Bricked

By J. Michael McGee

Jobless and divorced, Pat Riordan takes a little-sought-after teaching job at the district's school for the hard-to-handle, Wolfcreek. Dispirited by their banishment to the at-risk program, students refer to themselves as "bricked."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sugar Grove Media LLC
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736844793

J. Michael McGee

I grew up across the street from a house where a young girl was murdered. That mystery, still unsolved to this day, drove me to work in the criminal justice system, first as a court investigator and later as a prison counselor. In between those jobs, I worked as a college speech instructor, a freelance writer, a newspaper reporter and a high school teacher. I took time-out to travel overseas, hike the Grand Canyon several times and return to school to earn three master degrees. The young girl's death decades ago also prompted me to become a "paperback writer" of mysteries. As an investigator for 15 years, I heard first-hand stories from men who committed crimes. Later, as a mental health therapist at a prison, I developed a keen ear for hard and realistic dialogue. ​I wrote my first book Bricked after teaching in a school for at-risk students. Pat Riordan, the protagonist in my trilogy, was introduced in this novel. While Bricked is fictional, the episodes and mannerisms of the characters personify life inside a school for disenfranchised youth. In the follow-up novels, The Slip Swing and The Cues, Riordan, the teacher, has also taken on the role of an amateur shamus. The Slip Swing has a paranormal bent. The third book, The Cues, finds Riordan uncovering facts surrounding an unsolved murder and the whereabouts of local missing women. Each book is driven by hard dialogue, reflecting my years working in the criminal justice system and my experiences as a teacher. ​My intent was to provide a fresh twist for the reader of mysteries and for the detective in all of us.Here is a link to my webpage to learn more about the Pat Riordan trilogy: https://www.jmichaelmcgee.com/

Book preview

Part I

Four Days Dawning

1

Solitary Figure

Pat Riordan stared at the ceiling fan. The soft hum of the blades twirling had coaxed him to sleep the night before. He pulled his knees up to his chest and held the position tightly for ten seconds, then eased out to the edge of the Murphy bed.

He sat for a moment and collected his thoughts about the day to come—meeting at a middle school with a new kid and his mother. He checked his cell. Only innocuous advertisements about fitness and travel. From the wicker rocker, his roommate, Pig, a feline tabby, bounced down and began meowing for his morning chow.

The cat serpentined around him as he let the blind fly up and cranked open the bay window, just enough for a whiff of the fragrance from the shortleaf pine in the courtyard below. Two doves, one a white-wing, took off to a telephone line. Above the tree line the nightlight still beamed off the dome of the Old Administration Hall.

In the kitchen nook he opened a can of Frisky Doodle and dumped the ingredients into a bowl. The cat buried himself in the dish. Now go slow, he said. This will have to last all day.

He shook out the Irish Cream grounds into the coffee filter. He set out the ceramic mug, with its picture of Churchill in a homburg hat waving the V sign. The brew would be ready by the time he returned.

In the corner mirror of the small cubicle next to the bed, he examined himself; not exactly rugged stalwartness, but a long way from middle-aged slovenly.

Draped over a cherrywood valet were running shorts and a frayed gray sweatshirt. He stepped into the shorts, pulled on the top, and again looked in the mirror. Two-day stubble. He took out a blue elastic band from the pocket of his shorts and tied his hair back. He locked up and walked down one flight, through the apartment foyer, and outside.

On the stoop he again inhaled the smell of the nearby pine. He checked the university staff lot across the street, where his forest-green Jeep was illegally parked. No ticket. How many past dues did he owe? Down the cobblestone street was the Red Campus. In a few short hours it would be full of comings and goings. He bounded down the three steps and headed away from the college, remembering he forgot his cell. No mind.

He was a solitary figure at this time of the day. The mornings were good. The autumn crispness invigorated his soul. The quilt-patch scarlets and Indian golds of the sugar maples glistened. Each home he passed needed a fix of some sort. He stopped and dug out a small pebble lodged in the right heel of his Adidas, then resumed, the trot moving to a purposeful jog.

