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10 X 14: ATTUNED The students and faculty of Winslow High are acting even more off-the-hook than usual, and it's up to a couple of new 'subs' to get to the root of the problem before class gets totally out of hand... |
The
first thing his students noticed was that Kenny Belson
had neglected his morning grooming ritual.
Each
morning, as the last reverberation of the period bell and the final raucous
laughter died, Belson studiously brushed the
left lapel of his gleaming white lab coat with acid-stained fingers, eyeing
his assembled audience warily. He coughed once, sighed, and began to chant
about alkaloids and isotopes and catalysts, studiously ignoring the students
who were not-so-subtly ignoring him.
This
morning, Belson’s hand rose to the occasion,
and then something came into his face – a little life, his faculty colleagues
might have quipped. His hand moved downward to the button that secured his
coat, and lazily flipped it free. Belson’s eyes
widened with discovery as he pulled the cheap, starched garment from his
shoulders. He dropped it to the ground; 64 youthful eyes followed it to the
linoleum.
"That’s
better," Belson smiled. "Thing looks pretty lame,
anyway, pretty, what, whack? Is that right? Whack?"
Several
students blinked, as if a fuse had been replaced. Mr. Lizard, as the collective
students of Winslow High had come to call the 11-year chemistry veteran,
was about as hip-hop as Dan Rather.
"I
mean, why should I be astonished that I’m an object of ridicule around here?"
Belson posed congenially. "I come trudging in
here every morning wearing this stupid thing, these outdated wire rims I’d
have replaced five years ago except the union traded our new medical plan
for day care, which really helps me. I mean, I’m like some kind of pathetic
stereotype."
Todd
in the third row cautiously raised his hand, the earring piercing his left
brow at full elevation.
"Stereotype,"
Belson said. "A generalized popular conception
of –"
"We
know what a stereotype is," Tanya snapped, her face and
tone a study in boredom.
Belson’s grin expanded
as he glanced down at the small blonde in the front row. "Ms. Raymond, you
are extremely fortunate your fellow matriculants
haven’t yet torn the limbs from your undersized body. Who has not felt the
impulse to tear the wings from this haughty, disrespectful, 4.0 GPA, Aryan
princess? Hands?"Belson’s
students were now sitting upright, something that had not happened in the
11 years he’d been mixing bases and acids. Tanya looked torn between a snit
and a tantrum. Most of the students were torn between taking the teacher’s
question at face value or playing it safe. Some
were content that they could express their true feelings for Tanya Raymond
without raising a finger.
Belson sighed. "Mr.
Gianos, my apologies if I patronized or insulted you. You had a question?"
"Dude,
I’m cool," Todd murmured, grinning carefully.
"Well,
all right, Dude," Belson exuded.
"How fortunate for you.To be cool, to be oblivious
to all the turmoil and tumult around you, to the sensitivities and sensibilities
of the human race, to your future security and happiness. To be cool,
although the skills you accumulate in this tax-funded Petri dish likely will
be obsolete by the time you stumble through some barely accredited state university
or burger school. Although by the time you reach 47, you’ll more than likely
look back on a life of unfulfilled potential, broken promises, and shattered
pride."
"Man,
you sound like Lipschultz," scoffed Jamal, toward
the back.
Belson looked like he’d
been slapped. "Lipschultz
?Seriously?"
For
the first time in his academic career, Jamal reconsidered his comment and
shrugged.
"Lipschultz?"
Belson murmured. He turned back to the class. "
Lipschultz – that’s what it’s come to?"
"It’s just, well, you’re
acting kinda unusual today,"
Kimberlie offered. "You OK, Mr. Belson
?"
"I’m
cool." Belson then nodded, moved around his desk,
and pulled out a large pistol.
"Damn,"
Jamal breathed.
"God,
that has been so done," Tanya sighed. "And Mr. Senate did it better."
"Senate, huh?"
Belson considered, his gun wagging dangerously in the direction of
Tanya’s blonde head. "All right. So I’m somewhere
on the meter between a depressive social misfit and a senile gasbag who has
trouble remembering his underwear size from day to day."
"Hey,
better stow the piece, Dude," Todd recommended, looking both apprehensive
and intrigued. With Todd, the two were the same look.
"Ms.
Raymond?" Belson asked.
Tanya
opened her mouth, and for the first time in her academic career, nothing
came out beyond carbon dioxide laced with spearmint.
"Is
that a new outfit?" the teacher inquired.
"Ee-yeeah."
Tanya’s brows rose curiously. She had expected her brain matter to be disbursed
across the room, not fashion talk.
"Here,"
Belson decided, sweeping his lab coat from the
desk. "You’d probably better put it on. No sense in a lawsuit."
Too
dazed to question the baffling request, she slipped on the coat.
"Dudes,"
Belson said, saluting with one hand as he hefted
the gun in the other.
Winslow
High School Principal Steven J. Harper, two floors below and on the other
end of the building from Belson’s lab, debating
zero tolerance policies with Vice Principal Scott Guber
, heard the crisp clap of the .45 delivering a chunk of metal into Kenny
Belson’s cerebrum and the ensuing volley of juvenile
screams...
J.
Two days later
Monica had known many of the particulars of the case – albeit
filtered through the mass media -- well before A.D. Skinner summoned her
and Doggett to his office. But she was still somewhat taken aback.
"I don’t mean to trivialize this man’s death," the agent
told her superior, "but do we usually get involved when a teacher brings
a gun to school? I mean, by all accounts, it sounds like a fairly
straightforward suicide. Well, I guess not really straightforward.
But suicide nonetheless."
Skinner reached for a file folder on the corner of his desk.
"There are several, um, unusual aspects to Kenneth Belson’s
death, not the least of which include his rather rambling correspondence
during the week prior to his death." He divided the thick sheaf of letters
between Doggett and Reyes.
"The President?" Doggett breathed,
eyebrows arching. His brows lowered and then rose again as he studied the
text. "It’s pretty weird, all right, but I wouldn’t say it was threatening
or anything. He really wanted a White House commission on teenage ‘attitudinal
disorders?’"
"That, and laws lowering the draft age to 15, imposing federal
penalties for crimes committed on school grounds, and allowing schools to
issue and install electronic tracking equipment ‘in cases of aberrant, repeat
disciplinary breakdown,’" Monica murmured, waving the letter
Belson had mailed to the entire U.S. House and Senate membership.
