Deadly Games

PROLOGUE

The terrified woman looked down at the inert form lying in a pool of blood on the floor. God! What have I done? she thought. I didn’t mean to. But she was going to ruin me. The hiss of the huge school boilers—the glowing flicker of the flames steadily smoldering at the bottom of the huge tanks—warming their contents and casting a strange aura over the room’s massive equipment—heightened her fears.

She turned to run—to escape from the damage she’d inflicted on the woman whose position of authority in the school system held life or death decisions over her future. She dropped the weapon from her hand—a harmless tennis racquet, its rim garnished with drops of the woman’s blood.

But no! Wait! This was folly. She retrieved the racquet from the floor. She opened the boiler room’s door, peered in every direction. The locker room of the girls’ gym was still deserted. She walked stealthfully through the large facility. She grabbed a towel from a clothes damper and carefully wiped any fingerprints from the handle of the murder weapon.

Gripping the racquet with the towel she walked purposefully toward her destination. She knew just where she’d hide the implement of death to divert any suspicion from herself. She’d be in the clear. No one would ever connect her with the murder.

CHAPTER 1

Teri Hunter sat in the middle of the parched, dying grass of Kennedy High School’s football field solemnly contemplating a collection of land turtles ensnared within a ring of chickenwire.

This was the school’s ‘Come As You Like Day’ celebrated with a fund raising fair that she abhorred and detested. The students, of course, loved it. To Teri, a conscientious teacher, the May festival seemed to be just another excuse for not holding classes, for permitting the students to play and frolic at the expense of the curriculum.

Students came to school dressed for the event in shorts, in costumes, on roller skates, skate boards, wagons—whatever their vivid imaginations could conjure up and their inventiveness was boundless. During the morning, classes were held—sorely testing the patience of the teachers—while booths were erected on the gridiron and student groups prepared to sponsor food, crafts or game booths. In the afternoon, it was carnival time! The seeds of unrest leading to behavior problems were inherent in the nature of the day.

Teri’s student group, the Girls Intermural Sports Association, affectionately known as GISA, had elected to sponsor a turtle race. Teri was dubious about the successful function of such a contest, and had been testing the hypothesis of the underlying assumption that turtles could be placed on a designated starting line—the perimeter of the enclosed circle—and move toward the center where food and water were available. Would anyone spend money on this? Teri had her doubts. Lying on the grass, she kept nudging the turtles with a popsicle stick and coaxing them verbally to perform.

Hey, can you believe it? Here’s our very sensible club advisor, and she’s talking to turtles, jested Kate Daniels, the current president of GISA, arriving on the game site with her side kick, the GISA Vice President, Nancy Oliver.

Right on, Kate, said Teri. This conversation may be more intelligent than those I usually share with assorted folks on this campus. She ran her fingers through her thick black hair.

Slam dunk for you, Teach, said Kate. Classes are getting out now so the fair’ll soon be in full swing. Nancy and I came for our shifts. You wanna take a break?

Thanks, girls. I do need to check in at the gym. Think you can handle our animal attraction by yourselves for half an hour?

Sure! Three other GISA gals will be here in a few minutes. No one’ll mess with us. We’ve got the moves. Kate made a phantom basketball move toward an imaginary basket.

Great. If you have any unexpected problems, Coach Johnson is over there at the dunking booth. Teri gestured to the near side of the field. He can be counted on for help.I’ll be back in a flash.

Teri jogged towards her office. She needed to pee. She needed to get out of the sun. And she needed a cup of coffee. She had a splitting headache, the result of a magnum sized quarrel with her boyfriend, Brad, the previous evening. The man was not understanding—anything but.

Why do you get so involved with your students? It’s only a job, he’d yelled at her.

That isn’t true. To me it’s more than a job. It’s what I believe in—how I want to help young people, she’d yelled back.

It’s an aberration, he’d said. Parents are responsible for their kids. Not teachers. You should only be concerned about your own children.

In case you haven’t noticed, currently there are no little ones running about underfoot, Teri had retorted.

I’m sure you’re aware that can easily be remedied. Brad’s voice had been thickly laced with sarcasm.

That’s your real agenda, isn’t it? You know I’m not ready to marry you or anyone else. Teri had gazed thoughtfully at the man who had been sharing her private life for five months. He was handsome and well built. She loved his looks—black hair, deep brown eyes, well-tanned skin—and the the feel of his body lying next to hers. She was seduced by the pleasure of his lovemaking. But marry him? It’d never work. He was a too traditional male. A swim coach at the local community college, he possessed a jock mentality. He wanted a dutiful little woman who would cater to his needs and accept his authority as a strong paternal figure.

