TODD KNEW THAT PEOPLE COULD lie, that many people WERE liars, before he stopped breathing. He knew this before he went to the park where he died, although, not as clearly. He knew this as a ghost hovering over the shrine set up to commemorate his passing, set up by several students, Todd didn’t know who, on the front steps of the school, a place that had no significance to Todd.
The shrine consisted of a few candles, white, which bled wax onto the concrete, and a stack of flowers, still in cellophane, carnations you buy at a convenience store. Someone had taped a glossy print out of a picture of Todd, the same one hanging in Greevy and Daniels’s office, to a piece of white cardboard and written his name at the top in black marker, all caps. The picture was already streaked from snow.
No one wrote any message. Like, “We will miss you, Todd.”
So it wasn’t a total sham.
Greevy smoked her third cigarette of the morning standing in front of this memorial, running her finger over the bloom of a carnation from the shrine. A bloom she’d clipped off with the sharp of her thumbnail.
The first official meeting of the Social Sciences Tutoring League, which took place at the end of October and consisted of students who had failed their first two Social Science tests, was a bust.
This fact was not noted in the files of Principal Spot.
It was also not in the files that the league as a group only met twice and that all the students in attendance, including Todd, thought the whole thing was a bad idea.
It’s possible that Greevy and Daniels got a sense of the useless nature of the group when they interviewed the members on Monday at lunch period. Greevy certainly seemed to assess that the group consisted of boys that were about as helpful as well-dressed sacks of dirt.
She spent the whole interview with her arms crossed over her chest, looking annoyed.
Chris, Cameron, Mark, and Devon sat in the student lounge and, in no uncertain but almost identical terms, told Daniels and Greevy what everyone had already told Daniels and Greevy: that they didn’t know anything about Todd.
It wasn’t really a group, they all said. It wasn’t like they hung out with Todd.
Devon complained that he hadn’t even ASKED for help and he didn’t really need it.
Chris said the whole thing was weird.
Daniels asked why. Why was it “weird”?
Chris shrugged, rolled his eyes, and said he didn’t want to ask a student for help when they paid good money for trained educational professionals to help them.
A lot of good money.
So Daniels and Greevy knew what Todd knew, that Chris was an asshole.
On that first meeting in October, Cameron left halfway through to smoke a joint and never came back. Todd was pretty sure Cameron was also high while he was sitting in his chair talking to Daniels, who sniffed him several times.
Staring at the blank faces of Chris, Cameron, Mark and Devon, Daniels and Greevy couldn’t know what it was like to be Todd, standing at the front of the classroom, with a bunch of handouts McVeeter made, screaming on the inside and trying to look on the outside like he, also, didn’t give a shit about this whole study group thing.
“Cold as ice” is pretty difficult when you’re explaining a handout.
In Todd’s mind, the existence of the league illustrated why it was a terrible idea to tell adults anything. Because adults had no solutions, only ideas that made things worse.
Todd had tried to back out of the league when he saw that students had actually signed up, which was when McVeeter informed Todd he’d made the group mandatory for the boys with a failing average.
“They’re coming AGAINST their WILL!” Todd screamed.
McVeeter had sat in his office, a fucking traitor without ever knowing it. Like, way to be a safe space while dragging the wolves into the den.
“Todd,” McVeeter said, “it’s going to be FINE. These kids NEED you. You’re going to HELP them. Maybe not all of them but maybe one person will appreciate the help and then, you know, you’ll have one person who, you know, you can talk to. Bing, bang, boom.”
What a ridiculous misunderstanding of human nature, Todd had thought. What kind of a numb brain thinks that kids will be nice to the people who are smarter than them? After the dick pic incident, Todd had spent years being silently brilliant, avoiding any and all formal recognition at Albright. He buried every achievement like a frightened squirrel.
“Give it one week,” McVeeter coaxed. “That Mark kid isn’t a total dick. He signed up.”
Leaving the school after their unfruitful meeting, Daniels and Greevy stood in the teacher parking lot. They’d switched from talking about kids smoking pot at school and whether that was a bad thing per se, to talking about whether to go back to the station or get tacos. Suddenly, Trevor burst out of the front door of the school, with Mark close behind, white shirts gleaming beneath barely buttoned blazers. They jogged a stiff jog to Daniels and Greevy, who turned.
“Look at this,” Greevy said under her breath.
