didn’t know? “Yeah. I heard he was
going to a movie starring William Holden and Joan Caulfield. I
don’t remember the movie’s name.”

Harper supplied it for me. “Dear Ruth in 1947. There was a
sequel, Dear Wife two years later.”

“That’s right.” I nodded and handed him the book. He took
it with his left hand, a reaction I could not fail to notice. “One
more question, Mr. Weems.”

A look of impatience flickered across his face. “Go on “

“Did Holderman have any enemies that you know of?”

I saw a flash of something in his eyes that he covered so quickly I couldn’t tell if it were surprise or alarm. His reply was
hasty and sharp, almost defensive. “Everyone has enemies, Mr.
Boudreaux.”

I glanced around the room, looking for a subject to calm
whatever distress he seemed to be experiencing. My gaze
stopped on his camera. “You’re a camera buff, huh?”

The tension evaporated instantly. He grinned up at me.
“Yeah. I take a lot of the sports pictures for the school paper
and the annual. You know anything about photography?”

“Not a bit.” I pulled out my notepad and a pen. “Do me a
favor. If you don’t mind, jot down your name and telephone
number right under Kim’s in case I need to contact you.” I
handed him the pad and pen, which he took with his left hand.

I watched with a mixture of elation and confusion as he
wrote his name and number with his left hand.

“Here you go.” He handed me the pad and pen.

“Thanks.” I reached for the door. “Well, look, I appreciate
the time, Mr. Weems. That’s all I needed to know. I enjoyed the
visit.”

“Me too.”

He looked to me like a good teacher. But something about
him bothered me, something besides the left hand. I tried to
dismiss it, figuring I was simply uncomfortable because he was
handicapped.

After I left his room, I ducked into the boys’ restroom. There
were no handicapped stalls. I surveyed the room for several
seconds, remembering his remark that he had just come out of
the restroom when Perry Jacobs reached the bottom of the
stairs. “Maybe he just washed his hands,” I muttered, shaking
my head at my own bad luck. Here I’d found a left-hander, but
the only problem was he couldn’t have possibly climbed the
stairs.

Unless he was faking his condition.

On the way to the counselors’ office, I stepped outside and
called Stewart again. Still no answer. I was growing concerned.

Perry Jacobs was waiting in the counselors’ office when I
returned. He was about fifty pounds overweight with a flabby
face that had once been square. His blond hair was thinning,
and his eyes were sad, the brows turned down. He had reached
that time in some men’s lives when everything sags, his face,
his shoulders, his belly, and his dreams. He rose to meet me,
hand extended. I apologized for keeping him.

“No problem. I just got here. What’s this all about?” He eyed
me warily.

I led the way into the ARD room and closed the door behind
us. “No big deal, Mr. Jacobs.” We sat, and I filled him in on my
reason for being there. “So, you see, I’m just going back over
information you’ve already supplied the police.”

Instant anger flared in his face. His thick brows met at the
bridge of his nose. “I bet,” he retorted. He jabbed a finger at
me. “You know why Holderman’s wife, the little witch, came
to you?” His flaccid face was florid with resentment and rage.

Before I could yes, no, or maybe, he continued. “She’s trying to dump the blame on anyone except her.” He turned to leave. “I’m not staying in here and let some cheap private
investigator make me the scapegoat in this thing.”

I always expect defensive displays from suspects, but the
intensity he exhibited surprised me. I remained seated, hoping
to appear calm and unshaken by his diatribe. “Fine with me,
Mr. Jacobs. But, understand this. The Safford police gave me
permission to open this case again. I figure they’ll be curious as
to why you don’t want to cooperate.” I crossed my arms over
my chest and stared up at him. “Especially if you don’t have
anything to hide.”

His lips were drawn tightly over clenched teeth. I could
almost see the wheels turning in his head.

I gave him a little nudge. “Believe me, I’m accusing no one,
but the truth is, the fact your contract was not going to be
renewed is a pretty good motive. How old are you, fifty-two?
Past that age, jobs, good jobs, aren’t easy to come by.”

If looks could have killed, I would have been burned to a
crispy critter. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, resting his weight on his stiff arms. His words were sharp
and cold. “For your information, my contract was not going to
be denied. George had decided instead to write a letter of reprimand and put it in my file.”

I nodded. “That could put a different light on the matter then.
Is the letter in your file?”

His tone softened. “No.” Wearily, he plopped back down in
his chair. “No. We were going to discuss it after the PTA meeting. He was to put the letter in my file the next day.” He looked
up at me. “I met him in the lobby and walked down the hall
with him to my room, but I had to go to the john. He went on
up to my room. When I got upstairs, I found him sprawled
across my desk.” He paused. “And that’s the truth, honest.” His
last words were almost pleading.

“Look, Mr. Jacobs, I know this is tough on you, but if you
didn’t kill him, then by being completely honest with me, you
can help find who did murder George Holderman.” I hesitated, hoping my logic would permeate the wall of anger he’d
thrown up.

He remained silent. I continued. “Now, back to the contract.
I’ve had experience teaching. I know they can’t refuse to renew
a contract arbitrarily. What reason did he give for not renewing,
or threatening not to renew it?”

