Chapter Eighteen
Everett
After a quick trip to the hospital to check on Jane, I returned to meet Ben again.
"Is everything sorted out?" Ben asked as I hung up the call with Vivienne since I missed her at the hospital.
"Yeah. Come on, let's get over to the Stevens' place and see what we can find out."
"Yeah. I hope this kid is gonna cough up the info we need," Ben expressed with a frown as he started to drive. "He's a bad egg, this one. This is his last chance, actually – we'll expel him for this. It should have been done a long time ago, actually. He's a real delinquent. Got a list of offenses about a mile long, starting all the way from when he was in third grade."
"Sounds like a real piece of work."
"He is. And his parents, they aren't exactly model citizens either, to be honest."
"So you don't think they're going to be very helpful, huh?"
"It's not likely, Ev, not likely at all. But like I said, his place is closer, so we may as well give it a shot, even though I'm not clinging to any kinda hope that they'll help."
"We'll see, Ben, we'll see."
Ten minutes later, we pulled up outside the Stevens’ residence. It was in a fairly rough neighborhood, and the house itself looked pretty shabby. A rusty car without wheels was propped up on bricks in the driveway, and various broken items were strewn across the lawn, with the only neat object in the place being a Harley Davidson bike parked in the garage, and even that had plenty of rust and dents on it. We got out of the car and walked up to the house. The paint was peeling, and the door was cracked and grubby, and dozens of beer cans littered the porch, along with several ashtrays full of cigarette butts.
"I see what you mean about the kid's parents," I muttered.
"Yeah. The apple has not fallen far from the tree," replied Ben. "Well, come on, let's do this."
I knocked on the door, and we stood waiting for someone to answer. There was no reply, so after a couple of seconds, I knocked again, a little louder this time.
"Hold your damn horses!" a gruff voice shouted from inside. "I'm coming, damn it!"
After a few moments, someone flung open the door, and a tall, heavyset man stood glaring at us, holding a beer can in his hand. His dark hair was long and greasy, and his thick, flabby arms were covered with tattoos. He wore the leather vest and leather pants of a biker and sported a thick beard.
"Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?" he growled.
"I'm sure you recognize me, Mr. Stevens," Ben said. "You've been to my office enough times."
"Oh yeah, you're that teacher guy at Will's school. And what about this jock next to you?"
"This 'jock' is the new principal at JFK High," Ben informed.
"Hi, Mr. Stevens; I'm Everett James," I said, extending a hand to him.
He stared at my hand for a while but refused to shake it, so I lowered it, anger rising in me at this man's rude reaction. Still, I knew that I had to be professional, so I did my best to remain civil.
"We need to ask you about your son," said Ben.
"Uh, yeah, why the hell else would you be here? Well go on, spit it out; I don't have all day. What's that stupid little turd done now?"
"He was involved in a shooting that happened on the school premises," I added.
That seemed to shock some life into the bovine-like ogre, and his eyes widened with surprise. His attitude remained defiant, though.
"What?! You're sayin' my boy shot someone?! Like hell he did! I know he does some stupid things sometimes, but he ain't no killer!"
"No, no, he didn't shoot anyone. But he was buying drugs from the shooter, and we need to talk to him to find out who this person is."
"That little bastard. What was buying? Grass? Blow? I'll kick his damn ass when he gets back here. The drinking and the fighting and the vandalism and the stealing I can live with, but if he's getting' hooked on something like drugs, I'll crack that boy's skull wide open if it means some sense will get into it."
"I take it he's not here then," asked Ben.
"He hasn't been home since last night."
"Well, do us a favor, Mr. Stevens, please call us as soon as he comes back, okay? Here's my number, and here's Everett's cell number, too."
He took the paper with the numbers on it from Ben and stuffed it into the pocket of his grubby vest.
"Is that all?" he asked gruffly.
"Yes, that's all for now," Ben replied. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Stevens."
He didn't say anything else to us; he simply turned around and closed the door in our faces.
"Wow. If that's what he's like, I don't even want to imagine what his kid is like," I remarked.
"Like I said, he should have been expelled long ago. Anyway, come on, we have to get over to the Brownell house."
"Are they as nice as Mr. Stevens here was?"
"They've got a lot more money, but they might even be worse people than this slob, believe it or not."
"Oh boy. This is gonna be fun."
