The Principal Cause of Death Read Online Free Page A

blackening tile. The wood paneling seemed soft and welcoming. The dust
motes drifted in around me. I breathed in that old school smell of chalk and kids.
    As I entered the office, I noticed the door to Jones’s office was open. I picked up Georgette’s phone. The glass windows of the office let me look out on the darkened corridor. The sweep of the headlights, from a car pulling up in the school’s circular drive, gave occasional light. In the dimness I had to lean my head close to the buttons on the phone. I glanced up. A car’s headlight beam swept past the windows in Jones’s office. I caught my breath.
    At the edge of Jones’s desk I saw a hand, a white shirt cuff, and the beginning of the sleeve of a suit coat. A few steps closer, and I saw Robert Jones with a knife sticking out of his back and massive quantities of blood soaking through his clothing.
    I hurried toward him and felt for his carotid artery, hoping for a pulse. I felt cold flesh and not a trace of movement. I hurried from the room, being sure to touch nothing, and dialed the police from the phone on Georgette’s desk.
    The beat cops arrived in eight minutes. Soon, the crime-lab people, along with detectives and captains, joined the fray. Murder in River’s Edge isn’t unheard-of, but it’s rare. This would definitely cause headlines.
    I listened to the cops exchange pleasantries, explanations, and theories, a few of which had to do with the murder and most with who was playing golf with whom and whose turn it was to buy lunch. The beat cops interviewed me and took a statement. The few people still in the building got called in. The police found custodians, and the football team coming in from practice, but not much else.
    Georgette came in at seven. She left a half-hour later, giving a fearful look at the cops and sneaking a tender pat to my shoulder as she swept by. The school superintendent showed up at eight. They hadn’t been able to reach her because she’d been out to dinner for her wedding anniversary.

    About eight-fifteen the cut in my arm began to throb.
    At eight-thirty two detectives interviewed me.
    The tall ugly one was Hank Daniels. The good-looking young guy with the earring was David Johnson. I’d realized early on it didn’t look good: I’d had a fight with Jones. But I didn’t know, until they told me, that I’d been the last one to see him alive. Plus I’d found the body, and the dank sleeve of my shirt reminded me that I had bloodstains on it. Not a good combination for establishing my innocence.
    Daniels began the interview. “We’ve heard about you. Dead bodies seem to show up when you do.”
    Johnson said, “The swish teacher who’s always sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
    Not your basic charm-school interrogation. No matter how hard they pressed, I held my temper in check. I’d been captured by the Viet Cong and held captive for two days. I’d managed to escape, but the memory of the interrogation at that time helped me stay calm now.
    Around nine Frank Murphy strode in. They’d kept me in the nurse’s office. He sat on the couch they keep for the kids to lie down on. I stayed in the swivel chair behind the desk.
    â€œYou’re in deep shit,” he said.
    â€œDaniels and Johnson were no sweat,” I said.
    â€œSweat is not the problem. You are prime suspect number one. Did you do it?”
    â€œIt’s bad enough you’ve got to ask?”
    He gazed at me levelly.
    â€œIt’s that bad,” I said.
    â€œYeah, Tom. I know you didn’t do it, and our friendship will probably get you home tonight without a trip to the station, but it’s touch and go. The two of them want to arrest you.”
    â€œThey’ve got nothing definite. Did anybody see anything?”
    Frank shook his head. “According to the interviews, nobody was near this office after you and Georgette