He hesitated a moment. “Professional incompetence. In
other words, an ineffective teacher. You see, Mr. Boudreaux, a
superintendent is god in some of these districts. He has all the
records. He can manipulate them anyway he chooses. He
appraised me last spring, and he crucified me. He wrote up a
remediation plan for me, which I fulfilled this past summer. He
came in again last September and literally eviscerated me. That
was the basis for the non-renewal.”

I stared at him in disbelief. I’d undergone the trauma of
teacher appraisals for three or four years at Madison High, and
they were always done by the teacher’s immediate supervisor,
the principal. “Why did he appraise you? I’d figure Howard
Birnam, your principal, would do that.”

With a cynical chuckle, he explained, “Holderman claimed he
liked to keep his hand in things.’ In fairness to him, he usually
appraised several teachers on various campuses each year. Said
it helped him keep up with what was going on in the district.”

“Why would he hit on you and not the others?”

Perry Jacobs hesitated once again, then shrugged. “He never
liked me. And the feeling was reciprocated.”

I considered his explanation. Hard to believe, but having
been in the school business, I knew for a fact there were many
vindictive school administrators who would not hesitate to fire
an employee on a whim or in an egotistical display of power.

For the moment, I dropped the subject and jotted a few notes
in my notebook. “Kim Nally said you saw someone going
down the stairs that night.”

“Naw. I didn’t.” He shook his head. “I came up the middle
flight of stairs. When I turned the corner toward my room, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone going down the far
stairs. I didn’t think anything about it until I saw George. About
that time, Kim came up. I remembered seeing someone, or
thinking I had. I told Kim to call nine-one-one, and I ran down
the stairs.”

“Find anyone?”

Frustration clouded his eyes. “Harp Weems”

A flicker of hope erased the frustration in his eyes. “But, you
can check with Jim Hawkins. He teaches American History
next door to me. He came into the boys’ room just before I left.
He can back me up that I was in there while George had gone
on to my room.” A pleased smile played over his fleshy face.

“Did Hawkins see Holderman going up the stairs?”

His grin faded. He stared at me a moment, puzzled.

I explained. “You could have gone up there with Holderman,
killed him, then hurried back to the boys’ room where you saw
your friend, which provided part of an alibi. I’m not saying you
did, but that’s how the cops might look at it. “

With a rueful twist of his lips, he nodded. “Yeah. I see what
you mean. But, I am telling the truth.”

The shrill shriek of the school bell interrupted us. He rose
quickly. “I’ve got a class.”

I stood with him. “Look, Mr. Jacobs. I’d still like to talk a little more. Can I get in touch with you at home?”

He studied me a moment. With a weary shake of his head, he
chuckled. “Sure. If I got to, I got to. Perry Jacobs. I’m in the
Austin directory, on Canyon Road. Four seventy-six.”

I slid a sheet of paper to him. “How about writing it down
for me?”

A frown wrinkled his forehead, but he just shrugged. “Whatever.” Hurriedly, he scribbled his address, with his right hand
and handed it to me.

Hiding my disappointment, I took the address. “Thanks.”

I offered him my hand but he ignored it. He stared hard at
me, his gray eyes challenging. “Make sure you look hard at that wife of George’s. She was here. I can always find another
teaching job, even substituting if I have to. She can’t find
another eight million.”

Noncommittally, I replied, “I will.”

“Good.”

I studied his retreating back. He was right. He could find
another job, but Frances Holderman couldn’t find another eight
million.

The next period, I interviewed Dorothy Saussy who verified
being with Kim Nally. She insisted she left Nally’s room with
Linda May and Iona Flores precisely at nine-thirty.

The other names on the list were of no help. Henry Bishop,
the government teacher, and Lionel Portis, the Driver’s Ed
instructor, contributed nothing. They had been in Bishop’s
room planning the next student council meeting. Jim Hawkins
verified seeing Perry Jacobs in the boys’ room, but when I
asked if he had seen Holderman climbing the stairs, he shook
his head, which was bad news for Jacobs.

Afterward, despite the chill in the air, I strolled the campus,
locating the auditorium where the PTA meeting had been held
and studying its proximity to Room 247. Tall shrubs lined the
building, and from the front door of the auditorium to the side
door leading to Room 247 was a straight shot, less than
seventy-five yards across the quadrangle.

I did some fast calculating.

Two minutes through the dark night, two minutes upstairs,
two minutes to whack Holderman, two minutes back down, and
two minutes to the auditorium. Ten minutes. A flicker of time in the commotion of two hundred chattering people clustered in
the auditorium lobby.

The perp would not be missed, and by cutting across the
quadrangle, he could bypass the sign-in sheet kept by the hall
monitors.

I finished the morning by interviewing the hall monitors, two
husky young men about three or four inches taller than my fiveten, Tim Briggs and Marvin Handwell, whom the high school
principal had assigned to monitor the old wing.

Any parent would have been proud to claim either young
man as a son. Polite and good-looking, they both carried the
bulk of a football player. They greeted me and waited until I
offered them a chair. I explained my reason for being there and
slid the sign-in sheet across the desk. “As I understand it, you
two young men were hall monitors that night. Here’s the list of
teachers who went into that wing. Is it complete?”