She looked up from another letter, eyes wide. "He wrote Jodie Foster, of
all people?"
"Apologizing for the failure of the public school system
in the case of John Hinckley," Skinner supplied. "Needless to say, Ms. Foster
didn’t appreciate the gesture. We estimate that Belson
, within a period of five days, wrote to 213 government officials, corporate
executives, celebrities, and Martha Stewart."
Doggett’s lip twitched. "What did he want with her?"
Skinner gave him a disparagingly bland look. "
Belson accused Ms. Stewart of, quote, ‘bringing anarchy to the once
honorable field of home economics.’ The point, agents, is that people haven’t
forgotten Columbine, and the administration’s under
some congressional pressure to do something about school violence. This
The assistant director sighed. "Look, this is apparently
a political move – some school superintendent with a problem with the school’s
principal called a Boston congressman up for election, and the congressman
has called in a favor from the White House. The president called the Director,
the Director called Kersh,
Kersh called me, and now, here we are. Just look into the case, establish
it’s a simple suicide, and we can move on to other things."
"But I don’t wanna go to school,"
Doggett said with a mock whine.
Monica suppressed a snort, and Skinner looked at Doggett
for a full 10 seconds.
"That’s all," Skinner announced.
"Steven, Steven!"
Principal Steven Harper closed his eyes as he and Vice Principal
Scott Guber headed for their administrative offices,
wishing against logic that Harvey Lipschultz
would somehow vanish from the corridor. But the ancient history teacher continued
his urgent call. Harper halted, but did not turn as
Lipschitz approached.
"Steven," the large teacher told the larger principal, ducking
his head in a furtive manner. "There’s a couple
of G-men in your office."
"
"Scott, please," Harper implored. He turned to the white-haired
teacher in the outdated three-piece suit. "
Lipschultz reared back, indignation
in his eyes. "Conjecture? Look, Steven, I know
the look. Remember when they came storm-trooping into my classroom last year?"
"Ah, yes," Guber nodded.
"Your infamous Write President Bush project. I think they’ve still
got taps on our phones."
"It was an exercise in First Amendment freedom which failed
through no fault of my own," Lipschultz protested.
He smiled sweetly at the assistant principal. "Scott, don’t you have any
humps to bust somewhere else?"
"Scott," Harper preemptively snapped.
Guber’s square jaw clamped shut. "Thanks for the heads up, Harvey.
We’ll talk to the G-men; why don’t you guard the upstairs
boys rooms?"
Lipschultz shrugged.
"Fine, whatever." He leaned in toward the huge African-American principal.
"You know Hoover framed Martin Luther King, and he was a cross-dresser. Hoover,
that is. King was a philanderer. Unless Hoover framed
him for that, too. Anyway, watch your back, Steven."
"Goodbye, Harvey," Harper sighed as he wheeled around and
strode toward his office, Guber in tow.
Lipschultz shrugged again and lumbered off.
The pair ensconced in his office could’ve been a pair of
disgruntled parents – a prospect Harper dreaded almost as much as a rendezvous
with a couple of FBI agents. The woman, trim and attractive, seemed pleasant
enough – conceivably, the interested, involved mom -- but the guy – whom
Harper might otherwise have pegged for the blood-and-guts disciplinary father
-- had "cop" tattooed all over his chiseled face and conservative razor cut
and sewn into his black suit.
"FBI?" Harper ventured, hanging
his jacket on the coat rack.
"Are we that obvious?" the man asked, his face cracking
into a wry smile that only partially revised Harper’s initial view.
Harper nonetheless was unsmiling as he rounded his desk
and sat down. "Steven Harper. This is Assistant Principal Scott
Guber. What can I do for you?"
"Special Agents Monica Reyes and John Doggett," the attractive
brunette announced. Guber leapt forward, beaming,
to shake first Reyes’ hand and then Doggett’s, then withdrew quickly with
a curious look from the principal. "Ah, Mr. Harper, we’re looking into the
death of one your teachers, Kenneth Belson. There’s
apparently speculation in some circles that Mr. Belson’s
death might be suspicious, that it might indicate a more significant threat
to the school."
"Kenny Belson blew his head
off in full view of his class," Harper said, face expressionless. "He obviously
had some personal issues, and we’re arranging counseling for his students.
But beyond that, I have trouble seeing what future threat that may comprise.
Agent Reyes, right? Would you mind telling me
what circles are speculating about--?"
"In what circles," Reyes offered meekly.
Harper’s brow rose. "Excuse me?"
Reyes smiled sweetly. "In what circles.
The speculation about Mr. Belson’s death has
not been spread by an entire circle of people, but within a circle. You see--"
Harper closed his eyes, and Doggett observed
Guber simultaneously smirking and looking at a nearby file cabinet.
"Agent Reyes. A member of my faculty has taken
his life – a tragic development both in human terms and in terms of Winslow’s
ongoing teacher shortage. I have an afternoon assembly on drug awareness,
and an officeful of teen exuberance and rebellion
waiting outside to see me. The one thing I do not need today is a lecture
on grammar and syntax from some federal bureaucrat."
"Bureaucrat?" Reyes’ nostrils
flared.
Doggett held up a hand like a ref trying to head off a scuffle
between opposing players. "Look, Mr. Harper, let’s just start from scratch.
You don’t want us here..."
"Perceptive," the principal muttered.
"...And, frankly, I don’t know exactly what we expect to
find here," Doggett concluded smoothly. "But we all have a job to do, and
we’d like to just figure out how to do it with minimal disruption."
"Too late," Harper responded. "Look, Agent Doggett, I respect
you have orders to follow, but I’m not certain a heavy law enforcement presence
is conducive to my students and faculty returning to a normal routine."
"Bureacrat," Reyes fumed quietly.
Doggett reached out absently, and placed a stilling hand on her arm.
"Thing is," Doggett drawled, "your
school has had an unusually high incidence of, well, unusual incidents.
And not just among the student population. I’m not saying anything’s related,
but could it hurt for Agent Reyes and me to quietly look around for a few
days?"
"For what – bad karma?" Harper
demanded. "You think there’s some psychic force or conspiracy or something
at work here at
Doggett and Reyes exchanged hasty glances, baffling Harper.
