The finalists, p.22
The Finalists, page 22
“What?” Natalia says. “That’s so wrong.”
“I don’t think anyone is guilty,” I say. “I’m assuming you’re all guilty right now.” I point to the doorway that leads out of the dining room and into the hallway. “Shall we?”
Natalia stands up. “It’s unfair.”
“Remember,” I say, “comportment is part of the decision, so maybe less bickering.” I carry the bylaws with me, and I look back. “Are you two okay?”
“Yes, sir,” the captain says, and Emily nods.
“Keep an eye on each other. And be safe.”
Natalia and I walk to the parlor. Only when we go inside do I remember that Nicholas Hyde’s body remains on the floor, covered by the captain’s jacket.
“Oh, shit,” I say.
“I told you, dead people don’t concern me,” Natalia says. She takes a seat in one of the parlor chairs. “Maybe that makes me appear guilty, that I’m not bothered by death. It’s a natural phenomenon that comes for all of us.”
“Okay, no assumptions here,” I say as I sit across from Natalia. I have the bylaws in my lap, but I don’t think I need them. “Why did you have a phone the whole time and not let us know about it? When Milo died and then Nicholas . . . you let all of that happen without telling anyone about the phone. Why?”
She sighs, her eyes trailing over Nicholas’s inert form on the floor.
“You didn’t seem to like Milo very much. You called him a cheater. And I guess a biology major might know something about how poisons work. You were talking about herbs.”
Her head whips back. “Oh, that’s it. You do think I’m guilty.”
“Just tell me about the phone.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks.
“You want to win the scholarship, so you didn’t want the process to stop?”
She stares at me for a beat. “You’re too polite to say it, so I will. I’m undocumented. I can’t get mixed up with the police.”
“So if you called them to report Milo’s death . . .”
“They’d start hassling me. Asking questions. It’s hard enough to come to school this way. I’m lucky Hyde is in such financial trouble. They don’t mind if you’re undocumented. They just want students, and they were able to put together some aid for me. Not federal, of course, but from the school. But I’m always looking over my shoulder. . . . My older brother got pulled over for running a stop sign about six months ago. They’ve been trying to deport him, and he’s—we’re—trying to fight it. But it’s expensive. My parents are helping, but they have to stay hidden at the same time, so everyone’s scared and tense.”
“Okay, I understand. And I’m sorry. Truly.” I know we have undocumented students on campus, but I’ve never talked to one as far as I know. “So you were protecting yourself more than anything else?”
“And I’m already here at a murder scene. How is that going to look? I’m going to have to talk to the cops when I leave this place, right?” She shakes her head. “It makes me sick to think about.”
“We’re all going to have to answer to the police at four o’clock. But you shouldn’t worry about your status. You’re right that Hyde College accepts undocumented students. We’ll do everything we can to make sure you’re treated fairly.”
“And God bless us, everyone.”
“Why did you take the phone out when you did?”
She rubs her eyes with her right hand. She rubs like she wants to jam her eyeballs farther back into her head. “I just got sick of the arguing. Nothing was being accomplished. We were going to be split against one another no matter what. And we’re in danger, so I just decided to do something. Kind of like you throwing that cradle against the window. Weren’t you just sick of not getting anywhere?”
“I hear you.”
“Is this all we’re going to talk about?” she asks. “It’s really not fair if I get brought in here for my interview and you only ask me about murder. You get to decide about the scholarship, so you should interview me.”
She’s right. I nod my head. “Okay.” I realize I don’t have the essays before me. And I haven’t read them. So I punt. “Why don’t you tell me why you deserve the Hyde Scholarship?”
She answers. Quickly. “Did you know that no student of color has ever won the Hyde Scholarship?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t you think it’s time?”
“Of course. Obviously.”
“And I’m not saying that’s the only reason I should get it. Okay? You can read my essay. Written in my second language. And you can read about what my family has been through as they came to America from Mexico.”
Someone knocks on the pocket doors. The sound makes me jump. I fear every sound is going to be making me jump for a while.
“I don’t know why they’d interrupt. . . .”
“You’d better answer,” Natalia says. “Who knows what’s going on?”
“Good point.”
I go to the door and slide it open.
The other four students stand out there looking at me with grave concern on their faces.
54
I’M RELIEVED ALL FOUR of them appear before me. Standing up.
Apparently unharmed.
If they’d knocked on the door to tell me that someone else had dropped dead in the dining room, I’m not sure how I’d have responded.
But I can tell from their faces something is wrong. So I ask what the problem is.
The students shift their weight from one foot to another. Even the captain looks reluctant to speak.
“Well?” I say. “Is somebody else hurt? Or sick? I thought all of you were staying away from one another.”
“No,” Duffy says. “Not exactly.”
“Then why are you interrupting this interview? Come on—tell me.”