Trevor was a good-looking boy. Todd used to think he looked like a thicker, sparklier Brad Pitt. From the first time he saw Trevor, which was his first day of school and also Trevor’s, Todd knew Trevor was the kind of person who got what he wanted. Who knew people were going to listen to him, no matter what he was saying. Todd watched Greevy lean back and take Trevor in.
Even the cold seemed to halo around him, like it didn’t want to impose.
“Detectives!” Trevor smiled brightly. “I have something. I mean, I think I might have something that could help with the case.”
Greevy shoved her lighter back in her pocket, pushing past the carnation, crushed and crispy. “Hi there. And you are?”
“I’m Trevor Bathurst, ma’am. I was a colleague of Todd’s, in Todd’s homeroom and history class is what I mean.” Trevor’s wide blue eyes, a helpful look if ever there was a look that could be called helpful. “I wasn’t in the tutoring … thing, but, I knew Todd. I mean, not close but, you know. I did know him and … You said to think about stuff, small stuff? And I thought of something, maybe it would help?”
Mark and Trevor stood side by side, shoulders up, hunched against the chill. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets like he was reaching for heat. Todd watched the space between Mark and Trevor, which seemed carefully maintained.
Trevor smiled an apologetic smile. His teeth chattered slightly. “It’s probably nothing.”
“But maybe it’s not nothing, Trevor,” Greevy said, smiling encouragingly, leaning against Daniels’s car.
Daniels turned but did not lean against the car, which was covered in winter white salt.
Mark touched his chin to his shoulder. Trevor sighed. “We were just wondering, did you talk to Mr. McVeeter?”
“Your social science teacher.” Daniels nodded. “Why do you ask?”
“Just.” Trevor took a deep breath. A long breath Todd had seen before, the breath you take when you’re about to say something serious to a person of authority, something you want them to take seriously. “Because. I think they were friends. I think Todd and McVeeter were, you know, like friends.”
“Friends,” Daniels repeated.
“Friends,” Greevy echoed. “How do you know that, if you and Todd weren’t friends?”
“I suppose … I guess I don’t completely,” Trevor said, his voice rising at the end. He rubbed his hands together, in an exaggerated fashion, as if to prove he was cold. “I mean, I suppose I saw Todd and him talking, you know, a lot. Outside of class. In the hallways and after. I mean, Todd was super smart so maybe they just had more in common. I don’t know. I’m just … only because you were asking and I, we, want to help.”
Greevy looked at Daniels then back at Trevor. Daniels’s face remained still.
Trevor looked at Mark. Mark shrugged.
“Well, that’s very helpful, Trevor,” Greevy said, her cheeks pink in the cold. “Anything else?”
Trevor gave a long sigh. “Okay, so. Also, I mean, I, WE, saw them having dinner once, outside of school, at this diner. Like, in the fall maybe? Like last fall?”
“Can you remember the name of the restaurant?” Daniels asked, from his perch against the wall.
Trevor paused. He looked at Mark, who was looking at Trevor’s shoulder.
“It’s not far from the park. I don’t know what it’s called. On Pine Street. The one with the red and white sign?”
“Great,” Greevy said, sliding her notebook in her side pocket. “Well, thanks again. Trevor.”
“Thank you,” Trevor said, turning back to the school, “you know, for being cops. For keeping us safe.”
Greevy watched Trevor and Mark bolt back to the door, blasting past the shrine. Todd wondered if Trevor could feel Greevy’s eyes on him, the weight of a finger.
“Got that?” Daniels asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Detectives not cops,” Greevy corrected, watching them go.
“You do look like a COP.” Daniels grinned, as he pulled open the car door.
“It’s the cigarettes,” Greevy scoffed.
When Daniels and Greevy got back to the station, the autopsy report was in. They headed to the examiner’s office, where they were handed an official-looking piece of paper.
It was a blow to the head, the examiner said, as Daniels read. But the angle suggested a contusion as the result of a fall.
“An accident?” Greevy asked the examiner, a little incredulous.
“Possibly. But that’s not what killed him,” the examiner said, running his hand through the wiry bush on his skull. “Hypothermia.”
“Hypothermia.” Daniels looked at the paper.
Greevy shivered.
Todd … Just relax, okay?
“He froze to death,” Greevy said. “How long after the blow?”
I’m going to get help.
“A few hours.”
I promise.