"I’m afraid we are under orders," Doggett said. "But if you’re concerned
we’re going to have a disruptive effect on your school, and you say you’re
currently short on teachers, lemme propose something."
"What?" Reyes gasped.
"Oh, no," Harper stated, rising to his
feet. "That is not even an option. You two aren’t certified, for one
thing..."
"But, Steven, we have at least two ‘teachers’ who--"
Guber reminded him.
Harper shot
him a lethal glare. "Scott." He turned back to the agents. "Besides, what
are you two qualified to teach?"
"Steven, we’ve moved Marla around so much we might as well
put wheels on her," Guber said.
"Scott," Harper said calmly. He rubbed a huge hand over
his bearded face and sat back down. "OK, I don’t cooperate with you two,
I suppose I’ll have the superintendent’s office up my...uh, on my butt. I
don’t suppose either one of you have any specialized area of interest, some
suggestion where I might place you where you’ll do the least damage?" The
principal sighed. "Didn’t think so. OK, you—"
he pointed to Doggett – "I’ve got a spot open in vocational applied arts."
The agent frowned. "Geez, I
don’t..."
"Think of it as shop," Harper clarified.
Doggett’s face relaxed. "That’d work. I’m
kinda handy--"
"I’m euphoric. And you, one of the art teachers is out,
so you can take her place. She’s something of a flake, so you ought to fit
right in."
Reyes’ nostrils again erupted, and Doggett leapt in. "Sounds
like a plan. Be in at seven sharp. C’mon, Monica. C’mon."
Doggett caught the door on their way out, preventing a potentially
destructive impact. "Bureaucrat?" Harper heard
the female agent explode outside.
He dropped into his chair, closed his eyes,
then opened them. "Thank you for the backup."
The assistant principal mustered indignation. "Steven, I
was 100 percent behind you. I’m not crazy about a federal presence in the
school, either, but if we hadn’t let her—"
"Her?" Harper creaked forward, a look of apprehension crossing
his brow.
"Them," Scott amended hastily. "If we hadn’t let them investigate..."
"Scott?" Harper murmured. "You don’t have the
hots for Agent Reyes, do you? Please tell me you don’t have the
hots for Agent Reyes."
Scott’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flitted away from Harper’s.
"I have to say I resent that, Steven. I’m merely interested in the judicious
exposition of this matter, and, and..." He jumped to his feet. "I will not
be interrogated like some horny senior quarterback..."
"Did I say horny?" Harper asked. He held up both large palms
for a truce. "Look, Scott, I know that since Lauren left the staff, you’ve
been in sort of a funk. You’ve been testy, tense, and – don’t be angry --
a bit erratic..."
"Erotic?!" Scott huffed,
then caught himself. "I mean, erratic?" His shoulders slumped, and
he fell back into his chair. "Oh, I suppose you may be right, Steven. You
know, my relationship with Lauren certainly, um, raised the bar, should I
say, on my romantic life."
Harper squelched a look of discomfort. "Scott, you don’t
have to explain..."
"And then you factor in my attraction to women in authority.
You know, I had a colonel back in the service. Well, I didn’t have her, precisely..."
"Scott," Harper said, emphatically. "Don’t you have some
comments to prepare for the drug awareness program?"
The assistant principal blinked, and his features again
hardened into those of the academic disciplinarian. "Yes, I suppose so. Thank
you for the opportunity to open up."
"My pleasure," the principal rumbled cautiously.
Scott nodded curtly and headed for the door.
"Ah, Scott?" Harper added.
"Yes, Steven?"
"Just leave the fed alone, OK."
This time, Harper felt the crash of the door in his kidneys.
"Yo, Dog?"
Doggett looked up from his class curriculum, which to the
agent resembled ancient Babylonian script. A tall teen in a knit watch cap
and a loose flannel shirt leaned back on the lab table behind him.
"Doggett, Mr. Doggett," the agent corrected him.
"Yeah, I was just attempting to establish an atmosphere
of casual conviviality through familiarity between educator and
educatee," the student recited in a mock-British accent. His colleagues
around him tittered, and the Eminem-looking kid
behind him slapped his extended palm.
"Doggett," Doggett repeated, firmly. He consulted the laminated
chart before him. "Mr. Wilson?"
"Jamal, man – casually conviviality."
"Jamal, what do you want?"
"Well, it’s been like about 20 minutes since you said shit.
We studying Visual Basic."
Doggett nodded slowly. "Watch your language, OK? And take
off the hat inside."
Jamal straightened. "Hey, I ain’t
sure that’s constitutional. Need a ruling from the ACLU on that one."
"Ah, Mr. Doggett, the hat never comes off," a gawky boy
with jug ears informed him delicately, as if the agent/teacher had performed
an act of diplomatic discourtesy. "We ain’t even
sure he got anything under there." The class titter
erupted again.
"Sounds to me like he’s got plenty under that hat," Doggett
murmured.
Jamal smirked, but pulled the watch cap from his head. "Man
knows a class act he sees it. So, Dog, sorry, Doggett, chop-chop -- time
we get goin’, the technology
gonna be obsolete."
"Fact of the matter is, I’m not really a big computer guy,"
Doggett confessed, closing the programming text. "I thought this was shop,
industrial arts, you know. You kids are programming computers?"
"There’s not a big market demand out there for footstools,
Mr. Doggett," a small redheaded boy responded from the back. A few heads
turned, a few eyes rolled. "This is vocational applied arts, not woodworking."
"Give it a rest, Kelly," a pretty blonde girl in a gigantic
sweater spat, looking straight ahead. "He looks like he could kick your ass.
I could kick your ass. Shit, Lipschultz could
kick your sorry ass."
"Language," Doggett prompted.
"Sure, fine, whatever," the girl mumbled. "Don’t want you
blowing your brains out, too."
"Yeah, I heard about that," the agent said, taking his cue.
"Pretty horrible, huh?"
"Tanya was in the front row of the class," the smug redhead
informed Doggett. "Mr. Belson gave her an AB
negative shower."
"David," an attractive African-American girl sighed.
"A little sensitivity, OK. Tanya was right there."
"It’s OK, Brooke," Tanya mumbled, almost inaudibly.
"Yeah, man," Jamal chimed in. "You didn’t see it; we did.
Maybe you wanna deactivate that microchip controls
your mouth, K."
"Or in other words, don’t let your mouth write a check your
bony ass can’t cover," the gawky boy warned.
