by Brian Lawrence
The cat sniffed the overweight math teacher’s face and pulled back quickly. He’d smelled that odor on a human once before, and that time his companion, Mrs. Connors, failed to get up the next morning and put out his Fancy Feast. Nor did she get up the next morning, or the next. The smell had worsened, finally forcing the cat to leave the house he’d grown up in.
“What’s you got there, Cisco?” Winslow asked.
Cisco trotted over to the old black janitor and rubbed his head along the man’s leg, then sat and washed his face with the back of his paw, trying to eliminate that awful stench.
“Cisco” was not his original name, that had been “Shadow,” due to his dark gray coat. But ever since Winslow found him rummaging through the high school’s garbage, he’d been called: “The Cisco Cat.”
Two years ago, Winslow had been watching a western on his old black and white in the school’s basement. During a commercial, he went outside to empty a trash bin and discovered the cat. Cisco arched his back, spat, and hissed at the strange, black man, refusing to relinquish the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich he’d found.
Winslow had just smiled at him and said, “Well, who are you, Cisco the Cat?” Then, surprisingly, the janitor reached out and scooped him up, saying, “Why don’t you come on in out of the cold and get some real food.”
That night had been Cisco’s first can of tuna.
The name stuck and Cisco stayed. Though he had grown fond of the name “Shadow,” the janitor could call him anything he wanted as long as the cans of tuna kept coming.
“Well, lordy be, Cisco. It’s Mr. Lewis, the math teacher.” Winslow bent, his knees cracking in the silent basement. “And I believe he’s dead.”
Cisco stopped washing and regarded the prone math teacher, who doubled as the track coach, which explained the maroon and yellow sweat suit. Having little else to do until Winslow started his rounds, he decided to investigate.
He gave the corpse wide berth and trotted past, then sniffed the cement floor beyond, picking up the trail, which he followed through the basement to the back stairs, up the cracked concrete steps, and into the west hallway on the first floor. Winslow hadn’t yet waxed the white tile hall, which allowed Cisco to easily pick out the two shoulder-width, parallel lines left by the math teacher’s track shoes. They cut through the day’s collection of scuff marks and footprints, and lead straight to the math teacher’s classroom. He followed the trail and stopped at the room’s closed door, then sat and pondered the situation while licking his back.
A few moments later, after concluding that someone had dragged Mr. Lewis through the hall and dumped him in the basement for poor Winslow to clean up, Cisco returned to check on his friend. The janitor was talking on the telephone, to the police the cat presumed, so he hunkered down behind the boiler where it was nice and toasty and waited.
*****
Cisco learned three things while the police and the medical examiner were there. First, Mr. Lewis had died approximately two to four hours ago. That would mean between 6:00 PM and 8:00 PM. Second, he was killed by a blow to the head with a heavy, sharp object. And finally, the Cherry Grove, Missouri Police Department was not NYPD Blue.
They had no idea why the math teacher had been in the basement, though Police Chief Anderson did comment on the lack of blood and the possibility Mr. Lewis was killed elsewhere. They’d searched the math teacher’s classroom, but had found nothing to help explain the crime. They failed to come up with a motive or a suspect, so they left, telling Winslow to keep his eyes and ears open, and that they’d return in the morning to interview the other teachers.
Winslow nodded, then prepared for his rounds.
*****
Around midnight, Winslow weaved through the empty classrooms dusting and straightening. Cisco followed and listened to his friend’s litany.
“You know, Cisco, if my Emily was alive, she’d know how to deal with this situation. Imagine that.” He shook his head. “Mr. Lewis murdered right here at Benjamin Franklin High School. Ain’t no one ever been murdered in Cherry Grove far as I recall, let alone in the high school. I just don’t know what to think, Cisco. Just don’t know what to think.”
Winslow knelt and ran a callused hand over the cat’s back. Cisco arched, purred, and rubbed Winslow’s leg. Always treat the source of food well. Mrs. Connors had taught him that.
With the dusting and straightening completed, they started on Cisco's favorite activity, emptying wastebaskets. Time for the midnight buffet.
Winslow pushed the large gray trash bin down the hall, the left wheel squeaking, the right one rattling -- it was slightly bent -- and stopped at Ms. White’s classroom. He opened the Freshman English teacher’s door and Cisco dashed in. The cat stuck his nose in the wastebasket, but found nothing appealing, so he stepped aside and let Winslow take the trash and empty it in the trash bin.
They repeated the ritual several times with equally disappointing results, finally reaching Mr. Lewis' classroom. Double bonus time, for not only did Mr. Lewis have a wastebasket -- which tonight was empty, the police having taken the contents -- but there was a tall, lidded trash barrel outside his room -- which the police had overlooked -- for the kids to discard wrappers, unfinished snacks, and other culinary delights. Rarely did this trash barrel disappoint Cisco, and tonight was no exception.