Teri, I’m getting tired of this charade. Your biological clock says it’s the perfect time for child bearing. And I want a wife, not some star struck amateur psychologist.

That statement alone shows it’d never work. You don’t understand or appreciate what I believe in—what I’m trying to do—how I believe I can help and inspire my students. Tears had gathered in Teri’s eyes.

You’re a Physical Education teacher, Teri. Just like me. It’s fun. It’s a living. We can’t save the world.

This isn’t working out, Brad. We don’t mesh. It’s time we both move on. You’ll have to move out this weekend. Teri had stalked out slamming the door as she left. She had spent the night at her sister Beth’s house in the Oakland Hills. Mercifully, Beth had left her alone and not tried to interrogate her.

She was still furious with Brad. Why couldn’t he comprehend? She’d certainly tried to explain numerous times how she felt about teaching. She’d purposely chosen PE, not only because she was a good athlete, but also because during her tempestuous adolescent years, there’d been an understanding coach who’d help her to survive crucial problems, to excel in the swimming pool and to weather one segment of the agonizing journey to adulthood.

Teri believed the natural, informal atmosphere of the game situation was the perfect environment to help students with personal problems. This did not apply to all her students, but she knew she’d been instrumental in helping some, and she intended to continue on this path regardless of thick-headed Brad’s views.

Teri knew from personal experience that girls who were involved in sports had a direction in life. They worked hard at the chosen activity just like their male counterparts. Their days were organized and full. They didn’t have time to get in trouble or become pregnant. Unfortunately, the emphasis in families and schools was usually centered on boys’ athletics. The fight to get funds for girls’ teams was tough, but was getting easier.

At twenty-seven, Teri Hunter was an attractive woman. She had coal black hair, bright green eyes and a flawless complexion. Her daily one mile swim enhanced her lean, muscular, but definitely feminine body. She was extremely popular with students due to her unmistakable zest for life, her exhilarating sense of humor and the obvious fact that she genuinely cared about the students and their problems. Teri was that rare intuitive teacher who put her students first. She frequently found herself in confrontational situations with superiors and administrators whose priorities were targeted in other directions

After five years at Kennedy High School, she was extremely disillusioned with the educational system and was seriously considering resigning. She wanted to work and be involved where she could make an impact—really help her students—not be weighed down by all the extra, time consuming, non-educational boondoggle imposed on teachers by the higher ups in the Kennedy High School administrative offices. Teri believed that the folks occupying positions of authority in the school district had lost touch with the student population and that they should be required to return to the classroom every few years to teach.

Ducking through the side door of the girls gymnasium, which opened onto rows and rows of lockers, Teri took in its deserted state. She navigated through the myriad of lockers and pushed through the double doors leading to the gym. It was also empty. Gee, where is everyone, she wondered.

She opened the door to the front office. The two rows of four desks each were empty. I don’t believe this, she thought. On this auspicious occasion, all my fellow teachers have already left? She raced into the teachers lounge to discover that fellow teacher Marty Arnold was sitting there comfortably and silently consuming a large lunch.

Wow! I thought everyone was gone, said Teri.

Most everyone is. We had a lot of excitement in the boiler room about twenty minutes ago—a pressure gauge exploded. After our esteemed leader, Sharon Garrett, informed the principal’s office and summoned the janitor, the tribe took off. As you know, our co-workers look on this as a half day off. Except for thou and me, the joint’s empty.

Her co-workers—they were a motley group—mused Teri as she headed for the adjacent restroom. Take Sharon Garrett, chairman of the Girls’ Physical Education Department—in Teri’s opinion, she was an unlikely candidate to be a teacher, especially in Physical Education. She had poor hand-eye coordination and lacked the physical skills required for most sports although she was adept in body conditioning and dance techniques. Sharon was a petite, perennial blonde, thanks to the modern miracle of hair dye, who worked hard to keep her body in shape. At age thirty-eight she liked the security of her position, her free summers and holidays and the more than adequate salary. She and her husband, Bill, also a teacher, lived comfortably on their double salaries. They had no children, traveled a lot and lived over the hill from the congested East Bay urban area in prestigious, suburban Moraga.

Teri was not a favorite with her supervisor who thought she was too easy on the students. Sharon, on the other hand, was from the school of tough discipline and rigorous adherence to all rules. Having observed her supervisor in action, Teri felt that Sharon didn’t like children and especially adolescents.