Doggett raised his palms, glancing at the now-silent, brooding
Tanya. "Sorry I brought it up. Jamal, why don’t you catch
me up on what you’re studying."
Which, as it turned out five minutes
later, did Doggett absolutely no good.
**
Monica realized the young man had been checking her out
for the last 10 minutes, and wondered what he was doing in the teacher’s
lounge. Marla Hendricks, oblivious to the boy, was regaling Agent Reyes with
academic horror stories and tips on effective discipline.
"Don’t ever, ever, ever let them see any sign of weakness,
though God knows it isn’t easy for me," the plump history instructor advised
Monica. "I have my days, mind you, but you’ve got to keep up a good front,
or they will eat you alive."
"Yeah, Marla, you been keeping up a great front," a hulking
red-headed teacher named Hanson jeered from the next table.
Marla inhaled heavily. "Danny Hanson, don’t you have an
intervention or an interruption or something to attend to?"
"Marla, your grasp of progressive education is staggering,"
Hanson called as he slam-dunked his Coke can and lumbered from the lounge.
"And Zach Fischer," Marla exhaled. "There are stalker laws
in the state of
The large old man in the corner chair chortled behind his
newspaper.
"Harvey Lipschultz, don’t you
give me that chortle," Marla flared. She stood up abruptly, her chair nearly
cracking the microwave behind her. "I will not be chortled at,
"Ahhh,"
Lipschultz dismissed as she stalked from the room. He looked up at
the now-rattled young man, smiling sourly. "And if you think I’m going to
leave my nice warm chair so you can conduct your feverish little mating rituals,
you’re fershlugginah. This is a teacher’s lounge,
not a lizard lounge!"
"
"Ahhh,"
Lipschultz growled, rising with a considerable effort to his feet
and wobbling toward the door.
The boy beamed at Monica and took the seat beside her. "Now
that we’re alone..."
Reyes gave him a bemused look.
"OK, OK," he sighed. "Zach Fischer."
"Monica Reyes. I’m subbing for Ms. Albrecht. You’re a teacher?"
Fischer rolled his eyes. "I was hoping the facial growth
would do the trick. Ms. Reyes? Like in socially liberated and
maritally unencumbered Ms. Reyes, or ‘I have a husband but I don’t
have to assert my identity through a man’ Ms. Reyes?"
Monica smiled serenely. "More like, ‘I don’t have to constantly
deflect unsolicited advances from academic horndogs
if I don’t use Miss’ Ms. Reyes."
"Yow. So how do you like Winslow so far? You don’t look
like you’re ready to run screaming for the door."
"First period went pretty well after I made myself heard
over the party. Once you get used to the zombified
stares and suppressed giggles, it’s not too rough on your self-esteem. So
what do you teach?"
"Chemistry."
Monica straightened in her chair. "Wasn’t that what Mr.,
oh, I can’t remember his name, taught? The one who killed
himself?"
"Mr. Lizard," Fischer supplied. "Sorry, guess I should show
a little more respect. Ken wasn’t such a bad guy, just tied tighter than
Hannibal Lechter during a work furlough. Yeah,
he was chemistry, too."
Monica leaned in, eyes wide but not overplaying. "What do
you think happened? The stress get through to
him?"
"Nah, I don’t think so – Kenny was, like, oblivious to his
students’ attitudes. It’s what made him such a terrific target for adolescent
antagonism, but it also helped him survive. He was focused totally on science
and teaching – a kind of pathetic statement in and of itself."
"What made him snap, then?"
Fischer frowned. "Well, he was acting a little weird. He
was exhibiting humor, which was foreign for him – really dark, biting, slyly
mean-spirited humor. Behind lounge doors only – nothing in front of the kids.
Yeah, I know – ironic coming from me."
"When did this start?"
"Actually, about three weeks ago, same time the school computer
system crashed – everything went down, and Scott, the vice principal, still
thinks it was a senior class conspiracy to obliterate semester grades. I
wondered if maybe it was like the last straw for Kenny – you know, like the
ultimate failure of Winslow’s system. It seemed to jangle a lot of nerves
around here."
"Like Marla’s and that Lipschultz
guy’s?"
"Naw, that’s just normal psychosis.
By the way, you think smart is sexy?"
**
The boy’s eyes betrayed a flash of guile rather than guilt
as Monica entered the otherwise deserted art classroom. The slight, red-headed
teen then assumed a "nothing’s wrong" look as the agent approached, and concentrated
again on the keyboard and monitor.
"What are you doing there?" Monica demanded. "That’s my
computer."
"Actually, it’s the property of Winslow High," the boy mumbled.
After only a few hours in the classroom, Monica had become accustomed to
the flip attitude and the legalistically evasive approach of the student
body.
"What are you doing there?" she repeated, concerned about
whether he’d been at her laptop, which although password-protected, was full
of Bureau and X-Files business.
He looked up, a brow raised in an intellectually superior
gesture. "Relax. David Kelly. I do troubleshooting on all the school’s PCs,
which is a lot of troubleshooting. I keep telling Harper we need to switch
to Macs, but he’s such a hopeless bureaucrat."
Monica clamped down on a smile. Though Kelly’s disrespect
was infuriating, she was amused by his use of the label Harper had earlier
slapped on her. "Well, perhaps you should consult with me before you start
tinkering with my computer. I don’t want to lose any files."
Kelly looked momentarily angry at her apparent inference
of potential incompetence, then settled back into
boredom. "Harper and Guber give me my marching
orders, not some sub. Anyway, I’m done defragging –
defragmenting your system. See, when your system runs for too long
without—"
Monica’s jaw tightened. "I know what defragging is. And
how did you know the password to get into the system?"
The student sighed and stood. "Gotta
know the passwords if I’m going to fix them. Well, it’s been real. Like
the guy on SNL says, ‘You’re welcome.’"
Monica stood planted in his path. "Look, I didn’t mean to
get off on the wrong foot. You just surprised me. You do all the machines
in the school? You help get things back up after that big crash what, three
weeks ago?"
"Why do you want to know?" Kelly asked blankly. "Look, I
gotta get to the cafeteria for today’s dose of
class warfare, OK?"