"Yeah. Well, you'll see when we get there."
"So, this kid, Leon Brownell, is he as bad a kid as William Stevens?" I asked.
"He doesn't have nearly as long a rap sheet, no. He was actually a pretty decent student for most of his school career. Got really good grades all the way through elementary school, was on a number of sports teams. The when he got to junior high and hit puberty, he seemed to do a 180. Started flunking classes, dropped out of most sports – except football. He was kicked off the team when he was caught doping, though."
"Doping, huh? What was he using?"
"An array of steroids. The kid's only 16, but he looks like a 30-year-old. It's pretty scary. He and Stevens have both been using steroids for a number of years, it seems. Probably contributes to their aggressive behavior."
"There's a pretty decent chance it does. Good thing I'm not scared of some puffed up steroid-popping punk kid."
"Yeah, because they need someone who isn't scared of them to put them in their place. Too many teachers are simply intimidated. These guys are big, strong and overly aggressive."
After another 10 minutes of driving, we reached the Brownell house. As Ben had said, it was a lot more upmarket than the Stevens’ residence. Indeed, it was downright fancy; almost a mansion. A gleaming new top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz sat in the driveway, and the house itself looked immaculate.
We parked at the bottom of the driveway and walked up to the large, expansive porch that wrapped around the huge house. I rang the doorbell, and within a few seconds, a woman came to the door. She appeared to be in her late 40s, but that was a guesstimate considering she also looked to have had more than her share of plastic surgeries to maintain her youthful look...including enhancement to certain areas of her anatomy.
"Yes? Can I help you?" she said coldly, looking at us as if we were a couple of dirty, homeless bums begging for change.
"Mrs. Brownell, perhaps you remember me," Ben suggested.
"I don't think someone like you and someone like me move in quite the same social circles," she said snootily. "So, I can't think where I'd possibly know you from."
Ben drew a slow breath, doing his best not to lose his temper, and I couldn't blame him.
"I'm the assistant principal at JFK High," he said.
"Oh."
Her attitude remained aloof and cold.
"We're here to talk about your son," I said, interjecting. "My name is Everett James, and I'm the new principal."
"A high school principal?" she sneered the question as she gave me the once over. "You look like you're young enough to get out of such a financially unrewarding field. I suggest you do so before it's too late. Otherwise, you’re going to end up like your friend here – nearing retirement age, wearing a cheap, ugly suit, and scraping pennies together at the end of every month, and swirling around the dregs of the swamp with the rest of the lower middle class. "
Wow. When Ben told me these people were worse than Mr. Stevens, I kind of thought he might be exaggerating a bit. Seems this was something I had to see to believe.
"Well, Mrs. Brownell, that's kind of beside the point," I said, doing my best to be calm and civil in the way I spoke. I could see Ben quietly seething with anger, so I decided it was best that I do the talking.
"So, what is the point, Mr. James? Why are you wasting my time? Evidently, you don't know the adage, 'time is money', do you?"
"We're 'wasting your time' because your son was involved in a shooting this morning."
"My Leon? Involved in a shooting? Is he hurt?" she exhibited the first sign of compassion I'd seen.
"He was involved, Mrs. Brownell; he wasn't the victim."
"You must be mistaken. My boy isn't some inner-city thug. He may have had his growing pains, but he would never stoop to that level. I'm quite sure that you have the wrong person."
"No, I'm quite sure we have the right person," Ben said through gritted teeth. "Your precious boy was positively identified by the victim of the shooting."
"Leon didn't shoot anyone," I added quickly, before Ben got too worked up. "He was, however, buying drugs from the shooter."
"I would prefer it if you referred to the substances my son uses as 'performance enhancers.' He takes his bodybuilding very seriously, and these substances are not illegal in many other—"
"We're not talking about steroids," Ben interrupted angrily. "Leon was buying Rocket. It's a street drug, simple as that. Kids use it to get high – not to grow their damn muscles unnaturally large."
"But Leon simply wouldn't do that," she insisted.
It was clear this was a waste of time. Short of showing this woman the video footage of her son actually buying the drugs, I didn't think there was any way we could convince her of her son's guilt. I decided to cut straight to the chase.
"Listen, Mrs. Brownell, whether you care to accept it or not, Leon was involved in the shooting that happened earlier today. We need to know if he's here, and if he's not, we need to know if you know of his current whereabouts."