Except for their chairman, Teri knew she worked with a group of highly motivated and dedicated teachers. The only inadequacy of the Girls Physical Education faculty, in Teri’s and her fellow peers’ opinions, was that in this large urban high school comprised of a forty per cent minority population of African, Asian and Hispanic Americans, the Girls’ PE staff was lily white. The Boys’ department sported one Asian and two African American teachers.

The consensus was that Sharon, who did the hiring, was prejudiced. The seeds of discontent over her leadership simmered among her staff. In private discussions, a move to get rid of and replace their supervisor was frequently debated. But the idea had not progressed beyond this conversational stage.

Having hastily used the restroom facilities, Teri returned to the lounge area and poured herself an enormous cup of coffee. Boy, do I need an injection of caffeine. But I’ve got to dash back out on the field. How about you, Marty? How come you’re being such an exemplary teacher—remaining here for this gross event?

Marty Arnold was a modern dance teacher. She had a long, thin flexible body. She wore her sandy colored hair in braids wound around her head giving her an old fashioned look. Just lucky. I’m here chaperoning the Contemporary Dance Club. We’re going to appear in leotards in a few minutes and give all the guys a thrill. Her bright blue eyes danced mischievously.

You have a booth? asked Teri.

No! We’re going to do some dance numbers on the auditorium stage. Viewing permitted at fifty cents a crack.

Up in the high range price bracket, eh? said Teri. Well, off to the battlefield for yours truly. Teri rinsed her cup and started back through the locker room. So they’d had an unexpected explosion in the boiler room, she thought. Teri vividly recalled all the tension and excitement of the previous year in that very same boiler room during ‘Come As You Like Day’ . . .

——-

She hadn’t been directly involved in the day’s events, for she wasn’t a student club sponsor. After her final morning class, she went out on the football field to see what was going on. It had been a duplication of today’s madness. She decided to return to her desk and work on lesson plans. On her way back through the maze of lockers, the smells of dirty socks, assorted deodorants and mildewed towels assaulted her senses. Teri felt nauseous and stopped to clear her head. She heard low giggling and stealthy movements one row over. The facility was supposed to be empty; the students, at the fair.

Teri surrepititiously crept toward the sounds. Rounding the corner, she confronted two female students filling paper cups from a bottle of Thunderbird wine. The scene was so unexpected that for a few moments she froze—unable to react. Her mind reverberated with the words of the school principal, John Jordan, at his initial orientation for new teachers. If you ever smell alcohol on the breath of any of our students or suspect drug usage on the school premises, contact me or one of the deans immediately.

You two wait right here, Teri ordered. Don’t move. I know you, Grace Walters, and you’re Evelyn Mortimer.I’ll be right back.

She dashed to the phone in her office to summon the Dean of Girls. A dead weight settled in the pit of her stomach. Teri was revolted at the prospect of any meeting with Dean Elizabeth Hanlon. She despised the way the woman treated students. Close to retirement age, the Dean of Girls had been a fixture at Kennedy High School for thirty-five years. The small aging woman had brilliantly dyed black hair worn in a bun. Regardless of any situation, her face bore a carefully etched smile. Behind hornrimmed glasses, Dean Hanlon’s piercing brown eyes constantly moved in a continuous search to ferret out student troublemakers. Teri’d had a series of runins with her concerning the proper attitude toward students. And now she had to phone her to report this incident.

The dean was extremely excited issuing non-stop orders. I’ll be right over. Don’t let them out of your sight. Make them wait for me. Be sure you have the wine and the cups in your possession, Ms. Hunter, and tell the students to get dressed for the street at once.

Teri hurried back to the locker room. The delinquent pair was waiting as directed, but there wasn’t a sign of the wine bottle or the paper cups. Teri groaned inwardly. She knew she’d made a big mistake. She should have confiscated the evidence. But she’d been in such a hurry to report the incident, she’d failed to think clearly.

Dean Hanlon arrived on the scene panting heavily. She was furious with Teri. You’ve unnecessarily complicated this situation by failing to confiscate the wine, the dean said angrily.

I’m sorry. I was simply too excited.

Despite her goof, Teri thought the sight of the dean down on her hands and knees religiously sniffing all the damp spots on the concrete floor for evidence of alcohol made her error worthwhile. Oh, for a camera, she thought.

Open your lockers for me, girls, the dean ordered. The two did as instructed, but the only contents were dirty gym clothes.