Monica backed up, and he strolled at a maddeningly slow
pace into the hall. The agent dug into her bag and pulled out the key
Guber had issued her the day before. Jamming it into the desk lock,
Monica yanked the drawer open. Her Powerbook appeared
unmolested, a stack of handouts on top.
She sat down behind the graffiti-scarred oak antique. Kelly
had seemed defensive when she asked about the computer crash, and she wondered
if he might have had some role in causing the system failure. However, Kelly’s
extracurricular activities were irrelevant to her case, and Monica settled
into thought.
In one morning alone, she had witnessed several examples
of the erratic behavior ascribed to Winslow’s faculty, from Marla
Hendrick’s mood swings and Harvey Lipschultz’s
garrulous eccentricity to Danny Hanson’s antagonistic remarks. Fischer had
appeared a normally testosterone-driven horn-dog.
Something in the school’s environment?
Monica had read recently about "sick buildings," older structures in particular
that trapped and recirculated stagnant air, harmful
chemical emissions from synthetic carpeting and plastic furniture, and a
zoofull of germs. Were the faculty and student
body suffering the ill effects of bad air?
Monica sighed, slipped her laptop into a leather carrying
case, and steeled herself for an audience with Steven Harper...
**
"Mr. Doggett? A moment please."
The voice was polite but insistent, and Doggett turned in the crowded corridor,
nearly colliding with a kid with a Walkman as Scott
Guber approached.
"I was approached by one of your students a few moments
ago," the vice principal informed him, pulling him gently from the sea of
teens. "He asked, and I quote, ‘What special ed class did you dig the new
sub up from?’ Beyond the insulting impertinence and social insensitivity
of the remark and the use of a preposition to conclude a sentence, his comment
leaves me somewhat concerned about your classroom assignment. I wonder if
we should reconsider, perhaps place you in a less, ah, taxing position."
"Hey, I’m just not what you’d call real computer proficient,"
Doggett protested. "Harper said it was a shop class. Besides, don’t you think
it’ll look suspicious if you switch me around? Look, give me a chance – I’m
a quick study. I’ll hit the books tonight. Promise."
Guber’s nostrils flared. "And
where have I heard that before?" His head snapped to the right. "Excuse me,
Mr. Holt! About your little escapade this morning..."
The vice principal left Doggett standing by the lockers with a strange feeling
in his chest.
It took him a second to realize the feeling was a vibration
-- Doggett had deactivated the ringer on his cell phone prior to class. He
pulled it from his inside breast pocket and ducked into a storage closet
doorway. "Doggett."
"Skinner. I catch you between
classes?"
"Yeah – thought I’d head down to the cafeteria, have some
fish sticks and tater tots and see what I can pick up. But, frankly, I think
this is gonna be a dead end."
"Probably," the assistant director sighed as the period
bell rang. "Just give it a few more days. It’ll keep the congressman off
Kersh’s ass, and that’s good for everybody. Maybe
we’ll even build some legislative goodwill come Bureau appropriations time."
"Sure." Doggett ended the call and looked up. A tall young
man -- casually dressed but obviously too old for a student – was staring
suspiciously at him from across the hall. The agent fumbled the phone into
his jacket as the man turned on his heel and looked warily back over his
shoulder.
"Great," Doggett murmured.
**
"Steven, I think we got an undercover
narc in the school," Danny Hanson said, towering over the principal’s
desk.
Harper rubbed his bearded chin and creaked back in his chair.
"Danny..."
"It’s that new guy, the substitute," Hanson continued. "I
heard him on the phone, talking about picking up some information in the
cafeteria. I don’t know who he thinks he’s scamming – he’s got cop written
all over him."
"Danny, sit down," Harper said quietly. "C’mon."
The redheaded teacher lowered his lanky frame. "What, you
know about this?"
"Danny, he’s not a narcotics cop. He’s an FBI agent."
Hanson’s jaw dropped, and he leapt from his chair.
"FBI? Steven, what the hell’s goin’ on
here?"
Harper waved a hand. "Danny, the district
sicced some congressman on the school. Probably
the Dragon Lady. They think maybe Kenny’s suicide is some sort of
warning sign or something, that we may have a Columbine in the making."
"Jesus, what do they think? We’re a bunch of
whackos or something?"
Harper watched Hanson pace his office like a caged tiger.
"Well..."
"I don’t like it, Steven. These kids, they trust us. What
are we gonna say if they find out we got some
federal narc spying on them?"
"I don’t know, Danny. Just keep it under your hat for right
now, OK?"
"Great – so now, we’re gonna
cover it up!"
"Go to your class, Danny. We’ll talk about it later."
Hanson stopped and looked incredulously down at the principal.
"We wouldn’t even be talking I hadn’t heard the guy in the hallway. You got
some severe communicational issues, Steven."
"Dan--" Harper began, but Hanson threw up his arms and stormed
out. Monica Reyes appeared in the doorway a second later.
"Sorry to bother you..." the agent said.
"Too late," Harper said tersely. "The disruption I was afraid
of has already begun. I’m afraid your partner’s cover is blown with at least
one of my teachers. And I’m sure that by now, Harvey
Lipschutz has started the rumor mill grinding. Do you seriously believe
there’s anything going on here, Agent Reyes?"
Reyes took the chair opposite the principal. "I’ve noticed
some extremely erratic behavior among some of your teachers. I can feel the
tension; it’s almost oppressive. What’s so funny, Mr. Harper?"
He shook his head. "Sorry. You’ve never spent a lot of time
around a modern high school, have you? These people are paid well below the
level of skill they possess and the crap they have to take on a daily basis
not only from the students but from parents, the community,
the teacher’s union. They’re so tangled in legal requirements and
bombarded by adolescent attitude that sometimes, they hardly have any breathing
room. You think maybe that might make their behavior a little erratic?"
Monica smiled. "There is something else. Your computers
crashed a few weeks back?"
"Uh huh. Why?"
"Well, your Mr. Fischer says Kenny
Belson started acting strangely after the crash. You have any idea
what caused the problem?"
Harper leaned back, clasping his fingers behind his head.
"We suspect a student may have planted a virus, or maybe opened some attachment
that’d been e-mailed in. We have an anti-virus program, but like almost everything
around here, it’s a few years out of date. What’s
this got to do with anything?"
"I don’t know," Monica admitted. "But there’s something
mysterious going on. I can feel it."
Harper permitted himself a smile. "You’re
probably smelling the meat du jour from
the cafeteria. C’mon; we’ll see if we can solve at least that mystery."