He caught the whiff of Nacho Cheese Doritos, one of his favorites. Winslow pulled off the top of the barrel and emptied it into the trash bin. Cisco leaped in after and quickly found the half-full bag of chips.
While munching contentedly on a slightly stale Dorito, he glanced around at the other trash to fill the time. A rumpled sheet of paper caught his attention. He couldn't read it -- that he'd not learned -- but the row of numbers followed by letters looked familiar. He’d seen something like that before when he'd watched the kids from the air-conditioning vents, only the kids had written the letters. On this paper, both the numbers and the letters were typed. His feline intuition rippled down his spine. Maybe Winslow could find some significance in the piece of paper.
He abandoned his chips and grasped the sheet of paper in his mouth, then leaped out of the trash bin and deposited the paper at Winslow's feet.
"Now why'd you go and do that, Cisco?" Winslow bent and picked up the paper. He started to toss it back into the bin, but Cisco reared and dug his front claws into the old man's leg.
"Ouch! What was that for?"
No answer from Cisco. Winslow shook his head and went to toss the paper away, but again, Cisco struck.
"Ouch! Cisco, this ain't like you." He regarded the cat with sad, brown eyes, and ran a hand over his short, graying hair. "Hmm, maybe you're trying to tell me something."
Cisco rubbed his leg.
Winslow examined the paper. He looked at Cisco, back at the paper, and then back at the cat.
"This is odd, Cisco. You know what this is? It's an answer key for one of Mr. Lewis' tests. Now, I didn't know Mr. Lewis that well, but he certainly wouldn't go throwing away a recent answer key. I would think he'd shred it, wouldn't you?"
Again, Cisco rubbed the man's leg.
"I wonder," Winslow said.
He walked into Mr. Lewis' classroom and sat at the dead teacher's desk. Taking out his skeleton key for all the desks and file cabinets, he unlocked the top left drawer, and removed a grade book, which he put on the desk and opened. Cisco jumped onto the desk and watched. For several minutes, Winslow paged through the book, occasionally consulting the answer key.
"Here it is, Cisco. This year's mid-term." He ran his finger down a column of letters. "Well, I'll be. Look at this."
Cisco looked, but had no idea at what.
"Two students got perfect scores on this test. One is Bobby Tinsdale. You know, the principal's son?"
Cisco knew the spoiled brat, and he laughed to himself remembering that Bobby had recently lost his driver's license. He'd heard the other kids teasing Bobby about being a leadfoot. Third speeding ticket. Suspension of license for six months. Served him right.
"I'd expect that. Straight A student, Bobby is. Mr. Tinsdale's always bragging on his son, always saying how he's going to go to M.I.T., going to become an engineer."
Winslow looked wistfully up at Cisco. The cat sat still as a statue, giving his friend his full attention, ears turned forward, blue eyes steady.
"Did I ever tell you about my son, LeRoy? He's an engineer. A chemical engineer. Works in plants designing processes to mix things. Smart boy. Got it from his mother. Sure hope he and his family are coming for Easter this year. As long as those plane fares stay down. Why I remember--"
Cisco dipped his head and pawed at the grade book. Enough story-telling. He wanted to know the other name. Bobby Tinsdale made a poor suspect. The boy was short and thin as a rail, a long distance runner for the track team. No way he could drag the hefty Mr. Lewis down to the basement.
Winslow got the hint.
"But look at this other name, Cisco. Ben Ramsey. Nasty, mean boy. Such a shame, too. Used to be a star football player. Then just up and quit. But I don't think he's much of a student. So this here perfect score sure seems suspicious to me. What do you think?"
Cisco thought he should investigate a smell that had been bothering him since they’d entered Mr. Lewis' classroom.
Through the lingering odor of Chief Anderson’s English Leather, Cisco smelled blood.
He leaped from the desk and circled the room. On the floor, the smell diminished, overwhelmed by the odor of ammonia. Above him, that's where it came from. He sat and scanned the room.
On the bookcase. He leaped. It was on the track trophy. State champions, 1996, the year Cisco arrived. He sniffed the trophy and found the blood on the corner of the marble base, just a small spot, easily overlooked, especially by Cherry Grove’s finest. He stood on his back legs to smell the top part, where the gold runner was, and knocked the trophy over.
"Cisco, now what are you doing?" Winslow came over and picked up the trophy. He examined it closely. "Well, well. This sure looks like blood." Winslow dropped the trophy, a worried expression clouding his face. "And now look what I done, got my fingerprints on it."
Cisco leaped down from the bookcase and sniffed the top of the trophy. Through his friend’s scent, he smelled someone else. Not Ben Ramsey. That was a smell he knew well, having run into the boy in the fall.
He'd been trotting through the school one evening, thinking of the cafeteria trash and not expecting anyone else to be around, when he turned a corner and bumped into Ramsey. The boy kicked out. Cisco dodged, swiped the kid's leg, and bolted back toward the basement. Last time he went into the school hallways without Winslow.
