One
‘Come on, let’s go into the woods and look around!’ said Charlie, swinging the baseball bat around, banging it on trees as he walked by them.
‘I don’t know,’ said his friend Martin. ‘I don’t like it in there. It always creeps me out! Let’s stay out here by the road.’
‘Just a little ways. Far enough in so we can see cars go by but they can’t see us.’
‘Well, okay,’ Martin said.
They walked more far into the woods. Then Charlie stopped and turned around to look at Martin right in the face and he said all angry-like, ‘So why did you go out with my girlfriend Katherine?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘I know you and Katherine have had something going on. You went behind my back. I saw you guys making out!’
‘That’s bullshit, man. I would never do that. You’re my friend!’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think so.’
He swung the bat and hit Martin right in the head. BANG!
‘Ow!’ Martin yelled. ‘That hurts!’
Charlie hit him again and Martin fell down on the ground. Charlie kept swinging the bat at Martin’s head, breaking open his skull and—
‘What do you think?’
I looked up from the laptop. ‘I’m sorry?’ I said.
‘What do you think?’ Greta Carson asked. ‘Don’t you think it’s well written?’
‘I’m not really a judge of literature,’ I said. ‘I don’t see any spelling mistakes, if that’s what you mean.’
Greta’s son Chandler said, ‘The computer finds those and fixes them.’
‘Please,’ Greta said, putting a hand on her son’s knee, as if that was where his mouth was and she was shutting him up. ‘Mr Weaver doesn’t care about those things. What matters is the story. Isn’t that right, Mr Weaver?’
I’d only been here ten minutes and already had a feeling I didn’t want this case, whatever this case turned out to be. Based on what she’d told me over the phone, I would have turned it down, but she’d gotten my name from an old friend of my wife’s, so at the very least I felt I had to come out here.
I folded down the lid of the laptop and looked at the pair of them. Ms Carson was in her late forties, stick-thin, her black hair molded tightly to her skull, pulled to the back of her head and spun around into something that looked like a small cinnamon bun. She wore a black silk blouse and expensive jeans, a small, tasteful strand of pearls at her neck.
Her sixteen-year-old son Chandler had a sense of style too. Huge white unlaced sneakers that made him look something like a Clydesdale, jeans and a pullover sweatshirt emblazoned with three letters – PFH, which stood for Promise Falls High, where Chandler attended the eleventh grade. His mother had told me before I got here that he was relatively new to the school. He’d spent the previous two years at Claxton Academy, which was private.
‘I think it’s a basic problem with the public school system,’ Greta Carson told me on the phone. ‘They’re not into thinking outside the box.’
Chandler’s short story, of one kid beating another kid to death with a baseball bat, was evidently innovative thinking.
Her call had led me here, to this classic Victorian three-story house in one of Promise Falls’ more upscale neighborhoods. I’d only been back in town a few months, having spent the last decade or more in Griffon, north of Buffalo, and had been reacquainting myself with the various parts of the town that I’d known better back in the days when I patrolled them in a black-and-white.
Sitting here, in the Carsons’ living room, I said, ‘Why don’t we start back at the beginning?’
‘You don’t want to read the whole story?’ Greta Carson asked.
‘Maybe later,’ I said. ‘I’m guessing what matters are is the issues surrounding it.’
‘It’s a freedom of speech issue, that’s what it is,’ she said.
‘Jeez, Mom, do we have to make such a big deal about this?’ Chandler said. ‘Can’t I just be suspended for a
‘Come on, let’s go into the woods and look around!’ said Charlie, swinging the baseball bat around, banging it on trees as he walked by them.
‘I don’t know,’ said his friend Martin. ‘I don’t like it in there. It always creeps me out! Let’s stay out here by the road.’
‘Just a little ways. Far enough in so we can see cars go by but they can’t see us.’
‘Well, okay,’ Martin said.
They walked more far into the woods. Then Charlie stopped and turned around to look at Martin right in the face and he said all angry-like, ‘So why did you go out with my girlfriend Katherine?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘I know you and Katherine have had something going on. You went behind my back. I saw you guys making out!’
‘That’s bullshit, man. I would never do that. You’re my friend!’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think so.’
He swung the bat and hit Martin right in the head. BANG!
‘Ow!’ Martin yelled. ‘That hurts!’
Charlie hit him again and Martin fell down on the ground. Charlie kept swinging the bat at Martin’s head, breaking open his skull and—
‘What do you think?’
I looked up from the laptop. ‘I’m sorry?’ I said.
‘What do you think?’ Greta Carson asked. ‘Don’t you think it’s well written?’
‘I’m not really a judge of literature,’ I said. ‘I don’t see any spelling mistakes, if that’s what you mean.’
Greta’s son Chandler said, ‘The computer finds those and fixes them.’
‘Please,’ Greta said, putting a hand on her son’s knee, as if that was where his mouth was and she was shutting him up. ‘Mr Weaver doesn’t care about those things. What matters is the story. Isn’t that right, Mr Weaver?’
I’d only been here ten minutes and already had a feeling I didn’t want this case, whatever this case turned out to be. Based on what she’d told me over the phone, I would have turned it down, but she’d gotten my name from an old friend of my wife’s, so at the very least I felt I had to come out here.
I folded down the lid of the laptop and looked at the pair of them. Ms Carson was in her late forties, stick-thin, her black hair molded tightly to her skull, pulled to the back of her head and spun around into something that looked like a small cinnamon bun. She wore a black silk blouse and expensive jeans, a small, tasteful strand of pearls at her neck.
Her sixteen-year-old son Chandler had a sense of style too. Huge white unlaced sneakers that made him look something like a Clydesdale, jeans and a pullover sweatshirt emblazoned with three letters – PFH, which stood for Promise Falls High, where Chandler attended the eleventh grade. His mother had told me before I got here that he was relatively new to the school. He’d spent the previous two years at Claxton Academy, which was private.
‘I think it’s a basic problem with the public school system,’ Greta Carson told me on the phone. ‘They’re not into thinking outside the box.’
Chandler’s short story, of one kid beating another kid to death with a baseball bat, was evidently innovative thinking.
Her call had led me here, to this classic Victorian three-story house in one of Promise Falls’ more upscale neighborhoods. I’d only been back in town a few months, having spent the last decade or more in Griffon, north of Buffalo, and had been reacquainting myself with the various parts of the town that I’d known better back in the days when I patrolled them in a black-and-white.
Sitting here, in the Carsons’ living room, I said, ‘Why don’t we start back at the beginning?’
‘You don’t want to read the whole story?’ Greta Carson asked.
‘Maybe later,’ I said. ‘I’m guessing what matters are is the issues surrounding it.’
‘It’s a freedom of speech issue, that’s what it is,’ she said.
‘Jeez, Mom, do we have to make such a big deal about this?’ Chandler said. ‘Can’t I just be suspended for a
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