Monica beamed back. "Sounds great.
Oh, by the way..."
The principal’s smile vanished. "Yeah?"
"Well, I had this theory about the school’s ambient air
quality. You ever read about ‘sick buildings,’ indoor air pollution?"
"Mm hmm..."
"Well, I thought I’d just have a crew from EPA come over,
after school or—"
"Absolutely not," Harper growled. "See, this is the problem
with allowing bureaucrats into the building. You let one past the door, and
they proliferate like Malaysian cockroaches." He glanced at his office door,
which framed a suddenly startled Scott Guber.
Guber fled.
"You know, this bureaucrat thing is really getting played
out," Monica snapped, her nostrils at full aperture. "I try to meet you halfway,
bring in a tiny EPA crew after hours..."
"And then what? Health and Human Services begins looking
over the ventilation system? The teachers’ union sues because the faculty’s
breathing stale air? Not to mention the parents? Then, when we pay all the
fines and awards, our federal grant funding gets yanked because some politician
like the jackass who sent you here wants to make a point? No."
"I can file a complaint with the public health department,
if you want to do it that way?"
"File away, Agent Reyes," Harper replied with a smile that
might have frightened the Al Quaida. "You go
downtown and chat with your little bureaucratic buddies and file away."
"Aggghhh
!!" Monica yelled, back-kicking the guest chair behind her.
"You give ‘em that logic, I
don’t see how they can turn you down," the principal murmured triumphantly.
The door clattered open. Marcie, the principal’s pregnant
student aide, was breathless. "You two done with your little WWF grudge match,
maybe you want to see what’s up in the library. Westerman’s
gone ballistic. Guber’s already there."
Harper sighed, shoving past the diminutive assistant. Reyes
was out the door a second later.
**
"Filth, filth, filth!" Florence
Westerman shouted, flinging volume after volume
from the metal shelves. Most of the students and teachers had fled the Winslow
library, but a few were trapped behind computer workstations and under reading
tables.
"Ms. Westerman!" Scott
Guber snapped, ducking Great Expectations. "Stop this appalling
demonstration at once." Nicholas Nickleby
clipped him in the shoulder, and he ducked behind the checkout desk.
"
"Steven!" Westerman countered
as loudly. "I’ve held my peace, but I won’t tolerate the filth in this den
of squalor any longer."
The principal grunted as he bent to pluck a volume from
the carpet. "Filth?
"It’s filthy," she spat. "Filthy!"
Harper held up a palm of peace, Reyes a few steps behind
his shoulder. "
Westerman threw up her fleshy
arms. "Oh, screw pornography! These books are loaded with dust mites and
eggs and food molecules and mold and the dried spittle of a thousand, no,
10,000 students. This library is a toilet, a cesspool! It’s a wonder I haven’t
contracted some communicable disease or something." She regarded Bleak
House, clutched in her claws, and cast it away as if it were a diseased
organ, and stared at Harper in horror.
"
"Ms. Wester—"
Guber straightened up, pulled his tweed jacket smooth, and began to
take the librarian’s arm. She glowered at him, then
breezed past into the hall. Guber stopped to
smile at Reyes, Harper sighed loudly, and the vice principal sprinted after
the book-flinging neatnik.
Harper surveyed the wreckage of the library silently as
students emerged from the rubble. "All right," he said.
Reyes perked. "What?"
"One crew, after school, no media, or I swear..." he muttered.
"Absolutely," the agent promised solemnly. "You won’t be
sor--"
Harper turned, and the look in his eye clipped her short.
**
"So the old broad finally slipped a microchip or something,"
Doggett suggested, banging the undercarriage of the rental car as he pulled
out of the Winslow parking lot. "Doesn’t mean there’s
some virus floating around in the heating system."
"God, I didn’t even think about some kind of neurological
disorder," Monica murmured. "I’ve heard of airborne microbes that can attack--"
"Forget I said anything. Look, how’d your classes go today?
You like this teaching thing?"
"Yeah," Monica said, seemingly surprised at
herself. "It was OK. You?"
Doggett smiled sheepishly.
"I think Guber’s about to flunk me. Harper said
‘shop,’ right? He didn’t say anything about computers, am I right?"
"Not so good, huh?"
He shrugged, turning a corner into a block of scabbed frame
houses and rusted chainlinks.
"What is the damage with Harper, anyway?" Monica asked.
"Geez, maybe he doesn’t care
for a couple of federal agents barging into his school and taking architectural
Breathalyzer tests, all to make the voters think some jerk politician cares
about what happens to their kids," Doggett mused.
His partner smiled. "There’s that, I suppose. So, you think
I’m off with the ambient air thing?"
Doggett shrugged again.
Monica nodded. "Maybe it’s just the emotional atmosphere,
what happens when you throw a bunch of angst-ridden kids in with a bunch
of underpaid adults. I met the creepiest boy today. Smart, obviously a whiz
with computers. Sorry, John."
"Hey."
"But there was something insecure and childish about his
arrogance, like his smug attitude was some kind of shield against the bigger
kids, the tougher ones."
"Had one like that today, too," Doggett said. "Master Kelly
needed a good kick in the ass."
Monica turned. "Wait. David Kelly?"
"Ah, yeah, that’s right," he replied absently, suddenly
slowing as he approached a small corner park. Shabbily dressed children clung
to corroded monkey bars and slid down a wobbling metal slide.
"John?"
He gazed for a second longer at the park,
then blinked. "I’m sorry, what?"
"You were talking, John. What’re you thinking?"
Doggett grinned as he pressed the accelerator. "Maybe how
I’m gonna pass my class."
Kelly residence
As usual, Paul Kelly barely registered David’s door-slamming
entrance. The boy dropped his backpack in the hallway, stirring his father
temporarily from the college scores on ESPN. David awaited some response,
but Paul’s slack face, bathed in blue from the set, turned back to the sharply
dressed commentator. David shrugged to no one, and headed down the corridor.
"He still glued to that tube?" his mother asked as she dumped
a bag of baby carrots into a pot. "Guess I should be glad he’s not on one
of his nightly rants again. I hope he’s OK."
"I’m sure he’s fine," David muttered. "I hate carrots."
"Oh, yeah," Kate Kelly nodded, automatically emptying the
miniature vegetables into the sink. "Hash browns?"