But it wasn't the big ex-football player's scent on that trophy. Whose was it? He thought that answer would be found in connection to the answer key. And grades. He trotted to Mr. Lewis' desk and hopped up, then pawed through the pages.
"Now, what's you doing? You sure acting strange tonight." The old man sat in the teacher's chair and examined the book.
"Look at this, Cisco," Winslow said. "There was only one other test so far this semester. Ben Ramsey got only one wrong. Probably cheated again."
As much as he hated the oversized loser, Cisco felt his friend was giving the boy a bum rap.
Winslow continued. "But look at Bobby Tinsdale's score. Only a fifty-two. Hmm, I wonder."
Winslow left Mr. Lewis' room with Cisco trotting close behind.
They went into Ms. Alexander's room. She was the Senior Honors English teacher. Again, Winslow unlocked the desk and pulled out the grade book.
After a few minutes of flipping through the pages, the janitor said, "This just don't make sense. Don't make no sense at all. Ben Ramsey is in this class. Now, who would have thunk that? He's an honors student?” The old man shook his head. “Of course, Bobby Tinsdale's in here, but all his test scores are terrible, yet his mid-term grade is an A. Don't make no sense."
And it didn't make sense to Winslow when they found the same pattern in three other classrooms. Ben Ramsey and Bobby Tinsdale were in all three classes together. Ben had good test scores and all A's. But Bobby also had all A's, yet lousy test scores.
"It just don't make sense, Cisco," Winslow said, slumped in the chair of Mr. Feasler, the chemistry teacher.
But it did to Cisco. Perfect sense. He leaped off the desk and trotted into the hallway.
"Where you going, Cisco?"
The cat headed toward the office, hoping to find the missing link that would put this case away. The heavy footfalls of the janitor's boots followed. At the office, Cisco pawed at the door until Winslow reached him.
"You want to go in here? Doubt Mr. Tinsdale threw anything away worth eating."
Cisco scratched again. For once, he wasn't thinking about his stomach.
"Well, okay. Might as well clean the office while we're here. But what about Mr. Lewis? Don't you want to figure out who killed the poor man?"
Cisco bolted through the door as soon as Winslow cracked it open. The smell of blood was overpowering, at least to his nose. He doubted Winslow noticed anything. The cat knew immediately where the smell came from. When he reached the wastebasket by the principal's desk, he hooked a paw over the rim and spilled the contents onto the floor.
"Cisco! I swear, it must be a full moon tonight." Winslow started picking up the trash.
Cisco pushed aside wadded forms, discarded note paper, and a crumpled brown paper bag. The bag had been particularly hard to ignore as his feline nose detected the remains of a tuna sandwich.
All the way at the bottom of the wastebasket he found the source of the smell. He grabbed a large ball of paper-towels and backed out of the wastebasket, again eyeing the brown paper bag. Maybe later.
When he was clear of the debris, he pawed at the bundle, trying to unwrap the ball of paper.
"What's you got?"
Cisco backed away from the wad, and Winslow grabbed it, and started unwrapping it.
"Oh, my." He dropped the wad of paper as if it had bit him.
In the center of the large ball were several paper-towels soaked with blood. Mr. Lewis' blood, Cisco knew. He also knew the smell on the trophy. It matched the smell in the principal's office. Mr. Tinsdale.
*****
When Mr. Tinsdale returned from lunch, a nasty surprise waited for him. Police Chief Anderson and two officers greeted Tinsdale with a warrant for his arrest, charging him with the murder of Mr. Lewis, the evidence having been provided by Winslow. Well, really by Cisco, but the cat didn’t mind his friend getting the credit, as long as he got the tuna.
Cisco sat in the air-conditioning vent and watched the arrest. Near as he could figure, Mr. Tinsdale had hung around the school last night waiting for Bobby to finish track practice. With no license, the boy needed a ride home. Mr. Lewis must have seen Tinsdale and had taken the opportunity to confront his boss with Bobby's school performance. Apparently, Mr. Lewis was the one teacher who would not go along with Mr. Tinsdale's scheme.
The police had questioned the other teachers and had discovered that Tinsdale based their raises and their employment status on their willingness to ensure Bobby got all A's. Last night, Mr. Lewis must have said something to indicate he would blow the whistle on Tinsdale, and the principal had panicked, then clobbered the math teacher with the track trophy. Tinsdale was a big man, so he had no trouble dragging Mr. Lewis to the basement.
The principal must have figured there was little chance of being caught, as the school would have been empty, and Winslow didn't come on until 10:00. Only Tinsdale hadn’t counted on Cisco’s nose.
Chief Anderson snapped the cuffs onto Mr. Tinsdale and led him out of the office.
Cisco heard the principal wail, "I only wanted the best for my son. Only the best. I'm was just being a good father. My boy deserves nothing but the best."
Cisco returned to the basement, knowing the best waited for him. A warm spot behind the furnace and a fresh can of tuna.
Copyright 2000, Brian Lawrence
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