The chaos-on-chaos of the school day flooded in. The three-ring-bound, wannabe textbook, Bessinger’s Basics for Boys, A Primer for the Oppositional Student, mailed to him by a teacher in Vermont, might have some useful thoughts. He’d remember to take it to work today.

He huffed on. Living near a college campus energized him, even though it had been over two decades since he’d called this special place home.

In the early days, a century ago, the faculty elite lived in the Tudor and Victorian houses with vaulted ceilings and big front porches. Now those houses were makeshift residences for students. Cars were parked in the weed-infested yards. Ivy, once the mark of prestige, was overgrown and dying, despite an effort by preservationists to re-establish the neighborhood as a viable part of the city.

Most mornings a jog sent the dream demons running, but this day an impending doom hung over him like a sword of Damocles. The school’s principal, Doug Donovan, had said he felt there was something astir at the district office, suggesting that the powers-that-be were less than supportive of the teaching that was being done at the school.

He turned down Bath Drive. The cobblestone continued into a winding, village-like street, with hedges lining each side of well-kept cottage homes, sequestered away from the once-stately homes of yesteryear. Tucked back in a leaf-covered yard was a neatly manicured, red-brick building. An unobtrusive white sign read San’s Dojo. To the side of the building was a Dodge pickup, 1970s vintage. Riordan smiled as he huffed by.

Serendipity had played its role the day he met the man who owned the gym. His name was Tom San, and he came from the Japanese island of Shikoku. San had immigrated at a late age to the states and still struggled with English. Riordan had read that the complex differences in syllable elocution between Japanese and English made the man's occasional mispronunciations and word omissions understandable. Riordan had slowed his jog, that day over two years ago, when he heard the crack of a tree and saw a diminutive figure in sweats jumping on the trunk of a fallen elm.

She a stubborn thing, the man shouted out that morning. It come down last night in storm. Riordan had jogged for a moment in place, then opened the makeshift gate and did what came naturally—jumped atop the trunk. Both men balanced themselves as the tree cracked to the ground. Berry kind, Tom San said. I just move in and try fix up place. Can make you tea?

Riordan had declined, but said he would take a rain check.

Tom San had pointed to the sky, chuckling. Uh, rain check.

In two short years the small building had become a fixture in the area. And although only a few nearby residents were enrolled in the aikido program, many of the town’s women signed up for yoga, tai chi, and jazzercise.

Riordan felt the kick of his endorphins. He smiled about that first encounter. He put himself in high gear back to his apartment for a shower and the eight thirty meeting at Benway Middle School.

2

The World’s Worst Mom

She lay curled in the moon’s glow; eyes wide open, staring at the wall.

From the doorway, a deep cough. A silhouetted figure stumbled in and moved across the room. At the bed he stopped, hovered for a moment, then dropped his Wranglers and fell in.

She closed her eyes, clutching the pillow.

Another cough, this one a kind of rattle.

She possumed, waiting for his next move. But this night, his breathing quickly slowed to a snore.

She rode the waves of his wheezes. And went to that place in the Rockies with the deep lake and pines, where she had gone after her mother had died. For several minutes, her mind stilled; she drifted.

Suddenly his snores stopped and his breathing quickened, as if he were about to awaken.

Like a whacked piñata, full of sorrows, she was brought back.

Sorrows of shame and sadness; two husbands and a father gone, binges, hospital stays, and single motherhood, always single motherhood.

And now this.

His breathing again slowed. His snoring continued. Safe, she slid out of the bed. She moved to the hallway and Bobby’s bedroom, where Bear had been sleeping.

The lab whipped his tail at her arrival. She shushed the dog, bending over and whispering in his ear, Bobby will be home today. The dog followed her down the stairs to the kitchen. It was hours until the meeting at the school.

Somewhere nearby, a siren sounded. She turned on the small light by the sink and sat down. Bear rested his boxy head on her thigh. On the wall hung a wood carving that read World’s Best Mom. Tears welled up. She reached down and scratched the dog’s ear. I’m not the world’s best mom, boy. I’m the world’s worst mom.