"Sure."
"Oh, your dad needs you to look at his office PC again.
The thing, that one program keeps trashing."
"Crashing.
Yeah, when I get time."
"Whenever, Davey
."
"Mom."
"David. Sorry."
"Lemme know when the food’s
ready." As was usual, it was a directive, rather than a request. If it bothered
his mother, she showed no outward sign. David shrugged and started upstairs.
**
Despite the unexpected outcome with Subject 3, the project’s
beginning to yield some very positive results, David typed, two-fingered.
Though he was light years ahead of his Winslow classmates in terms of computer
proficiency, he’d viewed keystroking as a nonessential
skill.
Subject 2 today exhibited extreme
hypochondriacism in a public situation. He knew that was wrong,
and deleted the phrase. Subject 2 today exhibited an extremely phobic
reaction regarding the cleanliness of her work environment. This appears to
be an amplification of her mildly obsessive neatness.
Subject 1 hasn’t yet shown any identifiable shift in attitude
or behavior, but then again he hasn’t been as heavily exposed to the stimulus.
I’m working with him to increase that exposure.
Subjects 4 and 5 are showing excellent results. Subject
4 has been transformed from a bullying, verbally abusive control freak --
He struck "control freak" and
substituted "personality" — to a nearly catatonic robot addicted to
televison frequencies. Subject 5, on the other hand, displays a nearly
normal personality but will obey almost any suggestion or request.
I added a new subject today. Subject 6 comes from outside
the test environment, and she should provide an interesting contrast to the
others. I started her on a new stimulus that’s worked very successfully with
the rats. Glancing at the rodent
bouncing off the bars of its cage by his TV/VCR, he deleted "very" – sounded
too kiddish.
Once again,
David made no mention of Subject 7, who actually was Subject 6. This one’s
personal, he thought with a Schwarzeneggerian
accent. Neither did he thank his research sponsors for the previous week’s
cash e-transfer, which already had been laundered through The Gap, Best Buy,
and Tower Records.
Will keep you informed, he added lamely, and punched
the Send button.
"Honey, I mean David!!" Kate Kelly called.
"Excuse me?" Jamal asked, jaw hanging
slightly.
"You gotta be shitting," Rob
drawled. Doggett’s head snapped around. "Sorry, dude – you must be
yankin’ us, man."
"Not at all," the agent/teacher assured the skeptical class.
They were standing in a basement storeroom before a caged locker full of
dusty power tools. "Those kids are gonna get
tetanus from that ancient playground equipment. We’re
gonna learn some forgotten manual skills and give something back to
the community at the same time."
"Ah, what precisely did the community give us that we’re
gonna lose a few dozen fingers giving something
back for?" Jamal inquired.
"Yeah, I just got these nails done," a pudgy girl pouted
from the back of the group.
"Nobody’s going to lose any fingers, and if you studied
biology, you’d know nails grow back," Doggett countered. "I ordered the lumber
last night, and I know somebody at the city who’s given us the green light,
as long as what we build passes city inspection."
"You’re supposed to be teaching us computer programming," David Kelly protested
tonelessly. "This is outdated crap."
Doggett smiled cheerfully at the redheaded teen. "That’s
the problem today – we’ve forgotten to use our hands as well as our minds,
to put our backs into something that means something. I’m going to help you
build something that’ll be here decades from now – something that’ll make
your neighborhood a better place and the kids in it safer and happier."
Jamal chewed his lower lips, staring uncertainly at a dust-caked
power sander. "We get out of school for this?"
"Out of the building," Doggett revised.
"Good enough."
**
"Hey," Danny Hanson called down the hall, halting Doggett.
The tall teacher nodded toward a deserted classroom, and the agent followed.
"I’m onto you," Hanson said sternly once the door was closed.
Doggett’s brow rose. "Me?"
"Yeah, you, Agent Doggett, if that’s
your real name."
"It’s real," the agent sighed. "Did Harper tell you? Jeez,
is anything confidential around here?"
"I made him tell me, OK? Anyway, I just wanted you to know
I don’t care for you comin’ in here and spying
on my students. Just ‘cause of Sept. 11 doesn’t mean everybody loses their
civil rights. That’s all I wanna say. I’ll be
keeping an eye on you."
"Look, buddy, we’re not spying on anybody," Doggett said.
"But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it under your hat."
"I can’t promise nothing," Hanson
replied belligerently. Then a confused look crossed his face. "Hold up –
we’re not spying? Who’s we?"
"It was an editorial we?" Doggett suggested.
Hansen slammed out into the hall.
"Just hope he doesn’t teach English," Doggett muttered.
As he returned to the hall, he came face to face with an elderly man in an
antiquated three-piece suit.
"Mr. Federal Guy," Harvey Lipschultz
whispered, a severe expression on his face. "Sorry to bother you while
you’re busy probing, but I got a question."
"What?" Doggett asked dumbly.
"Do you still, you know, pay people for tips?"
"What?"
"You know," Lipschultz sighed,
rolling his eyes. "Like if I know a couple of young punk teachers moonlighting
at a certain bar downtown, and they don’t exactly report all their income
to Uncle Sam, would that be worth a little something?"
"Ah, I think you’re thinking of the IRS," a dazed Doggett
replied. "I don’t think they do that any more, anyway."
The old man snorted and turned away.
"Economic stimulus, my ass."
**
"It’s the other one," Marcie informed Harper.
"I got a question," Doggett demanded, pushing past the assistant.
Harper held up a huge palm.
"No, I have a question," the principal said wearily. "You’re
going to give a group of teenagers limb-severing
power tools and take them to a neighborhood park that’s had three drive-bys
in the last six months, all without consulting with the administration or
parental consent. Is this a new Bureau investigative technique?"
The agent sat on the arm of the guest chair. "Look, you
know I don’t know the ass end of a hard drive, and I’m not fooling those
kids. So why don’t I do something I know how to do, and maybe help the neighborhood
at the same time? Hey, I’ll be armed."
"That doesn’t amuse or comfort me, Agent Doggett," Harper
said. "Forget it."
"But I bought the lumber and the hardware already."
Harper’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back. "You bought
it? With your own money? May I ask why?"
Doggett shrugged.
The principal sighed. "You know, this isn’t Kindergarten
Cop. All right; you send parental consent forms home tomorrow, and you’re
taking, ah, Danny Hanson with you."
