African American. Years ago, Diego had told him, “Don’t ever call my friends that, ’cause they’ll just be laughing at you. We’re black, Dad.”
Ramone gave Bolton his cop smile, which was a smile in name only. “I live in this neighborhood, sir.”
Bolton folded his arms across his chest. “People sometimes make erroneous assumptions. That’s all I was saying.”
Ramone wrote the words defensive and asshole on his pad.
“Anything else you can think of that may be pertinent to the investigation?” said Ramone.
“I’m sorry. I’ve gone over it in my head many times. To me he was a happy, well-adjusted young man.”
“Thank you,” said Ramone. He shook Bolton’s strong hand.
Ramone went back downstairs and found Andrea Cummings in her classroom. Ms. Cummings was young, still in her twenties, tall, leggy, and dark of skin. She was plain upon first look but straight-up pretty when she smiled. She gave Ramone a nice one when he entered the room.
“I’m Detective Ramone. I thought I might have missed you.”
“Lord, no. I’ve got work to do here after school. I was just up in the lounge, getting a soda.”
Ramone dragged a chair over to her desk and had a seat.
“Careful with that,” said Ms. Cummings. “It’s gotta be sixty years old.”
“They should put some of this stuff in a museum and get it out the classroom.”
“Please. We’re out of paper and pencils right now, too. I buy most of the supplies you see here with my own money. I’m telling you, someone is stealing. Whether it’s lawyers or contractors or just management, someone is lining their pockets, and it is straight theft. They’re stealing from kids. You ask me, whoever it is, they oughtta burn in hell.”
Ramone smiled. “Say what’s on your mind.”
“Oh, I’ve never had a problem with that.”
“You from Chicago?”
“You know I can’t lose that accent. I grew up in public housing, taught in my neighborhood my first couple of years out of Northwestern. The facilities were well below average, but I have never seen anything like this.”
“I bet your students like you.”
“Hmm. They’re starting to. My philosophy is, scare them in the beginning of the semester, give ’em that face of stone. Let them know who’s in charge straight away. They can like me later on. Or not. I want them to learn something here. That’s how they’re going to remember me.”
“What about Asa Johnson? Did you have a good relationship with him?”
“Asa was all right. I never had any problem with him doing his work. His behavior was fine, too.”
“Did you like him?”
“I cried when I heard the news. Any time a child is killed you can’t help but be moved.”
“But did you like him?”
Ms. Cummings relaxed in her seat. “Teachers have favorites, the way parents have favorite kids, even if few want to admit it. I can’t lie and say he was one of mine. But it wasn’t because he was bad.”
“Did he seem happy to you?”
“Not particularly. You could see that something was weighing on him just by looking at his posture. Plus, he rarely smiled.”
“Any reasons you can think of?”
“God forgive me for speculating.”
“Go ahead.”
“It could’ve been his home life. I met his parents. Mom was quiet and deferred to her man. The father was one of those macho dudes, trying to overcompensate. I’m just being honest. Couldn’t have been any fun for Asa to live in that house, you know what I’m saying?”
“I appreciate your honesty,” said Ramone. “Do you have any reason to believe that he was into any kind of illegal activity?”
“None at all. But then, you never know.”
“Right.” Ramone looked at the blackboard. “I wouldn’t mind getting a look at that journal of his, if you have it.”
“I don’t,” said Ms. Cummings. “They turn it in at the end of the semester, and when they do I just check to see if they’ve made an effort. I don’t read the journals, is what I’m saying. My job is to make sure they’re doing some work. They do that, they’ve accomplished something.”
Ramone extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cummings.”
“You, too, Detective,” said Ms. Cummings, reaching across the desk. “I hope I’ve been of some help.”
Ramone left the building, went out to his Tahoe, and extracted a pair of latex gloves, stowing them in his jacket pocket. He returned to the school, revisited the administrative offices, and, accompanied by a security guard, walked to Asa’s locker. The security guard read off a piece of paper and executed the combination of the built-in lock. He stepped back as Ramone, now wearing the gloves, inspected the locker’s contents.
A couple of textbooks sat on the top shelf. There were no papers wedged between the covers of the textbooks and no loose papers or anything else lying on the metal floor. Middle school kids typically taped photos of sports heroes, rappers, or movie stars on the inside of their locker doors. Asa had taped nothing to his.
“You done?” said the security guard.
“Lock it up,” said Ramone.
He had hoped to find the boy’s journal, but it was not here.