A Simple Suburban Murder by Mark Richard Zubro Read Free Book Online

Sylvester, and anything connected to teaching and working conditions I will listen to, but neither you nor Armstrong have any say about my private conversations or activities. You never had. You never will."
    His body sagged. Although the building was cool, sweat appeared on his upper lip. He moved to a student's desk and plopped his body into it. He wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief. When he spoke his voice was a pathetic whine. "Can't you for once see this from my point of view?"
    "And what is that?" I asked in a neutral tone.
    "I'm not an evil human being, although I'm sure you think so. I'm getting pressure from everyone constantly asking for answers I don't have. Why did this have to happen while I'm principal? I should never have quit teaching. I was happy in the classroom." He stood up abruptly, waved his arms dramatically. He said, "Do what you want. I don't care. It doesn't make any difference." He tottered to the door. Before he went out he turned back and said, "You'll be sorry, Mason."
    I didn't bother puzzling about this threat.
    Scott picked me up fifteen minutes later. He dropped me off at my place and went out to pick up dinner. We rarely cook for each other. Neither of us is good at it, although on special occasions he makes fabulous meals—Thanksgiving being one of his best. He's not bad at breakfasts either.
    The doorbell rang while I set the table.
    The cop, John Robertson, was at the door. I hesitated about letting him in. Scott would return any minute. I wasn't sure how Scott would react to the cop's presence. Depending on Robertson's intelligence and discretion, it could lead to Scott's being involved.
    We sat in the living room. He began friendly enough, but all the same there was a note of menace underneath. "I checked into your background, Mr. Mason. You're an ex-marine. Did a tour of duty in Vietnam."
    It's not something I talk about. I killed some human beings who were trying to kill me. A lot of screwed-up politicians tried to convince us this was a sane thing to do. Was it right or wrong? I prefer never to look back. I survived.
    Robertson continued. "I like that about a guy. We've got to be tough in this day and age. We can't let these fucking intellectuals and faggots run things."
    Big mistake on his part. I was furious, but held it in check for the moment until I knew what he wanted.
    "What is it I can do for you, Detective?"
    "I wanted to mention a few things. I have a couple questions." His demeanor remained placid, but I detected an increase in the harshness underneath. I might be a good guy because I was an ex-marine but as he shortly revealed, I was also a member of the pain-in-the-ass public getting in the way of his job.
    He said, "I hear you've been taking quite an interest in this case."
    "I don't see that as surprising."
    "No, Mr. Mason, but it's usually the police who take care of asking questions and interviewing suspects. It's our job. We prefer not to be interfered with." The harshness in his voice increased. "Look, Mason, I'm telling you to back off. You're a veteran and all, but I want you to butt out. If you dare defy me—"
    The front door opened. Scott walked in carrying dinner. He looked at the two of us. Scott solved the problem of recognition simply and without hesitation. He introduced himself. By shifting the packages, he could shake hands.
    "Never thought I'd meet Scott Carpenter." Robertson sat back down slowly.
    "Let me put these away and then I'll join you, if it's all right?" Scott asked.
    "No problem," Robertson said. He gave me a surprised and confused look and gazed at me carefully. What he wanted to ask, I guessed, was why one of the biggest stars in baseball was in my living room.
    Scott returned from the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink, Detective, a beer maybe?"
    "No, that's okay. I'm on duty, maybe another time."
    "Sure thing." Scott gave him his dazzling smile and sat down next to me on the couch.
    Robertson blurted out, "I'll