William Rabkin - Mind-Altering Murder

Santa Barbara police detective Henry Spencer stared down at the red mark on the paper. It was good, he had to admit. Hed been working on a big forgery case for the past few weeks, and nothing hed come across there had looked as authentic as this.

Henry drew his thumb across the paper, pressing down hard as he tried to smudge the red ink. It didnt smear. It had been on the page long enough to set.

That didnt mean the mark was genuine. Henrys prey was crafty and thorough. He would have taken the time to prepare his forgery well in advance. But no matter how good he was, the felon must have made a mistake somewhere.

Henry pulled a magnifying glass out of his desk drawer and peered at the red mark through it. He knew where hed find the telltale signs of tampering-there would be an extra line added to the marks right side, or its bottom curve would have been erased and a new slash drawn through the middle.

But no matter how long Henry stared at the symbol, he could find no evidence that this was anything but the original mark. Which meant the impossible had happened.

Shawn had gotten an A on his book report.

Of course, that was only impossible if Shawn had actually written the report himself. The handwriting was his, but that had been true when hed copied an essay out of the back of the teachers edition, too. Henry quickly skimmed the first page. It read like the work of a twelve-year-old, not of a doctoral candidate hacking out sample compositions to help make his student-loan payments.

That still left the question of which twelve-year-old had done the work. And before Henry broke out the ice cream to celebrate his sons unprecedented academic triumph, he needed an answer.

He took the steps two at a time and threw open the door to Shawns bedroom as if he expected to catch him in the middle of an act of plagiarism.

Shawn barely looked up from his Hot Wheels. Its real, Dad, he said. I got an A.

Someone got an A, Henry said. He turned his fiercest gaze on Gus, who had picked up a toy car and was studying it so intently he might have been working up a repair estimate for an insurance company. The question is who?

It was Shawn, Gus said, never looking up from the cars undercarriage.

All on his own? Henry said, staring down at Gus.

Dont you have any faith in me, Dad? Shawn said.

Way too much to fall for this, Henry said, still not taking his eyes off Gus. That kid would crack soon; Henry could tell by the nervous way he was spinning the cars wheels. So what did Shawn do, son? Did he copy off your paper?

Dad!

Henry ignored him. You can tell me, Gus, he said in his most fatherly voice, the one he reserved for children who were not actually related to him. Did Shawn copy your paper?

No, sir, Gus said.

Then I dont suppose youd mind letting me look at your book report, Henry said. Before either of the boys could move, he snatched Gus backpack off the chair where it was hanging and pulled out a three-ring binder neatly arranged by subject and date. He flipped to the section marked English and then to this weeks assignment.

Dad, thats none of your business, Shawn said.

It is if his report is identical to yours, Henry said. He turned a page and saw a book report with the same date as Shawns.

See, Mr. Spencer? Gus said. Theyre not identical.

They werent. Not in any aspect. The subjects were different. The sentences were different. And most of all, the grades were different.

You got a C minus? Henry said, amazed. Youve never done worse than a B plus in your life.

Gus stared down at the orange-plastic track. Apparently my thoughts were ill formed, my grammar was sloppy, and my vocabulary didnt rise to grade level, he said.

That doesnt sound like the Gus I know, Henry said.

Well, it is, Shawn said. Your own son scored an A, and all you can do is whine about how bad Gus did. Way to encourage me to work hard in school, Dad.

The anger in Shawns voice made Henry take a step back. Was he right? Did Henry reflexively discount his own sons accomplishments? Was he actively sabotaging Shawn? He replayed Shawns sentence in his head. And then he knew he was being played again.

Thats an interesting thought, Shawn, Henry said. Not particularly well formed, though. And its not grammatical to say how bad Gus did. The adverbial form is badly. Oh, and a vocabulary at your grade level would lead you to say, Way to encourage academic excellence, not to work hard in school.

Shawn glared at him, caught. Whats your point?

I understand why you copied Gus paper and turned it in as your own, Henry said. What I cant figure out is why Gus would claim yours.

Gus seemed to be finding worlds of wonder in that orange track, because he refused to look up from it.

Its shameful enough to get a C minus when youre capable of A work, Henry said. But if you dont confess right now, Ill take this to your principal and then youll both get an F.

But then Shawn will be held back! Gus said.

Shawn slapped his forehead in frustration. Falls for it every time.

Henry ignored Shawn. He got down on his knees in front of Gus. You helped Shawn with his homework so youd both be in the same grade next year?

Gus nodded solemnly.

Thats very thoughtful of you, Henry said. Its wrong, but I can appreciate the sentiment. But why didnt you just write two book reports and give one to Shawn? Why turn in his own lousy work as your own?

Gus sniffled back a tear. If I got another A, they were going to promote me to the advanced class.

Thats wonderful, Gus, Henry said. Congratulations. And then he realized. But then you and Shawn wouldnt be in the same class anymore.

He said if I turned in his work, theres no way theyd let me go to nerd school.

Henry had been mad at Shawn before. Sometimes he felt that hed gotten angry the moment his son was delivered and hadnt calmed down since. But this was different. Shawn had betrayed his own best friend, used Gus love and trust against him. Henry had to force himself to keep his hands down for fear he might grab his son and throw him out the window.

How could you do that to your best friend? Henry said.

Do what?

Trick him so he wouldnt qualify for the advanced class, Henry said.

I didnt trick him, Shawn said. He wanted to stay in the normal class with me.

Thats true, Gus said.

You may have just stolen his future, Henry said.

Gus doesnt need a future, Shawn said. He can share mine.

Thats right, Gus said. I can share Shawns.

Henry took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Recited the alphabet. Then, fighting to keep a calm smile on his face, he turned to Gus.

I think its time for you to run along home now, Gus, Henry said.

Cant I stay a little longer? Gus said. My moms still got her bridge friends over, and that house is nowhere for a boy when theyre there.

I think you need to leave now, Henry said, ushering him toward the door. Because Shawns immediate future is something you really dont want to share.

As a store it wasnt much. Fifteen feet deep, maybe half that wide, a long counter running down the middle. Behind the counter the wall was covered with liquor bottles, and the liquor bottles were covered with dust. The only ones that werent encased in grime were the strong, vile brews favored by those with deep thirsts but shallow pockets. The cheap corn whiskeys, the Bulgarian fortified wines, and the malt beverages made from grain alcohol sweetened with Kool-Aid twinkled brightly from a shelf the man behind the counter could reach without having to turn his back on the customer.

Not that he looked like he had any intention of turning his back on his customer. He stared across the counter at Gus, his ancient face crumpled into a permanent squint, one hand holding on to the tarnished register, either to keep it from walking out the door or to keep his knees from buckling, and the other just out of sight under the counter, undoubtedly fingering the shotgun hidden down there.