Murder at the High School

By Quentin Baker

George Washington Carver High School is a complex, sprawling, urban institution with a long history of excellence, and the accomplishments of its students in various fields: academics, athletics, leadership, and extracurricular activities, give the school an outstanding reputation. Nearly three thousand students are enrolled in a building built to accommodate eighteen hundred, with well over one hundred administrators and teachers and staff, but despite the overcrowding, the school is peaceful most days.
But one October morning two shots are heard on the third floor of George Washington Carver High School in San Francisco. The teacher, Val Olson from room 322, telephones Vice Principal Michael Dempsey with this terrible news. Dempsey ascends rapidly to room 324, which is locked, and his principal, Big Jim Dougherty follows within minutes. The principal sends for Mugsy Jones the Head Custodian, and then he and Michael decide that they must lock the school down until the police respond. Dempsey directs the Head Counselor to cut off the bell schedule, announce the emergency over the school’s loud speakers, and notify the downtown district office.
Michael Dempsey decides he will do what he can to determine how this murder happened and if possible find out who killed this senior history teacher, Marvin Marbles. Was it a student who did it, a fellow teacher, the deceased estranged wife, someone from outside the school? What could the motive have been, love or guilt or fear or money? As Dempsey digs further into the possible suspects and interacts with the two detectives who take this case, he uncovers an increasingly complex set of personalities and events.
This is my second novel and my fourth Smashwords book. It provides a spare but insightful look into a very unusual incident in a huge urban high school. The characters, which includes Michael (Hercule Poirot) Dempsey, are vivid and frankly portrayed, and you will learn much about the day-to-day workings of one of today’s best high schools. Murder at the High School is succinct but brilliantly told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quentin Baker
• Release date: Jun 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476174501

Quentin Baker

I am a retired high school English teacher, married with four grown children and eight grandchildren. I was born in Montana, attended university there, but moved to the SF Bay Area with my wife Jean in 1960. I have written a number of poems and used to attend cafe readings in SF. I have also written short stories, but abandoned an early novel in 1965. I edited a volume of poetry from various San Francisco writers, Poems from the Exit Café. I have also helped two friends self-publish their own books: Michael Hogan, Imperfect Geographies (poetry) and Dr. Mary B. Lane, Our Schools: Frontline for the 21st Century and Democratic Schools for Our Democracy.

Book preview

Murder at the High School

Quentin Baker Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition

Two Shots

I had just checked my inbox in the main office and had come into my small, cluttered office to the left. I hate my desk. It is piled with bundles of manila folders. I’ve tried over and over to organize my stuff, but always defeat myself. I remove some folders and ditch them, remove others and put them in the tall drawer on the left, store some on the shelves on the wall, and start again with a clean surface. The school phone rang. I reached across to pick it up and knocked one stack of folders off onto the floor.

—Yes. Dempsey.

—There’s been two gun shots.

—Two shots.

—Yes. Val Olson in 324. I think they came from next door. Marvin. His voice cracked.

—Don’t go out. Keep your students in. Even past the bell. I looked at my watch. I had pasted the bell schedule with thin pieces of colored tape. I always knew what the classroom time was. Twenty minutes until 10:42. I’ll be right up. Bye.

Just then Mrs. Fentre, the principal’s secretary burst through my open doorway.

—Shots! Shots! Two shots! Mrs. Burnside just called from the third floor.

—Yes. I pushed past her, more rudely than I meant to, strode rapidly along the first floor hallway, and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor, north wing.

No one was in the hall. The bell would ring in about fourteen minutes. I went to 322. Rattled the door. Locked. I peered through the small window. Saw nothing. The battered window shades were pulled down against Wednesday’s bright morning sun, and streaks of sunlight filtered through the tears in several of the shades. Marvin Marbles had tried unsuccessfully to patch some of the cracks with masking tape. I went next door and rapped lightly on Olson’s door. He opened it just a crack. Good man.

—Door’s locked. I don’t have the master keys with me. They’re in my desk drawer. Let me call Jim. Jim was the principal. Jim Dougherty. Big Jim.

—Okay.

—Hello everyone, I said loudly, entering the classroom and reaching for the wall phone to dial Jim’s number, 1. I was number 2, and Eddie Goodenough, the other vice principal, was 3. By now Big Jim was probably nearly up here.

—Margaret Fenetre, principal’s secretary.

—Has he left?

—Yes, sir, on his way.

—Did he give any instructions?

—No sir. He was in a hurry.

—Right. Who can cancel the bell system?

—Ummm. I think Mr. White.

—Call him now and tell him to shut off the bells. Then call the police, 911.

—Yes, sir. I know Officer McConnell is down on Balboa checking on some truants one of the sandwich shops reported earlier.

—Skip the sir, Margaret. Anyway, it’s okay. McConnell will get the call. Also, now that I think of it, tell Harry White to go on the intercom and tell the whole school that there is a police emergency in progress and that everyone, teachers and all, must remain in their classrooms until further notice. Okay?