Behind me, Natalia rises to her feet. She walks over and stands next to me, leaning toward the open pocket doors in order to see and hear what is being discussed.
“Well?” I ask. “Spit it out.”
Emily says, “Maybe you should come out here, Mr. Gaines, and then we can talk to you.”
“You mean out of my presence?” Natalia asks.
“Yes,” the captain says.
“You can’t just talk about someone in the house and not tell them what’s going—” Natalia stops herself. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I say right now. You all have something in mind, some theory you want to play out. What is it?”
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” I say. “Are you all accusing Natalia of something? She’s been sitting in here with me. You all know that.”
“Look, here goes.” Duffy is standing with one hand hooked in his belt, the other behind his back like he’s hiding something. He brings the hidden hand out and extends it toward me. “Check this out. Emily found it on Natalia’s chair after she left the room with you.”
I try to process what it is. Plastic and wrinkled.
I lean closer, then reach out and take it in my own hand. It’s a sandwich bag crumpled from being stuffed into someone’s pocket. I hold it between my thumb and index finger. At the bottom of the bag is a powdery white residue.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s mine,” Natalia says.
She pats her pants pockets and then makes a grab for the bag, but I pull it out of her reach.
“Come on.”
“Hold on,” I say. “What is this?”
“It was sitting on Natalia’s chair,” Duffy says. “After she got up to go off with you for her interview, that was sitting on her chair like it had fallen out of her pocket.”
“It did fall out of my pocket.”
“How did you all get together on this?” I ask.
Duffy sighs. “Okay, I went back into the dining room to tell them off for exiling Sydney.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Sydney says.
“When I went in there, Emily had found the bag of powder. So we all tried to figure out what it was.”
“And then we came here,” Sydney says. “Together.”
I turn to Natalia. “Okay, what is it?” I ask.
“It’s my ADHD meds. You heard me mention them before. I need them.”
“Why are they all crushed into powder like this?” I ask.
“That’s the way I like to take them,” she says. “I don’t like swallowing pills, so I crush mine up. I always have. It’s common to crush pills this way.”
I look over at the group of four, who stand arrayed against Natalia. “That seems reasonable.”
“Sir,” the captain says, “we have two people dead. Apparently the victims of some kind of poisoning. To crush up pills like that . . .”
“We don’t know it’s poisoning for sure,” I say.
“But it’s certainly in play. That’s why you told us not to eat or drink. That’s why you’re questioning everyone. And now we’ve found one of us with a bag of powder that could easily be placed into a drink. Or food.”
“Do you know this is poison and not ADHD medication?” I ask.
“Well, I sniffed it,” the captain says. “I couldn’t really tell.”
“Can any of you tell by looking? Or sniffing?”
“A lot of ADHD meds are capsules,” Sydney says. “The ones that aren’t are pretty small. They’re not hard to swallow.”
“How do you know what’s hard for me to swallow or not?” Natalia asks.
“You hated Milo,” Sydney says. “That’s obvious. And when we were all pouring our tea, you were right next to him. You easily could have sprinkled something into his drink.”
“Are you nuts?”
“He was talking to Mr. Hyde. A lot. I guess that’s kind of Milo’s approach to life. Was his approach.” Duffy scratches his head. “Kiss as much ass as possible. But maybe the poison went into his cup.”
“Maybe it got Mr. Hyde too,” the captain says. “Collateral damage.”
“I guess you’d know all about that,” Natalia says.
“Are you impugning my service—”
I’m still holding the bag as I wave my arms in the air like an umpire signaling someone safe. “I’m going to hold on to this. It’s evidence. The only people who can really sort this out are the police. Okay?”
“So I don’t get my medication back?”
“Do you need to take more of it?” I bring the bag closer to my face. “This doesn’t even look like enough to be one dose.”
Natalia looks away. “Ugh.”
“In the meantime, no one is accusing anyone of anything. Okay?”
“She was talking to Mr. Hyde right before the exam started,” Sydney says. “Remember, Duffy? She was up there, and it was like they were arguing? Right?”
“He was pissed at me because I called the major a war criminal.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” the captain says. “A person’s military service deserves respect.”
“My favorite uncle served in the marines,” Natalia says. “My godfather. Okay?”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. He . . . well, he couldn’t be an officer, but he served.”
“Oh.”
“She said she didn’t like to drink,” Emily says. “Nobody else said that. Maybe she planned on poisoning the bourbon so the rest of us would die.”
“I drank it.”
“Did you?” Emily says. “Maybe you just did that thing we’ve all done at parties or while playing drinking games. Just pretend to drink. Or throw it over your shoulder.”
“I’ve never done that,” Duffy says.
“Then why aren’t all of you deceased?” Natalia asks. “Milo didn’t drink the bourbon.”
“I’m going to hold on to this.” I slide the bag into the inside pocket of my jacket. “I’ll hand it over to Chief when he lets us out.”