Girls, you come with me to the principal’s office, the dean told the two culprits. And you be available for further statements, she said to Teri.

The rest of the afternoon was total madhouse. First the principal called to ask questions. Once again Teri described the incident. Next, it was the dean. Then the students’ counselors—all of them questioning and criticizing her. It was too much. Finally, Teri decided to make a thorough search of the locker room for the wine bottle.

What could they have done with it? She examined every shower and dressing stall. She searched the equipment room from top to bottom. Ultimately, in the corner of the boiler room, hidden behind a series of pipes, Teri found a partially filled bottle of Thunderbird. She carried it triumphantly to the principal’s office.

That ain’t ours, Grace Walters declared loudly.

I’ve never seen that bottle before in my life, Evelyn Mortimer said.

That’s your bottle, Grace accused Teri.

Your accusation is ridiculous, Teri replied. You know that’s the bottle I saw you two with in the locker room.

No, it ain’t, and you can’t prove otherwise. The girls were surly and defiant.

Go ahead, fingerprint us, Evelyn demanded. You won’t find ours, but I bet Ms. Hunter’s prints are all over that bottle.

Okay, you two can go now, Principal Jordan said. I’ll be getting in touch with your parents. The two students cast hostile looks at Teri as they departed.

Principal Jordan was a robust, well-preserved, tall, grey haired former football coach. Adept at winning football games and beguiling audiences, especially the PTA, with sweet talking rhetoric, he had earned his administrative position five years ago. At sixty-three, he was planning to retire in two years, and he wanted to avoid any controversy which might upset the school’s status quo and impede his personal goals.

Ms. Hunter, there is really nothing I can do about this incident. It’s a matter of your word against theirs, the principal explained.

Teri was indignant. A matter of my word against theirs? I’m a tenured teacher at this school. My word isn’t more weighty than theirs? Besides, why would I invent this story? Lie? During our training you told us to immediately contact the administration if we suspected drinking or drug abuse on campus.

If you’d only confiscated the bottle and the cups, Dean Hanlon said sighing deeply.

Realistically, what good would that do? They probably still would have said the wine was mine, Teri retorted.

Ms. Hunter, you are understandably upset. The principal’s attitude was placating. But you have to look at it from my standpoint. I can call the parents down here. We can go through a big scene. But the parents will undoubtedly stand behind their daughters’ version and nothing will be achieved.

Mr. Jordan, if I was standing on the corner of Broadway and Grand Ave. and saw a murder committed, I’d report it. I would appear in court to testify, and I would be believed. A guilty verdict would probably be returned. Here in a school where I have worked for five years and earned tenure, you’re telling me that the words of two students—of whom I personally know have less than stellar records—are on a par and equal to mine?

It’s just the way it is, the principal said, trying to soothe Teri’s wrath. Nothing will be achieved if we pursue this matter. A couple of months ago, Mr. Cerruti of the Biology Department brought in two students who were carving their initials on a desk. In a confrontation with the parents, they refused to accept his version of the incident and threatened to sue us for maligning their children’s reputations. Believe me, I know how today’s parents react to accusations against their children. Let it go.

For the record, I don’t drink cheap brands of wine like Thunderbird. Teri left in anger, muttering under her breath about Chicken shit administrators.

Teri could trace the origins of her continuing troubles with the high school’s administrators to the wine bottle incident. Would it have been wiser to ignore the situation? Look the other way?

A loud scream pierced her reverie of the year old event. Teri ran toward the yells to discover Marty Allen leaning against the entrance to the boiler room.

Teri! Thank God! You’re still around. In the boiler room—it’s Dean Hanlon. She’s lying there in a pool of blood. I couldn’t find a pulse. What should we do?

Marty, go dial 911 for emergency services and the police. I’ll wait here, Teri said.

Gingerly opening the door to the boiler room, Teri gazed with trepidation at Dean Hanlon, her biggest enemy in the school. I genuinely detest this incompetent bitch, she thought. Hanlon and Jordan are administrative jokes masquerading as educators. Individuals like them who make kids suffer—treat kids like insects—in my book, they’re scum, Teri seethed inwardly.

She forced herself to enter the overheated chamber. She was loathe to approach the inert form stretched out on the concrete floor. There were no visible signs that the woman was breathing. She knelt down and placed two fingers on the dean’s carotid artery. She failed to detect a pulse. Teri saw no evidence of arterial bleeding, but there was an obvious contusion on the woman’s left temple. The profusive pool of blood beneath the