—Right away, Mr. Dempsey, but what about some of PE classes? Drivers Training? Also, two teachers cut the wires to their classroom speakers.

—Which ones?

—I know. I’ll send Betty and Edna up to tell those two classes. Both girls are right here.

—Good. Thanks, Margaret. Good work.

—You’re welcome. Is someone injured? Is it Mr. Marbles?

—Probably, but I don’t know. Can’t get in 322 to see. Door’s locked. No keys. Oh, Margaret, I said, suddenly thinking. Get Mugsy Jones to get up here with his masters. Mugsy was the head custodian and he was probably right now sauntering along. He was probably sauntering along the first floor, visiting with the women in the cafeteria or having coffee in the teachers’ lunchroom. Three beeps of the call system would bring him to Mrs. Fenetre, and then to us. Just then I heard the door to the next room rattle. Big Jim Dougherty. Then he was opening 324 and joining us. Dougherty was a big man, 6’4" or so, about 240, with only a small paunch, short, light graying hair.

—Hello, everyone, he said in his strong bass voice. We’re sorry to keep you guessing. We have to lock down our Carver until the police get here and take charge.

—Sir? asked one of the students, a tall, lightly-tanned, sandy haired boy who sat at the head of the third row. Obviously a leader destined himself to become a principal or a doctor. Big Jim nodded to him. Jim was 6’4", about 240 or 250. His light brown hair was thinning. He nodded and looked straight at the boy. Two of my friends have doctors’ appointments at 11:30. Will they be able to leave? They have the approval slips with them. I was with them during Reg. A likely story, I thought.

—Son, I just can’t give you or your friends an answer. The police are on their way, and may now be arriving downstairs. Also, Officer McConnell will be here soon. We must hold everyone, teachers and students, until the police complete their work. I hope all of you understand that this is a big emergency. We have not had anything like this here for a long, long time, at least as long as I’ve been principal we haven’t.

—How long will we be held? asked the boy

—Joseph, Val Olson interjected. You will just have to be patient. You’ve watched enough police shows on TV to know that sometimes these things take a lot of time. Joseph flushed red.

—Probably, I interjected, we will have an emergency minimum day, and everyone will be expected to leave campus and go straight home.

—Good point, Mr. Dempsey, good point, said Big Jim.

—Will Muni be notified? asked a short, blonde girl in the back of row four, next to the windows.

—Thank you, Miss, said the principal.

—Gretchen. My Auntie Clara was here when the black kids rioted. The police shut down Carver that time too. The other students muttered, but quietly.

—Thank you, Gretchen, answered Big Jim Dougherty. Mr. Olson, you have some very bright students here sir. Mr. Olson beamed.

Gretchen continued: Black kids pushed some kids down the stairs, Asian and white.

An Asian boy from the back row contributed: Black kids pick on Asian people.

Another girl stated in a matter of fact voice: They threw water balloons out the bus window on people waiting for another bus.

—Thank you, Gretchen, said Big Jim emphatically. His voice rose in volume a notch. Let me thank all of you again. You’ve been very understanding. I had the feeling that if we had not been there, the kids probably would have all rushed to the stairwell windows to look out on 33rd Street, struggling to see the police arrive. Olson would have been trying to contain them. Here they remained seated but their animated voices began to discuss the situation. They certainly were not focused on U.S. History, but history was being made here at Carver, and all of us would be grabbing for the Chronicle in the morning.

Just then the classroom door opened and in stepped two plain clothes police, a short, thin woman, light brown features, with short black hair, her partner a tall, burly, brown-skinned man, with close-cropped black hair.

—Are you the principal? the woman asked me. I stood nearest the door, a little off to one side.

—No, m’am, Mr. Dougherty here is, I said stepping further back. Olson did too. She was quite pretty I thought, though plain. A small diamond earing in each ear helped a bit.

—Good morning, Officer, said Big Jim. I’m Jim Dougherty. She produced her identification and also handed him her business card. Her partner did the same.

—Madeline Juarez, Detective. She extended her hand to each of us in turn. This is my partner, Evander Littlejohn. We’ll be working together for the next few days. Officer Littlejohn shook each of our hands. The students were completely silent, staring intently at the show.

—I’m Vice Principal Dempsey.

—I’m Val Olson, U.S. History. Through the door at that moment came Mugsy Jones, Head Custodian. Mugsy was short, wide, black, his head quite bald. He dangled his huge ring of keys in his right hand, quickly switched the ring to his left hand and entered into the handshaking. He smiled broadly. The students’ faces broke into smiles; he was a popular man on campus.

—Daniel David Jones, he said. Just call me Mugsy. I’ve unlocked 322 for you. Didn’t go in there, but saw his feet, straight up on the floor on the window side of his desk.

—322? queried Detective Juarez. The room? We were told to come here by the school secretary. That the room?

—Yes, answered Big Jim. It’s the room next door where we