The Suicide Club

With a slight nod, the detective moved past her and walked into the main office. She continued to watch as he disappeared through the door that led out into the lobby.

“Cops after you, Ms. Sloan?”

She turned to see Steven Byrd lifting the American flag off the top shelf of the hall closet where it was kept. One of her seniors, Steven was responsible for putting the stars and stripes up the outside flagpole every morning and taking it down and folding it properly every afternoon. For most of Randolph-Lowen’s students, even some of those in her gifted program, that single act was enough to classify him as a nerd.

“You know him?” she asked, wondering how Steven could be familiar enough with the local police to recognize Nolan.

“I was sitting in my car when he got out of his. County tags. Besides, he looks like a cop. Glad to know my powers of observation are as well-developed as I thought.” Steven grinned at her, blue eyes shining through his glasses.

“So you were guessing.”

“Only until you were kind enough to verify it. What’d you do? Run a red light?”

“Something like that,” she hedged.

Neither Dave nor Nolan had cautioned her to keep what they’d told her to herself, but it wasn’t the kind of thing she would ever share with a student. Not even one like Steven, whom she considered trustworthy.

“Naw, they’d send a uniform for that. So it’s probably not about you. That means it’s about us.”

“Us?”

“Students. Maybe your students? And if I had to guess—”

“I think you’ve done enough guessing,” Lindsey said, putting a hint of classroom firmness into her voice.

It wasn’t lost on Steven. “Okay. I can keep my mouth shut. You know that. I’m not surprised they showed up here.”

Unable to resist, Lindsey asked, “Why?”

“The usual suspects. They always focus on kids for something like that. Especially if the fires are copycat things like the news says.”

The previous spate of fires had been the work of a few college kids without a political agenda. Although those had not focused exclusively on black churches, that was probably a geographical consideration more than anything else. And the three buildings that had been set on fire in this county were the only ones so conveniently isolated.

“Is that what you think?”

“I think this is just as stupid as those were. The only difference is that in this case, they knew when to stop.”

That was part of the local speculation. That the arsonists had simply run out of churches they could torch without getting caught. And apparently they’d learned something from the earlier fires. According to the papers, there had been little physical evidence found at the recent ones.

“You hear any talk about the fires?”

“Sure,” Steven acknowledged, holding the folded flag against his chest as he closed the closet door with his elbow. “A lot of talk. A lot of guessing. Nothing that made me pay attention. Got to get this up.”

She nodded, moving aside to let him go by her in the narrow hallway. As she watched him follow the route the detective had taken, Lindsey thought about what both had said. She almost turned back to Dave’s door, but the first bell sounded, reminding her that her room was locked.

The school day had officially begun. Any other discussion with anyone about the surprise visitor she’d had this morning would have to wait until after it was done.

For a few select members of the staff, the teachers’ lounge was a refuge at the end of the day. Surprisingly, today the room was empty.

Lindsey glanced at her watch to find that it was only twelve minutes after three. Like her students in last period, she’d been more than eager to put this day behind her. She’d had her things gathered up almost before the last of the stragglers had left.

She set her canvas tote down on the table beside the nearest sofa and went over to the coffeepot. The liquid in the bottom of the glass carafe looked black and strong, which was exactly what she needed.

Picking her mug out from the dozen or so residing on a plastic lunchroom tray on the counter, she poured some of the thick liquid into it, relishing the slightly scorched smell. Before she could bring the cup to her lips, the familiar squeak of the outer door caused her to lower it again.

She turned to see the person she was closest to on the staff enter and drop her briefcase on the table by the door. Shannon Anderson was the Junior/Senior counselor. Although she was a few years younger and undeniably more hip than Lindsey, the two of them had struck up a friendship almost as soon as Shannon had been assigned to Randolph-Lowen.

“Any more of that?” she asked.

Lindsey turned back to locate Shannon’s mug on the counter and fill it. She held it out to her friend.

“Thanks.” Shannon took the cup with her right hand. With her left, she hooked a curling strand of long, dark hair behind her ear before she sipped the coffee. “I think I made this third period.” She pulled a face at the bitterness.

“How can you tell?” Lindsey asked with a laugh.

“Tastes like third period.” Shannon walked over to one of the couches. She sat, tucking long, boot-clad legs under her. Her colorful skirt spilled around her, almost touching the floor. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I hate the beginning of school. I’m so frigging tired.”

“You’re a twelve-month employee. You’re supposed to be used to working.” Counselors didn’t get the nearly three-month summer break teachers did.

“It ain’t work if the little darlings aren’t here.”

Lindsey laughed. Shannon loved interacting with their students more than almost anyone else on the faculty, but she was right. It was dealing with teenagers and their raging hormones that put the stress in all their lives. Shannon dealt with them on a much more personal, one-on-one basis, unlike the relationship in the classrooms.

“Who’s giving you grief now?”

“No one in particular.” Shannon raised her head from the back of the couch to take another swallow of her coffee. “Little darlings en masse,” she said, giving the words their correct French pronunciation. “‘Can you change my schedule, Ms. Anderson. I didn’t mean to sign up for Algebra II.’ Translation, I did, but now I don’t want crazy old Ms. Brock.”

“Can you blame them?”

“Well, no, but somebody’s got to be in her class.”

“She needs to retire. She was here when I was in school.” Fourteen years ago, which wasn’t quite as long as she’d just made it out to be. “We called her old Ms. Brock then, too.”

“Was she as bad as she is now?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have her. I don’t remember that kids talked about her the way these do. But, I don’t remember kids talking all that bad about any teacher back then.”

“You hung with the wrong crowd.”

“Or the right one.”

They drank their coffee, the silence that had fallen companionable and unstrained. Shannon leaned her head back, her fingers making that habitual rearrangement of her hair.

“Something weird happened this morning,” Lindsey began.

Shannon straightened, her eyes interested. “In class?”

“Before. Melanie told me when I signed in that Dave wanted to see me. Some detective with the sheriff’s department was in his office. He said the FBI has developed a profile of the arsonists in the church fires.” She hesitated, wanting to see if Shannon reached the same conclusion she had.