Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [33]
“Anyone else?”
“No,” Suit said. “Classes were finished for the day. There were very few people in the building.”
“Who else knows?”
“We’ve kept it under wraps, Jesse. I know how you feel about the media.”
“Good work, Suit. Take me to the office.”
“You gonna go in?”
“Yes.”
“Girl’s got a gun.”
“She got a name?”
“Lisa Barry.”
Jesse stood at the door to Eleanor Nelson’s office. He knocked on it.
“Lisa,” he said. “This is Police Chief Stone.”
After several moments, the girl answered.
“Go away,” she said.
“May I come in?”
“I’ve got a gun.”
“I heard,” Jesse said.
“I’m not afraid to use it.”
“May I come in? I want to talk with you.”
“I don’t want to talk. If you come in, I’ll shoot the bitch.”
“At least give me a chance.”
“Why should I?”
“Maybe I can help.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“I’m not here to harm you, Lisa. At least hear me out. If you still feel the same way after, then you can shoot.”
“Like you won’t try to take the gun away from me,” Lisa said.
“I give you my promise that I will come in unarmed and not make any attempt to take your gun.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m the police chief and I want to help you,” Jesse said.
Lisa didn’t say anything.
“Give me a chance, Lisa. I’m not your enemy.”
After a beat, she said, “Okay.”
Jesse cautiously opened the door. He stepped slowly into the room. He nudged the door closed with his foot. He held his hands in the air.
“No gun. See,” he said.
Lisa was in front of the principal’s desk. She was holding what looked to be a Cobra Derringer automatic. It was pointed at Mrs. Nelson.
Eleanor Nelson was in her mid-forties. She wore a plain gray suit. Medium-length drab brown hair framed her long, pale face, which was marred by two raw-looking scratches.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Nelson,” Jesse said.
Mrs. Nelson nodded.
Jesse turned to Lisa.
“What’s this about, Lisa,” he said.
“This bitch doesn’t deserve to live. I’m going to kill her.”
Lisa leaned across the desk and pressed the pistol into the side of Mrs. Nelson’s head. She raked it along her cheek, causing the woman to cringe.
“Bitch,” Lisa shouted, in Mrs. Nelson’s face.
“Talk to me, Lisa. Tell me why you’re doing this,” Jesse said.
“Because she’s a bitch.”
Jesse looked at Lisa. Fourteen. Not yet womanly. Slender. Resolute. Stressed.
“Can you tell me what happened,” he said.
Lisa relaxed somewhat. She lowered the pistol and moved back.
“She wouldn’t listen. I told her.”
“You told her what?”
“About the girls.”
“What about the girls?”
“How they ragged on me. How they wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Which girls?”
“The Lincoln Village girls. The clique,” Lisa said.
“What about the Lincoln Village girls?”
“They’re like a gang. They think they’re better than everybody. They only talk to themselves. They bully people.”
“How do they bully people?”
“They torture them. They gang up on them. They punch them.”
“Did they punch you?”
“Yes. They would wait for me. After school. Sometimes before school.”
“And?”
“And they would take turns smacking me around,” Lisa said.
“How often did this happen?”
“A lot. Sometimes every day. I told this bitch about it, and she did nothing.”
“You told Mrs. Nelson?”
“Yes.”
Jesse turned to the principal. “Did she tell you about this?”
“She accosted me in the parking lot one afternoon and started telling me about some girls who were bullying her,” Mrs. Nelson said.
“And?”
“I told her that the parking lot was not the place to discuss it.”
“You didn’t talk to her?”
“I told her to make an appointment to see me.”
“Lisa, is this what happened?”
“She said, ‘Not now.’ Then she got in her car and drove away.”
“Did she ask you to make an appointment to see her,” Jesse said.
“She might have.”
“Did you make an appointment with her?”
“Her assistant told me the bitch was too busy to see me. She told me to talk to my homeroom teacher.”
“Do you often see students with problems, Mrs. Nelson?”
“On occasion.”
“Were you aware that Lisa was trying to make an appointment with you?”
“No.”
“An upset student accosts you in a parking lot. You tell her to make an