For the past two weeks Bobby had been in a group home and she had been hospitalized. She had engineered the whole thing, telling Bobby her depression was acting up again and that she needed a rest. And she had told Dr. Lacy she was having self-harm thoughts, which opened the door to her stay at St. Mary’s, as well as an emergency admittance to a group home for Bobby. Bobby had cried and said she couldn’t make him go to a home and she couldn’t lock Bear up in a kennel. But she did.

She got up, went into the small laundry walk-in, and took down the clothes she’d hung on the hanger for the morning meeting. She ran her finger over the monogram, SAM, on the blouse collar. She shook her head in disgust. Well, Sarah Ann Malloy, how will you ever make things right again?

In the living room she opened a window to let out the stink of tobacco, then nestled into the futon. She took her cell off the coffee table and scrolled down the screen for messages. She’d remember to leave him a note. Bear hopped up and melded his body with hers. She listened to the snores from upstairs. She’d leave for the meeting before he awoke.

Yards down, a bark. Blocks away, a howl. Daybreak would come. She pulled up the afghan, closed her eyes, and went to that special place.

3

Boys

At the Oakdale Community Group Home on Craymere Street, Bill Widemore and Trisha Burke made one last run-through of checking supplies before leaving. Both were social work graduates who wanted to make a difference, but the reality was neither could find another job.

As Trisha placed documents in her tote bag about the boy they were to discuss in the meeting, Bill called out to the custodian about the upstairs toilet being stopped up.

At it again, are they? the man hollered back.

This time they tried to light it. We are going to have to make them go outside from now on, Bill groaned, half serious.

Oakdale housed five to eight boys at a time. Staff, like Bill and Trisha, came and went almost as frequently as the residents did. There was no time limit on how long a boy could stay, but most were there until their families would take them back or until they found a foster home.

Outside, Bill and Trisha did a quick count of the belongings needed for the meeting, then climbed into the Astrovan, a loaner from the Presbyterian Mothers. The van was infused with the smells of fast food and body odor, remnants of many cross-town trips with a capacity load.

We need to clean up this thing, Trisha said. It is an embarrassment.

Bill sniffed. Boys. He lit a low-tar, his first of the day, turned on the blower, and steered the van down Craymere to the highway. He had to monitor his behavior around the boys. There had been workers at the home who had treated the boys like friends. Once they concluded that you wanted to be a chum, they would run all over you and ask to bum a smoke.

Traffic isn’t too bad this morning, Bill said.

Trisha shuffled through the file which read, Robert Allan Malloy, age 12. She searched for clues as to why this particular boy was having so many problems. She made a small checkmark beside the date of the first incident of delinquent behavior, which had started months earlier. She made another checkmark beside the behavioral report, which read ADHD and Oppositional Defiant Disorder. The file said the boy was seeing a local psychologist, but it didn’t show any diagnosis from him.

I don’t see Bobby as having ODD. He seems too gentle to have that, she said. ODD is sometimes a precursor to conduct disorder and anti-social disorder. She googled something on her cell, seemingly for verification about her comment.

Bill shrugged. I don’t think the schools spend too much time diagnosing these kids, he said. They just give them a label and move on to the next problem child. He ditched the cigarette out the window, took the exit, and drove south toward the school.

4

Benway

Buses bumped up against the curb of the boulevard-wide horseshoe driveway. Each driver followed protocol, moving his vehicle up one space after the driver in front of him discharged his load.

Riordan found the visitor lot and waited for any rattles from the exhaust telling him he needed a new this or that. He patted the steering wheel with reassurance when he heard nothing.

His cell dinged a text, reminding him of the eight thirty meeting. The Bessinger’s Basics for Boys lay in the seat next to him. Atop it lay a manila folder entitled Robert Allan Malloy. He sipped out of the Churchill mug and took a bite of the fresh blueberry bagel from Briar Crest Bagel Shop. He surveyed the pastoral setting. He hadn’t been at this school before.