"Mr. Hanson and I don’t exactly get along."
"You better reach a peace accord, because it’s the only
way this little project of yours is happening."
"Fine. By the way, how’d you
know about the playground? Wait a second. Brooke Harper. Is that your kid?"
"Brooke didn’t ‘rat you out.’
One of the students said told me ‘the cretin sub’ was taking them on an unauthorized
field trip."
Doggett frowned. "Kelly. What do you know about him, anyway?"
Harper leaned forward. "He’s a highly motivated, academically
talented young man, perhaps a little overconfident, maybe a little deficient
in social skills. Why do you ask? You don’t suspect him of anything, do you?"
"Probably nothing. He was fooling
around with my partner’s computer."
"Well, David’s a two-time city
Science Expo winner, and it’s cheaper to have him troubleshoot around the
school than to pay some overpriced tech support guy. He’s very computer savvy,
even if he is a, well..."
"Prick?" Doggett ventured.
**
Monica was seated at her desk, surrounded by empty paint-
and clay-stained worktables. Doggett rapped on the doorframe, and his partner
looked up, startled.
"John," she smiled. "How’s the, uh..."
He looked at her expectantly.
"Ha," Monica finally mused. "I had a thought about the case,
but isn’t that weird?"
"Monica?" Doggett murmured, coming around the desk. "
You feeling OK?"
She looked up, still smiling but with a glint of worry in
her eyes. "Yeah. It’s just, I don’t know. I must’ve
not got enough coffee this morning. I just can’t seem to focus. Anyway, what’s
up?"
Doggett peered at her. "Monica, that
Kelly kid?"
Monica’s brow wrinkled.
"The snotty little redheaded prick?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"You said you were searching the web last night for background
on indoor air quality and school violence cases. How long were you at it?"
"Maybe three or four hours...Why?"
"You sure Kelly didn’t mess
with your laptop?"
Monica shook her head. "I don’t think so. I don’t know.
I mean, John, I don’t remember. My God, John, it’s like my brain isn’t keeping
up."
"Give it to me, OK?"
"Why?"
Doggett placed a hand on Monica’s
shoulder. "I got no idea, but I have a feeling it isn’t just the air around
here."
**
David chewed on the tasteless piece of
meatlike shit the cafeteria geeks had plopped on his tray. He was
alone at his end of his table, as usual, which had come to be no big thing.
Besides, it offered him a great vantage point.
She was with her friends on the other side of the large,
crowded room, but she wasn’t laughing and trashing her classmates any more.
As her sisters in gossip whispered and howled, she looked off at a public
safety poster on the wall, faintly purple bags forming under her artfully
made-up blue eyes.
Hope you liked those .mp3s, David thought. He almost smiled,
but the expression was nearly foreign to him, and it might’ve attracted attention.
Massachusetts Institute of Technology
"When Chuck Burks
told me you had an interesting problem, I knew it would be an understatement,"
Hannah Geisler told Doggett, staring with relish
at the keyboard of Monica’s notebook computer. "Chuck thrives on the margin
of known science, and he’s regaled me with tales of your
colleagues, Agents Mulder and Scully."
"I appreciate you agreeing
to see me at such short notice," Doggett returned, gliding over the inevitable
reference to his far more science-savvy predecessors. He’d achieved a comfort
level with Burks, an enthusiastic digital imaging specialist at Maryland
State, but Doggett wanted some quick answers, and he didn’t know how long
it would be until Skinner pulled the plug on their assignment at Winslow.
"Nonsense," the thin, frizzy-haired MIT scientist dismissed
with Germanic efficiency. "Now, if I understand, you would be interested
in knowing if there was some manner in which an individual could program
a personal computer to affect behavior or mood. On its face, I would have
to say no."
Doggett sighed. Geisler waggled
a bony finger.
"However, there are many physical stimuli to human behavior.
You’re familiar with aromatherapy? The concept of improving
mood or outlook through the use of fragrances?"
"Like those fancy joints at the mall that almost knock you
over when you walk past?"
Geisler chuckled. "I despise
them, too. Well, a computer cannot yet be programmed to impart scents. But
it can produce other stimuli, such as sound.
"The human ear can only hear a limited part of the sound
spectrum. Above that range is ultrasound, below it is infrasound. Now, although
it is largely unheard, vibrations in those ranges can still affect the human
body in ways beyond aural input – normal sound and hearing. There has been
considerable federal funding to explore the use of sound frequencies as a
military weapon, and in fact,
As the last icon popped up on Monica’s desktop,
Geisler’s fingers flew. She brought up Windows Explorer, examined
some files, and then transported into DOS format.
"If what Chuck told me is true," she continued, "Our culprit
will have been working in the infra- or ultrasonic ranges. All digital coding
and programming is composed of electronic frequencies, and so sonic impulses
ideally could be written into a program or even a file, in the same way one
can encode a virus. Were our programmer extremely skilled, they might even
be able to tweak the coding and thus the sonic range of their impulses, to
produce varying behavioral responses.
"On the assumption our culprit would not want to raise suspicion
by placing new files or programs on his ‘victim’s computers, I’m looking
mainly at existing, commonly used system files -- .inis
, .exes, .bat files – the user would activate in their normal operations
and which would remain operating in the background. The kind of behavioral
or mental shifts Chuck spoke of would require a sustained exposure to the
sound frequencies.
"And I’m looking exclusively for files that have been modified
at or after the time you say your suspect may have tampered with this machine.
Many files are modified as we operate programs, and if our culprit is a truly
wily one, he may have picked one of those types of files to evade detection.
Have the subjects, victims, been heavy computer users, people who are expert
in information technology?"
Doggett peered at the foreign language on the screen. "Not
especially. One was a science teacher, so maybe him. I guess a school librarian
might be, even though my partner said she was pretty old."
Geisler’s gray brows rose in
mock-indignation. "Shame on you. You say these
victims work in a school, a university?"
"High school."
"So if this is true, you’re saying a student, a teenager
may have done this? But why?"
Doggett took a chair at the scientist’s side. "The suspect’s
a real whiz kid – works on the school’s computers, won a couple of high school
science contests. Just out of curiosity, before I came here, I checked on
his science fair projects. They had something to do with ‘sympathetic vibrations’
and ‘cymatics.’"