Natalia’s face is flushed. She stares at me like I’m the lowest form of life on earth. She speaks to me through gritted teeth. “After what we just talked about in there?” She storms off, heading for the music room. “Nobody knows that about me.”
“What did you talk about in there?” the captain asks. “What does nobody know? Sir, if this is relevant to the investigation—”
“I can’t discuss other people’s interviews with the group. Sorry.”
“But, sir—”
“I can’t.”
“She’s going to the music room,” the captain says. “That’s where Milo is.”
Natalia hears him and comes back. “What do you think I’m going to do? Kill him again?”
“There’s evidence,” the captain says. “You could tamper.”
“Do you think I’ll mutilate his corpse?”
“That’s disrespectful,” Sydney says. “And gross.”
“I think the captain is right,” I say. “You should all stay in the same place. That way you can keep an eye on one another. You don’t have to like one another, but you can watch one another. Safety in numbers. Why don’t you all return to the dining room now. Except Emily. You can be the next interview. Okay?”
Her mouth pops open. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Is this because I broke her damn phone? And that makes me look guilty?”
“If the phone fits,” I say, pointing to the parlor.
55
EMILY STANDS IN THE middle of the parlor. Her hand is pressed against her face.
“This is so offensive,” she says.
“I’m sorry, but this is the only room that offers privacy.”
“What about those bedrooms upstairs?”
“It’s not right for me to go upstairs with a student alone. And go into a bedroom with the door closed.”
“Some professors around here do it,” she says. “People talk.”
“I’m happily married and intend to stay that way.” I point to the two chairs. “Why don’t we sit?”
She does, smoothing her dress over her thighs, but she doesn’t stop complaining. “I don’t think it’s right I have to come in here to talk. With a stiff in the room.”
“Do you want to do the interview or not?”
Emily seems to accept the conditions. She grips the arms of the parlor chair tight, her nails painted a dark color. “So which thing do you want to hassle me about? The protestors or the phone?”
“Breaking the phone was pretty shitty. We all could have gotten out of here.”
“If the phone worked. If there was service. Did you see her struggling to get it going? That old-ass flip phone was never going to work out here. People with brand-new phones sometimes struggle to get reception on this part of campus.”
“So you broke it? How did that help?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I guess I fail at comportment. That’s always been the thing I get in trouble for—not playing well with the other kids. ‘Well, Mrs. Paine, your daughter is quite intelligent and gifted. It’s just that she’s so surly with the other children.’ Surly. That’s me.”
“You broke the phone because you didn’t want to leave. Because you wanted to win the scholarship.”
“Seems at cross purposes, doesn’t it? Bust the phone in order to stay, but breaking the phone means I lose comportment points. Catch-22.” She shrugs. “I guess I get the five thousand. Every little bit helps. My dad got laid off last year. My mom . . . she works in a school cafeteria. She drives Uber some weekends. It’s kind of embarrassing when people I knew in high school message me and say my mom was their Uber driver. My dad’s been so depressed. . . .”
“I’m sorry. Are you feeling better? You seem like you’re doing okay.”
“Better.” She rubs her stomach. “It’s weird with parents, you know? I mean, I can’t stand them. We have nothing in common. But . . .” Her eyes fill with tears behind the big glasses.
“But you love them.”
“I do.” Her chin quivers. “They’re such assholes. If you saw who they voted for. But I feel sorry for them . . . and I don’t want them to be unhappy. And they are. I mean, really unhappy. Things really got bad between us this last year. . . .” She sniffles, wipes her nose. “I’m not what they want me to be.”
“They don’t care what you major in or what your politics are. They’re parents. They want you to be happy. That’s how it works.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“Okay, but you’re going to think I’m just telling you this for sympathy.”
“I won’t think that.”
She shakes her head. “They cut me off. Financially. What little help they could give, they cut it off. I don’t have anything, Dr. Gaines.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, I don’t have anything. I’ve been . . . Different sets of friends have let me stay with them for a while. Off campus. One couch to the other, you know? And the food . . . there’s a food pantry in town. I’m not the only student who goes there, but it’s . . . I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed by it. . . .”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Well, I have to eat. And I really don’t give a fuck if it has gluten in it or not. I say that, but I can’t be that picky. That crappy food out there tasted like a feast.”
“Maybe you ate too much and felt sick?”
“I don’t know. But let me tell you—I hate what Mr. Hyde’s kind of wealth has done to all of us. The gross inequality of it.”
“Do you have a place to stay now?” I ask. “I can call the housing office—”
“A friend of mine has given me a steady place for the last few weeks,” she says. “I think I can finish the year there. But the scholarship, you know? It would . . . it would be huge, but I don’t think I can stomach it.” She gets her sniffling under control. “Did you say you have kids?”