Albert J. Benway Middle School had been built to get students ready for the academic rigors of senior high, and prided itself on hiring the best. Its lawn was manicured. Its teachers did their lesson plans like good soldiers. And its principal, a former Marine, had a three-strike rule for students who misbehaved. A rule, according to his reputation, that was nonnegotiable and was beginning to be the protocol district-wide.

Two boys walked out between the buses. One cradled a folded flag to his chest. They crossed the expansive driveway to a sidewalk and to the center of the front yard, where a pole was located. Ceremoniously they let the reds, whites, and blues take form and catch the morning breeze. Both gave kind of broken salutes, walked back across the driveway, and disappeared between the buses and into the shouts of the morning.

Riordan doubted if Robert Allan Malloy was one of the flag boys. What did the folder say? He looked for clues about why the boy had misbehaved. There had been an entry made yesterday: the boy had a verbal altercation resulting in him kicking a trashcan in a classroom. The principal called the act property destruction, although he had stopped short of calling the juvenile authorities.

Riordan knew there was a good chance the principal would ask him to take the boy, which meant he’d become a student at Riordan’s school, Wolfcreek, named after a one-time sighting of a wolf near the school, and for the cavernous creek winding through the property. It was also known as the district outpost school for the hard to handle, now numbering twenty.

Riordan closed the file and examined himself in the rearview mirror for traces of gray. He’d come to pulling back his hair into a ponytail. He wasn’t sure if he looked younger by doing so or just pathetic.

The last bus discharged its riders. He left his coffee in the console, locked the Jeep, tucked the folder underneath his arm, and made his way toward the building.

Inside, green, blue, and red stripes on the floor veered off into three directions. The red line led to the cafeteria, the green to the auditorium, and the blue to the school office.

A security guard motioned him down the hallway. Visitor sign-in that way, he said, giving Riordan a quick look-over. Riordan followed the blue stripe to the large double doors. A bold office sign read, Please turn off cell phones.

Across the hall, there were echoes of two young teachers shepherding students into the auditorium. No more than four in a group and no sitting in the bleachers, one admonished.

Riordan entered the office to a My mom says I don’t have to sit on these dirty floors.

5

Arthur J. Yardlow

At a desk sequestered in the corner, a young secretary looked up as Riordan signed the check-in book. She ran her hand through her hair and smiled. Can I help you?

I am here for the Malloy meeting at eight thirty.

As if to ask for permission to speak, she looked at an older woman across the office, glued to a Dell. The older woman continued her typing, unaffected by Riordan’s arrival. I believe it will be starting shortly, the young woman said. You can have a seat.

Behind him, two twentysomethings entered the office. The bearded one extended his hand. Are you Mr. Riordan from Wolfcreek? Bill Widemore.

Riordan nodded. Pat Riordan.

The other twentysomething extended her hand. We are from Oakdale Community Group Home, she said, where Bobby has been living. I’m Trisha. She held a folder, which read Robert Allan Malloy.

There’s our boy, back there, Widemore said, nodding to a lone figure sitting in a high-back chair next to a closed door. The boy jumped up and beelined for the familiar figures.

Widemore held up his palm, signaling the boy to stop, just as the older secretary jerked up from the Dell and blasted, Where are you going, Bobby Malloy? You sit back down there!

Bu—bu... but— the boy pleaded.

But nothing, the woman blustered. Sit down!

Better sit back down, dude, Bill called out, still holding up his palm. We’ll be meeting shortly.

Bobby returned to the chair as Riordan and the two caretakers took a seat on a beige couch. The older secretary’s eyes stayed fixed on the boy until she was satisfied he was where he should be.

Did you tell him about the meeting when you let him out this morning? Trisha asked Bill.

No. He’s probably been sitting there since I let him out.

Riordan studied the boy, whom he guessed would be in his care for the coming months, if not longer. He seemed to be holding back tears after being reprimanded by the woman. He fidgeted, kicking one leg out toward a nearby trashcan, then the other. He repeated the exercise several times. He clutched a red backpack with one hand.

Riordan had come to understand that backpacks, for kids in group homes or in temporary foster care, took on special meaning because they transported all their worldly possessions from home to foster care to group home to school and back.