"He isn't here. He left this morning with some of his friends, and we haven't heard from him since."
"Is there a cell phone number that we could use to get hold of him on? We just want to make sure he's okay and see if he can help up find the shooter." I decided to try appealing to her motherly instincts since, no matter how snobby she was, she was genuinely concerned for her son.
"Well, I can give you his personal number, I suppose you could try that."
She gave me her son's number, which I saved on my phone.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Brownell," I said. "We appreciate that. Now, if Leon does show up later, please give me or Ben a call right away, alright?"
I gave her my number and Ben's.
"Fine," she said coldly, glaring at us.
"Have a good day, Mrs. Brownell," I said.
"Bye," she muttered as she closed the door in our faces.
"Wow," I remarked. "I don't know who would be worse to be stuck in a room with – that plastic piece of work or biker Stevens. Jeez, with parents like that, no wonder the kids turned out like they did."
"Yep. But none of this helps – we still haven't been able to talk to either of them."
"Let's try to call Leon with this number," I suggested.
I dialed the number, and it rang for a long time, but nobody picked up.
"He's probably spooked," Ben commented. "Doesn't want to answer calls from numbers he doesn't know because he'll think it's the cops or something.
"You're right. So, we need to call him from a number he does know."
"Well, bitchzilla there – excuse my French – sure as hell isn't going to help us, so we can't call from her number or the house number."
"Does this kid have a girlfriend?"
"There's a good chance he has more than one. I've seen him in the hallways at school getting up close and personal with one girl who happens to be a nice enough girl. Maybe we should pay her a visit."
"Let's go," I agreed.
Ben logged into the school's information database from his phone and looked up the girl's address.
"Megan Price. Found her," Ben said as he read me her address.
We got there after a short drive and went up and knocked on the door. Megan herself answered. She was a pretty girl who looked a little too innocent to be associated with the crap we were dealing with. As soon as she saw us, she blushed deeply, and a look of worry immediately crossed her face.
"Mr. Henderson, Mr. James... you guys are here about Leon, aren't you?" she said, her voice shaky. It looked as if she was on the point of bursting into tears.
"Your boyfriend has done some bad things, Megan. Very bad things," I stated.
"I'm... he's not my boyfriend," she managed to stammer, only just holding back tears. "He just... we just hang out sometimes. I don't...I don't know about the bad stuff he does. I'm...I'm not part of it."
"Relax, Megan," I said, keeping my tone gentle and reassuring. "We never said that you were. But today, he was involved in something much more serious than his usual stunts. Today, Leon and his friend William were involved in a shooting."
Her face went pale, and her jaw dropped with shock.
"Are... are they okay?" she gasped.
"They are, but a 10th grader, Kendrick Green, he got shot, and he's not doing so well. He's in surgery now," I informed her.
"Oh no... Kendrick is in my English class! He's such a nice boy! Is he... he's not going to... will he?"
"He's not going to die. He'll be okay, eventually, but it's going to take a while to recover."
Tears were forming in her eyes now. "D-did Leon sh-shoot him?"
"No, he didn't – but he knows who did. He and William know the guy, and they've both run off somewhere. Now we need your help. Do you think you can help us? All we want to do is find out from William and Leon who the shooter is. That's all. We're not going to do anything bad to them. Do you think you can help us with that?"
She nodded, biting her lower lip as she fought back the tears. "But, h-how can I help?" she asked.
"All I need for you to do is call Leon and ask him if he wants to come over here to hang out. If he does, great, we'll talk to him here. I suspect that he won't, though. So, just casually find out where he is, but don't ask too many questions about it, alright? We don't want to put any pressure on things between the two of you by letting him know you helped us, because he and William, they, uh, they might not be too happy about answering our questions."
"Alright... alright, I'll call him now."
"Thank you so much, Megan. You're doing a good thing here," I assured her.
She got out her phone and dialed Leon. Ben and I waited with bated breath, and then we both grinned as he answered, and he and Megan started talking. But before I could listen in on their conversation, my phone rang. It was Vivienne, so I walked out of earshot and answered.
"Hi, Vivienne," I said as I answered. "Is everything alright?"
"The hospital just called," she said. "It's about Jane. She's finally awake. She's asking for you."