Over the PA system, a crackle alerted the building to the announcements. Good morning, staff. This is Principal Yardlow. Remember, the stern voice reverberated, our second PTA meeting of the year will be held tonight at seven, and Ms. Lambert’s vocal class will be performing.

A battery of other news was delivered in an or-else tone. As quickly as the messages concluded, the door next to Bobby opened. A man, mid-fiftyish, stepped out with military erectness, adjusted the knot of his nondescript tie, and looked sternly down at the boy, now slumped in the high-back.

Before reaching the guests sitting on the couch, he bent over to pick up a small piece of paper on the floor. He opened the half door attached to the counter. Everyone here for the Malloy meeting?

Bill and Trisha gave humble nods to the man, whom they’d met before.

The man gave Riordan a look-over. He didn’t introduce himself. Did everyone sign in? he asked.

Bill and Trisha nodded again. Riordan said he had.

Yardlow motioned all ahead of him.

Bill stopped before entering the man’s office. Your mom should be here too, he said to Bobby.

Trisha tousled the boy’s hair.

Riordan extended his hand to the boy. I’m Mr. Riordan, but most call me Mr. R.

Bobby gave a sheepish grin and half rose. From behind Riordan, the man barked, Mr. Malloy is to stay in his chair.

Inside the office, Yardlow directed everyone to take a seat. Riordan sat in the chair closest to the wall, where various certificates of accomplishments, diplomas, and Rotary and Board of Education awards were hung.

Yardlow settled himself in behind the expansive desk, designed to draw separation between him and those on the other side. Ornamenting one corner were curios of a bobcat, a tiger, and a Viking. Each represented a mascot of a school where Yardlow had been the principal. Benway was the Bobcats.

A large calendar was neatly arranged in the center, next to an Apple iPhone.

"Would anyone like coffee?’

Everyone declined.

Very well. Ms. Malloy will be here shortly. Yardlow straightened some papers that slightly overflowed from a wooden inbox. Or she said she would yesterday, after this matter occurred. Guess she’s been in the hospital. He waited for any of the three to respond about the woman’s physical or mental state, but no one did.

Bill asked the man about the accolades on the wall, while Trisha opened up the manila folder. I see you have a file on Bobby, too, she said to Riordan. He has been no problem at Oakdale. In fact, we are used to more the hardcore types, those who have bounced around from group home to group home.

What she means is that we are more used to boys who are of the mendacious miscreant variety than boys like Bobby, who just seems anxious, Widemore said, keeping himself attentive to Yardlow, who was expounding on his trophies.

At any rate, Bobby’s outburst at school is not what we’ve seen at our place, Trisha said. And I really don’t agree with the school, who threw in this diagnosis of ODD. I don’t think they even interviewed him.

Yardlow gave the young woman a dismissive look as his phone rang. He pushed the intercom button. Send her in. He stood and buttoned his coat.

There was a soft knock. At the door a demure figure nervously brushed her fingers through her flaxen hair. Sorry I am late, she said, her voice teetering.

Yardlow’s stern countenance melted some as he directed her to sit in the chair directly across from him. Bill and Trisha shook hands with her.

Riordan stood. I’m Pat Riordan.

Sarah Malloy.

Sarah sat, crossed her legs, and began shaking her right foot. She wore open-toed brown sandals with low heels, thin straps buckled around her tapered ankles. Maroon polish glistened off her toenails. A loose-fitting, cotton, monogrammed azure blouse hung over a granny skirt. She had taken the time to make a good appearance, Riordan thought. As Yardlow began his rendition of why the meeting was called, she again ran her fingers through her hair.

We know that the reason Robert needs special attention is not due to lack of intelligence, he said, but because he has violated several Safe School guidelines. And with the state of affairs of our country and schools, my job is to protect all the students and all the staff, all the time.

Yardlow focused on a report of the incident that occurred the preceding day in Bobby’s homeroom, which related that at such-and-such a time, Robert Allan Malloy kicked a trashcan across the room, knocking down a clover plant and shattering the pot. Total cost of